Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  Instead, she was out with God-knew-who.

  I eyed my cell phone, considering calling her, but given our last few conversations, or lack thereof, I didn’t know how to start or even if she’d answer.

  I could sit and feel sorry for myself, but my stomach growled, reminding me I’d had nothing but a cup of coffee during lunch. My lack of appetite seemed to be getting worse, and all of my pants were now starting to hang loosely on my hips.

  I heated up a skillet and let a pat of butter melt on it. I spread almond butter on one slice of leftover brioche and raspberry preserves on another and created Dad’s gourmet PB&J. I neatly cut the corners off and toasted both sides in a hot buttered pan for a few minutes, topping them with a sprinkle of sea salt. I sliced the sandwich in half before eating a few bites, sitting alone in the darkened kitchen.

  The taste of the creamy almonds and sweet relish of raspberry bits surrounded by hot flaky bread transformed the kitchen into a warmer, lighter place, something it had been years ago when I used to eat PB&Js with my father and Lana.

  Those days were gone. Things were never going to be as they had been. When Dad came home, he and Lana would divorce, and I would be at college. The three of us would never be a family again. Even thinking that far ahead was too tender a thing for me at that very lonely moment.

  I knew it would be one of those nights when I would wish morning would just come so thoughts wouldn’t keep swirling around and around in my head while I tried to sleep. The pride at my heroics, the realization that I was starting to understand why Dad was away in another country, and then the devastating, crippling sadness that came with thinking of him.

  I reached for Lana’s pink laptop, giving myself permission to check email one last time, expecting no response from Zayed, but just in case. As soon as I saw the new message, I knew a night of strange dreams awaited me.

  Mars:

  Will you care to join me for tea after class tomorrow? I’d like to talk further about your practice essay. Please do not change existing plans if you have them; we will talk another time in that case.

  Zayed

  CHAPTER 5

  The Tea

  I was nervous about seeing Zayed again. It was silly. I had no idea why I should be nervous. After all, I was the hero. He was the one who’d taken the first step and sent me a “thank you” note and set up our tea appointment. I resisted calling it a date. It was not a date. He was going to talk to me about my essay. I was going to listen and take notes and hope to improve. This was business.

  I changed my outfit before going to the U. Three times. What did one wear to “tea”? And especially in the evening. Finally, I settled on a taupe-colored skirt, black riding boots, a white sweater, and a burgundy scarf with a floral motif.

  Conservative, professional, but still pretty, I told myself as I pinned the scarf in place around my neck, trying to make it look as casually draped as possible.

  I watched Zayed all through class on Wednesday evening. He gave me a friendly smile and wave when I came in, but as usual, he was busy talking to students. He looked relaxed. Normal. Freshly showered with his hair still damp. No signs of the distress from Monday.

  I folded and refolded my hands awkwardly at my desk, not knowing where to look as Zayed lectured about making an essay argument that was based on personal experiences. I didn’t want it to seem like I was staring at him. Every time I glanced his way, he was certainly staring at me. I blushed every time, remembering my dream about kissing him in my bedroom. Finally I resorted to staring at the blank whiteboard behind him.

  I wondered who else he was meeting for “tea” to discuss essay writing with. I’d been surprised when I received my practice exam back, scored with a seven out of twelve. It was actually higher than I’d expected, so that gave me some hope that our tea appointment wasn’t going to be all about my failings at essay writing. Maybe we’d even get a chance to chat, and under the most extreme circumstances, we could finish some of the conversations we’d started during the blackout.

  Once class ended, I took five minutes packing my two items, a study guide and a pen. I then stood admiring the metallic art hanging in the back of the classroom while waiting for the last student to leave. A girl, one who always sat in the front and asked lots of questions, was standing at Zayed’s desk, showing him something in a catalog.

  I was secretly glad for the delay. I was starting to experience a mild fear that conversation today with Zayed would be awkward. In my mind, we were the people from the roof. In his mind, we might just be teacher-student again. The night on the roof had been extraordinary due to extraordinary circumstances. I had no right to expect the same sparkle again.

  I would lower my expectations, I vowed. If I was able to get some help with my essay, I would consider the evening a success. He was, after all, my teacher and nothing more.

  The active fluttering in my chest told me otherwise.

  The blond girl was starting to annoy me more with every passing mile-a-minute word. “I, like, really need to do well. I really, like, want to go to this one college, and I need kind of a high score. Do you think we could maybe, like, get together sometime . . .”

  No, you cannot get together with him.

  I frowned. There was that possessiveness toward Zayed again, something I had felt since the first time I saw him. I didn’t like it, but it was there.

  Every time I turned back, Zayed was smiling patiently at the girl and nodding. It was his polite smile, not the one showing his dimples I’d seen for an instant that night on the roof. After five minutes of this, I decided I was going to rescue him from his persistent admirer.

  I strode to the front of the room and slid into place behind Zayed’s chair. “Excuse me. Hi.”

  The girl tucked a lock of her thin blond hair behind her ear and stared at me with a “who the hell are you” look.

  “Mr. Anwar has a conflict right now, so if you could please schedule an appointment with the receptionist downstairs, that would work wonderfully. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  She glanced at Zayed, who glanced at me, as if asking me to continue.

  “Uh, no. I was almost done here anyway. Thanks.” She retreated from the room, still looking baffled by the whole conversation.

  “Very effective, Miss Alexander.” Zayed was laughing even before we heard her heels clattering down the stairs. “I see you’re someone who does not appreciate being kept waiting. You look lovely in white,” he said, lightly touching my shoulder. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

  Oh boy.

  I blushed, not minding anything he was saying. It was quite amazing how different and expressive his face was when he wasn’t trying to maintain his frosty, professional façade. The mesmerizing gray of his eyes continued to draw me in, time and again.

  “Do you frequent the tea house in Wallingford?” he asked as he swung his seemingly heavy messenger bag easily over his head.

  “I’ve never even heard of it.” Nor had I ever actually heard anyone use the word “frequent” as a verb before in real life.

  “Will you allow me to introduce you to it then? We’re taking the bus.” He started to lead the way toward the staircase. I eyed the flight going up. First the roof and now a bus. I had enjoyed the first adventure I’d experienced with Zayed, but public transportation was a bit of a stretch.

  “I have my car. I can drive us.” I jangled my keys.

  “You’ll like the bus. Please?” He held out his hand for mine.

  Without thinking, I took it.

  * * *

  The west end of the University District whirred by outside bus number thirty-one as we made the ten-minute commute into Wallingford. The lights from the various Thai restaurants, independent coffee shops, and kitschy boutiques seemed inviting and mysterious all at once.

  “Now tell me, why the bus?” I asked as we passed a donut house, a lamp store, and a movie theater. We sat facing each other, both openly staring at each other. I almost felt
as if we were in a scene from a movie.

  “Being around people who are different than me. To get to know the culture. It’s interesting, don’t you think?” He gestured toward the rear of the bus with a tangerine that had magically appeared in his hands.

  A few students dozing. A couple anxiously expressing their loving feelings toward each other. A blind man and his seeing-eye dog. This was a Seattle I didn’t experience every day, I had to admit.

  “This is a topic I’m doing a paper on for my cultural anthropology class. Public transportation through the cultures and how it affects society.” He peeled the skin of the tangerine off in one easy piece and broke off a slice of fruit, which he passed to me.

  “You’re a student at the U?” I asked in surprise, taking the orange sliver. He hadn’t mentioned it even once, and I’d automatically assumed he taught SAT prep full-time. “What’s your major? How long have you attended?”

  “Near Eastern Languages and Civilization. This is my first year, though I already realize I would like to teach full-time and am thinking of pursuing a master’s degree.”

  That meant he was only a year older than me. He seemed so much worldlier than me, so much more knowledgeable.

  “What kind of course work do you have? Are you finding it challenging to study and teach at once?” I accepted another piece of tangerine, enjoying the eruption of sweetness.

  “Islamic studies, which I know a lot about. But also history and anthropology classes that are completely new for me. I enjoy learning, though. Always.” Zayed produced another tangerine from his messenger bag and began to peel that one open as well.

  “Me too,” I said automatically, although that was not completely true. “Why do you have a book on kittens?” I asked without thinking too much about it.

  He looked taken aback.

  “It was in your bag. I saw it that night . . . on the roof.”

  “Oh.” He smiled, his face relaxing into that expression I loved seeing. “I have attracted a stray kitten. She followed me to my flat one afternoon, and I brought her inside to give her a dish of milk. She won’t leave now.”

  I laughed at the perplexed expression on his face. “That’s so sweet; she’s adopted you. Have you named her?”

  “Do you think Coconut is a silly name? She’s brown and white.”

  “No, I think that’s cute. You can call her Coco for short.”

  “Coco. Oh, this is our stop.” He pulled on the signal cord and reached out for my hand.

  It felt completely natural to take his hand and follow him off the bus. A week ago, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine holding anyone’s hand but Jason’s, yet this felt . . . fine. Normal. Fitting.

  I watched him as he looked right, then left, and set off left. He was one of the few guys I’d ever known who was able to wear a fringed scarf over his black military jacket and make it look effortless.

  “I’ve driven through here to go to Fremont, but never really walked around,” I said. Even at the late hour, the neighborhood was still alive with students and locals alike, leaving restaurants in groups and carrying bags of groceries. Several people strolled by with elaborate ice cream cones.

  “It’s a nice area. I walk over from the U sometimes. But I noticed your shoes have a high heel, and also, it’s rather dark out.”

  I glanced down at my feet. I hadn’t realized he was observing me so closely, but then again, I clearly remembered that first day he and I had seen each other. How quickly he’d seemed to memorize my whole face. It was a talent. I touched my cheek, self-conscious about the scar. I wondered if he’d noticed that as well.

  “Here we are.” Zayed touched my elbow outside a relatively nondescript storefront with a sign above the door that read TEA HOUSE KUAN YIN on a board shaped like a teapot. A NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED sign was featured prominently in the window. The inside of the shop was painted a well-worn yellow but was also brightly lit and welcoming. Clusters of tables and armchairs were arranged as if to encourage conversation. Tables populated with laptops and books created the perfect environment for homework or Web browsing. The scent in the air was something I’d never experienced before. Spicy, sweet, but also nutty.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it? The aroma?” Zayed asked as we made our way to the rear of the store to place our orders.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s qahwa, pink chai from Kashmir in India.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I made that up, actually. It might be from Iran. But it is pink.”

  I smiled. “Wherever it’s from, it smells amazing.”

  I took note of the bins full of—I assumed—tea leaves. The selection was unlike any Starbucks I’d ever seen.

  “Would you care to share a pot of it?”

  I was too busy sorting through the merchandise on the sale rack to answer. Teapots from all over the world. Heavy-looking cast-iron ones with matching warmers. Tiny bone china sets of cups and saucers. The colors and textures were dizzying. I had no idea there was such a culture of tea drinking in Seattle.

  Zayed led me to a group of two comfortable-looking tattered armchairs and a low-slung table between them. “Why don’t you get settled and I’ll arrange for the tea?”

  Arrange for the tea. It sounded fancy. And it was. He returned with a large white pot and two delicate teacups and saucers. A square sandwich and a plate of cookies accompanied the tea.

  The rolled-up sleeves of his fitted white cotton shirt revealed defined forearms and a beautiful silver watch on his left wrist. He managed to look both elegant and boyish as he set the tray down in front of me.

  There was a sparkle in his brilliant gray eyes as he knelt in front of me and the coffee table. I forgot what I’d been thinking as his shoulder purposefully brushed up against my knee. He stared at me, and I felt that stare even more intensely than his physical touch.

  I didn’t understand why being near him affected me this way. Or why being near me seemed to be having quite the same effect on him. I could tell by the slight flush in his cheeks and his quickened breathing. It hadn’t been this way on the roof. Suddenly we both seemed to be incredibly aware of each other’s physical presence.

  Who knew, maybe he’d had a suggestive dream about me as well.

  I could wish, anyway.

  I watched him pour the tea ceremoniously into my cup. Not a single drop of the creamy pink liquid spilt. I loved watching his curly eyelashes net over his eyes as he focused on the task. I loved those eyelashes; they were like tiny, silk bird wings when contrasted with the creaminess of his golden skin.

  These observances and the reactions I was having to them were disturbing at best and, most likely, inappropriate. This was my instructor. It was probably against the rules for him to fraternize with a student. And then there was Jason, who I was sure would not approve of this evening.

  Zayed seemed to be in no hurry to put distance between us as he pulled his chair right up to mine, our knees touching.

  “There are some talented poets on the shelf. I come here to read sometimes.” Zayed gestured toward the bookshelf on my right as he rested his hand on my wrist.

  Wow.

  I couldn’t help it. “You’re quite the poet yourself, Zayed. I liked your email. The ‘thank you’ one.”

  He looked embarrassed, but pleased. I loved when he looked so happy.

  “My strong feelings toward what you did for me made the words form more easily than usual. I’m an amateur poet at best,” he admitted as he added a spoonful of sugar to his tea.

  His feelings toward me?

  I swallowed, not knowing how to inquire more about these feelings. “Do you have a collection? Of poetry I mean?”

  Zayed laughed. “Only in my head.”

  “You should write them down. Like Watkins.”

  “As I should do many things.” He suddenly stopped smiling. Before I could ask about it, he took a sip of his tea and, seeming satisfied, set the cup down and removed his hand from my wrist. “Will you t
ry yours and tell me what you think?”

  I let the milky taste linger on my tongue. “This is very good. What’s in it? Black tea and milk?”

  “Green tea, actually.”

  “Really?” I tilted the cup, watching the thick pink liquid swish around and lace the sides of the porcelain. “It’s so creamy. So good.”

  “Yes. Green tea leaves are boiled with baking soda, pistachios and star anise for over an hour. That’s what the internet said anyway.”

  I smiled. Hearing him say “internet” with that accent was funny.

  “How does it become pink?” I was staring into the cup when I felt Zayed’s hands cover mine and lower the cup to the tray.

  “A chemical reaction.”

  A chemical reaction. Yes, we definitely had that. No matter how I tried to convince myself of it, we were not just two people who happened to be at the same place at the same time enjoying each other’s company. Whenever we touched there was a spark. And then there was the velvety texture of his skin and how I wanted to feel it again, in many places, after he released my hands. There was something happening here, something out of stories and movies that I had never experienced before.

  Usually I would be very conscious of people around us observing our hand touches and gazes at each other. At that moment, I didn’t give a damn if the entire Lakeville High senior class was in the tea shop with us.

  I felt as if I was melting into the leather armchair as I savored the hot tea. When I opened my eyes again, I wanted Zayed to still be sitting across from me, watching me in a way no one else had ever watched me. Like I was the most fascinating creature in the world and he couldn’t get enough.

  “Tell me what Paris is like this time of year,” I asked, playing the part of instructor, letting my eyes fall closed again. The previous night had been restless. I couldn’t stop thinking about this date and had barely been able to close my eyes out of excitement and nerves. The warmth of the air in the tea house combined with the monotonous din of the atmosphere lured me to a warm, safe place where I could finally close my eyes.