The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  I touch his arm. “Are you okay?”

  He shrugs and starts walking again.

  I catch up. “Hey, talk to me.”

  “I just—I feel…” He sighs, drawing a hand slowly over his face. He reappears, looking wrecked.

  “I know,” I say, weaving my fingers through his. I know, and I don’t want to talk about it, acknowledge it, face it, either. I push up on my toes to press my cheek against his. “I know,” I say again, my heavy heart dragging my pitch low. “But right now, I want to be here with you—present, with you. I want to forget next week, saying goodbye, the future. Mati, help me forget?”

  He leaves a trail of kisses on my cheek, a slow journey to my mouth, and then, for a few minutes, I really do forget. Because the beach is ours and he’s holding me close and it’s impossible to think of anything but the way he kisses … as if he cherishes me, as if he’s giving himself over to a longing that will never be satiated.

  He pulls back, returning briefly to press his lips to my forehead, then starts walking again, with my hand folded into his. He seems lighter, and I am lighter. I lean into him, vowing to retain this feeling. To focus on it, the good, every time I start to feel down.

  He sidesteps Bambi as she barrels past, sopping wet tennis ball clamped in her jaw. Conversationally, he says, “My baba mentioned you this morning.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  He laughs. “The opposite, actually. He really does like you.”

  “Unlike your mother.”

  “Mama doesn’t dislike you.”

  I roll my eyes. I’m so tired of feeling like the truest part of my life is on display for others to judge, or hidden away so others won’t judge.

  “I mean it,” he says. “The truth is, she has very little experience with your culture and because of that, in some ways, from her position, you’re … exotic.”

  I snort—I can’t help myself. I couldn’t be less exotic—more ordinary—if I tried.

  “Think about it,” Mati says. “Your life is so different from the life she led as a teenager. By the time she was your age, she was married and managing a household. She didn’t have the luxury of exploring the world, of considering colleges, of choosing her husband.”

  “Like that’s my fault?”

  “It’s not. But it’s still a factor. And beyond that, I think she sees you as a threat. She’s laid out a narrow path for my sister and brother and me, and when she sees one of us stepping away, her instinct is to look for someone to blame. I’ve strayed. I’ve disobeyed Allah and defied the Quran—I’ve sinned—and she believes that’s because of you.”

  “But that’s not fair!”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re tangled up in all this, but I promise, the way she acts has more to do with my choices than with you personally.”

  I fight the impulse to dig my heels in on this, because stubbornness due to hurt feelings is pointless, a complete waste of energy. As we walk, I let Mati’s words permeate, making a genuine effort to broaden my point of view. Hala and I lead different lives, but that’s not her fault or mine. She loves her son, obviously, and it makes sense that she’d resort to defensiveness when it looks like he might be veering away from his values—especially with a girl she doesn’t understand.

  Hala deserves grace, even if she doesn’t always give it.

  “I talked to her about what she saw at the hospital,” Mati says, squeezing my hand. “Baba spoke to her as well. She agreed to let it pass.”

  “That’s generous, I guess.”

  “So generous you’ll consider coming by this afternoon?”

  I turn to gape at him. Grace or not, that’s a terrible idea. But then I think of my own mother, about compassion put into practice, and how she’s failing epically. I find myself swayed by Mati’s expression, awash in hope. “Oh God … I don’t know.”

  “With Bambi. My baba wants to meet her. He asked specifically, and he’s feeling well enough to sit out in the yard with her.” He loops his arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. “Your visit would be good for him, and it would be good for me.”

  “How’s that?”

  He leans down to speak into my ear. “I spend my afternoons thinking about you. Wondering about you. Writing about you. Missing you. If you come over, you’ll spare me the suffering.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know you’re too good at this, right? It’s unfair, really. There’s this saying, something like ‘he could sell ice to an Eskimo,’ and that’s totally you. You open your mouth and all these lovely, convincing words spill out, and suddenly I’m nodding, ready and willing to do anything you ask.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Anything?”

  I laugh. “In this case, I was referring to bringing my dog to visit your baba. But yeah … pretty much anything.”

  He stops, and I do, too. My breath catches as he presses his hand to my cheek, turning my face up. He’s melting me with that heated expression of his, eyes warm and wanting. We stand still, sharing a gaze, sharing a breath. Then he pulls me into him, and I exist in the happiest place I know, Mati’s arms, listening to the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of his heart.

  “You’ll come?” he says into my windblown hair.

  “Of course I’ll come.”

  elise

  Later, Bambi and I walk to Mati’s.

  He’s out on the lawn with his father, who’s in a cushioned wicker chair. Rasoul really is looking better. There’s color in his cheeks, and the wisps of his beard have filled in a little. He’s wearing slacks and a white linen shirt, and when he spots Bambi and me, he grins. He nudges Mati, gesturing to the gate. Mati, chagrined, hops up to open it, his smile like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. He crouches to scratch Bambi behind her ears and she wags her tail like she’s forgotten all about how he spent ages throwing her slobbery ball just this morning.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says as he straightens again.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” I lower my voice. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Inside. Remember? She doesn’t care for dogs.”

  “Her loss, I guess.” But really, I’m relieved. I’m willing to be decent, to be here for Mati and Rasoul, but standing beneath Hala’s depreciating gaze as I try to keep my dog (dirty, she said during lunch) from climbing into her husband’s lap to lick his face seems insufferable.

  I keep a firm grip on Bambi’s collar while making introductions. She’s thrilled to be here, and if the way Rasoul beams is any indication, he’s just as thrilled to make her acquaintance. He pats her a little awkwardly at first, a flat-palmed tap against her hairy head, but he becomes comfortable quickly. Soon, he’s hunched over her, nose-to-wet-nose, murmuring about what a good dog she is. It’s beguiling, watching a sick man find comfort in an animal he should, by all counts, treat with indifference.

  Mati and I sit in the grass near his chair, watching the display with wonder. I’d bring Bambi here every day, even under the threat of Hala’s scorn and my own mother’s disapproval, just to see Rasoul so happy.

  “Baba,” Mati says after a while, “will you keep an eye on Bambi for a few minutes? I have something to show Elise.”

  Rasoul nods, not bothering to look up from the lovefest he’s lavishing on my dog.

  Mati gestures toward the path that leads to the backyard, then pushes up out of the grass. He wanders toward the side of the cottage and I follow, curious. When we’ve rounded the corner, he reaches for my hand and leads me farther into the shade.

  “What’s this about?” I ask, delighting in the feel of his palm against mine.

  His eyes gleam. He points. At the edge of the cottage, just below the slab-stone chimney, sits a patch of dandelions, heads white with fluff. A slow smile spreads across my face: Where any other person would see weeds—a nuisance—Mati and I see wishes.

  “This is the coolest,” I say, moving toward them.

  “I knew you’d think so. When my mama finds them she’ll pull them up, but I wanted you t
o make a wish first. Or many wishes, if you like.”

  “I have only one wish,” I tell him in an undertone.

  I bend and carefully pick two dandelions. I extend one to him. He takes it, brushing my fingers with his, sending a wake of tingles up my arm.

  He steps closer, crowding me in the most wonderful way. He leans in to whisper, “What is your wish, shaahazadi?”

  “You,” I say, without hesitation. “You, always.”

  He smiles, part wistful, part sorrowful, and I know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, because my emotions are a reflection of his. This, today, us: perfect, but passing.

  We blow our dandelions in tandem, sending their seeds to the breeze. He drops his stem onto the grass, then trails his hand down the inside of my arm, over the sheer skin beneath my elbow and the sensitive interior of my wrist. A succession of shivers ripples through me as he folds my palm into his. We watch our wishes drift away.

  It is, without a doubt, the most magical moment of my life.

  He uses his hold on my hand to twirl me around, until I’m facing him. He takes a step forward, trapping me between the smooth stones of the chimney and the unyielding wall of his chest. I bite my lip, hovering in that dangerous void between laughter and tears. He dips his head, skimming kisses across my throat, and I grapple for his other hand, until our palms are aligned at our sides. I exhale a tremulous breath.

  His mouth on my skin …

  He makes me boneless.

  He finds my ear and murmurs, “Za ta sara meena kwam,” and even without context clues, his meaning is clear.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper.

  He raises his head, seeks my eyes, lets me sink deep into his. His hands come up to brush my hair back, to cradle my face in their gentle warmth.

  Okay, no—this is the most magical moment of my life.

  I hook my fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer. I lift up on my toes, and we meet in a kiss, a lazy, sultry, smooth-like-velvet kiss.

  It’s the most extraordinary kiss.

  And it’s interrupted in the most awful way.

  Hala’s voice, aghast, furious. “Matihullah!”

  MATI

  She jerks away from me,

  covering her heart-shaped mouth

  with a cupped hand.

  Her eyes are wide, dilated, horrified,

  as she turns to face Mama.

  I do, too.

  I have never seen this combination

  of emotion on my mama’s face.

  She is appalled.

  She is agonized.

  She is apoplectic.

  She lets loose a barrage of Pashto,

  words that swarm the air like angry wasps.

  And then she whirls around

  and marches to the front yard,

  where Baba sits.

  “Stay here,” I say to the girl

  who stands trembling before me.

  I go after Mama.

  She stands over Baba,

  and her rage is an onslaught.

  The poor dog …

  Bambi shirks beside Baba’s chair

  as Mama yells, not in Pashto,

  but in fragmented English—

  so everyone will hear,

  so everyone will understand.

  “Promised! He is promised to another.”

  He brings dishonor to himself,

  his people, and Allah.

  He brings dishonor to his family. To me! To you!”

  For the span of a second, I hate her.

  But Mama is not evil,

  or even unreasonable.

  She is reverent and virtuous,

  and I have willfully disregarded

  the rules of my faith.

  She is bursting with anger,

  with disappointment,

  and I cannot blame her.

  “Hala,” Baba says, calm, rational, always.

  “He is happy. For now, let him be.”

  “He is engaged!”

  My lungs seize.

  If there were doubts,

  they have been razed.

  I imagine her, hearing it all,

  realizing I was not forthcoming.

  I picture her face, bewildered,

  then broken,

  and her heart, smashed.…

  Because of me.

  I am yours. Don’t give myself back to me.

  —Rumi

  elise

  Engaged.

  My back hits the cold, hard stone of the chimney, knocking what’s left of my breath away. If I was boneless before, I’m a puddle now.

  I strain to listen as his parents have it out.

  “He is not to see the girl again.”

  “Hala, it will run its course naturally.”

  “Always with his head in the clouds. His fantasies will bring trouble—they will bring trouble to us all.”

  And then Mati: “She is not fantasy!”

  But I am, and so is he. We aren’t real, and we never can be. Not in this town, not in this world. Not that I want to be—not anymore. Hala’s words echo in my ears: Promised! He is promised to another. I’m trying to summon a rational explanation, mentally arguing against what is becoming agonizingly clear. Not only is he leaving, but he’s returning to Afghanistan be with someone else. A Pashtun girl, probably, like Hala wants.

  All his talk of his sister’s arranged marriage, how unhappy it makes her, and him, and he’s going to do the same thing. All his talk of soul mates, of love … None of it matters.

  Not anymore.

  I push off the chimney. Now my spine is stiff with indignation, my features hardened by betrayal. I won’t cower—not while they’re talking about me like I’m a slab of meat a week past good. Throw me away, or hang on to me awhile longer, just for the adventure of it?

  God. I am such an idiot.

  I throw my shoulders back and march toward the front yard, but just as I make my way around the corner of the cottage, I slam into Mati. He steadies me, two hands that burn my arms like heated steel, then guides me, backward and stumbling, to the shadows of the side yard.

  “Elise,” he says, rough with distress. “You have to let me explain.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I say, low, hostile. When he doesn’t pull away, I smack my palms against his shoulders and shove with all my strength. He winces—his ribs aren’t completely healed—but I don’t care if he’s hurting, or even if I’m damaging him permanently. I push him again, and again, my vision clouded with rage, until he lifts his hot hands from my skin and holds them in the air, surrendering.

  His eyes are bloodshot, desperate. “You have to listen—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I am not telling, I am asking—I am begging you to let me speak.”

  “There’s nothing you can say that’ll fix this.”

  I expect a rebuttal, a dispute about how, after all these weeks, after everything that’s happened, I owe him a chance to defend himself. But he doesn’t argue. He lowers his gaze to the grass and quietly, suppliantly, says, “Please.”

  I take a step back; his nearness is (always has been) my undoing. I cross my arms over my chest and say cruelly, “Fine. You’re engaged? Let’s hear about how lovely it all is.”

  His chin lifts, his gaze drilling into me. “Elise, don’t romanticize it.”

  “Mati, don’t trivialize it. How could you not tell me?!”

  “She means nothing. I don’t even know her.”

  “That’s such bullshit. You’re going to marry this—this person. An engagement matters!”

  “It is not an engagement in the way you think. We’ve talked about this—there’s nothing sentimental about it. There is no passion. No love.”

  Love. The way he pronounces the word traps air in my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to punch him. I relish the bite of my fingernails digging into my palms. It’s pain, physical pain tha
t’s easy to pinpoint. Physical pain that’s easy to alleviate. Nothing like what’s going on in my chest: the systematic shredding of my heart.

  I force a ragged exhale, ensuring that my voice is dangerously calm. “Who is she?”

  His face falls, like he was hoping I wouldn’t press for details. “Elise—”

  “No, tell me. I want to know who she is. You owe me at least that much.”

  He speaks to the ground. “Her name is Panra. She’s a girl from another tribe in Ghazni—a more prominent tribe, one that has feuded with my family’s for generations. Her father is its leader, and my baba made the arrangement with him a long time ago, when it became clear that his health was declining and his survival wasn’t guaranteed. It is a match that will benefit our people—that’s what my baba hopes. A bond that will forge peace between both tribes.”

  Peace between tribes—that’s what I’m up against.

  “God, Mati! This is why you’re so set on going back? This the duty you talk about? I mean, I get it: peace is a big deal. But do you know what’s an even bigger deal? The fact that you have a fiancé waiting for you in Afghanistan! You didn’t think, even once, that this was information I deserved to hear?”

  “Yes. Yes! I thought about telling you a thousand times, but—”

  “But what?” I’m yelling—I’m sure his parents can hear every syllable of my diatribe, just like I heard all of Hala’s, and I’m sure Bambi is stressed about my well-being. But in this moment, I couldn’t give a shit. “You knew!” I cry, jabbing a finger in his stupefied face. “You knew if I found out that you were promised to someone else, I’d back away. And, what? You didn’t want to say goodbye to your beach buddy? You didn’t want to lose your secret girlfriend?”

  He whirls around and stalks to the corner of the cottage. He keeps his back to me and even though I want to strangle him, I also want to know what’s going on in his head. Because despite what I said all of five seconds ago, my feelings haven’t changed. Not enough. I am stupid—so, so stupid. I’ve fallen in love with a charming boy—a cunning, deceptive, unavailable boy.