53 Letters For My Lover (30 page)

Troy looks at me. “I think we better get home.”

“This guy.” David squeezes his shoulder. “He used to bring the house down. Have you heard him sing?”

I shake my head.

“Do it,” he says, pulling Troy up. “Do it for old time’s sake. Heck, I’ll even go the first round with you.”

“Go.” I smile, trying to reconcile a crooning Troy Heathgate with the one I know.

David drags him off to the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” David turns on the microphone. “We’re going to start off with...”

There’s a muffled discussion. David holds his hand over the mike. Troy shuffles over to the karaoke machine and starts scrolling through the selection. The two of them stand there—yes, no, yes, no. It’s hilariously disorganized, but no-one seems to mind.

“Okay, here we go,” announces David over loud, screeching feedback.

Troy picks up the second microphone as a dry harmonica riff introduces the number.

“Love, love me do...you know I love you,” they start singing in unison.

The lyrics are simple, the beat is catchy. Troy and David play off each other, singing to the crowd. A few of the diners clap along. The mood is jovial, but I push my food away and blink, trying to fight the tears.

I know why Troy picked that song.

Love, love me. Do. The Beatles. 1962.

An English band for the English tea we shared, for the year we were born, for the t-shirt I’m wearing, for this happy, stolen weekend, for the simple words and the intricate truth behind them.

So please. Love me. Do.

Troy catches my eyes as the song comes to an end.

“And now,” says David, “I’m going to ask Troy to sing the one song we were so sick of him singing that we used to boo him off. Oh no, no, no.” He pulls Troy back on stage. “This song....” He turns to the crowd. “I have to tell you the story behind this song. You see back then, Troy had a thing for this mystery woman. He never told us who, but after he’d had a few drinks, he’d crawl up on stage and sing his heart out. You ready to do it again, buddy?”

“I don’t know, man.” Troy shifts uncomfortably, even as everyone cheers him on.

David sets him up with a stool. The lights dim. A single spotlight falls on him. He looks at the microphone, holding it with both hands. Alone on stage, in his black jeans and grey t-shirt, he looks oddly vulnerable, the cross on his rosary gleaming in the light.

This time there is only the faint chord of a guitar before the lyrics kick in.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone...” Troy’s voice resonates, warm, sexy, soulful, filling the room. Conversations halt, drinks are put down, people sit up.

He continues, eyes closed, oblivious to the stillness, the absence of fidgeting. The smoky ballad comes alive, reaching across the room, infusing the air with a truth that makes my hair stand on edge.

He reaches the ‘I know, I know, I know’ part.

Twenty six times in a single breath.

“Yeahhhhhhh.” Someone applauds.

I know, I know, I know....

I know the mystery woman is me. It’s been me all along. All these years. I clench the edge of the table as it hits me.

The music fades as Troy comes to the end of the song. His eyes open and he looks at me. Under the spotlight he’s all black and white and grey. Except for his eyes. This is what the earth must look like from space. All shiny and pure and blue.

There is silence for a few moments. And then, one by one, people start to get up. The clapping grows louder as Troy weaves his way to our booth. He stops, a few feet away.

I cross the distance between us and throw my arms around him, kissing him with all the crazy joy-pain-love inside me.

“Woohooo!” We get cat calls and wolf whistles.

Troy grins, and kisses me harder.

August 7th, 2000

I brush my teeth
and check my phone. 1:11 a.m. zero messages.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for just two days. I feel I’ve lived lifetimes, like a giant, where everything big has become small and I can see farther, breathe deeper, live larger.

I find Troy on the deck, leaning against the railing, looking out at the moonlit lake.

“Why are you smoking?” I hop on the wooden rail and stub his cigarette out.

He keeps his eyes on the water as the trail of smoke disappears into the night.

“Come with me.” He lifts me off the railing, wraps my legs around his waist and carries me to the hammock.

We lie side by side. Crickets chirp. Waves lap up to the shore. Glittering stars stud a velvet sky.

“The moon looks bigger here,” I say.

He brings my hand to his lips and speaks in the space between my knuckles. “One more day.”

I sigh. It was so much easier in that other world. If you were a woman, you didn’t expect happiness, so you didn’t chase after it. If you found it, you held on to whatever scraps you could get. And if you collected enough, you could stitch together a cloak and get through life intact. But this. Having the freedom to make choices. It makes you greedy. It makes you want more when you already have enough.

We don’t sleep that night, except for short, little pauses, drifting in and out of a crazy thirst for each other, falling exhausted, waking parched. Maybe the sun won’t come up. Maybe we can make this last forever.

I stir when Troy
untangles his feet from mine.

“Go back to sleep.” He tucks the covers around me. “I’m going for a run.”

“How?” I mumble, too tired to lift a finger.

He laughs, before I drift off. But it’s only for a while. He’s back, jumping on the bed, minutes later.

“Get up. Get up, Beetroot!”

I protest as he pulls back the sheets.

“Hurry.” He grabs the blankets and holds my jacket out for me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, fumbling into it.

“The ‘X’ on the beach? I just figured it out.”

Dewdrops kiss my feet as we run to the lake. He grabs cushions from the chairs and throws them on the circle of pebbles. I sit cross-legged next to him, still half-asleep. He wraps the blanket around us and points to the lake.

“Look.”

I blink. The sun is still a soft, hazy ball of red, peeking over the horizon. It rises slowly, painting the water with strokes of shiny, vivid gold.

I catch my breath, realizing that we’re seated directly in the line of that magnificent sunrise. As the rays grow longer, they reach for us—now a few metres away from shore, now touching the sand, now creeping up to our feet, now kissing our toes.

“Ohhh.” I close my eyes and feel the warmth color my eyelids, like a tank being filled from the bottom up.

Our hands entwine under the blanket. We laugh—stupidly, deliciously happy.

I look at his face and suddenly, I know.

His gold tipped eyelashes tell me, the curve of his smile tells me, the way my heart beats tells me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes what?”

“I know what I have to do.”

It’s not a choice anymore.

He squeezes my hand in silent understanding.

The sun floats over the water, a red balloon of hope and joy, tethered with the weight of things to come.

We’re almost ready to
leave when his phone rings.

“Hello?” He listens for a second before his face lights up. “Hey, Ma.” He sits down. “I’m good. Scratch that.” His eyes fall on me. “I’m great.”

I smile and go back to tidying up the kitchen.

“Bali?” He laughs. “So you finally got to see the monkey temple?”

Snippets of his conversation float into the kitchen.

“When are you planning to visit? No, I’ll be in Mexico then. Hong Kong over Christmas. I hope so.”

“Yes, we met,” he continues. “Would you quit, Ma? I don’t need you to fix me up with the Ellas or Bellas of this world. Yes. I’m flaming gay. That’s just a smoke screen. No, I don’t need anything from there. Okay then, maybe a silk scarf for my coming out party. Fine, I’ll get it myself. You’re mean. Let me talk to dad.”

He chats for a little longer. “Miss you too. Yeah. Love you.”

I wipe my hands and take one last look out the window. He walks up behind me and we stare at the swaying trees and shimmering water.

“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together,” he says.

It’s bittersweet, standing at this crossroad, but I know I have to set things right.

“Come on.” He pulls me away.

We’re both quiet on the drive back. Outside, motorists honk and music blares on the slow moving highway. Long weekend travelers returning home. The shiny, sleek tresses of my wig peek out from the bag at my feet.

The parking lot outside his office is empty, except for my car. How can it sit, so still and unaffected, as if nothing has changed?

“Here we are.” Troy turns the engine off.

“Here we are.”

He brushes the hair away from my face. I close my eyes and lay my cheek on his palm. Then I collect my things and slip from his car into mine.

One world is waiting to be folded and put away, another is fluttering in the wind, like a sweet-smelling dress on a clothes line, longing to be put on.

Maamaan doesn’t notice. The
kids don’t see it. Is there nothing on my face to give it away?

I drive home listening to their incessant chatter.

Grandma trimmed my bangs. Do you like them?

Natasha has a boyfriend.

I do not.

Do too. You were all lovey-dovey on the phone. For hours, mum.

Zain was gambling.

It was Bingo! And I won fair and square.

Twenty quarters.

Yeah? So?

So you took money from old ladies. Mum, he took money from grandma’s friends.

You’re a snitch.

What’s for dinner?

They stomp upstairs, blissfully oblivious, leaving me standing in the living room.

I place my keys on the counter. The red light on the answering machine is flashing. 4 new messages. I press play.

“Hello, Shayda. This is Dr. Gorman. Please give me a call when you get in.”

I jot down the number. The rest of the calls are hang-ups.

I look at the time. 6:30 p.m. Should I call or wait until tomorrow?

I dial the number.

A woman picks up the phone.

“Hi, may I speak with Dr. Gorman?”

“Honey!” she calls.

Damn. It’s his personal line.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Gorman, it’s Shayda Hijazi.”

“Shayda. Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you. There were some abnormalities in the mammogram. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to schedule a follow up.”

My knees go weak. “Yes, of course.” I sit down. “I’ll call my mother and make an appointment.”

There’s a pause at the other end. “It’s not your mother’s mammogram I’m calling about, Shayda. It’s yours.”

August 18th, 2000

The doorbell rings. Repeatedly
. Followed by loud thumping on the door.

Natasha. So impatient.

“Coming, coming! Now what did you what forget?” I swing the door open.

My heart screeches to a slamming halt. “Troy.” I turn pale. “You...you shouldn’t be here.”

“No?” He storms past me into the house. “Where should I be, Shayda? Waiting by the phone? Staking out your office? Checking my email? Where the
fuck
, Shayda?” His fist slams into the console table, so ‘fuck’ is an obscure, jarring thud, like some censored song on the radio.

“I changed my mind.”

“You changed your mind. Just like that?” He starts pacing the hallway. “And when were you were planning to tell me exactly? When, Shayda?”

“I made a mistake.” My voice quivers. “I got caught up in the moment. We were alone, we were away. It was...it was all an illusion.”

“An illusion?” He pulls me hard against him. Our bodies collide, knocking the breath out of me. “Is this an illusion?”

His lips assault mine.

“And this?” His hand slides under my dress, claiming my thigh.

“What about this, Shayda?” He pushes my panties aside and slides two fingers inside.

“Tell me, Shayda. Tell me this is all in my head.” He shoves me against the door and deepens his strokes. “Tell me this is nothing.” He rubs his fingers on my neck, leaving the unmistakable trail of my reaction.