Veil of Roses
Page 26
“I’ve never felt this way, either.” I can hear the ache in my voice. When you love someone, there is suddenly so much more to lose.
Ike lets go of my hands and stands, but only for a moment. When he drops to one knee and reaches for them again, my heart thunders.
I have seen this in the movies.
I know what comes next.
“I think maybe fate brought us together.” His sweet voice shakes. “I think all the stars were aligned in exactly the right way, you know? I mean, consider all the bad that had to happen in order for you to end up here, in Tucson, Arizona.”
I reach for his hand, bring it to my lips, and kiss it. My beautiful philosopher-poet Ike. He is trying so hard.
“We’re in Las Vegas, Ike,” I correct him, and ruffle his hair playfully.
He cracks up with laughter and his nervousness leaves him. I look to the others, who are laughing as well. And all of a sudden, I know for certain: I am going to have laugh lines someday, too.
I look back at Ike. “I love you,” I tell him. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
He smiles and firms his grip on my hands. “Tami, I have something very important to ask you. Are you ready?” His face turns serious.
“Wait.” I pull him up off his knees so we stand eye to eye.
“Tami Soroush, will you marry me?”
His words are so simple, so earnest. We stand together as equals and he has asked me to marry him. I break into a broad smile. What a question my dear Ike has asked. Could he even imagine my answer would be no?
Over Ike’s shoulder, I look at my friends. Eva holds her hands over her mouth, waiting to scream in joy when I say yes. Carrie and Edgard clutch each other, tears of happiness running freely down their faces. My gaze rests on Agata and Josef, two people who have found true love again so late in life. Two people who know better than most that amid all of the horror of life, that amid all its pain, there can also be incredible beauty. They know better than most that love is not something to walk away from.
I turn back to Ike and crinkle my eyes into the sweetest smile I can.
“You were the first American man I spoke to, did you know that?”
He shakes his head, No.
“You were! And I was so scared. I had to summon all my courage that day to ask for something so simple as a glass of water.”
He grins. “And I made you take that horrible iced tea you hated so much.”
I laugh at the embarrassing memory. But only briefly, for never has a moment been so important in my life.
“And now here you are, asking me to marry you. You are so brave.”
He squeezes my hands. I squeeze back.
“I don’t think it was a coincidence that we met, either, Ike. I think I was supposed to meet you. Beautiful you.” I reach to stroke his cheek, touch his lips. I continue, softly, “You have such wonderful dreams and plans, and you’re working so hard to make them come true. I think I was supposed to meet you first so that you could remind me what it is to dream. And what a wonderful gift that is to give a person. Thank you.”
These last words come out in a choked whisper. For I was shrouded in white when I turned nine, too, just like those sweet girls I taught. And the dreams I smothered that day must be tucked somewhere deep inside. They must be. It is up to me to find them again.
“I want to marry you, Ike. I do, with all my heart. I want to stay in America and help you and support you as you make your dreams come true.”
His eyes well with tears. And I know he will wait for me as long as it takes.
“But I have dreams, too.”
He nods. “And I’ll make yours come true, Tami. I promise.”
He takes my breath away, Ike does.
But I have to make my own dreams come true.
“Ike,” I begin, but have to pause. There is a lump in my throat that my words cannot force their way through. I am dangerously close to becoming hysterically weepy.
Seeing this, Ike steps toward me, tries to pull me to him for comfort. But it is not comfort I need. It is courage. I must ask for what I want in life, or I’m never going to get it.
“One of my dreams,” I begin again, and again I have to pause. Breathe.
“One of my dreams…”
“Say it!” Eva demands from the side of the room. “Just say it, already!”
I glare at her. I open my mouth to scold her for her rudeness, but then I realize that my anger toward her has given me the resolve I need. I turn back to Ike.
“One of my dreams is to live alone. All by myself.” I redden. “I know this may not seem like such a big dream, and maybe it is only a silly little dream, but there it is. I want to live alone.”
I have confused him.
“You don’t want to get married?” he asks.
“I want for us not to jump into everything so fast.” It is all suddenly very clear to me. “I want for us to date. Really, truly date. Go to dinner. See a movie. Maybe even dinner and a movie.”
He laughs. He remembers that day on Rose’s porch just like I do. And I think he gets it then. We have not even been on one official date and he has asked me to marry him, yet this is America, where dating comes first and then comes love and then comes marriage. And then come the babies in the baby carriage.
“I want to hold your hand and walk down the street with you and not be afraid of showing the world how I feel. I want to treasure every moment of falling in love. I want to learn how to kiss you without fear.”
He leans toward me. “I think you kiss pretty well already,” he whispers in my ear.
I kiss his cheek and step back.
“I want to make my own money and not have to ask anyone’s permission to go on trips with my friends. I want to maybe buy my own red scooter. And I want to live with you someday, when we’re ready. When I’m ready.”
I give him the biggest, bravest smile I have. “That is what I want.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Persian Girl.” His eyes have a look of tearful pride. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say I want before.”
Oh, my heart, my heart. It has leapt right out of my body and into his. I cannot remember a time I said the words I want out loud.
“When the only answer a little girl ever receives is no, from her parents or her teachers or her world, at some point she stops asking for what she wants. She begins to expect nothing, so as not to be disappointed when that’s exactly what she gets.” I exhale, shaken by my own realization. “But,” I tell him, “as it turns out, I do have wants.”
He smiles at me.
I grin back. “I have a lot of wants.”
“Good.”
I feel the sparkle in my eyes. “The bride wants to pick some flowers.”
There. I have made my declaration to the world.
“Then go,” my beautiful Ike encourages me. “Go pick your flowers.”
I break into a broad smile. I grip his hands and look into his ocean eyes, and I already know, before even asking, that his reply to me is going to be yes.
“Will you marry me, Ike? Under these conditions? Will you, please?”
And even though I already know his answer, it is very sweet to hear the words.
“Yes,” he tells me. “Absolutely, I’ll marry you.”
The instant he says it, my friends burst into cheers and squeals and yells of congratulations.
“I love you,” I tell him firmly as I throw my arms around him. “I love you so much.”
We hold each other for a long time. When Ike finally steps back, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me gently on my lips. And I think perhaps it is the sweetest kiss the world has ever known.
The best part of what comes next: When we get married by the Elvis impersonator later that evening, I do not wear a veil.
It is eight months later.
I have flown on an airplane to visit Nadia in San Francisco. Ike would have liked to come, but his coffee shop is scheduled to open next week and he ca
nnot spare the time.
It is windy today, but I don’t mind. I love the feel of the ocean breeze dancing its way through my hair. I am at the ocean with Nadia and her beautiful baby girl. She gurgles and squeals with delight at the world around her. I have never seen a baby so happy. Nadia has named her daughter Maryam, after my sister. My sister is also pregnant now, and she is also having a girl. I made Maryam promise that she will name her baby Hope. For above all else, a Persian girl must have hope.
I am here at the ocean because I have a promise to fulfill for my father, who most likely will never again set foot on this stretch of sand, at this beach he and my mother loved so much.
I hold in my hands the little blue perfume bottle he gave me for my fifth birthday, the one I was disappointed to discover contained not perfume, but rather grains of sand he collected from these very shores. I was so young then. I did not understand what a precious gift it was.
Slowly, deliberately, not rushing this moment, I unscrew the lid of the perfume bottle. After I give it a few shakes, the sand tumbles out, easily catching in the breeze and gently finding its way back to the shore it was taken from so many years ago.
I look out over the ocean with far eyes, and I see my house in Iran. I am outside, looking toward the living room window. My parents stand inside, facing out. They hardly ever go outside anymore. My father has his arm around my mother, and she leans her head on his shoulder. I see that they are sad and happy at the same time, for although it caused them great pain, they made the right choice. They held my sister and me close for as long as they could. And then, when we were ready, they let us go.
Thank you, Baba Joon. Thank you, Maman Joon.
Thank you so very much for giving me this chance to be happy.
I whisper this into the wind, confident my words will find their way home.
About the Author
LAURA FITZGERALD is married to an Iranian-American and divides her time between Arizona and Wisconsin. For more of her writing, visit www.laurafitzgerald.com.
VEIL OF ROSES
A Bantam Book / January 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Laura Fitzgerald
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fitzgerald, Laura, 1967–
Veil of roses /Laura Fitzgerald.
p. cm.
1. Iranians—United States—Fiction. 2. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.I88V45 2007
813'.6—dc22
2006023617
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90337-9
v3.0