The Impossibility of Us

by Katy Upperman

  “Have you arrived at an answer?”

  I breathe through the ache behind my ribs. “Because I know now how it feels to lose you.”

  “Gutted,” he says. “Like a snared fish.”

  “I was going to go with hollow, like a tree left to rot on the forest floor.”

  “And you think you’re not good with words.”

  I laugh, tinny and stuttered. “You’re better. Have you been writing?”

  “Page after page. Lines wrought with angst. I don’t think you’d be impressed.”

  “Oh, I bet I would.” It feels good, this lightness after days of dark, but I can’t forget what’s next: the detailed reality of his future, and the terrifying blankness of mine. “So. Two days?”

  “Two days. I’d give anything to spend them with you.”

  “Two days with your secret girlfriend before you take off to woo your fiancé?”

  “Elise.” There’s conflict in the strained way he says my name, and that old ember of hope sparks to life. “I can’t promise she won’t be a part of my life, but now, after the last week, I can’t tell you that she will. If I were thinking only of myself, the decision to return to America one day, to start a new life as a student and a writer, a life with you, would be simple. But my choices impact others, and I cannot be careless when so much is at stake.”

  “Mati, if you come back to America, do it for you. Or, go somewhere else—France or Brazil or, God, Japan. Somewhere that’ll make you happy. Be with someone you choose—someone you love. Live the life you want to live.”

  “Someday, maybe I could.”

  I want him to say more; I want him to say I will. I want to fall asleep knowing his future holds pleasure and contentment, even if I can’t be a part of it.

  “If I promise to think about it,” he says, “can I see you before I go?”

  There’s a whisper in my ear, quiet, insistent words …

  Stop wishing. Start doing.

  “Meet me tomorrow morning,” I say. “At the beach.”

  MATI

  Meet me tomorrow morning. At the beach.

  It is all I have wanted to do

  since we hung up last night.

  But I could not meet her because

  this morning was Baba’s final scan.

  I walk toward the ocean now,

  after midday prayer,

  while the sun is high in the sky.

  I am a patchwork of emotions:

  relieved and exhilarated,

  anxious and heavyhearted.

  My seams are stitched haphazardly,

  and I am slowly unraveling.

  My time with her has run out,

  and I can hardly face the fact of it.

  Cowardice urges me to retreat,

  but my soul is a compass

  whose needle points to her.

  She is waiting by the surf,

  long hair lashing in the wind.

  She is radiant against the steely sky.

  I will never love anyone the way I love her—

  I know that now.

  The trick is in reconciling my feelings,

  with my future.

  I call her name.

  She turns to the sound of my voice.

  She walks toward me,

  her expression impossible to decipher.

  She stops before I can reach for her and,

  for an immeasurable moment

  we stand,

  staring into each other’s eyes.

  “How’s your baba?” she asks.

  “Healthy. He has been cleared to go.”

  She blinks, happy for Baba, sad for us.

  Her feelings are mine, in duplicate.

  “Tell him I’m glad for him,” she says.

  She paints a smile with careful strokes,

  her eyes glittering with tears.

  “So, tomorrow…?”

  “Tomorrow I fly home.”

  She takes a step toward me, timid,

  as if she is worried I will turn her away.

  When I open my arms,

  her hesitancy vanishes.

  She walks into them,

  into me,

  and for the first time since we argued …

  I breathe.

  elise

  Audrey calls a while after I get home. She tells me she and Janie are coming over, then hangs up quickly, like I might tell her to stay home if given the chance.

  I sprawl out on my bed to wait.

  Today at the beach … All afternoons should be so lovely. Mati and I took a long walk, indulged in a kiss that’s forever etched in my memory, and said our goodbyes. He was sensible, and I was realistic. We were more composed than I thought us capable. Tears would have tarnished the good we shared—that’s what I tell myself every time sadness threatens to drown me.

  My door swings open, and Audrey and Janie barrel in. Janie’s dragging bags from the local home-improvement store—they’re nearly twice her size—and Aud’s lugging gallons of paint.

  “What’s all this?” I ask, sitting up.

  “What do you think?” She looks around my room, nose turned up. “We’re going to fix your walls.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my walls,” I say, indignant. But okay, my walls are depressing, and I’ve known as much for a while. I’ve been hoping I’d get used to the Obsidian, but here I am, almost ready to start school, and I still feel gloom settle over me every time I set foot in here, which, lately, is often. I eye the cans Audrey’s set on the floor. “What color did you choose?”

  Janie pipes up. “Mama said no pink.”

  Audrey smiles. “I didn’t think you’d go for it, though I found a gorgeous cotton candy color I might get for Janie’s room. For you…” She pulls a paint strip from the pocket of her tattered jeans and shows me a blue-green square. “It’s called ‘Splashy.’ Cute, right?”

  I study the color. “Reminds me of the ocean.”

  “Better than a darkroom?”

  I shrug, downplaying my enthusiasm. “Do you think it’ll cover?”

  She taps one of the cans. “Primer. Obviously, I’ve thought of everything.”

  Janie grins up at me. “I’ll help paint, too, Auntie.”

  I point at the stars on my ceiling. “They stay.”

  It takes a while to haul my furniture into the middle of the room and clear the walls of photographs. We’re almost done when my mom pokes her head in to ask about the commotion. When she sees paint cans and drop cloths and brushes scattered about the floor, she grimaces. “Are you girls sure you’re up for this?” she asks, eyeing me like I might disintegrate at any moment.

  “Of course we’re up for it,” Audrey says. “Want to help?”

  Mom smiles, running a hand over my hair as I walk by with a roll of blue painter’s tape. She’s been particularly nice since Bambi’s stint as a runaway. “I’ll pass, but let me know when you’re ready for refreshments.”

  She retreats to her library—forty-eight hours until deadline—and not long after, we’re ready to crack the cans open. Janie keeps Bambi occupied, holding a bone steady while my dog gnaws. She and Audrey ooh and ahh as I roll tinted primer onto the wall. Their excitement is warranted—even this is an improvement.

  Audrey gets busy with the trim. “When’s the boy next door heading back to Texas?” she asks, cutting primer along the door molding.

  “Tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when he leaves.”

  “You can visit him.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Janie climbs up on my bed, floating in the center of the room like an island, and pages through the picture books her mama brought to keep her busy. I continue rolling, working up a sweat, and Aud makes progress with the edging. I can tell by the way she furrows her brow, concentrating: she’s got more than paint on her mind.

  Finally, tentatively, she says, “When does Mati leave?”

  I cease my work to face her. “Tomorrow. And since when do you c
all him by his name?”

  Her paintbrush hovers idly next to the wall. She opens her mouth to respond, but then Janie pipes up. “Mama hates Mati.”

  Audrey blinks at her. “I don’t hate anybody, baby.”

  Janie turns the page of the book on her lap, then glances up, all innocence. “Yes you do. I heard you telling Auntie that he can’t come over. Too bad, because Mati brings wishes, and he tells silly stories.”

  Aud glances at the floor, then at me. “I haven’t been very nice,” she says quietly.

  “No. You haven’t.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  I consider lying. To save face, to save this evening, but I can’t. I’m tired of feeling disgraceful about a relationship that’s anything but. I go back to rolling, but I watch her as I say, “I saw him today at the beach.”

  “Oh.” She dips her brush, wiping off excess paint before taking it to the wall. “Is he going to marry that girl?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t know. He’s considering alternatives.”

  “Because of you.”

  “Not in the way you think. He writes. He’s smart, Aud. Maybe he’ll come to the US and go to school. Or maybe he’ll go to Europe and find a job at a magazine. Maybe he’ll return to Kabul and decide he loves it, or maybe he’ll go to Ghazni and meet Panra and discover she’s exactly the person he wants to spend his life with. I don’t care, so long as he’s happy.”

  I want to mean it. I so want to mean it.

  Audrey props her brush on the lip of the can and crosses the room to loop an arm around me. I let my roller hang at my side and lean into her, trying to smother the sob that’s scaling my throat. We stand, silent, staring at the melancholy gray-blue primer, and I feel an overwhelming sense of solidarity; Audrey is intimately familiar with loss. I’m starting to understand what she’s known for years: love can’t always be enduring—at least not corporeally. But love can be generosity. It can be selflessness. It can be wanting more for the other, even though more is currently making me feel like my heart’s being pillaged and surrendered for the greater good.

  “I’m sorry, Lissy,” Audrey says. “I should’ve trusted your judgment. You deserve that much—more, considering everything you’ve done for Janie and me over the last few years.”

  I swallow. I will not cry—not now, not anymore. I will not feel sorry for myself, because meeting Mati, getting to know him deeply and completely, has been a gift. I’m going to lose it to circumstance, but I’ve held it in my hands, and delighted in the perfect weight of it.

  That has to be enough.

  Later, after we’ve pried open the can of Splashy paint and rolled two coats onto the walls, we lie on my bed with Janie, who’s shaken herself awake from a snooze. We admire our efforts and I admit, only a little begrudgingly, that Audrey was right: The black was dreadful, and this new color, cool and cheerful, is a vast improvement. I feel better than I have in days, and I say as much. Audrey takes my hand and gives it an affectionate squeeze. I take Janie’s and pass the gesture along.

  Even knowing that tomorrow will be the worst, I feel lucky.

  elise

  I love Audrey for being so damn pushy about paint colors. Her chosen blue-green is equal parts tranquil and buoyant, and my ceiling of silver stars is kind of beautiful suspended above it.

  My furniture is back in place, and my photos are back on the walls. Early this morning, I processed the one I took of Mati in front of his cottage, printed it out, and tacked it over my desk. A reminder of this summer, of my first love.

  He’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving.

  The air in my bedroom smells chemically, of pigment and hard work. I’ve got my window open in an attempt to flush out the fumes while I sit on my bed with my computer, sorting through the digital images I took of Janie yesterday, paintbrush clasped in her little hand. As always, she’s an ideal distraction. I’m cleaning up a picture of her almost touching the tip of her brush to Bambi’s nose when I hear voices out front.

  I leave my laptop on the quilt and move to the window, looking out toward the street where Xavier’s Jeep is parked. He and Ryan are standing beside it.

  Ryan’s leaving for the airport soon, and they’re obviously saying their goodbyes. I’m blatantly spying, but I can’t help myself. Watching them, I suffer their emotions like they’re my own. Xavier’s shoulders are slumped, and Ryan’s crying like a big baby, fogging up his glasses. But as painful as it appears, there’s something hopeful about their goodbye, something honeyed and full of promise. Because, of course, Ryan and Xavier will see each other again.

  I think about what Xavier said at the diner last week, his advice regarding my argument with Mati. How, even if he and I move into our individual futures without further contact, I’m better for knowing him. Xavier is right, and he and Ryan are living that sentiment now. I see it in the way Ryan hugs him, laughing through his tears. I see it in the way he touches Ryan’s hand before climbing into his Jeep.

  I hurry down the hall and out the front door of our cottage, calling out just before he shifts into gear. “You were going to take off without saying goodbye to me?” I say through the Jeep’s open window.

  He reaches out to tug my ponytail. “I’ll still see you,” he says. “You’re stuck with me until I’m done at the MLI, until I ditch Cypress Beach for bigger, better assignments.”

  “Want to meet at The Hamlet this weekend? We can drink milkshakes while feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  He smiles. “You got it.” He looks at Ryan. “Call me when you get in?”

  Ryan nods, sniffling. I link my arm through his and we stand together, waving until the Jeep disappears around the corner.

  “Well,” Ryan says. “That sucked.”

  “I bet. And to think, you still have to say goodbye to me.”

  “About that. I was thinking that we just … don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You better believe I’ll be imposing myself on your life even after I get back to Texas. So what’s the point of a drawn-out goodbye when it’ll just make us feel shitty?”

  “There is no point. Especially since I barely survived my goodbye with Mati.”

  Ryan shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re not going to see him today.”

  “Am I awful?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re smart—smarter than me, anyway. Because it’s pretty terrible, watching someone you care about drive away.”

  “Being smart has nothing to do with it,” I admit, doubting my decision to cut off contact a day early. But, no—I’m surviving. I look at the cracked sidewalk, avoiding Ryan’s gaze. “My heart physically cannot handle another encounter with him.”

  He slips his hand into mine. “I don’t want you to be sorry later.”

  “I won’t. Yesterday at the beach … He knows how I feel.”

  But does he? Did I tell him how deeply he’s affected me? Did I tell him I don’t want him to go? A thousand times I talked about how we’ll never work, but did I ever tell him how often I wish we could?

  He’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving.

  Oh God, this is agonizing.

  Iris pokes her head out the door, jingling her keys. “Ready to head for the airport?”

  Ryan juts his lower lip out in a pouty face so ridiculous I can’t help but smile. I throw my arms around him. “You’re going to have a blast at A&M, and you’re going to come back to stay with Iris the first chance you get. Xavier and I will come to Texas and kidnap you if you don’t.”

  He laughs, weepy-sounding. “I’ll miss you, neighbor. Make some friends at that new school of yours, but don’t forget about me.”

  “Never.”

  He gives me one last hug. He draws back and removes his glasses, then uses his T-shirt to polish them. “Go inside,” he says with a valorous smile, “or I’ll never get out of here.”

  I back slowly toward our gate. “Good thing we skipped the drawn-out goodbye.”
<
br />   He smiles his golden Ryan smile. “See you soon, Elise.”

  elise

  My mom’s waiting in the foyer. She sees my face, my tears, and sweeps me up in a hug.

  It’s been a long time since she’s held me this way, a long time since she’s shown affection that wasn’t motivated by panic or guilt. I hug her back, an instinctual reaction because she’s Mom, but my head’s spinning.

  She must sense my internal chaos, because she eases back and blots my face with the sleeve of her blouse. “You’ll see Ryan again.”

  “I know,” I say, leaning in to her, trying to counteract the weightlessness I’m experiencing. After a summer characterized by bests and worsts, I’m back where I started—a loner in a rented cottage, and I have no idea what to do with myself.

  She takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. She sits me down at the table, where I lean over to stroke Bambi’s head. I watch Mom fill the coffeemaker with water and scoop ground beans into a paper filter. She finds the perfectly imperfect mug Nick made and spoons sugar into its bottom, humming as the kitchen fills with the aroma of coffee.

  After a few minutes, she brings my mug and one for herself, then sits down with me. “Rough day.”

  It’s not a question, but I nod.

  “Things will improve. Summers are funny that way. They’re days unaccounted for, a time-out from real life. As soon as school starts, you’ll be yourself again.”

  She’s trying to help, but she’s only succeeding in making me want to cry all over again. I don’t know who I am anymore—I’m not the girl who pulled a stranger out of the surf, who left him sitting alone at a picnic table. I’m not the girl who took him to cemeteries and kissed him in turrets. I’m not the girl who opened her heart because her soul told her she should.

  That girl who used to make wishes and count on them to come true—where did she go?

  My mom has no clue what happened to me this summer, during those days unaccounted for, and I so desperately want my brother. He was always better with emotions—better with life. If he were alive, here in Cypress Beach today, he’d be beside me, acknowledging my feelings instead of attempting to wave them away.