The Stationery Shop(60)

“Do you honestly think I care about that right now?”

“It’s not for you.”

“I can assure you that Walter does not care. I can assure you there is no reason he would even know there is some hair on my legs.”

“Please. At some point you have to . . .”

Roya’s body heaved with the familiar grief. She wanted to disappear. What difference did it make? No one could make it different.

During Zari’s two-week visit, Roya sat once on the floor to play with her niece and nephew. She listened to their giggles and chortles. Then she got up. She climbed into bed and stayed there for the rest of the evening.

When Zari brought up a tray for dinner, she lingered at the edge of Roya’s bed. “I had no choice, Roya Joon. I had to come with them. I couldn’t leave them with anyone. Jack works into the night; he is no help.”

This was how it would be now. People would apologize for the presence of their children, tuck away their happiness from her, become self-conscious of their joy. This was her new destiny.

During those two weeks, in addition to cleaning the house and stocking Roya’s fridge, Zari entered the nursery. She did ask first, and Roya could barely muster up a shrug. Zari brazenly boxed up Marigold’s clothes, put toys in bags, and visited the church with donations. She had the audacity to tell Roya that she’d saved a few outfits for her to look at later, when she was ready. She’d never be ready.

“Thank you, Zari, thank you,” Walter said again and again. “Aren’t you kind. So kind of you to do this. You have no idea how much we appreciate it.”

Uber-polite, wimpy Walter. The hell with both of them. The hell with Walter’s manners and Zari’s zeal. What was the point of going through her child’s clothes, of washing the blasted windows? Roya stayed in bed and stared at nothing. In the rocking chair where she had breastfed Marigold, Walter sat with his damn drink and rocked to and fro in silence.

When the day came for Zari’s flight back to California, Roya did not cry. Or did she? She cried so much these days, it felt invisible, she couldn’t tell sometimes. When she thought she’d wrung out the last possible tear, there was always a well of more.

“Bye,” Roya said. So tidy, so American. Bye! Easy-peasy. See ya! Maybe there was something to these Americanisms. Breezy. Casual. They made everything seem like strawberry milkshakes and good times coming.

“I’ll miss you, Sister,” Zari whispered in Farsi as she wept into Roya’s neck. “I’ll miss you so much. You can always write to me. I’ll telephone you. You know the next time I can come, I will. . . .”

“Bye!” Roya said it again. “Thanks!” She didn’t know if she’d ever access gratitude or kindness in herself again. She wished she could stop the ice forming around her.

“I am so sorry.” Zari smelled the same way she had when they were girls sharing a room in Iran. Like tea, like home. “You know you can always—”

“Go. You’ll be late.”

Little Leila made a fuss about leaving and Darius hid behind the couch in a game of hide-and-seek that no one was playing. After some cajoling and yelling, Zari scooped up her children and shepherded them into the taxicab waiting outside. Roya waved. Walter had said good-bye that morning with endless thanks and gestures of gratitude and apologies that he could not drive Zari to Logan Airport, he had a motion to prepare, the judge was relentless in this case.

Roya stood in the doorway and looked out at the snow as the cab took away her sister and nephew and niece. Behind her a spotless, organized house filled with food in the fridge. In front of her, nothing.



Nothing to do but go back to work. Eventually, you waxed your legs again. Not one hair there to bother Walter, see, Sister? In their grief, husband and wife slowly achieved a new equilibrium. They padded around each other carefully at first, and then with more spontaneity because, as it was said, life somehow went on.

Snow turned to spring. Roya couldn’t bring herself to celebrate Persian New Year for the first day of spring though. No Nowruz. What was there to renew? What rebirth was there to celebrate? The seasons were indifferent to Marigold. Someone had mangled the script, taken the pages and burned them in a fire, destroyed all semblance of meaning and order. Someone had wrought this wrong. Happy spring!

She got home from work a little earlier than usual on the first day of spring and made some tea. Walter was working late, and Roya did her best to ignore Persian New Year. When the doorbell rang, she expected it to be Mrs. Michael from across the street (she sometimes came by with cookies or a pie—much more so in the past few months since Marigold had died). But when she opened the door, Roya was surprised to see not Mrs. Michael, but Patricia. Patricia wore a dark-blue coat with hexagonal buttons and carried a grocery bag. Her blue suede pumps were sensible and looked expensive.

“May I come in?” Patricia asked.

“Of course. Please.” Roya stepped aside so Patricia could come into the foyer. Roya knew better than to ask her sister-in-law to remove her pumps. The first time Walter had mentioned that Roya preferred for people not to come inside with shoes on, Patricia had looked confused and said, “I didn’t use up half my paycheck on footwear so I could walk around in my stockings.”

Roya took Patricia’s coat, hung it up in the foyer closet, led Patricia into the kitchen, and asked robotically if she’d like some tea.