Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  The truth was that sometimes I hated him for doing all this for strangers but leaving his family behind. This was going to be one of those moments I would remember to tell him about when he came home: the time I was incredibly brave and saved my SAT instructor from a panic attack. “I don’t know what he would have done if I wasn’t there,” I would say.

  The last of the footsteps thundered out of the room. I gingerly made my way to the front, avoiding the dark outlines of desks and chairs.

  “Zayed, are you all right?”

  “They’re here,” he whispered.

  “Yes, they are.” I watched the blazing ambulance lights below. “Don’t worry.”

  We stood in silence for a minute, then the marker he was clutching fell to the ground. The clang was followed by a rolling sound, then silence.

  “Zayed, have you ever been in an earthquake before?”

  No words from him.

  Clearly not.

  He was shaking. I could tell being two feet away from him. He quivered as if one wrong step would send him crashing through the slanted windows to the street below. I could tell he wasn’t hearing a word I was saying. I wanted to touch him, to assure him that he wasn’t alone, but didn’t know if that was appropriate.

  “Don’t worry; this is probably just a small one.” I tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder anyway. I was surprised to feel him trembling beneath my fingertips. This was a scary situation, no doubt, but he was overreacting.

  A light from an ambulance briefly shone up into the classroom, illuminating Zayed in the spotlight. It rebounded off his irises. He didn’t move. Didn’t react.

  I sighed. Where was my confident teacher now?

  “Come with me.”

  He warily looked at my outstretched hand. I was about to pull it away when he took it into his in a tight grasp, interlacing my fingers with his.

  I swallowed. His hands were like ice. I had to get him out of there before he went into shock.

  “Zayed, let’s go outside. You’ll feel better once you get some fresh air.”

  “The roof,” he said faintly.

  “What?”

  “It’s just a staircase up.”

  “Of course. The roof.” I hadn’t realized the building even had a roof and was not looking forward to climbing the dark staircase. The backlight from my cell phone guided me up a narrow flight of stairs and to a doorway. Every few steps, I turned to make sure Zayed was okay.

  He matched me step for step, holding his messenger bag tightly over one shoulder. I was feeling a lot less afraid by now; the building felt fairly stable, and no other tremors had begun.

  “Wow, the entire neighborhood seems to be out.” I held the door open. The roof was deserted, an old mossy smell permeating the space. It was obvious no one had been up here in quite a long time. I was surprised that the door was unlocked and that Zayed even knew about it.

  I didn’t bother asking why since he was in no shape to answer any questions.

  “You don’t want get too close to the edge,” I said unnecessarily, expecting he would release my hand. He didn’t loosen his viselike grip for even an instant and instead remained pasted against the exterior stairwell wall as if he would fall off a cliff if he let go.

  “Thank you,” I thought I heard him say.

  We both gazed off into the darkness of the city, dotted with a few blinking lights. I wanted to assume this was an ordinary power outage following a minor earthquake. The way Zayed was acting made me question my theory.

  “What happened back there?” I asked hesitantly.

  He turned to look at me, really look at me for the first time, his silhouette defined even in the darkness. “I’m sorry.” He finally released my hand. “I’m extremely sorry. This was inappropriate. I should have asked you to leave.”

  And my favorite instructor was back.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m curious. You seemed, uh . . .”

  “You should go, Miss Alexander. I’ll be fine. Don’t . . . don’t worry. Please go. Carefully.”

  “Uh, sure, let me just make sure some friends of mine are okay.” Stung, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse again and started typing on the keypad.

  The truth was, I was text messaging gibberish to myself. I glared at him even though he couldn’t see me. How dare he pretend to slip into his formal teacher persona? He was so freaked out, I had no doubt he would jump off the roof or something if I left him here. I also had a feeling that if I stayed a few more minutes, Zayed would forget about propriety and start talking, because he was certainly not fine.

  Another police car arrived. Then three more.

  He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “We had blackouts back home. Whenever there was an attack.”

  In Paris?

  “So much danger. I never knew if we would survive the night,” he said in a voice so low it was clear he was talking to himself.

  What was he talking about?

  Chills shot through my spine, and suddenly I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. My bravado was fading, and my protective feelings for Zayed vanished immediately. I had no idea what I was doing. I was being careless and naïve thinking I could play hero for a man I knew nothing about and was now alone on a roof with.

  I turned to leave and willed myself to just go. Get away from here. A text message from Lana had just popped up on my phone, signaling that the blackout had hit the news already. “Baby, where are you? Call me. Worried,” the message said.

  “There soon,” I responded, typing quickly. “Traffic sucks.”

  Something deep down held me in place. This guy did need my help. This was not an act.

  Zayed stared into the blackness of the city unfolding before us. “It’s happening again.”

  He was starting to scare me more with his cryptic talk.

  “I’ve felt this way, the way I think you’re feeling now,” I said, giving him one last chance to start explaining what was going on in his head. “Like I’m trapped inside my own body. Like no one can hear me.”

  “Like I can’t put my images into words,” Zayed said in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

  “Yes, like that.” He seemed to be doing better. “I’m going to, uh, check on what’s going on downstairs—”

  His back slid down the wall until he was sitting. He remained silent. I could barely hear him breathe as he rested his forehead on his knees.

  The decision was mine. Leave, find my car, call Lana. Or stay. Help this person I didn’t know or trust or even like very much.

  I would put this story aside as well for Dad: the time I did not leave my SAT instructor alone on the roof when he was in shock. I didn’t know what he would want me to do in a situation like this since he was so overprotective, but I knew what the right thing for me to do was.

  I knew from my therapy group that in moments of shock or panic, people needed to be reminded of their normal world. “Can I open your bag?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge the question.

  I knelt next to him and rifled through the messenger bag, taking out the book I knew would be there, along with a somewhat-random used book on how to raise kittens. I used my cell phone to shine some light on a page in the middle of the book with the burgundy cover.

  “I long for your skin, warmed by sleep. The velvet expanse of your back is dotted with stars that I press my lips upon.”

  “This is beautiful,” I murmured, feeling embarrassed to read something so intimate out loud. Especially to Zayed. Especially sitting face-to-face in the darkness. This was a lot more embarrassing than the one I’d read to myself the other night. “Do you know this one?”

  “One by one, I kiss every one. It’s not the first for you, to be loved this way, but I am determined to be your last,” Zayed recited the rest of the poem, looking into the distance, not at the page. His voice was carnal and raw. This was not the first time he’d read this out loud, that much was obvious. By the end, I was blushing f
uriously.

  “I’ll assume that you know it,” I said, closing the book. “Why Theodore Robert Watkins?” I asked.

  Silence.

  “My father introduced me to his work,” he said finally.

  Mine too.

  “I’ve loved everything I’ve read by him,” Zayed said. “This was the book I was reading when I first saw you.”

  He finally smiled, and in my direction at that.

  I had to laugh as I sat cross-legged next to him. I pressed the back of my hand to my hot cheek. “In that window. Sureshot.”

  “You stared at me so intently,” he said in that same low voice.

  “I had a lot on my mind. I didn’t think you saw me.”

  “Your face is unusual. Very hard to forget.”

  I shivered, both from the night air and the comment. What did this mean? From any other man, it would be a come-on or an insult, but he said it with such matter-of-factness that it sounded . . . okay.

  A few nights ago, I saw him for the first time, then I dreamt about him, now we were sitting on a deserted roof, talking in the darkness as if we were friends. This was not something I did or even knew if I should be doing.

  “I’m sorry.” Zayed backtracked quickly. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—I continue to be inappropriate tonight.”

  “No. I mean, thank you.” Embarrassed, I changed the subject yet again. “I look a little like my dad. I’m named after him, that’s why I’m Mars Alexander the Second.”

  I used to hate my name; after all, being named after a planet was hardly a good thing in elementary school. As I’d grown up, I’d learn to appreciate my Greek roots and moreover appreciate a father who wasn’t afraid to name me after himself and the Greek god of war.

  “You’re lucky to have him in your life still,” Zayed said softly.

  My breath caught. “Yes, I am.”

  “Did I say something? I’m sorry for being . . . stupid.”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s in the Army Reserves. He’s based in Afghanistan right now. I worry about him.” The Incident had proved that I was not handling the situation as well as I should be. I was, however, not going to go into details with this person I’d just met.

  Zayed stiffened. “Your father is deployed in the Middle East? For how long?”

  “Too long,” I replied instantly.

  I bit my lip, realizing I had over-shared, wondering what had possessed me to talk about this immensely personal information while a crew of police cars were blocking off the block below.

  What was going on down there?

  Zayed walked to the edge of the roof.

  “How often do you think of him? Your father?” he rested his arms on the guardrail and looked back at me.

  “How often do I not?” I replied, though I knew I should stop talking. I wasn’t prepared for another breakdown. But Zayed was the only one who’d asked about Dad, and I wanted to hear myself answer out loud. “He’s been there for over six months already. I just want him to come home now. He’s missed so much already. I don’t want him to miss anything else.”

  “I’m sure he is missing you too.”

  Then why isn’t he here?

  “I just want . . .” I said slowly. What did I want?

  “Time to stand still?”

  “What?” I almost gasped because this guy was starting to read my mind.

  “Are you afraid of the future because there will be even more he’ll miss?”

  “Yes. Sometimes. I just don’t know why he’s always overseas. There’s so much he is missing here, and he knows that.”

  “Or do you wish to reverse time? Tell him certain things. Prevent him from leaving?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Him being deployed is his choice, Miss Alexander. Not your choice, fault, or anything else.”

  I blinked. Unnerved that he’d figured me out in half an hour, something no one else had managed or dared or attempted to do—ever.

  “Tell me about you,” I said.

  “I’ve come here to Seattle to start over after losing my connection with my family.” The sorrow in Zayed’s voice drew me closer to him. “I wish I could relive my last day with them again, for time to stand still.”

  “What happened to them?” I asked, hoping he would tell me, but fairly sure he wouldn’t.

  “Please cherish what you have. Your family. They’re more sacred than anything else,” he said instead, proving me right.

  “I try.” I swallowed. It was a lie, but it was easier than admitting the truth; honestly, I really didn’t have faith in Lana as a parent. I didn’t like the decisions she was making that were affecting both of us.

  “Only try?” Zayed smiled again, sadder this time around. Even in the darkness, we were close enough that I could see his dimples, his proud chin, and his angled jawline.

  “This class is a part of it. My father would want me to get into the University of Washington, which is why I need to score well on the essay portion.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To make him proud.” I hadn’t realized just how much I meant it until I said it out loud. Yes, that was what I wanted. For him to be proud of me when he finally came home.

  “You will make him very proud. You and I together will ensure that. I’m with you.”

  We stood still, gazing out at the glittering lights of Seattle’s city center off in the distance as our block continued to be under the cover of the blackout.

  The roof, the darkness, the book in Zayed’s hands. It was straight out of my dream. The realization left me staggered to my core, wondering what the premonition had meant, and what was still to come.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Message

  Tuesday was ridiculous. I couldn’t concentrate on what was going on around me at school and was humbled twice in AP Calculus by Ms. Nguyen for not only answering incorrectly, but answering the wrong question. Kendall Chang giggled, while Jason glanced my way, frowning.

  I hadn’t returned Jason’s call from the night before; I hadn’t wanted to describe what had happened over the phone, and had even wondered how much to share with him. The news channels all said the incident at the U was a freak power outage, caused by wind.

  There had been no wind that night.

  I woke up worried about Zayed, hoping he’d gotten home safe. All my hostility toward him had vanished overnight.

  I had drifted in and out of sleep, disoriented, ready for the morning to arrive after I had a brief but very intimate dream about Zayed. I dreamt I led him up the staircase to the roof again, but this time a hundred flickering candles guided the way. I dreamt he backed me into the wall and suddenly we were in my bedroom. He asked me a question I didn’t remember. Then he whispered, “I can’t believe this is real.” And then other things happened that I struggled to remember but couldn’t.

  I woke up, my heart racing. It wasn’t real, but unfortunately it was one of those things where I knew I wouldn’t be able to look at him the same way when I saw him again. I wanted the next twenty-four hours to fly by so I could see him, and yet I dreaded meeting him again because I knew I would be horribly awkward.

  Did Zayed and I really spend two hours on the roof, holding hands for the majority of the time? Talking, then not talking. At the end of it, we’d descended the stairs of the Institute into a dissipating crowd of police cars and curious onlookers. Neither of us said a word as he walked me to my car. He waited until I was safely inside, mouthed a “thanks” with a hand on the driver’s side window. Then he disappeared into the obscurity of the night before I could say a word.

  I opened and closed my hand, which was still a bit sore from his firm grip. No one had ever held my hand that way before, like my grasp was the only thing keeping them standing.

  I wanted to call him that morning to make sure he was all right but didn’t have his number. I didn’t even know where he lived. So I put on last year’s designer boots and a short sweater dress I had never dared to wear before and h
eaded to school feeling restless, jumpy, like I wanted something to happen. I couldn’t go on today like nothing had changed, when something had. I didn’t quite know what it was, and I couldn’t even point a finger in the general vicinity, but something had changed for me.

  Ms. Nguyen seemed to agree and asked me to stay after. I slumped in my seat, feeling the stares of the students around me as they left the classroom. I didn’t want to talk to her; she would ask me how I was doing and if there was something she could do to help. She would want to talk about Dad. My phone buzzed, and a quick glance told me it was a text message from Erica. “Media Center. Meet me.”

  “Are you attending your therapy sessions, Mars?” Ms. Nguyen asked, referring to the support group meetings. She had surprisingly taken the seat in front of me after the room had emptied out, rather than ruling from behind her desk. I’d never seen her out from behind her desk before, and that in itself was jarring.

  “Yes.” I tapped my heel impatiently against the tiled floor. That was not a lie; I attended Military Grief Therapy group every Tuesday evening without fail. I’d sat in the circle of six every week and listened to stories about sacrifices, loss, and fear: things I knew too much about. I didn’t share stories about Dad. I didn’t want to, not with teenagers who had put their fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters into the ground.

  “Good.” She nodded her approval, saying less than I thought she would.

  “Sorry I missed some questions today. I’ll study up on chapter six tonight. I should go.” I wanted catch up with Erica and also see if I could dig up some contact information for Zayed.

  “Tell me about therapy. What have you shared so far?”

  Silence.

  “I like to listen, for the most part. I’ll . . . I’ll start to participate vocally in a few weeks.”

  “Mars.”

  “Ms. Nguyen, I know what you’re going to say.” I was prepared for the “you need to achieve closure” speech I’d already gotten from Stephanie.

  “No, you don’t. Please call me Bree outside of class. Your father always did.” This was like the eighth time she’d asked me to do so.

  “Uh-huh.” I was not going to call her Bree.