Free 53 Letters For My Lover by Leylah Attar Page A

disappearing behind the doors.
    “I ask her...to bring me.” Ma wheezed.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I come to see Hafez.”
    “He’ll be here soon.”
    Classifieds, interviews, employment offices. It’s what he did all day.
    “I wait,” she said. “How are you?”
    “I’m fine.”
    She must have seen through it because she slumped into the chair and closed her eyes.
    Look, I wanted to tell her, my face has healed up. The bruises are gone, the cuts mended. All that’s left is a scar where my lips split open. I’m fine. Really.
    But I couldn’t find the words to comfort her. What could I say to make a mother feel better about the awful truth she had learned that day?
    I excused myself as a couple walked in. I had just handed them the menus when Hafez came in.
    “I got it,” he said.
    There should have been more excitement in his eyes, more victory in his voice, but everything was less. Pasha Moradi’s death should have freed him, but every time he looked at me, he was reminded.
    “I thought you’d be safe,” he’d said as they cleaned up my wounds that night. “I thought he was into boys. Men. But it wasn’t about that. It was about power.” Hafez wore his guilt like a layer of self-loathing, even now when he should have been celebrating his new job.
    “The truck driver position?” I asked.
    “I need some training, but they liked the fact that I can fix cars. I start next week.”
    “That’s great.” I felt a small bubble of relief.
    We needed this. To feel good and worthy. To have hope for tomorrow.
    “Hafez...” I pointed to the back. “Go talk to her.” I left him with Ma and went back to the customers.
    When I returned, Ma was distraught.
    “You make him understand,” she said. “He say no. He say no to me.”
    “Ma.” Hafez took her hand. “Now is not a good time, but it won’t be long before we have our own place. I have a job now. I promise. I’ll come and get you.”
    “Now. You take me now,” she cried. “I can’t live with him. I stay here. I stay. I sew. I cook. I help.” She started to cough, gasping for breath in between.
    “Khaleh, it’s time to go.” Farnaz touched her shoulder gently.
    Ma looked at Hafez.
    “Soon, Ma,” he promised.
    She walked to the door slowly. I could only imagine how painful her bloated feet felt.
    The evening passed in a blur of food and change and loud music. When everything was locked up and we were ready for bed, I set mouse traps around the mattress. It was the only way I could fall asleep after the horror of the first night.
    We lay back to back on the makeshift bed. I understood now why Hafez slept facing away from me. There was a vulnerability in sleep, those unguarded hours when you didn’t want anyone to see your face, when grotesque shadows rearranged its contours as they roamed your dreams.
    The shrill ring of the phone woke us up. Hafez stumbled to the kitchen to answer it.
    I looked at the time. 3:15 a.m.
    When Hafez didn’t return, I went looking for him.
    “It was Farnaz.” He was sitting at one of the booths in the dining room, barely discernible in the dark.
    I started shaking because I knew it was bad.
    “Ma...” He kept his eyes on the salt shaker, sliding it on the table, from one hand to the other. “She’s gone.”
    “Where?” I thought of her trapped in that tiny apartment, staring at the empty spot that had been her glass cabinet.
    “She’s dead, Shayda. The doctors say her heart finally caught up with her. What do they know?” Hafez laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. “It was me. I’m the one that failed her.”
    “Don’t do this to yourself,” I said.
    Across the street, the traffic lights changed. Red, amber, green, each one casting an eerie glow on our faces. The streets were empty and still they continued, flashing to a pre-set pattern.
    “When’s the funeral?” I asked, after a long stretch of silence.
    “Pedar doesn’t want us there.”
    “She’s your mother. He can’t stop