The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  “What does that mean?”

  He sighs—not like he’s annoyed with my questions, but like he’s suddenly glum. I peek over at him and, yeah, he looks deflated. “My older sister is married to a traditionalist. He requires her to wear a burka when they’re in public—something she never would have done before the marriage. We’ve visited them in Ghazni a few times, and it’s frustrating, the way he treats her. He’s not violent or even cruel, but he doesn’t believe Leila should have any sort of independence. Still, the match was a smart move for my baba and for Leila’s husband’s baba; it was a link between tribes, one that made each stronger. The match made sense within the community, so it was done.”

  “Your baba doesn’t care that your sister lives with a man who allows her no freedom?”

  “He cares. But he has to think of the greater good. Leila’s happiness had to be a sacrifice.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know,” Mati says quietly. “Me, too.”

  I drive on, feeling hollowed out and hopeless—I can’t imagine how he must feel. His sister, stuck in a presumably loveless marriage to a man who’s only with her because of tradition and tribal benefit. It seems so unfair—so archaic.

  And then an even more disturbing realization hits me. I inhale a wobbly breath. “Mati … is that how marriage will be for you?”

  His expression is solemn. So desperately, I want to take his hand. I want to wrap my fingers around his and squeeze until he knows he’s not alone. Instead, I steal glances as he chafes his palms against the denim of his jeans, unsettlingly anxious.

  Finally, he lets his head fall back on the rest. It tips in my direction, his features wilted.

  “It has to be.”

  elise

  We spend the remainder of the drive in silence. I’m lost in thought. Mati seems to be drifting in a similar haze.

  His background, his culture, his religion … His differences make him him. I’m as grateful for them as I am for our chance meeting and the unexplainable draw I feel whenever he’s in my vicinity. But at the same time, his differences are why he and I can never be more than passing friends. The sweeping disappointment I feel when I consider all the reasons we’ll never work and the hopelessness that overcomes me when I think about his imminent departure slow my pulse enough to leave me light-headed.

  It’s a relief to arrive at the cemetery. I need fresh air. I need to move.

  We leave the BMW in the mostly empty parking lot and make our way onto the grounds. The sky is clear, intensely blue, as it rarely is on the coast. Mati fiddles with his hat and I smooth my skirt as a breeze ripples by. I’m weirdly nervous, and I get the sense he is, too.

  “Can we see my brother first?” I ask.

  “Yes, please,” he says, reaching over to adjust the strap of my camera bag where it’s slipping from my shoulder. When it’s in place, he gives me a sheepish smile and tucks his hands into his pockets, where I hope they’ll stay. My heart does crazy things when they’re hovering over my skin.

  “It’s strange having you here,” I confess as we walk down a path that bisects fields of emerald grass lined with row after row of white headstones. As unvaried as the scenery is, I know the way to Nick as well as I know the beach Bambi and I walk each morning. “I usually only come with Audrey and Janie, and I came with my father, once, shortly after the funeral. That’s it, though.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She doesn’t visit. She says she prefers to remember Nicky in life, but I think the real reason is that being here hurts her too much.”

  Mati sits with that a moment before saying, “You’ve never brought a friend?”

  “My friend situation is … unusual. I detached after my brother died. It was hard to be around people who didn’t get it, and I was sad. And pissed. And kind of just … lost. I spent my time with Audrey and Janie, and my mom, too, when she was up for it. I know a few people in San Francisco, but they’re just people from school. Nobody I’d trust with something like this,” I say, sweeping my hand out over the cemetery’s hallowed grounds.

  “What about boyfriends? Surely you’ve had a few of those.”

  “Maybe. But no boy’s ever felt important enough to bring here.”

  “You brought me.”

  “You’re different,” I say before thinking better of it.

  “You’re different,” he says, smiling down at me.

  Butterflies flap hopeful wings in my stomach. It’s strange to feel happiness amid this place drenched in somber memories. Strange, but not wrong. “Nicky would’ve liked you,” I say.

  “You think so?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I’m Afghan.” As if that explains everything.

  “Yeah, and my brother deployed with the best intentions. He was worried and he was afraid, but he wanted to make a difference because he was invested in Afghanistan and its people. He was invested in all people. He would’ve loved to have met you.”

  “I’m not sure if you said that because it’s true or because you want me to feel good.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, to tell him that the answer to his question is both; he just barrels on. “Whatever the reason, though, I’m grateful to you for making me feel welcome—both here, and in America.”

  I pause on the path, turning to face him. A warm breeze sails by, bringing with it the scent of rich soil and fresh grass and clean boy skin. “Mati,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  His gaze slips from my eyes to my mouth and lingers, and lingers, and lingers. My skin erupts with goose bumps, though the sun is overhead, showering us with heat. If we were different—different people with different histories in a different world—he’d dip his head and kiss me, sweet and tender, mindful of our surroundings, leaving me with a hint of what might come later.

  He clears his throat. “Which way, Elise?”

  I sigh. I point. We walk on.

  After a few minutes, we reach Nick’s plot. Mati stops just before it, but I move forward, stilling only when I’m in front of the headstone. Nicholas Parker, United States Army. I drop to my knees as I always do, just like when I was twelve and I’d walk into his room and fall onto his futon for a dose of fraternal advice.

  “Hey, Nicky,” I say conversationally, like I’m talking to my big brother, not a slab of cold marble. And then I go into my usual spiel. An update on our mom. A detailed summary of Janie’s latest talents, and everything I know about what Audrey’s been up to. I tell him about Bambi, too, because when we were kids, he wanted a dog even more than I did.

  “And this,” I say, when I’ve finished my report, “is Mati.”

  He steps forward and crouches down beside me. “Hello, Nick.”

  His tone is so respectful, his voice so saturated with reverence, I could cry.

  I fish around in the small front pocket of my camera bag and produce two pennies. I drop one into Mati’s hand. “We always leave pennies,” I say. “For luck, but it’s also a military tradition. Visitors leave a penny to let the soldier’s family know they were here. A nickel says the visitor trained with the soldier in boot camp, a dime says they served together, and a quarter means the visitor was there when the soldier died.”

  Mati’s eyes are wide. “Have you ever found coins left by others?”

  “Yep. Nicky charmed everyone he met. His funeral was packed with people from San Francisco—friends, teachers, neighbors. Plus, there were tons of soldiers. They came all the way here, mostly from Fort Bragg, which is clear across the country. That day was unbearably sad, but it was comforting, too. Since, I’ve seen a lot of pennies, but also a few nickels and dimes. The grounds crew clears out the coins every once in a while, especially after Memorial Day, when there are lots. I’ve heard the money is donated.”

  “That is … incredible.”

  I smile. “Right?”

  We place our pennies atop the headstone. “Love you, Nicky,” I say as we turn to go.


  It’s only after we’ve walked away that embarrassment occurs to me. My time with my brother is personal, and all the talking I do … Maybe it’s weird. Maybe Mati thinks I’m nuts, leaving pennies because tradition says I should. I mean, looking in from the outside, it probably seems like nonsense—why does a dead person need luck?

  But he doesn’t appear to be judging. He looks content, peaceful, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

  “Thank you for introducing me to your brother,” he says when we step onto the path.

  “Like I said, he’d think you’re cool.”

  “I am cool.” He touches his hat, peeking over at me. “Right?”

  I laugh. “So cool.”

  “Now we get to photograph?”

  “Now I get to photograph. You get to trail me like a loyal puppy.”

  He grins. “We should have brought Bambi for that, but today I’ll happily take her place.”

  We cruise the grounds, slowly, quietly. I stay slightly ahead and Mati, true to his word, follows like a shadow. The sun is white-bright, posing a challenge I don’t have to deal with in overcast Cypress Beach, but I get some workable shots: a shaded spiderweb spanning two headstones (still sparkling with dew), arrow-straight rows of alabaster marble markers as far as the eye can see (a few with small American flags waving serenely in front of them), and my favorite: Mati stooped down in front of a grave, touching its inscription with the tips of his fingers. His expression is a coil of pain and contemplation and admiration—God, everything I feel when I come here.

  When I’ve drained my creative well and worn my feet tired, we sit cross-legged—side by side, but absolutely not touching—on a quiet stretch of path. We scan the raw photos on my camera’s digital display. Mati is full of compliments, even when it comes to the images of him, which, now that I’m looking, are numerous. His lack of inhibition is refreshing, considering Janie’s always been my only willing human subject.

  “Would you mind if I tried?” he asks.

  I set the Nikon to auto and show him the basics before passing it over. Immediately, he’s got the lens trained on me.

  “No!” I say, throwing my hands over my face.

  He lowers the camera. “But I thought Americans liked to have their picture taken?”

  “No photographer ever likes to have her picture taken. That’s an established rule, Mati, like rain is wet and chocolate is divine. Surprised you didn’t know.”

  “Maybe I don’t care.” Quickly, he raises the camera and snaps my picture. It appears on the display and, after a quick assessment, he declares it, “Ssaaista.”

  I frown. “Dare I ask what that means?”

  He’s looking at my lips again, like they’re the most fascinating bit of anatomy he’s ever set his sights on. He shakes his head to clear whatever he was thinking (God, what was he thinking?) and hands my camera back.

  “Ssaaista means pretty, Elise.” He raises the corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Surprised you didn’t know.”

  MATI

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asks.

  She is driving us home, one hand loose on the wheel,

  the other resting on the console between us.

  Her attention is split between the road, and me.

  “I believe in love,” I tell her.

  “Everyone believes in love.”

  Not everyone.

  My parents care for each other.

  Their marriage is one of loyalty and acceptance.

  But it is a match born of profit and political gain.

  My marriage will be, too.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  She glances at me,

  changes lanes,

  then smiles.

  “I think … maybe?”

  I smile, too.

  It is always like this with her—

  her emotions alter mine,

  change my mood the way heat and pressure

  transform carbon into diamonds.

  “You don’t sound certain,” I tell her.

  “It’s hard to be certain of anything these days.”

  She speaks like someone who knows loss,

  who has waded through swamps of sorrow.

  My chest aches for her.

  “I believe in soul mates,” I say.

  Her mouth dips into a frown.

  “That concept seems … impossible.”

  I inhale, and revise my statement.

  “I believe two people, two souls,

  can know each other instantaneously,

  and recognize how each longs

  to spend a lifetime devoted to the other.

  Like when you hear a song

  and feel its lyrics profoundly,

  as if they were inscribed on your heart,

  and yours alone.

  It’s a connection that eludes explanation,

  and defies logic.

  It seems impossible, until it happens.”

  Her eyes remain on the road.

  Her expression is thoughtful,

  and her voice has gone soft.

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

  Her hand, unspooled across the console,

  is suddenly beneath mine.

  It trembles like a trapped bird;

  mine shakes like a storm-tossed leaf.

  I have never done anything like this,

  never known anyone like her.

  I thread my fingers through hers.

  “Maybe I am.”

  elise

  The next day, after a walk on the beach, after depositing Bambi in the yard, Mati and I sit on the curb in front of my cottage. He’s walked me home again—this is apparently a thing we do now—and we’re laying low to avoid Iris and (though I don’t say so aloud) my mom.

  She’s treated me coolly since I got home from Sacramento just before dinner. Whatever, though. After the way she and Audrey ganged up on me, I don’t care if she somehow figured out that I had company yesterday. I like Mati—I like him a lot. He makes me feel understood, and important; he makes me feel like me. My mom can be passive-aggressively aggravated all she wants, so long as she doesn’t try to keep him and me from hanging out.

  I’m thinking of our conversations in the car yesterday, about the way Mati held my hand, about inevitability, when he asks, “Are you busy tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got my regular beach walk in the morning and I’m babysitting my niece in the evening. Otherwise, no.”

  He rescues a smooth, round stone from the grass behind us. “Will you join me for lunch?”

  My first thought is, Like, a date? But, no. Mati doesn’t date. He doesn’t have to, because a companion will be chosen for him.

  “Okay,” I say, despite my reservations. “Where do you want to go?”

  He rubs his thumb over the surface of his stone. He’s been antsy all morning, running his hands through his hair, repeatedly chucking Bambi’s ball into the surf, paging through his ever-present notebook. Like he’s anxious or something.

  “How about my family’s cottage?” he says, like Oh hey, this is an idea that’s just now occurring to me.

  “Uh…”

  “I promise, it is a civilized place.”

  “But—”

  “But you’re worried about my parents.”

  “Okay, yeah. Will they be there?”

  “Yes. I told them I want to invite you.”

  “And they’re okay with that? With me? In your house?” I thought there were rules about this—about Muslims spending time with, befriending, people of the opposite gender. Yet Mati wants me to sit down to lunch with him and his parents?

  “My baba is. It will be nontraditional, you visiting, the four of us dining together, but he’s open to the idea. Honestly, I think he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “And your mother?”

  He looks away, turning the stone over in his palm. “She agreed to cook.”

  “
Huh.” I hold out my hand and, wordlessly, he places the stone in it. It’s retained his warmth, and I take over rolling it into a series of somersaults. I hate myself for allowing this thought to worm its way into my head, but meeting Mati’s parents seems pointless, like the official commencement of nothing.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course. Call me later to let me know what you decide.” This is something we’re doing now, too: talking on the phone. Mostly at night, after my mom and his parents have gone to sleep. Drifting off to the sound of his voice … It feels like a gift.

  “You should know,” he says, smiling, “my mama is making chicken kebabs and pilau.” He says this as if it’s an enticement, as if he assumes I’m familiar with pilau. He must see cluelessness in my expression though, because he adds, “Rice, cooked with meat and vegetables. A traditional dish in Afghanistan, like … pork chops and applesauce in America.”

  I laugh. “I’ve never in my life eaten pork chops and applesauce. Have you?”

  “Elise, Muslims don’t eat pork,” he says fondly, like to him, my ignorance is more endearing than obnoxious. “Regardless, it sounds like a terrible combination.” He pushes up off the curb. “I should go. Let me know about tomorrow?”

  “I will,” I say, standing, too. I should accept his invitation. It’s rude, stringing him along, but I need to sort through the abundance of questions in my head: what his invitation suggests, who I am to him, who he’s becoming to me, and how I’ll deal with the impossibility of us.

  I pass his stone back. He pockets it and turns toward home, but then the front door of our cottage opens and my mom pokes her head out and, for a split second, gravity is nonexistent.

  “Elise? I thought I heard voices.” She catches sight of Mati and her eyes narrow. “Oh.”

  Oh shit, is more like it.

  “I’m on my way in,” I say, shooting her a go away glower.

  Instead, she makes her way down the steps and along the cobblestone path, her expression steely. My heart sinks as she pushes the gate open and approaches Mati and me. “Aren’t introductions in order?” she says in a tone that’s the opposite of amiable.