“Rose, you’ll never believe it—I married Ike!”
“No! Tami, really?”
“Yes, and I get to stay right here in Tucson!”
“This is wonderful! The best possible news!” She covers her heart with her hands, overjoyed; then she quickly reaches to unlatch the gate. “Come in! I’ll put some water on. Let’s have tea, and you can tell me all about it.”
Rose is so thoughtful—she bought a box of sugar cubes just for me so I can have my tea the Persian way when I visit her, where you place the cube in your mouth and let the hot tea melt it into pure sweetness. As I step through the gate, I clasp her cool, fragile hand, careful not to crush it in my excitement. “We can have tea together all the time now, Rose!”
She gives me a confiding look. “I’ll confess, I was terribly sad at the prospect of not seeing you any longer. Your parents must be so pleased.”
Ah, my parents. “I don’t know
what
my parents are thinking, Rose. I really just don’t know.”
She tilts her head, curious, but when I don’t continue she encourages me to have a seat at the wrought-iron table while she goes inside to get our tea. I like it that Rose pushes me just as far as I want to be pushed, but never further.
My heart has grown heavy, as it always does when I think of my parents half the world away, and it’s heavier than usual because of what Maryam told me last night. I dread the phone call to them that I’ll soon have to make. Our relationship feels newly false—although I suppose it’s been false all along and I just never knew it. A part of me wishes I still didn’t.
But I don’t want to be sad. Not today. I’m a new bride, my sister’s pregnant, and I’m having tea with one of my favorite people in the world. I should be happy, and I almost succeed, except as I look around Rose’s backyard, the fresh-dirt smell of her garden reminds me of our courtyard at home, where my mother grows her rosebushes and takes her tea in the afternoons if the weather permits. She so seldom ventures beyond it that I’ve come to think of it as her pretty little prison cell. Genteel, a decaying glory, it reflects her, too, with its chipped concrete birdbath and mossy walls. Leaves fallen from the tree breezes are trapped there, gentle dervishes, spinning idly around the courtyard, going nowhere in the end, unable to escape their fate.
But Rose’s garden is delightful. The word for it, I think, is
whimsical
. First, it’s so colorful with spring flowers unfolding into their full beauty. Then, it’s colorful with personality. This garden could belong to no one other than Rose. There’s an old ladder painted deep pink with a potted plant on each step. She uses old tires for planting beds and has Mexican tin-can lanterns strung throughout. Her three cats roam freely. There are two altars in her yard—one created in honor of her parents, who have died, and the other a Christian one which depicts Mary, the mother of Jesus, whose lifeless body is draped over her lap. Rose is Catholic, like Ike’s family. She has a little pond with very large goldfish. My favorite part of her yard is a saying she has painted on the archway to it: ONLY MY GARDEN KNOWS THE SECRETS OF MY SOUL
.
While I wait for her, I wonder what Rose’s soul secrets might be.
She soon returns with our tea, and as it cools, she asks me to fill her in on what’s new. Laughing, I tell her I don’t even know where to begin.
“How about pick up your story from the last time you visited me,” she says. “That was the day before you were to be married to that gay man from Chicago you were afraid wasn’t very nice.”
“It turns out I was right about that.”
“And you also said Ike wasn’t ready to be married.” Her eyes twinkle. “It looks like you weren’t so right about that!”
I update her on everything—Masoud’s day-of-wedding demand that I forfeit my rights to my children in the event of a divorce, about Maryam telling Ike of my visa predicament, about Ike’s showing up in Las Vegas and his sweet proposal, of his parents’ reaction to our marriage, to Maryam’s pregnancy, to my most immediate dilemma of convincing Ike we should, in fact, move in together right away even though that’s the exact opposite of what I said just a few short days ago—and when I’m done, I sit back, exhausted.
“Whew!” she says. “You’ve had quite a busy week!”
“And an emotional one,” I say. “So many highs, so many lows. I’m really very exhausted.”
I look around her yard again, resting my eyes on the striped-fabric hammock under a tree near the little waterfall and goldfish pond. The very sight of it makes me yearn for the chaos in my life to take a break. I wonder if there might be a way for time to stand still, just for a little while. Just so I could catch my breath.
I’m still looking wistfully at the hammock spot when Rose pats my hand. “Have you seen my guesthouse, Tami?”
“Only the outside.” I look to her tiny pink adobe guesthouse and its sweet windows, with green-painted trim and blue-painted flower boxes that contain red geraniums. A French door opens to the backyard, and there’s also a second door that can have the bottom half closed and the top half open. You can lean against it from inside and have a pleasant conversation with a neighbor—it reminds me of Dorothy’s farmhouse in
The Wizard of Oz
, a movie we took back with us to Iran that I’ve seen perhaps one hundred times. The second door opens to a small patio at the rear of the guesthouse.
“Let me show you the inside.” Rose leads me to it, and right from the doorway, I fall in love with its brick floors, multicolored walls, and the hand-stenciled tile sign that reads, LET US LINGER HERE A WHILE IN THE FOOLISHNESS OF THINGS
.
I read that over again and think
yes
, that is exactly what I want to do—to linger in this delicious moment of my life. I love the little messages Rose paints on her walls and in her garden. To me, they’re like invitations to a magical world.
“What do you think of it?” she asks. “Other than the fact that it’s so small?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” I scan the one-bedroom house again. The kitchen area has open shelves with bright dishes and there are tissue-paper flowers in a vase on the kitchen table for two. “There couldn’t be a sweeter place.”
“Why don’t you stay here for a few days?” she says.
My heart skips a few beats. “What do you mean?”
“It’s going to take at least a few days if not a week or more for you and Ike to find a place, get his credit checked, and get your utilities hooked up, right?” Rose says. “All those things take time. And meanwhile . . .” She raises her eyebrows mischievously. “Meanwhile, you could have a mini vacation here and maybe get this living-alone business out of your system.”
“I don’t think I
do
want to live alone anymore,” I say. “I think I’m over that idea.”
She shrugs. “Then Ike can stay here, too.”
I break into a broad smile and walk onto the private patio, with Rose following. Glass-shard wind chimes sprinkle the air with their light sound, and two hummingbirds busily gather their nectar from the potted honeysuckle plant. A red robin perches on the frame of one of the patio’s two chaise lounges, and I imagine myself with a pretty pot of tea, sitting there—successfully reading an American novel, with the robin reading over my shoulder. I can picture it perfectly. And to have Rose so near! Rose, who always makes my heart feel at peace.
I turn to her, having realized that what I most wanted when I made my big declaration to Ike wasn’t, in fact, to live alone at all. It was to have a choice.
“If it’s okay with Ike, could we pay you rent and stay longer than just a few days?”
“You’d like to live here?”
“To live here, yes. To linger here,” I say. “If that’s all right with you.”
“I’d love that.” She’s teary-eyed.
All of a sudden, I’m crying, too. She puts her arms around me, and I cry and cry and can’t stop crying. At first my tears are happy ones, but too soon I’m heaving with sorrowful ones, and angry ones, and relieved ones, and, finally, tired ones. Rose pats my back and shushes me in a way that tells me I can keep on going as long as I need to. At long last, I get control of myself and step back.
“I’m sorry! My gosh!” Embarrassed, I sniffle and wipe away my tears. “I think I really do just need to catch my breath.”
“You’re closing one very big chapter in your life,” she says. “It’s natural to have such strong emotions.”
I take her hand, appreciative of her perspective. She’s right—I
am
ending a big chapter. I’m beginning another one, too, and I can’t think of a place I’d rather start it than right here, in this magical place, near my good-hearted Rose.
Chapter 7
I
’m back at Maryam’s house, and when Ike calls me on his break at work, I tell him about Rose’s offer to let us live in her guesthouse, and after I convince him that this is what I really want to do, he agrees to pick me up after work so I can show it to him. I spend the afternoon alone, as Maryam and Ardishir are both at work. Besides preparing a dinner of chicken shish kebab for them, I don’t have much to do. I could call my parents.... I
should
call my parents, but I’m not ready to talk with them yet. I don’t know what to say to Maman. All I want to do is ask a question that seems both childish and pathetic:
Don’t you want to be with me?
Rather than face that uncomfortable conversation, I call my Russian friend, Nadia.
“Nadia Joon!” I say when she answers. “How are you? How is your baby?”
“Tami! Everything is good! No baby yet—but the doctor, he says any day!” Before, when Nadia lived in Tucson, being abused by her horrible husband, her voice was tinged with shame and regret and sadness, and she spoke softly, as if what she had to say was not important. Not anymore. Today, her voice holds happiness. “You are in Chicago?” she says in her thick accent. “And your vedding—how vas it?”
“My wedding was wonderful, Nadia, but you’ll never believe what happened. You’ll never guess who I married!”
“Your husband, he is Masoud,
da
?”
“No, Nadia! I didn’t marry Masoud. I married Ike!”
“Vat?” she says. “How is this possible? How is this good news possible?”
As I share the details of what happened, she cries with joy for me, and my heart bursts anew with love for Ike, love for Nadia, love for my life here in America. This is a story I’ll never get tired of sharing. Already I’m imagining how much fun it will be to tell our children one day.
Your father was like a knight in a fairy tale
, I’ll say.
He rode in on his white horse and saved the damsel in distress.
Things for Nadia are going well, too. Since arriving in San Francisco a few weeks ago, she’s been staying with Maryam’s very kind friend, who took her to an organization for Russian immigrants. A lawyer there helped her file for divorce from her husband, and also, she met some women she plans to live with after her baby is born, a group of single mothers who help each other out. She met an older Russian man who owns a health club and will give her a job. It would only be cleaning the locker rooms and sports equipment, but she’d be able to leave her baby in the on-site nursery and get her meals at a fifty percent reduction. So this is what she plans to do, and I’m so happy for her.
Nadia squeals with joy when I tell her about Maryam’s pregnancy. “This is such good news! If I have girl, for honor I vill give her your sister’s name. Please tell her
spaseeba
from me. Tell her very much thank you. I owe her
everything
.”
She says this because Maryam—who had never met Nadia but who’d heard from me stories such as how her husband broke her arm by pushing her down the steps of their trailer home—helped her get away by giving her some money and also asking a friend if Nadia could live with her in San Francisco until she can live independently.
“Maryam will be so honored if you name the baby for her,” I say. “But really, you saved yourself, Nadia Joon. You made a good decision when you were offered the chance to leave. You were very brave.”
We talk for a bit longer, and then she has to hang up because a friend is picking her up to help with some errands.
The last hour before Ike gets off work feels like forever, but at long last, I hear the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway. I switch off the television and jump up from the couch. I fluff my hair and smooth my skirt before rushing to open the door. I throw it open, a huge smile on my face.
“Hello!” I say. “I’ve missed you so much!”
Only then do I realize it’s not Ike standing behind the big bouquet of flowers. It’s—oh, my God—it’s
Haroun
, my obsessive-compulsive almost-fiancé. Someone I was days away from being engaged to. Someone I hoped never to have to see again.
What on earth is he—
oh, my God
—doing here?
“Haroun! What are you . . . Oh, my, hi! I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe you’re here!” I keep my smile pasted on my face, but inside, I’m panicking. He’s a part of my past I’m longing to leave behind.
“Hello, Tami.” He beams at me. “You’re looking especially lovely today.”
“Thank you.” My heart pounds.
Shut the door, shut the door
, but of course I can’t do that.
“May I come in?”
“Of course. Please!” I unlock the security door and push it open for him.
“These are for you.” He steps inside, into the foyer, and hands me the beautiful bouquet. I can’t help but admire how smartly he’s dressed, in a dark gray suit, white dress shirt, and a deep purple tie. “Your sister and brother-in-law aren’t home?”
“No,” I say. “They’re at work.”
This is when I should invite him to sit down and offer him tea, but I can’t bring myself to do it. In fact, I leave the front door open in hopes that he’ll be heading back out very, very soon.
“Today, of all days?” He gives me an odd look. “I would think they’d want to spend this last day with you.”
Oh, right. He thinks I’m flying back to Iran tomorrow. After my brother-in-law broke the news that I’d chosen Masoud over him, he later called him—this was just days ago, although it feels like forever!—and asked if Haroun would still marry me. Unsurprisingly, his answer was no—which meant, to all of us at the time, that I’d be leaving for Iran when my tourist visa expired. I don’t know how to tell him all that’s happened. It won’t be as enjoyable as it was telling Rose or Nadia; that much is certain. In fact, I’d prefer not to tell him at all, and I really don’t think I should have to—I didn’t summon him, after all, but rather he came uninvited, which is very odd for him and which he really shouldn’t have done. But from his kindness so far, I suspect he wants me to know there are no hard feelings in spite of how things ended for us, and for this I’ll be very glad.