Page 40 of Like a Love Story
“They weren’t mistakes, they were choices,” Tara says, her voice already rising.
“Just as I would not want to be judged based on my past mistakes,” my mother continues, staring ahead at the road, going in the complete wrong direction now. “Perhaps moving forward, we can keep our emotions a little more private.”
“Oh, okay,” Tara says snidely. “So basically, you want me to hide who I am to make you and your new husband more comfortable.”
I stare at the store windows, all those fancy boutiques with their perfectly proportioned mannequins in the windows, draped in luxurious fabrics. I imagine Judy at her sewing machine, creating the different looks. I see her surrounded by colors and fabrics and ideas. We pass a store that’s working on a new display. In the window is a man disrobing a male mannequin. I look at the mannequin’s body and find myself getting a little hard. I cover my crotch with my hands. I imagine that Art is the mannequin, standing in the store window naked. How sick do you have to be to be turned on by a piece of plastic? In the background, their argument continues.
I just want him to see the sweet you, the real you....
As opposed to the fake person I used to be?
You were young. Everybody is a fake version of themselves when they are young.
No, it’s old people who are fake. They forget who they really are.
You won’t feel that way when you’re my age.
You just look young ’cause you have money now.
Please do not talk about money in front of Abbas. Peoplewith money do not talk about money.
I know, I know. And people with dead dads don’t talk about dead dads ’cause it makes people uncomfortable. God forbid we cause anyone discomfort.
You are causing me discomfort right now, not that you care.
“Hey, Zabber, thanks for all the support. Much appreciated.” Hearing my nickname snaps me back to attention. We are pulling into the garage now, my mom having accepted that she must eventually turn the car in the right direction and go home.
“Reza, my love,” my mom says, agitated, “what have I done to deserve your sister’s awful treatment of me? Tell me.”
“I’m still in the car!” my sister yells. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. Can you tell her how annoying that is, Zabber?”
This is what they do. They make me a referee of their eternal competition.
My life could change again very soon. Tara is about to meet Abbas and Saadi for the first time, and given her propensity for destruction, we could all be on our way back to Toronto by tomorrow. But to my surprise, Tara is on her best behavior when Abbas greets her at the door. When she turns on the charm, she is irresistible, and she turns it on now, all smiles, compliments, and questions. She says things like “Wow, what a beautiful painting,” and “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a younger Marlon Brando?” and “Seriously, it is so nice to finally meet you after hearing so many amazingthings from my mom and brother.” The closest she comes to mentioning money is when she says, “I feel like Annie when she sings ‘I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here,’” which is a charmingly appropriate way to acknowledge that these new surroundings are opulent and that our new stepfather is Daddy Warbucks.
I can tell that after just ten minutes, Abbas already loves her. He smiles at her in a way he has never smiled at me, like he can’t wait to hear what she will say next.
“Saadi!” Abbas yells out. “Come meet your new sister.”
“Did you name him after the poet?” Tara asks.
Abbas beams. “Yes,” he says. “Are you a fan of our ancient poets?”
“Well, they were like the first rock stars,” Tara says. “Rumi. Hafez. Khayyam. Saadi. They said everything we need to know about love and wine way before John Lennon and Mick Jagger did.”
“And they said it better,” Abbas says, impressed.
My mom smiles in relief, and perhaps in pride, seeing her daughter through Abbas’s eyes now.
“And what about Forough Farrokhzad?” Tara asks. “People think Iranian women are all cloaked under chadors with no rights or ideas of their own, but we had our own bold feminist poet decades ago.”
“She was incredible,” Abbas agrees.
And then I hear Saadi’s door open, but it’s not just Saadi who emerges from the room.
Art.
I have successfully been avoiding him. Sitting far fromhim in class. Making excuses when Judy is spending time with him. Not showing up to those Sunday movie nights. Keeping my Discman and headphones handy, so that I can put them on when I see him in the distance, creating a buffer of sound between us.
