The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  “Bambi, heel!”

  She listens, sort of, because now she’s an easy trot to the gate and there’s slack in her leash. She waits in front of it, wagging her tail expectantly like, Open it already.

  My fingers are still wrapped around Mati’s elbow.

  I snatch my hand back, but he’s noticed the contact and he’s staring at me, mouth open, like he’s not sure who I am or how he came to be standing on the sidewalk with me.

  “I’m sorry.” My face is sweltering and I’m sure he notices and why did I touch him?

  He rubs his arm, the spot my hand vacated, like the ghost of my fingerprints linger there.

  “Elise,” a friendly voice calls. “Hello, sweetie!”

  Iris, manning her side of the hedge like a freaking sentry.

  “Hey,” I say. Bambi howl-barks.

  “Hello, precious dog,” she singsongs before eyeing Mati. “Who’s this?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, opening our gate and pushing through. I worry about how my mother will react if she spots Mati in our yard, but I hold the gate open so he can follow—it’d be rude not to. I manage something resembling an introduction, praying Mom doesn’t dig out of her library and glance through the window. “Anyway, Mati walked me home,” I finish lamely.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Iris,” Mati says, his impeccable manners amplified in the presence of an old person.

  “Ryan,” Iris calls. “Come say hello to Elise and her friend.”

  She wanders across the yard to resume pruning as he emerges from the back. He’s wearing a faded A&M T-shirt and a backward baseball cap, plus what I’m starting to think is a hallmark smile. “Hey, neighbor,” he says, wiping soil-caked hands on his jeans. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah. Like, a whole day? You must be a master weed-puller by now.”

  “Something like that,” he says, still grinning. His gaze shifts from me to Mati. He makes no effort to hide his curiosity. And so, I muddle through another round of introductions.

  “Welcome to Cypress Beach,” Mati says, his politeness waning just slightly. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Through the middle of August. I head back to Texas on the tenth.”

  Mati tilts his head. “The tenth is when I leave for Kabul.”

  “No shit?” Ryan exclaims. “I’ve gotta say, another month in this town would be insufferable if I didn’t have Elise to hang out with. And speaking of Elise,” he says, swinging his attention to me. “Uh, why didn’t you tell me about the MLI?”

  The Military Language Institute, in Cypress Valley. It’s a language school for service members. My brother considered it but decided he’d rather start his career sooner than later. All I know about the MLI is that it’s open to all branches, and that students move to Cypress Valley to attend full-time, living in barracks on campus while immersing themselves in whatever language their aptitude tests and future job assignments point them toward. I remember Nick talking about the barracks and what a drawback they were; with the exception of a legit deployment, he didn’t want to be anywhere Audrey wasn’t.

  I squint at Ryan. “Why do you care about the MLI? Planning to ditch A&M to enlist?”

  “I care because it’s a wealth of possibility.” He gives me a frisky smile, winking all provocatively. “I’m looking for the next best thing, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I say, laughing.

  I catch Mati surveying me, brow lifted in a revelatory way. Abruptly, he says, “I should go.”

  “Nah,” Ryan says. “Hang out.”

  Mati shakes his head. “I need to get home.” He looks at me again, questioningly, dejectedly, and it hits me—he thinks Ryan’s into me. Or maybe he thinks I’m into Ryan?

  “I’ll see you out,” I say, a gratuitous gesture because we’re already out, but I need a minute alone with him.

  I let Bambi off her leash to roam the yard, and then I follow Mati through the gate and onto the sidewalk. We move a few steps away from Iris’s house, clear of her supersonic hearing.

  “Thanks for walking me home,” I say.

  He pushes his hands into his pockets, his ocher eyes dull. “You’re welcome.” In a strained voice, he adds, “Thank you for introducing me to Ryan.”

  It’s hard not to smile because, God, he is jealous. It’s cute, and complimentary, and so, so unnecessary. “There’s a reason he’s all fired up about the MLI, you know. There are a lot of guys at that school, which is what he was referring to with his ‘wealth of possibility’ comment.”

  Mati’s eyes widen. “I’m … surprised. He seems to like you.”

  “Yeah, because I’m awesome. But I assure you, he doesn’t like me.”

  He gives me a smile that reads like relief. I resist attempting to analyze its implications.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay?”

  “Thank you for explaining.”

  “Thank you for listening.”

  “I’ll see you and Bambi tomorrow at the beach?”

  Now I’m smiling, too. “We’ll be there.”

  MATI

  We take walks for the next seven days,

  meeting at the beach after prayer, after sunrise.

  There are no more inquiries about Ryan’s motives,

  or questions about my extremist-leaning uncle,

  but there is talk of everything else.

  She tells me about her plan

  to attend the San Francisco Art Institute.

  She cannot wait to return to the vibrant city.

  She makes me want to travel there, too.

  I learn about her vintage camera collection,

  her mother’s bout with writer’s block,

  her sister-in-law and their unwavering bond.

  I learn more about her brother,

  and begin to appreciate his enduring spirit.

  She talks about how she loves to eat sweets,

  fitting, because her voice is honeyed,

  and she smells of vanilla.

  She tells me she hates mushrooms:

  “So gross, Mati! They taste like dirt!”

  And then, she shares a story

  about dandelions and her little niece.

  They blow on magical blossoms,

  sending seeds and wishes into the breeze.

  It is my favorite of all her stories.

  She makes me laugh,

  and sometimes,

  when she smiles,

  I feel like I could cry.

  Two weeks after we met,

  she asks me to visit Sacramento with her.

  “To see Nick,” she says, watching the waves.

  “I think you two should meet.”

  You have escaped the cage. Your wings are stretched out. Now fly.

  —Rumi

  elise

  I haven’t visited my brother since we moved.

  Sacramento Valley National Cemetery is an hour-and-a-half drive from San Francisco; from Cypress Beach, it’s double that. I miss its pristine lawns and curved white headstones. I miss the half-mast flag, the symmetry, the absolute silence. I miss my brother, and six hours round-trip is no excuse for staying away.

  My mom hasn’t been to the cemetery since Nick was buried—“It’s too hard,” she claims—but she agrees to let me use her car, a ten-year-old BMW that rarely leaves the garage because neither of us ever goes anywhere that’s not within walking distance.

  I throw a baby-doll dress, gifted to me by Audrey, over a pair of leggings and pull my hair into a high ponytail. Then I pack my camera and lenses, plus a couple of apples, several bottles of water, and a box of crackers, wave goodbye to my mom and my dog, and lock myself inside the BMW. Sitting in the driveway, I text Mati to let him know I’m on my way.

  Mom has no idea I’ll have company for this trip.

  I cruise to the address he’s given me, a cottage that, while on the opposite side of town, is similar to the one we rent—sloped roof, whimsical stone facade, paned windows. The only no
table difference is the garden; Mati’s front yard is bursting with flowers so bold and colorful, they rival Iris’s.

  He’s waiting on the curb in jeans and a light jacket. There’s a slouchy knit hat on his head, charcoal and trendy and sort of ridiculous, but he’s rocking it. For someone so soft-spoken and humble, he exudes confidence like a high-wattage bulb radiates light.

  When I pull to a stop in front of him, he hops up. “Good service,” he says when he gets into the car. “How are you, Elise?”

  I watch as he moves the seat back to accommodate his endless legs. If we were different—different people with different histories in a different world—I’d lean over and kiss his cheek.

  “Better now,” I say instead. “I like your hat.”

  We leave the quaint streets of Cypress Beach and cut east to pick up I-5. From there, the drive’s easy. As soon as we’ve put the coast to our backs, the fog dissipates and the temperature climbs. Mati sheds his jacket, draping it neatly over the back of his seat, in favor of the white T-shirt he wears beneath. That’s it—jeans and a white T-shirt and that slouchy hat—but oh God, I have to constantly redirect my attention to the freeway because he looks dreamy. His arms are long and sinewy, a beautiful baked color, and his shirt is fitted in this incredibly appealing way that keeps tossing my mind into the gutteriest of gutters.

  I wonder if he notices me as often as I notice him.

  I wonder if he finds me as enticing as I find him.

  In an effort to keep my eyes on the road and my hands to myself, I pull out the apples I packed. I pass one to him, and we eat like we’re ravenous (for food, not each other, obviously). When we’re done, we toss the cores out our windows, into the scorched air.

  “I’m glad you’re coming with me today,” I say for lack of anything savvier.

  He glances back at my camera bag, nestled safely on the floor behind my seat. “I’m looking forward to seeing you work.”

  “Your parents are cool with you missing prayers? Hanging out with a girl?”

  “Oh, totally cool,” he says, and then he grins, waiting for me to acknowledge his use of slang, I think.

  “Nice,” I tell him. “Now we’ve just got to get you cursing.”

  He laughs. “To be honest, I only told my baba where I’m going and who I’m with.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t be totally cool?”

  He considers. “You and me out all day, alone … She would object.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she follows Islamic values closely. She is also a proud Pashtun, and she wants me to settle with a Pashtun girl, a match that would benefit our family and our tribe.”

  “Your father—your baba—doesn’t want that for you?”

  “He does, eventually. His stance is less fixed. He understands that there are…” He clears his throat, turning to look out his window at the speed-smeared landscape as he mumbles, “Urges.”

  “So, wait—you’ve never been alone with a girl?” This, to me, is unimaginable. But then, I was raised in San Francisco, where dating and sexual experimentation have long been part of coming of age. I spent my formative years living with a mother who writes what is essentially historical smut, who barely batted an eye when my brother and his girlfriend hung out behind his closed bedroom door, so long as they made good choices.

  Mati’s grinning an arrogant grin; it looks good on him. “I’ve been alone with you,” he points out. “But otherwise, no. Dating is not something I need to do—it’s not necessary.”

  “So you’ve never…?” Had sex? Rounded second base? Kissed a girl?

  Oh my God—how is this only now occurring to me?

  “The Quran says Muslims must guard their modesty. I’ve guarded mine.”

  This is troublesome—like, very troublesome. I’ve guarded my modesty, too, though it hangs by a precarious thread, its former weave diligently unraveled by Kurt, my last quasi-boyfriend. Mati’s friendship is a banana split on a hot day—perfection—but the realization that romance is off the table sends my heart into the most terrible nosedive. Even considering his impending departure, the tentative circling we’ve done over the last couple of weeks was all sorts of thrilling, before, when making good on our flirtation was a possibility. To know that we can’t—I can’t kiss him or hug him or hold his hand; he’ll never make a move on me—is a crushing disappointment.

  “So there’s no such thing as a casual Muslim?” I ask.

  “Is there such a thing as a casual Christian?”

  “Uh, yeah. You’re looking at one.”

  He laughs, adjusting his hat.

  “Seriously,” I go on, in case he thinks I’m kidding. “I go to church with my mom on Christmas Eve, and that’s it. When I was little, she read me stories from the Bible, but more for their moral lessons than their religious implications. I pray, but mostly just when I want something. I believe in a higher power, but I don’t picture the traditional white-bearded God sitting among clouds, dictating our fates, moving us around like pawns. And I doubted Him—hated Him—when He took my brother away.”

  “That’s understandable,” Mati says charitably. His elbow comes to rest on the console that separates us, but when it brushes mine, he pulls back. Shifting in his seat, he creates a chasm between us.

  I fill it with a question: “What you said about guarding your modesty … What if you don’t?”

  “Well, if there was proof of an indiscretion, that would be a punishable offense. More than that, though, I would have to live with myself knowing that I willfully defied Allah.”

  “But you’re human. You can’t be expected to be perfect.”

  “No, of course not. Muslims are not immune to sin—I’m not immune to sin. But I do my best to honor Allah. There’s an Islamic concept, niyyah, which has to do with the intention in a person’s heart. It reminds us to pray with purpose, to act with forethought. To conduct ourselves with Allah in mind. It’s not always easy, but I try.”

  “That’s because you’re a good person.”

  He shrugs. “Thanks to the way I was raised—my family and my faith.”

  “And because the laws in Afghanistan are strict?”

  He spends a few seconds thinking on that, then says, “Maybe. These days, the Afghan government is more lenient—more liberal-minded. But it’s still establishing itself, which means it operates sluggishly. In more rural areas, especially in the south, Taliban forces are strong—” He cuts himself off, sending a remorseful glance my way. I haven’t told him outright that the Taliban is to blame for my brother’s death, but it’s clear he’s inferred. It’s obvious he feels sorry for even speaking the word.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Learning about the whys … It’s helpful.”

  He lifts a brow, like You’re sure? I nod and, after a moment, he goes on. “The Taliban exacts swift justice, but seeking their help can be risky. Where the Afghan government functions under a combination of Sharia law and more democratic principles, the Taliban believes exclusively in Sharia law. Do you know what that means?”

  I mentally sift through my recent readings on Afghanistan and Islam. “I remember coming across something about it—Sharia law and Pashtunwali. Is there a difference?”

  “They’re similar. Pashtunwali is an ethical code—principles by which Pashtuns should live their lives. It encourages loyalty, righteousness, hospitality, self-respect, and forgiveness. It also advocates for justice, and revenge for wrongdoers. It’s a Pashtun’s responsibility to live by the morals Pashtunwali establishes.”

  “Okay. That doesn’t sound unreasonable.”

  He shrugs. “In many cases, it’s not. Sharia law is a legal system practiced not just by Pashtuns, but by Muslims in many countries. It dictates behavior. Commands order. It’s broad, and it can be interpreted in many different ways. It can also be severe.”

  My stomach clenches. “Severe, how?”

  “It says theft is punishable by cutting off the right hand, for example.”

  I t
urn to gape at him. “Seriously?”

  “And denouncing any part of the Quran is punishable by death.”

  “Oh my God. Mati!”

  “Hey,” he says, as calm as I was shrill. “I’m not telling you this to scare you, or to make you feel sorry for me, or bad about asking questions. I just want you to understand how different our worlds are. You can hate God when he disappoints you, then reclaim your conviction the next day. I … cannot.”

  “But you’re so…” So, what? So much like me, is what I want to say.

  “Progressive?” he supplies, his tone relaying how little stock he puts in the word. “If that’s true, it’s because of my baba. He’s like many educated Afghan men in that he reads extensively and thinks critically. But while he is deeply faithful, he also believes there are many ways to be Muslim, and he realizes that texts can be deciphered subjectively—even religious texts. Even the Quran.”

  “And you agree?”

  “Absolutely. I wish parts of the Quran could be different. I wish it dictated equality between men and women, and I wish mixed-gendered friendships weren’t so restricted. Do I think it’s absurd that I shouldn’t take a walk on the beach with a girl? Take a day trip with her? Invite her to meet my parents without worry? Yes. Will I ever bend to desire or make a decision based on what I want, what I think is right, even if the Quran says differently?” Quietly, he answers his own question. “Probably.”

  Our gazes collide. It’s momentary, but it initiates that familiar tug toward him. Into him.

  I refocus on the road, my heart thudding as I think about what he’s said. Selfishly, I want him to bend to desire, but I don’t want to be responsible for making him violate the edicts of his faith.

  “So if Muslims aren’t supposed to hang out with people of the opposite gender—theoretically,” I add pointedly, “how do they find the person they want to settle down with?”

  “You mean marry?”

  I move into the left lane to pass a crawling semi. “I guess, yeah.”

  “In Afghanistan, marriages are usually matches made by parents. The arrangements are carefully considered, but not always based on whether the couple is compatible, or if they will eventually fall in love. The most important factor is often what each family will gain.”