The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  I smile—I can’t help it. These peeks at his playful side are surreptitious glimpses of the person he really is; the person who I suspect is being stifled by family illness and a foreign land. “America,” I clarify. “The differences?”

  “I did. I still do, occasionally. Not the differences—I like learning about your culture—but the judgment. The stares. The assumptions.”

  “You’re ready to go home,” I say, an observation, not a question.

  “Sometimes. And sometimes I feel rushed, like I’m hurtling toward August tenth, like there’s no way I’ll be ready to go when the time comes.”

  August 10 … God, just over a month from now. Five weeks—that’s how long we have to get to know each other before a country halfway around the world reclaims him.

  I knew it—I knew he was too good to be true.

  Afraid my disappointment might be transparent, I look down, swirling my coffee in its mug. Across from me, Mati shifts, stretching like he’s going to touch my arm. My heart trips over itself, but then he drops his hand to the table, letting his fingertips rest beside mine.

  Their warmth reaches for me.

  “Tell me something about you,” he says, a blatant attempt at a lighter topic. He lifts his mug, inhales steam, then waits—for me to share an enlightening tidbit, I guess. When I’ve been quiet too long, he prompts me. “I want to hear about the pictures you take.”

  I break into an irrepressible grin—photography fills me with intangible joy. “I snap photos every chance I get. My dog and my niece are my most challenging subjects—they’re never still—but their pictures are usually my favorites. I’m working on a series of cemetery images, part of a portfolio I’ll use for college admissions down the road. It’s a life-among-death sort of thing. My mom doesn’t get it.”

  “Is she a photographer, too?”

  “No, she’s a writer. My older brother took a photography class in high school, though, and he was really into it. Back then, I wanted to do everything he did, so I’d sneak his camera out of his room and take pictures of the street in front of our condo: fire hydrants, power lines, stoops. When he figured out what I’d been doing—and that I had a pretty good eye—he bought me a camera of my own. Not a very good one, but the best he could afford. I’ve been hooked ever since.”

  “He sounds like a good brother.”

  My throat swells with sorrow. “He was the best brother.”

  We’re quiet for a pause, watching each other over the tops of our mugs.

  Mati says, “I’m afraid to ask about him.”

  “Because you don’t want me to walk away?”

  “Because I don’t want you to be sad.”

  I look out the window; my vision’s gone watery and I’ll die before I cry at this table. I blink, inhaling, wheedling a thread of composure from the warm, coffee-infused air. I meet his gaze and, monotone, say, “He was killed three years ago. He was in the army, he deployed, and … that was it.”

  Mati’s face changes, constricts with conjecture, followed closely by comprehension.

  “I am very sorry,” he says, so softly I wonder, for a moment, if I imagined his apology. But he’s looking at me with intensity that makes the sights and scents and sounds of the bakery fade away. I feel his stare, physically, in the depths of me. I feel it in the way my flesh tingles and my heart skips and my cheeks warm.

  He knows, and I know he knows, and somehow—some miraculous way—we’ve made a complete circle.

  MATI

  Baba: strong, vigorous, indomitable.

  Deteriorate: decline, worsen, fail.

  A sight no son should witness:

  the systematic wasting

  of the man who gifted him life.

  There is …

  nothing

  worse

  … than watching Baba’s light fade.

  He is warm, tolerant, selfless.

  He values education over power,

  and earns the respect some demand.

  He is the sort of man I hope to be.

  Cancer: a proliferation of poison,

  a robber of dignity,

  a squanderer of vitality, money, time.

  A plague—multiplying, intensifying, destroying.

  Worse than its symptoms?

  Worse than the side-effects of its treatment—

  coughing, nausea, fatigue, infection?

  Worse than a head pillaged of hair?

  Worse than weeks, months, years

  spent suffering?

  The knowledge that it never had to be.

  Wisps of smoke

  curl through my memories.

  When I was young,

  the acrid fumes burned my nose.

  Later, cigarettes were the scent of comfort;

  Baba was near.

  Now, tobacco smells of regret,

  of slow decline,

  of encroaching death.

  The new medicines are

  why we came to America,

  Baba, Mama, and me.

  They are meant to help, to heal.

  I am not sure they are doing their job.

  It is possible we have traveled around the world for nothing.

  Left Leila, my older sister,

  under the governance of her husband,

  and Aamir, my younger brother,

  in the care of my crooked uncle.

  It terrifies me to think ours is a journey spurred by false hope.

  Death: unavoidable, undeniable, unbearable.

  elise

  Audrey and Janie join Mom and me for dinner. We’ve just finished sub sandwiches, and now we’re hanging out in the living room. I’m curled up in the leather recliner with my laptop, and Janie’s on the floor in front of a mountain of Barbie dolls, some hers, some mine from eons ago. My mom and Audrey share the couch with twin mugs of tea. Tonight is Aud’s last night off before she works a string of closing shifts at Camembert, and she claims to be banking relaxation.

  “So? What’d you do today, Lissy?” she asks, resting her feet on the coffee table.

  I’ve spent the last half hour reading up on Ramadan (a month of ritual fasting meant to help Muslims seek nearness to and forgiveness from God), but now I give her my attention. “I walked Bambi. Worked on my portfolio. Went to Van Dough’s.”

  Aud lights up. “With who? The boy next door?”

  “His name’s Ryan.”

  “Okay, with Ryan?”

  “No, someone else. But I did hang out with Ryan at the beach this morning.”

  “Hang on,” my mom interjects, holding up her hand. “You suddenly have two new friends? After months—years—of solitude?”

  “God, Mom. Way to make me sound like a loser.”

  “Tutu, please,” Janie says, handing her mama a naked Barbie and a miniature pink tutu.

  “You’re not a loser,” Audrey says, slipping Barbie’s tutu over her nonexistent hips. She passes the doll back to Janie. “Now, are you going to tell us about this mysterious second friend or not?”

  I refocus on my computer, reluctant to spill about Mati. I suspect it’ll take my family a while to warm to his background; between Mom’s presence in New York City on September 11 and Nicky’s death in Afghanistan, their firsthand experiences with Islam have been negative, and deeply impactful. I’m not sure they’ll be willing to accept that when it comes to Muslims, Mati is the rule, not the exception. “All you need to know is that he’s very nice,” I say. “And, he bought me a coffee.”

  “What’s his name?” they ask in unison.

  I glance up and am met with a pair of inquisitive stares. Feeling double-teamed and sort of isolated all the way over here in my chair, I mumble, “Mati.”

  Mom lifts an eyebrow. “He’ll go to school with you in the fall?”

  Code for, He’s not too old for you, is he? “He’s only here through August tenth. He’s visiting with his parents.”

  “Visiting from where?”

  I could lie, easily, but lying
feels like disloyalty, and I know Mati well enough now to feel shitty about betrayal by omission. “I’m going to tell you,” I say, “because I like him and I want you both to like him, too. But you’re going to be surprised. You might even be unhappy, at first. But just … think before you react, okay?”

  “He’s from Mars, isn’t he?” Aud says with a cheeky grin.

  “No. He’s from Kabul.”

  Her smile vanishes, and her mouth gapes open like the entrance to a cave. “What?”

  I close my eyes, praying for patience, for grace. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I think it is! Who the hell is this guy and why are you hanging out with him?”

  I give a brief recount of what Mati’s told me about his father, his cancer and year of experimental treatment, finishing with, “He came along to help his parents.”

  Audrey’s eyes spark with realization. “Wait—we saw him in town last week.”

  “I didn’t know him then.”

  “Why would you want to know him?”

  “Because I don’t know anyone else? Because he’s nice? Because I’m allowed to choose my friends?”

  My mom’s been quiet, frowning and fidgeting, but now, she says, “Elise, I don’t like—”

  “Mom, think, okay?”

  She sighs, a tired, shrewd, mom sort of sigh. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “Does anyone ever? He’s nothing like what you’re thinking.” Because she’s thinking of terrorists and Aud’s thinking of firefights, and they’re both so, so wrong. “Mati’s…” smart, sweet, sincere, “… different.”

  “I’m sure,” Audrey says, emitting waves of cynicism. “All boys want you to believe they’re different, but be logical. Do you have any idea how women are treated in Afghanistan?”

  “Mati’s not trying to dominate anyone.”

  “How can you be sure?” Mom says. “I’ve read stories about Afghan women who’ve been stoned, women who’ve gone to prison for premarital sex, women who’ve been lynched for suspected adultery. Do you want to be involved with a boy who believes in honor killings?”

  “Oh my God! Mati does not believe in honor killings!”

  Audrey arcs an eyebrow. “You don’t know that. Does he even speak English?”

  I blow out an exasperated breath. “No. We’ve been communicating in Pig Latin.”

  “English is probably the only thing you two have in common.” She shudders. “Does he know about Nick?”

  “He knows enough.”

  “Well, don’t bring him around me.”

  “Me, neither,” Mom says.

  I fight the urge to pick up the Ken doll by my feet and chuck it at them. I throw glares instead, aiming first at Audrey, then my mom. “You’re both being terrible. He’s a person.”

  “A person who can’t be trusted,” Audrey says. She glances at Janie, her eyes murky with sadness. She’s thinking about Nick, his death and its cause, and I don’t blame her. My brother lost his life because of duplicity at the hand of the Afghan Army. I understand her wariness, and I understand that she’s worried about me, but I absolutely cannot accept her assumption that Mati—that all Afghans—are the enemy.

  “Shoes, please,” Janie says, holding out Barbie and a pair of tiny high heels.

  Aud lets go of whatever memory she fell into and pushes the heels onto Barbie’s perpetually arched feet. Her hands are trembling and, despite my frustration concerning this conversation—concerning my family’s reaction to a boy they’ve never even met—I feel sorry for her. Losing Nick changed her in a lot of ways; this is one.

  She hands the doll back to Janie, tucking a strand of baby-fine hair behind her daughter’s ear before returning her attention to me. Gravely, she says, “I think you should stay away from him.”

  Mom, who’s staring me down like she pities me—like I’m the ignorant one—nods. “I agree.”

  Damn it—I’m so flustered. They’re teaming up on me, making me doubt my judgment and my instincts, but it’s the two of them—a woman who fled a city she loved instead of braving its risks, and a woman who’s so hung up on her dead husband she still cries herself to sleep at night—who’ve got issues. They’re issues rooted in fear, in grief, but that doesn’t make them any less offensive.

  I push out of my chair and bend to kiss Janie’s cheek. “I’m going to bed. Night, girlie.”

  “Night, Auntie.”

  “You’re just going to walk away?” Audrey says, halting me mid-step. “Real mature, Elise.”

  “You should talk,” I sputter. “You’re the one playing with dolls, like life’s some sort of freaking fairy tale.”

  “Yeah. I sure got a happily ever after, didn’t I?”

  Mom makes a little choking sound.

  Audrey touches her knee. “I’m sorry, Jocelyn. That was insensitive.”

  They look to me, like they’re waiting for my apology. I stand, stunned and solitary, thinking of Nicky and that day on the sidewalk all those years ago.

  Don’t walk through life blind, he told me, and I’m starting to understand what he meant.

  “You’re wrong, both of you,” I tell Mom and Audrey. “Someday you’ll see.”

  Mom rolls her eyes, infuriatingly haughty. “I don’t understand why you can’t chase a nice, normal boy. A boy like Ryan.”

  I snort. “I’m not chasing anyone. Besides, Ryan’s gay.”

  I whirl around and bolt for the safety of my room.

  elise

  The next morning, after we’ve strolled the beach, Mati offers to walk me home. “Unless you’re ready to tell me goodbye,” he adds, bashful.

  I surrender to an irrepressible smile. “No. I’m not ready to tell you goodbye.”

  He holds his hand out, and time screeches to a standstill as I stare at his palm. His life line is long, deeply defined, and commalike. I’m not surprised; he’s full of spirit and warmth. His love line is almost indiscernible, fading well before it reaches his index finger.

  Wait—does he want to hold my hand?

  “May I walk Bambi?” he says, tipping his chin toward her leash.

  “Oh. Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I pass the leash over, silently berating myself for entertaining the possibility of taking his hand.

  We head for the Parker cottage, walking at the leisurely pace I set because I’m not in a big hurry to get home. I point out Audrey’s cottage, and we detour through a few side streets, admiring yards bursting with flowers.

  “My mama’s fallen in love with gardening since we came here,” Mati tells me.

  “Mine hasn’t. She hardly leaves our cottage.”

  “Because she’s so busy writing, I bet. That was me before I met you.”

  I glance up at him, wondering whether he means to flatter me, or if saying lovely things is something he does inherently. The latter, I think. “Does your mom garden in Afghanistan?”

  He shakes his head. “We have a courtyard with some grass and a few plants, but Kabul is not so good for growing things. It’s arid and urban and very crowded.”

  “Have you always lived there?”

  “No, I was born in Ghazni Province. My baba is khan—leader—of a tribe there. After Americans started coming to Afghanistan in the early 2000s, he helped launch contracting companies for the U.S. and Afghan governments, which made him more money than he ever could have imagined. We moved to Kabul so he could expand his business, and so my brother and sister and I could go to international schools.”

  I think about leaving bustling San Francisco for quiet Cypress Beach, what an adjustment it’s been. “Was it hard, starting over in a new city?”

  “Sometimes. I’ll go back to Ghazni eventually, but had we never left, I probably wouldn’t have learned English. I probably wouldn’t have started writing. I might not have come to America, either.” Our eyes meet, and it’s there, unspoken, but etched into the bronze of his gaze: I wouldn’t have met you.

  I look away, pleased, and a little rattled. “Ar
e your brother and sister still in Kabul?”

  “My sister, Leila, is married. She and her husband live in Ghazni. My brother, Aamir, is in Kabul. He’s still in school, so he is staying”—he pauses, his jaw tensing—“with my uncle.”

  “That’s not good?”

  He nudges Bambi away from a tree she’s stopped to sniff. His voice is cool when he says, “I don’t trust my uncle.”

  His statement holds a note of finality, but I can’t let it go. “Because…?”

  “Because he is disgraceful. He will do anything to gain the money and power my baba earned honorably. I worry his influence will be bad for Aamir.”

  “Bad how?”

  He sighs, like the subject drains him. “The day we met—our ocean swim? That morning, I read an email from my brother. He wrote about the people he’s met since moving in with my uncle. They are not good people.”

  Audrey’s voice echoes in my head: I think you should stay away from him. A shiver skitters up my spine. “What do you mean, not good?”

  Mati starts walking again. In a clipped tone, he says, “Elise, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides.

  He stays quiet for the duration of a block, though my mind is anything but. I think in frantic circles, of the Afghans responsible for Nick’s death. Of my mom’s warnings, her mention of stones and prison and lynchings. Of Audrey’s distrust, her disgust. Of my innate confidence where Mati is concerned.

  I can’t decide if I’m right, or if my family’s right, or if right falls somewhere in the middle, in that gray area between their intolerance and my suddenly smitten heart. Is my acceptance of what Mati tells me about life in Afghanistan the same as naiveté? The same as oblivion?

  No. He might be from a place known for violence, a place with a seemingly endless history of war, a place that’s different from America, but I have to believe he’s everything good about Afghanistan: cultured and complex, rugged and beautiful.

  I have to believe we’re connected, the way Nicky once talked about.

  As we make our way up the sidewalk, nearer and nearer my yard, Mati’s posture begins to relax, and I’m starting to feel better, calmer, once again sure of the rightness of my choices, my instincts—until Bambi recognizes our gate and gives an unexpected jerk toward it, yanking Mati forward. I reach out to grab his elbow, stopping his forward motion.