The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  Indifference. It’s what I deserve.

  I raise my hand in a lame little wave, and it’s as if a pail of warm relief splashes over him.

  I feel it, too.

  He stands, pockets his notebook and pen, and strides on long legs toward Bambi and me. As soon as he’s in her ambush zone, she drops her ball and lets out a yowl, pulling at her leash. Mati bends to pet her head, and her tail swishes accordingly.

  “Elise,” he says in greeting, straightening to his full height. “Going for a walk?”

  I nod because my throat is suddenly too dry for conversation.

  “I thought I might see you yesterday.” He watches the toe of his shoe scuff the dirt, like he’s worried about how his admission will be received. “Or the day before.”

  I swallow, mustering some poise. “I found the note you left.”

  “Ah. Is that why you’re looking at me like I’m dangerous?”

  I smile. “Not dangerous. Unpredictable. That was ballsy, the way you left it sitting out. What if the wind had taken it?”

  He gives me a long, charged look, then says, “The wind has taken me.”

  I stand, rootless, staring at him with a feeling not unlike reverence.

  “Do you know how we say wind at home?”

  I shake my head.

  “Baad.” His voice is low and airy, like his very breath is a breeze.

  “Baad,” I repeat. “What language is that?”

  “Pashto. It is how I speak with my family.”

  “Do you know other languages?”

  “Dari. Enough Arabic to understand the phrasing in the Quran.”

  “Wow. I only know English—barely, sometimes.”

  “Well, your actions speak loudly. You’ve pulled me out of surging water, made me warm with your smile, and left me sitting alone. Even when you’re quiet, you say plenty.”

  And now I’m the one scuffing my shoe. “That looked bad the other day, I know it did. I had—” I pause, blink away the threat of tears, and try again. “I had a lot of feelings. I was kind of a mess, actually. But I shouldn’t have walked away.”

  “It was your right.”

  “And it’s your right to call me a blazing racist.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  I consider his question seriously. I don’t categorize or put down or judge many based on the actions of few. I don’t believe myself better than anyone else. And I don’t hate. Except … yes, I do. I despise the people who killed my brother, who fight and oppress, who punish with fists and stones, who launch rocket-propelled grenades at American military vehicles. But I also understand that the men who took Nicky aren’t representative of all Afghans, or all Muslims.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not.”

  “What is it about me?” he asks, more curious than combative.

  I wrap both hands around my dog’s leash; they’re shaky thanks to this deserved interrogation. “It’s nothing about you.”

  “It must be. My language? My religion? My home?”

  “I…”

  “Or maybe it’s something else. Something off-putting I have yet to think of.”

  “No,” I say in a small voice, wishing I’d disintegrate, disappear into the dust beneath my feet. I am so out of my league. So void of the intelligence, the directness, the compassion necessary for this conversation. Nick’s death stripped me of those things, at least in the way of Afghanistan and its people, which is ironic. He’d hate the way I treated Mati, no matter the reason. But I can do better—I know I can.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Mati, my voice barely a whisper. “For walking away, and for how that must’ve made you feel.”

  He nods, his expression more understanding than I probably deserve.

  I want to know if I’m forgiven, if we’re okay, but I won’t ask; forgiveness is his to grant when he’s ready. Still, even though he’s humored me, heard me out and accepted my apology—even though we’re clearly done here—I can’t bring myself to tell him goodbye, to continue my walk, to leave him behind again.

  Bambi nudges my leg with her wet nose, Are you all right? combined with Can we get going? I reach down to stroke her head and she pops up out of her sit to pick up her tennis ball.

  “She is ready to walk,” Mati says.

  “Always.”

  “Then you should go. We can talk another day, if you’d like.”

  “Or … you could walk with us.” I second-guess the invitation as soon as it’s free of my mouth. I mean, I want him to come along, but mixed signals much? The next message he leaves me will be about the wicked case of whiplash I’ve given him.

  But he smiles. “I think I will.”

  We spend a long time on the beach, trekking to the end of the sand and most of the way back. There isn’t a lot of talking involved. Mati seems comfortable with a morning set to mute, and I don’t mind the quiet, either; it’s companionable. Every once in a while, though, I’ll lower my camera to glance toward him and find his lips subtly moving, like he’s silently reciting, or trying to learn something by rote, or committing the beach to memory so he can write about it later. I’m charmed.

  There’s a fallen log, near the stairs that’ll take us back to town. It’s wind-ravaged, its bark worn away by ages in the elements. Mati points at it. “Should we sit?”

  The wood is smooth and cool. I perch with my knees inclined toward him, and he mirrors my posture. Bambi drops onto my feet, drenching them with her sea-soaked hair. She spits her tennis ball onto her paws, sighs, and closes her eyes.

  “We wore her out,” Mati says.

  “She likes to nap midmorning, and again after lunch. She also likes a good brushing every few days, and a full bowl of fresh water available to her at all times. She’s kind of high maintenance—the opposite of me.”

  He scans my yoga pants, cuffs frosted with sand, my too-big sweatshirt, and the messy knot of my hair. He sounds appreciative when he says, “I think you’re too focused on your camera to be high maintenance.”

  I am; I care more about perfecting my photographs than perfecting the way I look, and I like that about myself. I think Mati might, too, because he’s still gazing into my eyes, like he can see my dreams playing out on an invisible film reel. Somehow, I’m not uncomfortable.

  He says softly, “Kaishta.”

  I recognize the word, the perfect intonation of his accent. “You said that the other day. What does it mean?”

  He smiles, guilty, like he’s been caught with a fistful of candy, then translates: “Beautiful.”

  Okay, now I’m uncomfortable.

  But, like, wonderfully, gloriously, amazingly uncomfortable.

  MATI

  She looks out over the water,

  face flushed.

  I have flattered her,

  and I will never be sorry.

  She is beautiful,

  an impossible sort of beautiful—

  a mirror-still lake,

  a soaring hawk,

  a meadow of wildflowers.

  She is fragile,

  and she is valorous,

  and for me, she is fleeting.

  “Afghans are not evil,” I tell her,

  circling back to our earlier conversation.

  She turns her face to mine;

  I can see that she wants to hear more,

  that she is open to correcting misconception.

  “We live our lives charitably,” I say.

  “We try to be humble and kind.”

  I lean forward to gather a great scoop of sand.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  She complies, dubious,

  mapping me with her stare.

  I pour the cool grains from my hands to hers.

  I wave an open palm over the sand she holds

  and say, “The people of my country.”

  She nods, bright-eyed.

  I brace her cupped hands with one of mine.

  I only mean to hold them steady,

  but her soft ski
n makes my breath falter.

  I rob a few grains from the wealth she holds.

  They nest among the whorls of my fingertip.

  I show them to her.

  “These are Afghans who are bad,” I say.

  “They twist Allah’s words,

  and use the Quran to justify violence.”

  I blow the sand from my finger;

  it finds the wind and sails away.

  “The Taliban, al-Qaeda,

  others who harbor extreme beliefs …

  they are not true Afghans,

  or faithful Muslims—

  not in my eyes.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, reflecting.

  Then, in her sweet voice she says,

  “Thank you for showing me.”

  And I know … she is genuine.

  elise

  A new day.

  Mati can’t come to the beach this morning; his father has a medical appointment in San Jose, an hour north. His doctors have scans to run and progress to share, and Mati’s mother wants to be there, so Mati will go, too. He told me all this yesterday, after he filled my hands with sand, restructuring the framework I’ve regarded as truth since Nick died. We’ve made plans to meet later, though, at Van Dough’s.

  Ryan catches Bambi and me as we’re headed out the gate toward the ocean. “Find your lip balm?” he asks, falling into step beside me.

  “Huh?”

  “The other day? You dropped it?”

  “Oh … no. Gone forever. Figures, right?”

  “Figures.” He gives me a side-eye. He reeks of suspicion, though he’s still ambling along next to me. I only have to wonder at what he’s thinking for a moment, because he says, “Elise, if you don’t want to hang out, all you have to do is say so. I swear, I’ll take it like a man.”

  “That’s not—I do want to hang out. It’s just … The other day, I needed time alone and I didn’t know how to say so.”

  “What about today? Still need time alone?”

  Bambi hurls herself toward a squirrel that’s crossing her path and, a millisecond later, I’m yanked after her. I recover, barely, and tuck an escaped lock of hair back into my ponytail. “I think I’m over time alone, actually.”

  Ryan grins. “Cool, ’cause I’m over sitting around my gram’s.”

  Fine as I am with Ryan’s company, the closer we get to the shore, the more I feel like I’m sneaking around behind Mati’s back. Ridiculous because, God, he and I are nothing, but after yesterday, the beach feels special, like our place. Visiting with another boy—a cute, blond Texan with a broken heart in need of mending—seems wrong.

  We’re approaching the stairs, passing the picnic table with the tumultuous history, when I feel the phantom tingle of Mati’s palm on the backs of my hands. My heart does a little flip, and then I’m spewing a stream of imprudent words in Ryan’s direction: “I’m seeing someone. Talking to him. Hanging out with him … I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, edging me around so we’re face-to-face. I’m expecting him to be chagrined or indignant or maybe even pissed, but his eyes are lit with mirth and his mouth is turned up in an amused smile. “You think I want to be your boyfriend?”

  “I—uh, that might be premature. But you’re up early again, just to help me walk my dog.” My face blazes as I say, “Am I reading the situation wrong?”

  “Just a little. Weren’t you listening the other day when I told you about Jordan?”

  “Yeah, but you guys are over. I thought you were looking for someone to distract you.”

  He laughs, but not unkindly. Now I’m chagrined. Damn it—I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Bambi must feel my confusion, my discomfort, because she sits at my feet and lets out a long, low whine.

  “Sorry,” Ryan says, coughing laughter from his throat. “I thought I was clear.”

  “Apparently not clear enough.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am looking for someone to distract me. Just … not you.”

  “Wow,” I say, taking a step back. “Don’t soften the blow or anything.”

  He looks me up and down in a decidedly nonthreatening manner. “It’s not personal, Elise. It’s just, my tastes run toward people of the more … masculine variety.”

  In the swirling mess of my head, a lightbulb blinks on. “Wait—Jordan’s a…?”

  “Guy.”

  “Oh God,” I say, covering my face. “No wonder you were laughing at me.”

  “Not at you. At the situation. I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious.”

  “Maybe now that I’m paying attention!” I recall the way Iris spoke about him last week, before he arrived in Cypress Beach, her mention of living next door to a pretty girl, and her implication that Ryan would appreciate as much. “Wait—does your gram know?”

  “Nah. My parents are cool, but Gram’s old-school. She’s hung up on big weddings and bigger families and white picket fences—she’d never understand.”

  “But you can have a big wedding and a bigger family and a white picket fence.”

  He grins. “Truth. So, we’re cool? You’re not worried about my trying to seduce you?”

  I laugh. “We’re totally cool.”

  elise

  After my walk with Ryan, I hustle through a shower and, despite the don’t try too hard whispers of my conscience, stumble through a blowout and a basic makeup job. Coffee at Van Dough’s isn’t a formal affair, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to walk in looking like a slouch.

  I leave Bambi on her doggy pillow in the library (Mom barely glances up from her computer to mumble a goodbye), then walk the few blocks from our cottage to town. The bakery’s empty—now’s the downtime between lunch and dinner—and the middle-aged woman behind the counter appears happy to have someone to serve. I tell her I’m waiting for a friend, then pick a table in the front corner, close to the window but hidden from the glances of passersby. Somehow, solitude seems judicious.

  Mati walks in a few minutes late. He’s wearing jeans, plus a gray T-shirt that’s doing his frame all sorts of favors. His dark hair’s tousled, like he’s been pushing his hand through it, and he’s full of apologies. His father’s appointment ran over, they ended up stuck in noontime San Jose traffic, and there was a questioning about where he was going and who he was meeting.

  “What did you tell them?” I ask while we wait for my coffee and his chai.

  “That I was meeting a friend in town—the truth.”

  The woman behind the counter peers at him as she makes our drinks. She doesn’t seem so pleased to have customers anymore, and I’m puzzled—she was so nice before. When our order’s ready, steaming in trough-size mugs, she clanks them onto the countertop. Liquid sloshes over the mugs’ rims, but she doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t say anything, actually, which is weird. And annoying. But Mati pretends not to notice, so I do, too.

  We take our drinks to the table I claimed earlier. It seems intimate, tiny, now that Mati and his long limbs are present. Before sitting, he empties the back pocket of his jeans: key, pen, wallet, and notebook of what I suppose are eloquent words. I’m so preoccupied by it and its secrets, we bump knees as we scoot in across from each other. I giggle nervously. He looks like I stuck him with a hot poker.

  “Would your parents be upset,” I ask when my laughter has died, “if they saw you now?”

  He hesitates—because he doesn’t want me to think negatively of his parents, or because he doesn’t want to offend me, I’m not sure. He clears his throat. “My father would probably understand. He knows what it’s like to be…” He fiddles with the string of the tea bag dangling from his mug. When he glances up again, he’s flushed. The sight of him discomfited is so endearing, it’s hard to resist the urge to touch his hand. He starts again. “My mother would likely disapprove. She is very traditional.”

  As far as…? I want to say.

  “How’s you
r chai?” I ask instead.

  He smiles. “Weak. But I’m not complaining. Ramadan recently ended and after a month of daylight fasting, weak chai in the afternoon is a treat.”

  Ramadan. I make a mental note to look it up later. “How was your father’s appointment?”

  His smile thins, though I can tell he’s trying to maintain an intrepid facade. “There’s been no real change. His doctors tell us the medicines take their time to work. They tell us not to be discouraged, but my baba—my father—was quiet during the ride back to Cypress Beach.”

  “I can’t even imagine. I’m really sorry.”

  He shrugs even as worry tightens his jaw. “We’ve been hearing the same for months. One day, the doctor will give us good news and my father will have reason to celebrate.”

  “I hope so. Also, if you call him baba at home, then you should call him baba when you’re with me, too.”

  He smiles again, appreciative. “How’s your coffee?”

  “It’s okay. I only really like it when it’s swimming with sugar.”

  “Sweet,” he says. “Khwazza is the Pashto word.”

  “Khwazza,” I repeat, wishing I could say it with the elegance that’s inherent to him.

  “And bura is sugar.”

  “Bura.”

  He nods proudly, like I’ve spoken a whole soliloquy of Pashto, not two simple words. “At home, we sometimes flavor our chai with saffron. And we often sit on the floor when we drink it. On a rug, or cushions. But not at a table like this.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the woman behind the counter. She’s stocking the pastry case with buttery baked goods, paying no attention to us now. “We could ditch our chairs, if you want. Camp out on the floor.”

  “I have no desire to draw extra attention to myself.”

  I appraise him, trying to make sense of his remark, and his suddenly serious expression. When I can’t, I ask, “Do you hate it here?”

  His mouth lifts with wry amusement. “At this cafe?”