No, you should not have written back. Or only if you had thought of something for me to do.
But just to thank you for getting in touch, I mean. I was so happy to hear from you! I've really missed you; all of us have. We're looking forward to seeing you at Sami and Ziba's party.
Maryam said, Oh, the… Arrival Party.
Dad mentioned you might be coming.
Well, I did say I'd think about it, Maryam said. But this summer is so complicated; I'm not quite sure if It would be like old times! Bitsy said, so forcefully that she coughed again. It didn't feel the same last year. Even Xiu-Mei noticed. She said, 'Where's Mari — june?' I hate to think that you might not be in our lives anymore.
Maryam said, Why, thank you, Bitsy.
The excuses she'd been about to offer New York, Farah's visit suddenly seemed transparent. Instead, she told the truth. I'm afraid it might be awkward, though.
Awkward! Nonsense. We're all grownups.
This argument came as a disappointment; Maryam wasn't sure why. What had she wanted Bitsy to say? A pinch of injury tightened her chest. She said, I know your father feels I didn't handle things very well.
Now, is that in any way relevant to this discussion? We're talking about a simple little, normal little family get-together, Bitsy said. Shoot, we should just shanghai you.
Shanghai. As a verb, it was unfamiliar. Maybe it meant something like lynch. Maryam said, Yes, perhaps you should, in a tone that must have sounded more bitter than she had intended, because Bitsy said, Well, forgive me, Maryam. I'm a meddlesome person; I realize that.
Which she was, in fact. But Maryam said, Oh, no, Bitsy, you're very kind. You were very sweet to call. And then, trying to match Bitsy's energy, But you haven't told me what I can do for you! Please, give me a task.
Not a thing, thanks, Bitsy said. I'm getting stronger every day. You'd be amazed. Wait till you see me at the Arrival Party.
That was Bitsy for you. She always had to have the last word, Maryam thought as she hung up.
How will you tell your family? he'd asked her. They were so happy for us. How will you explain throwing everything away?
She said, I've already told them. I've just come from there.
The look on his face made her wish she'd kept this to herself. You told them before you told me? he said.
Well, yes.
How could you do that, Maryam?
I don't know, she said flatly. She no longer had the strength to defend herself. I just did, that's all, she said. It's done.
Now, though, it crossed her mind to wonder the same thing. Why had she told them first? What an odd way to proceed!
Had some tiny part of her hoped that Sami and Ziba would talk her out of it?
And, oh, if only, only she hadn't admitted that she'd told them, would he perhaps have agreed that they could go on seeing each other?
She had fallen in love with him while she was looking the other way, you might say. It had come as a total surprise. First he was just another hapless man desperate for a helpmate a likable man, but what was that to her? Even after they had started spending time together, she didn't feel, oh, related to him, as she'd felt related to Kiyan. Really, Dave, she had told him once, we have nothing in common. We have no common ground. Why, I can't begin to imagine what your childhood might have been like.
Childhood? he'd said. Where did that come from? What difference does my childhood make? It's what we've boiled down to in the end that really matters when we're left with just the dregs and the essence.
Yes, he could be persuasive, all right. When he said such things, she could see his point. But only while he was saying them.
She had left for Vermont that summer with a sense that she was escaping. Somehow, against her better instincts, she had started seeing too much of him, and here was her chance to regain some distance. She had greeted Farah with such a flood of Farsi that Farah had laughed at her. Maryam! Slow down! I can't understand you! Maryam, are you speaking with an accent?
Was she speaking with an accent? In her own language? What was her own language, anyhow? Did she even have one, at this point?
She had slowed down. She had settled once again into Farah's molasses-like tempo. Lolling on a recliner in the pine-shaded backyard, she had cast a sideways glance at William and wondered how Farah had ever adjusted to someone so outlandish. That summer he'd been perfecting a pet-stain-removal product that he felt sure would make him millions. This started life as an extra-fast-drying correction fluid for typists, he had confided to Maryam. I thought it up a few years back. D'elite, I was going to call it D apostrophe elite; get it? But then just my luck, typewriters went kaboom; so I've invented this new use for it. And here's the best part: without even a name change! D'elite! Don't you love it? Plus, people who don't know any better could go on and say 'Delight' with no real harm done.
And meanwhile Farah, reclining next to her, was murmuring away in Farsi as if William hadn't spoken. Why is it that older women in this country cut their hair to resemble monks? Why do the women of the upper classes here never wear enough makeup?
Like two small children, they had competed for Maryam's attention; and Maryam, to her own surprise, found herself favoring William his enthusiasm, his innocence, his endearing optimism. There was a world-weariness to Farah that could be dampening, at times. Maryam smiled at William and thought suddenly of Dave. Dave in fact was nothing like William, certainly not so extreme or eccentric; but even so…
I don't know why truly good people always make me sad, Kiyan had told her once. She understood now what he had meant.
She had written Dave during that Vermont trip to tell him that she missed him. Well, she had put it more subtly than that. (I am having a very nice time here, but I think of you constantly and wonder what you are doing.) Still, she knew the effect it would have. Slipping the letter through the mailbox slot, she had held on to it for a long, indecisive moment before she let it fall. And then she'd thought, What have I done? and half wished for some way to retrieve it.
When Dave met her return plane, though, he had behaved no differently. Clearly he was pleased to see her, but he didn't refer to her letter or act as if things had changed. Enjoy your visit? he had asked. Catch up on all the family gossip? She had been mortified. How conceited of her to believe that what she had written would matter to him! She had treated him coolly, and sent him home early. She had tossed and turned all night mourning what she had seen to be her very last chance at love. Forever after she would be one of those resolutely cheerful widows carrying on alone.
Oh, the agonizing back-and-forth of romance! The advances and retreats, the secret wounds, the strategic withdrawals!
Wasn't the real culture clash the one between the two sexes? The next day he had arrived on her doorstep in the middle of her lunch. I got your letter, he'd told her.
My letter?
They delivered it just ten minutes ago. You beat it home. Oh!
Maryam, you thought about me constantly? You missed me?
Then even before she could answer he had gathered her up and covered her with kisses. You missed me! he kept saying. You love me! and she was laughing and returning his kisses and fighting for breath all at once.
It was nothing like her marriage. This time around, she proceeded knowing that people died; that everything had an end; that even though she and Dave were spending every day together and every night, the moment would come when she would say, Tomorrow it will be two years since I last set eyes on him. Or else he would say it of her. They were letting themselves in for more than any young couple could possibly envision, and both of them were conscious of that.