“She’s a good dog,” Mati says.
“Almost always,” I say, recalling the way she’s repeatedly assaulted him. “Do you have a dog?”
“No. My mama doesn’t care for animals.”
“Oh. Your mother … Is she expecting you home soon?”
His shoulders lift in a shrug. “My parents are used to my disappearing.”
I’m tempted to needle him with questions—why does he disappear? where does he go? what makes his parents unconcerned?—but I don’t want to push him away by prying. Instead, I gesture to a picnic table. “Want to sit?”
He nods, turning toward the tables, letting the light catch his face. It’s a good face, strong but refined, with a sharp, stubbly jaw, a square chin, and pronounced cheekbones. His terra-cotta gaze is warm and super expressive, worthy of endless photographs.
He empties his pockets before sitting down on the wooden bench, making a little pile of his belongings on the table. I take inventory as I claim the spot across from him: house key on a simple carabiner, slim trifold wallet, blue ballpoint pen, composition notebook—small, about the size of my hand. I notice he’s not carrying a phone, strange, because even though I’m not on the receiving end of a deluge of calls, mine’s like an extension of my body. “No phone?”
“Oh—I left it at the cottage. It’s basic, prepaid, in case of an emergency.” He says emergency unflaggingly, like it’s a distinct possibility rather than an abstract occurrence, and my head swims with conjecture.
I point at the little notebook in front of him. “What’s that for?”
He touches its worn cover. “I write.”
“Write what?”
He gives me a ghost of a smile, like I amuse him, but he’s not ready for me to know as much. “Notes about America and the places I’ve been. Things I want to remember. Things I want to do. Things I feel.”
“A journal,” I supply, wondering if he knows the word. “Something I have zero patience for. I take photographs of the places and people I want to remember. I want to be a photojournalist. I want to travel the world, taking pictures of everything.”
He nods, as if mine is a perfectly achievable dream. “Are you in school now?”
I wrinkle my nose. “One more year of high school before I escape to college—before I start my real education.” Under the table, I cross my fingers and ask, “Will you be joining me at Cypress Valley High come August?”
He shakes his head. “I finished my schooling before I came to America last year.”
“I wish I could’ve finished before we moved here. Senior year, and I won’t know anyone.”
Flipping his pen over his knuckles, he asks, “Why did you come to Cypress Beach?”
“My sister-in-law and niece moved here last year, and it was horrible, missing them all the time. So my mom and I left San Francisco to join them. Now we get to see them all the time.”
“What about your father?”
“He lives in New York City. I hardly ever talk to him, let alone see him.” I expect Mati to follow up with a question about Janie’s father—my brother—but he doesn’t; he appears suddenly lost in thought. To fill the silence, I ask, “Why did you come to Cypress Beach?”
He glances up at the cloud cover, his expression pensive. “My baba—my father—is ill. Medical care in America is the best.”
Now I feel like a jerk, being all flippant about my relatively benign dad while his is sick enough to travel what I suspect is a lengthy distance for care. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Cancer.” His voice ripples with sadness so stark, so profound, my own throat tightens. He touches his ribs, just below his heart. “His lungs. He was granted a medical visa to come for treatment, and now he’s part of an experimental therapy.”
“And you came to take care of him?”
“My mama came to take care of him. I came to take care of her. It isn’t safe for her to travel alone, to wander the streets of an unfamiliar city—an unfamiliar country—by herself.”
“God. I’m so sorry your father’s sick.”
He shrugs. “He has always been fond of cigarettes. Many people in my country smoke.”
His country … Lebanon? Kuwait? Pakistan? Based on looks alone, he could be Greek, but if he’s Muslim, then it’s more likely he’s Middle Eastern or South Asian.
“Mati.” It’s the first time I’ve used his name aloud, and the shape it makes of my mouth, the taste it leaves on my tongue … a little thrill shoots through me. “Where are you from?”
He waits a beat, like he can sense the significance of his answer. He waits, and my palms go clammy with sudden anticipation.
Then, softly, he says, “Kabul. Afghanistan.”
elise
I need to stand, to move, but my bones have gone as soft as boiled noodles. I surge upward anyway, off the bench, away from the table, and nearly fall on my ass. My chest heaves like I’m having a panic attack.
I might be.
Kabul.
Afghanistan.
Nick.
Shit.
I’m walking, moving, away, away, away, hauling my dog along with me.
I hear Mati say my name, once, and then he just … lets me go.
I break into a run—a run. Bambi, who must understand that something’s wrong, assists by towing me toward our cottage like a sled dog. I don’t realize I’m crying, messily, irrationally, until I push through the gate that leads into our yard and see Iris standing on her porch. She’s with a blond guy who’s wearing a short-sleeved plaid button-down and a pair of glasses with thick black frames.
They stare.
I drag my sweatshirt sleeve across my cheeks, but fresh tears swiftly replace the ones I’ve wiped away. I can’t even pinpoint why I’m so upset. It’s not Mati; I’m not afraid of him. He didn’t do anything. It’s my brother—it must be. Memories of his death and the weeks that followed, resurfacing thanks to the mention of Afghanistan.
Nick’s constant, permanent absence, raw and aching as it was three years ago.
“Elise,” Iris says, stepping up to the hedge. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah—yes. Of course.”
Bambi whine-howls discontentedly.
“You’re upset.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
She glances dubiously at her companion—the grandson she mentioned the other day? He gives her an uneasy shrug. She leans over the hedge to examine Bambi’s sandy paws. “Did you come from the beach?”
My eyes feel swollen, my face chafed. I’m desperate to be inside, but I feel like I can’t bail without explanation; they’re gawking at me like I just fell out of the sky. I clear my throat. “I did,” I say, only just realizing that Bambi left her tennis ball under the picnic table. This, ridiculously, brings another rush of tears.
“Did somebody bother you?” Iris asks.
“No—nothing like that.”
“You’re sure? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone. You can’t be too careful.”
I force a smile and inch toward our front door. “You sound like my mom. I’m sure she’s waiting for me, so I’m just going to head in—”
“But you haven’t met my grandson!”
God. Could there be a worse time?
“Maybe later, Gram,” the blond says, giving Iris a pointed nudge.
“Nonsense. I’ve told Elise all about you. Come say hello!”
Ryan. She dropped his name yesterday. He’s cute—of course he is. We stand at the hedge, awkwardly shaking hands over its top.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. Another accent: his, a Texan’s lazy drawl.
“You, too.” My cheeks burn hot thanks to my run and my cry and my mortification. “Hope you have fun in Cypress Beach.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Maybe you can show him around,” Iris says to me.
“Gram, don’t put her on the spot,” Ryan says with a flustered chuckle. “She’s probably busy.”
“No she’s not,” I
ris says. “All she does is spend time with her dog.”
Wow. Yeah, I guess I do. Until today. For a few minutes this morning, I had what might’ve been a new friend. Now, loneliness floods my heart, hollowing it into a deep, dark pit. Because not only is Mati from Afghanistan, the country where my brother was killed, but he’ll likely be heading back soon.
Channeling energy into a friendship with him … It’s absurd.
I sigh and sniffle and wipe my eyes and, because civility demands it, tell Ryan, “Yeah, I could show you around.” Bambi barks and turns a circle. “Not now, obviously,” I add, waving a hand at my rolled-out-of-bed, stood-in-a-wind-tunnel appearance. “But sometime, maybe.”
Ryan gives his glasses a nudge. “Yeah? That’d be really cool.”
He grins. He has nice teeth, straight and even and white. His hair is trimmed neatly, his face is round, and his eyes, framed by his hipster glasses, are placid blue. He’s very handsome, but from an artistic standpoint, a little generic. He wouldn’t be as interesting to photograph as Mati, whose bone structure is sharper, whose lips are fuller, whose eyes glint like they’re embedded with slivers of gold.
Mati, from Afghanistan.
In the back of my mind, in a cavern where good sense is currently cowering, I know he isn’t responsible for my brother’s death—of course he isn’t. But what if he has friends who fight with the Taliban? What if he has relatives who are linked to al-Qaeda? On the flip side of that same coin, though, it’s entirely possible that he and his family belong to the group of Afghans who help American soldiers—the farmers and shopkeepers and mullahs Nicky used to write about in his letters.
Based only on our few brief conversations, I peg Mati as someone who’d choose ally over adversary.
And yet, I ran from him.
Bambi barks again, agitated, like, I want breakfast already!
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell Ryan, mostly so his Gram will leave it alone.
And then I make a beeline for the front door.
When I’m finally inside, I take to my room, for once reveling in its gloominess. I finish my cry in private, clutching the sweatshirt my brother gave me to my chest.
MATI
Home is a rented cottage.
A spongy sofa,
a mattress with coiled springs.
Polished appliances,
and counters of gleaming stone.
A dining table moved to the garage,
cushions dotting the floor like lily pads in a pond.
“Home is what we make it,” Mama says.
Cypress Beach is everything Kabul is not.
Green, lush, serene.
The air smells of eucalyptus and the sea.
The streets are meticulously plotted,
and the cottages carefully maintained.
The restaurants are lively,
but none sell kebabs or naan.
The shops peddle expensive wares,
but there is not a street vendor in sight.
The people here are sleek:
hair, jewelry, shoes, smiles.
Cypress Beach shines.
There is no destruction.
No signs of fatigue or failure.
There is no dust or debris.
No evidence of wars past.
It is as if history has elapsed this place.
I used to wonder if Allah
created Cypress Beach in Jannah’s likeness,
beautiful, peaceful, perfect.
But now I know better:
this town is not without flaws.
I have glimpsed its grit,
and experienced its hostility.
I sit on the porch of our cottage,
where the air is clean and clear,
where disease does not hover
like stagnant smoke.
I write …
Words about her.
Words to her.
Because even though she left,
without explanation or farewell,
I believe she is the key
to unlocking Cypress Beach’s magic.
elise
I’m wading out of my pity party by dinnertime, when Audrey and Janie are due to come over with Chinese takeout.
When the doorbell chimes, Mom abandons her library for the first time all day. The focus she’s devoted to her cowboy-in-lust manuscript has worked to my advantage. She has no idea I came home from the beach upset, no idea I spent all day in my dungeon room, editing photographs, perusing back issues of National Geographic, and napping with Bambi, all in an effort to distract myself from wounds reopened.
Janie joins me on the sofa for an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while her mama and mine pore over the calendar tacked to the inside of our pantry door. On it are Mom’s do-not-disturb writing blocks and Aud’s shifts at Camembert, plus random appointments and commitments any of the four of us might have, like the New Student Orientation my mom’s been hassling me about. We had a similar calendar in San Francisco during the time Audrey and Janie lived with us—it was the schedule that governed our lives. I have a very vivid memory of my mom pulling it off the wall, bending it in half, and shoving it deep into the trash can, choking on sobs, the day Aud and Janie moved to Cypress Beach.
Here we are, together again.
“Turn up Mickey, Auntie,” Janie says as I weave braids into her corn-silk hair.
I oblige and stamp a kiss onto her rosy cheek. “You’re my favorite. Did you know that?”
“You’re my favorite, too,” she says.
I wrap a pink elastic around a final braid, then circle my arms around her. We watch Mickey and his gang use an assortment of Mouseketools to solve an inane mystery, but I keep hearing Mati’s rain-shower voice, two words spoken over and over—Kabul, Afghanistan—pronounced with intuitive apprehension. I fled the beach stunned, drowning in memories of the time surrounding Nick’s deployment and death, but now, in hindsight, I’m not surprised. Deep down I knew, somehow, that a friendship with Mati was too good to be true.
“Auntie?” Janie’s looking up at me, her little mouth drawn with worry. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is over, and I’ve been staring at a commercial advertising a juicer.
“Sorry, girlie,” I tell her. “Let’s go tell Nana and your mama that we’re ready to eat.”
Dinner is a quiet affair. Audrey’s tired. Mom’s got glassy eyes, which means she’s got her mind wrapped around her manuscript. And I’m deep-down miserable now that all the ways I miss my brother have been dredged up and splayed out.
I’m picking apart an egg roll when Mom pipes up. “Iris stopped by today,” she says in a singsong tone that implores, Ask me why.
“Why?” I oblige, swallowing a sigh.
“To bring more hydrangeas. And … Her grandson was with her.”
Audrey’s face lights up. “She came by Camembert with him last night. They had dinner together. He’s right around your age, Elise, and he’s cute.”
“Very cute,” my mom says discerningly.
I raise a reproachful eyebrow. “Mom. Don’t be creepy. I met him this morning. His name’s Ryan, he’s a year older than me, and he lives in Texas, so a relationship, unfortunately, isn’t in the cards.”
“Who needs a relationship?” Audrey says. “You guys can have”—she clears her throat theatrically—“fun. All-summer-long, no-strings-attached fun. But be safe. Nobody wants you to have this guy’s baby.”
My mom blanches, though I’m not sure why; when Audrey and Nick were my age, they had a lot of—ahem—fun, mostly behind his locked bedroom door, and they weren’t very quiet about it, either. Maybe this is one of those instances that’s different with daughters, an expression I’ve heard an annoying number of times in my seventeen years.
Mom reaches over to squeeze my hand, shooting a glower in Audrey’s direction. “I think it’d be wonderful for you to get to know him, Lissy. Iris and her garden probably aren’t his idea of a dream summer vacation.”
The sigh I t
ried to suppress earlier works its way out. “I already told him I’d show him around,” I say, meaning to end the conversation. But Mom and Audrey jump on this tidbit like Bambi on a Milk Bone.
“A new friend!” Mom says.
“A match made in heaven!” Aud says.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Dessert?” Janie says.
“Dessert’s a good idea.” I grab for the bag of fortune cookies in the middle of the table and pass them around, glad to be done with talk of Ryan. Poor guy—he’d probably be mortified to know he’s the topic of conversation around the Parker dinner table.
Audrey cracks open her cookie and reads from its skinny slip of white paper. “‘You will conquer obstacles to find success.’” She snorts, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “Obstacles … That’s an understatement. Jocelyn, what’s yours say?”
Mom pulls her reading glasses from the nest of her hair, perching them on her nose. “‘You have a deep interest in all that is artistic.’”
“Nana is a writer,” Janie says. “Isn’t that like being artistic?”
“Yep,” I say. “It’s the perfect fortune for her.”
“Read mine, Auntie,” Janie says, pushing her slip of paper into my hand.
I clear my throat. “‘Everyone agrees. You are the best.’ Aww, that’s a fact, girlie.”
“A statement of truth,” Audrey says, smiling. “Okay, Lissy, you’re up.”
I pluck my fortune from the crumbles of my cookie and read: “‘A very attractive stranger has a message for you.’”
I should’ve read it to myself first—I should have only read it to myself because, God …
Really?
“A very attractive stranger,” Audrey says gleefully. “Iris’s grandson! I wonder what his message could be?”
Conversation continues, mostly about Ryan and how very attractive he is, which is so silly. None of us knows anything about him. And truthfully, he couldn’t be further from my thoughts.
The moment I read my fortune—attractive, stranger, message—I thought of Mati.
elise
After Aud and Janie leave, I take a bath, soaking until my fingers prune. Then I bury myself between my sheets. I try to think happy thoughts—not about how my parents used to argue on the phone at night, when my mom thought my brother and I were sleeping, and not about how news of Nick’s death came after a night as long as this one, a vehement knock that changed everything.
The Impossibility of Us Page 4