On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  I don’t know what I’d do. If I couldn’t. If Abay.

  Let’s worry about that tomorrow, okay? It’s late. Let’s sleep. But shower first, you smell like pickles and sweat.

  I love you too, jigaram, Nour said, rolling his eyes. Hey! Stop that! Ow!

  Shower, Firuzeh said, pointing. Now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I should tell you about my friend, Firuzeh said.

  Whatever you want, Shirin said, her eyes moving left and right. School had let out barely minutes before, the first arterial bleed of students already washed away.

  Her name was Nasima. We were in a boat with her family. They were going to live with her brothers in Perth.

  Yeah, yeah. Same old thing.

  Then she died.

  What?

  A big storm hit us. We were crying, praying. The boat nearly sank. When the waves stopped throwing us around, she was gone.

  Shit, Firuzeh. Warn a girl, would you? That’s heavy stuff.

  Shirin quit bouncing on the balls of her feet and looked straight at Firuzeh.

  She really drowned?

  Yes. But we promised each other before the storm that we’d stay friends no matter what. So she came back.

  Your fucking dead friend came back.

  Because she cared, in her own way. She ate nightmares for me. She kissed me to sleep. She said you weren’t real, that none of this was, that I was caught in another nightmare and couldn’t see. But whenever I wanted, I could take everything apart. I didn’t believe her. In the end I told her to go away. And she did.

  Good. Otherwise I’d tell you to see a shrink.

  I wanted to tell you. Because Gulalai—I think she had someone like that.

  Yeah, she had dodgy wiring in the attic. Like you.

  We were probably similar in other ways. I wish I’d been kinder.

  I don’t.

  And that’s the thing. Gulalai was right.

  Firuzeh smiled and walked away.

  Hey, wait! Shirin ran after her. Right about what?

  About you.

  And Firuzeh, now friendless, took the long way home.

  In May, as Abay showed signs of stirring from her despondence, the federal government announced the end of TPVs. They would be given permanent protection, Sister Margaret said.

  Abay said nothing. She hung up the phone, then took it off its cradle and flung it across the room. When the spiralling wire reached its limit, the handset bounced once and slid, spinning, back toward her.

  Then she closed all the curtains and went to bed. It was a long time before she got up again.

  By late November, Firuzeh was combing Abay’s neglected hair, wrapping and pinning her scarf, and reminding Abay to brush her teeth before she left for a few hours’ work at a nearby Macca’s.

  The job was enough for the rent and food, with some help. Samuel and Mo often came around to fix whatever needed fixing and drop off bags of onions, tomatoes, eggs, and rice. The English tutor, Grace, brought string bags of oranges with every visit. She showed up even when her program no longer required it, even when Abay sat sightless and speechless, leaking tears. Those times, Grace put a pencil in Abay’s hand, wrapped her own hand around Abay’s, and traced the words she was meant to learn that day.

  I’ll be able to work soon, Firuzeh said. Then you won’t have to worry so much.

  Abay, gazing at the wall, said: —

  Do you want to go see Atay this weekend?

  He was buried in a simple grave in Bunurong, south of town.

  —, Abay said.

  Nour said, But we went last weekend!

  It makes her feel better. It gets her to talk.

  Nour said, If we tried, we could get her outside. Right now, before the sun goes down. I saw something this afternoon that I think she will like.

  Did you hear that, Abay?

  The blank stare swept over her.

  I’ve got her left arm, Firuzeh said.

  Ready, Nour said, and grunted. Up!

  Although she had wept and slept away most of her flesh, Abay’s bones were still heavy, and the two of them struggled to raise her up. But once she stood, compliant and dull, it was not hard to steer her toward the door, to slip shoes onto her cracked feet, and draw her outside.

  Where are we going?

  Nour said: Anywhere. They’re all over the place. But let’s go left.

  Down the street and around the corner they went, towing Abay behind them. The air was warm and rich with the smells of growing things. Abay shuffled along, head lowered, eyes down, like a widow of war.

  Another block, and there they were.

  Nour said: Jake told me they’re jacarandas. Give them two days and they’ll squish brown and smell like garbage, but today . . .

  Today the trees bloomed in gentle profusion, soft with slipper flowers the colour of evening clouds. A thick odour like honey left Firuzeh dizzy.

  Abay stopped beneath one and gazed up through the twisting branches. They let go of her arms. She put one hand on the scaly bark.

  How pretty, Abay said. They should have viewing parties. We used to go to Istalif in the spring, to see the red-purple arghawan. You’ve probably forgotten. You were very young.

  Firuzeh said, I remember.

  Nour said, I don’t.

  Omid would have liked this. He had a weakness for beauty. That’s how someone like him wound up with me. But these trees must have been here for years. Why didn’t we see?

  You were always busy, Firuzeh said. And worried. And scared.

  Even if I was. I should have seen.

  Nour said, Well, they’re not going away. We’ll see them tomorrow, and the day after that. And next year, and the year after that.

  If God wills. If everything—

  Firuzeh said: We can worry about all of that tomorrow. Or the day after, that’s even better.

  Now how did this daughter of mine grow so wise?

  From Atay and you. From stories. From friends.

  I’m wise too, aren’t I? Nour said.

  Firuzeh said, You do ask a lot of whys.

  Not funny.

  But Abay’s smiling.

  All right. That joke was okay.

  Let’s hear you tell a better one.

  He thought. I’ve got a joke about a kangaroo. It’s a real kicker, see—

  Firuzeh threw a flower at him. They ran from tree to tree, all the way down the street, flinging sticky blue flowers at each other and laughing. The sky purpled and dimmed. When they reached their flat, all of them covered in flowers, Abay unlocked the door, turned on the porch light, and brushed each of them clean before letting them in. And then they were home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Firuzeh dreamed.

  In this dream was Atay on a yellow horse with rose-petal spots. He said to her

       How you’ve grown.

  And she said

      I miss you why did you go away

  And he said

      Sometimes the hero has to be brave

  and leave his family for their own good

  And she ran to him, and he climbed down from his horse,

  and he smelled like halwa and esfand and Atay

  Nasima was there, with pearls as big as cherries in her hair and coral and kelp around her arms

  She said

     Bitch don’t say you’ve forgotten me

  Firuzeh said

   How could I? But how are you here?

     O, well, the walls between worlds

     are thin tonight

   Will I see you again?

     You abandoned me, and I’ve walked on

      as I should have done

       I didn’t know

        thank you

  And Firuzeh said      He said

    Atay will you—      Of course

    Love her like a daughter—

  Come wit
h me Atay said to Nasima we are going the same

  direction I believe

    And Nasima will you promise to—

  Give him hell like a proper daughter should?

    That’s not what I meant

  He won’t be alone she said I promise but I can’t promise he won’t miss you

  That’s all right

  Be good

  both

  of you

         Goodbye

            she said

  Firuzeh awoke with seawater drying on her face.

  And they stayed on that side of the water, and we on this.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not exist without Sister Brigid Arthur, who gave generously of her time while I was conducting research in Melbourne. I am also indebted to Pamela Curr, Sophie Peer, Dr. Cynthia Hunter, Javed Nawrozi, and the refugees and asylum seekers in Melbourne and Kabul who were willing to speak with me.

  I am grateful to Kevin Sieff for his hospitality in Kabul, Naiem Naiemullah for his invaluable assistance, and to Hayatullah Rahmatzai of the UNHCR in Afghanistan for his time and knowledge.

  Markus Hoffman believed in this book even when I’d given up. Liz Gorinsky gave it a home and a name. Martin Cahill gave it wings.

  Dr. Eva Hornung provided advice and insight that changed the course of this novel.

  The Artist Trust LaSalle Storyteller Award bought me the months I needed to make final revisions.

  Jane Zou educated me on Australian school systems. Alex Bertolotto provided auto repair expertise.

  Earlier drafts passed through the hands of Allison Green, Alma Garcia de Lilla, Donna Miscolta, Elizabeth Hand, Jennifer D. Munro, Liz Argall, Margo Lanagan, Neil Gaiman, Nicole Idar, Novera A. King, Usman T. Malik, and Vince Haig. The book is better, and I am wiser, for their input.

  This book also benefited from collections at the State Library Victoria, the Immigration Discovery Centre, and Cornell and Princeton University Libraries. My deep thanks to the staff and librarians who endured my abuse of interlibrary loans.

  Nine years have passed since I started this book, and I have undoubtedly misplaced and omitted names, which I regret. My gratitude is no less for that.

  All glory is God’s. The errors are mine.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo credit: Sabine Frost

  E. Lily Yu received the Artist Trust LaSalle Storyteller Award in 2017 and the Astounding Award for Best New Writer in 2012. Her stories appear in venues from McSweeney’s to Tor.com and in twelve best-of-the-year anthologies, and have been finalists for the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, Sturgeon, and World Fantasy Awards. She has lived on both coasts and holds degrees from Princeton and Cornell. This is her first novel.

  You can find her at elilyyu.com.

  Content notice: On Fragile Waves contains references to violence, abuse, and racism.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ON FRAGILE WAVES

  Copyright © 2021 by E. Lily Yu

  Edited by Liz Gorinsky

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Erewhon Books

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  New York, NY 10001

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  Erewhon books are available at special discounts when purchased in bulk for premiums and sales promotions as well as for fundraising or educational use. Special editions or book excerpts can also be created to specification. For details, send an email to specialmarkets@workman.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-64566-012-5 (ebook)

  Cover design by Kimberly Glyder

  Cover and interior kelp image by kjohansen / istockphoto

  Cover and interior pearl image by Exlusively / Shutterstock

  Ornamental image of waves by Laymik from the Noun Project

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition: February 2021