Scattered Ashes

by Dona Sarkar

  “What would you like to know?” Hearing a snap, I pried open an eye and saw him breaking a shortbread cookie, leaving half for me. He was still watching me.

  “Anything. Your favorite thing.”

  “The architecture is magical.” He rested his cheek in his palm, gazing at me, yet through me. “Every building was created as if it may have been the last building that would ever be built again. Each one special, pulsating with a personality of its own. In autumn, the streets are like photographs. The gargoyles watch the residents go about their lives, guarding them. It’s lovely and thrilling at once, the city. Have you been there?”

  “I have, but I didn’t see it like you have. Not with your vie en rose. How long did you live there?”

  “Not long enough.”

  I waited for more, but I didn’t get it.

  “I think we should talk about your essay,” he finally said. “Or I might keep you here all night.”

  A tingle at the base of my neck assured me that I would enjoy that.

  “Your essay had quite a heart. I wish the follow-through had a body. I think the primary issue you’re having is lack of conviction.”

  I made a show of chewing my half cookie, a burst of lavender exploding in my mouth. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “The question was ‘Do memories hinder or help people in their effort to learn from the past and succeed in the present?’ You were to plan and write an essay in which you develop your point of view on this issue.”

  “People have to keep their memories in mind so they don’t make the same mistakes again.” I recalled having written that sentence, which I repeated.

  “Which is a fine point of view, but your examples weren’t supporting your argument. For example, you talk about beating cancer and how if someone can overcome cancer once, they can do it again if they keep the memory of how strong they were the first time.”

  I nodded. “So?”

  “This example felt impersonal. You didn’t have any personal anecdotes in the essay. Is cancer or cancer survivors something you have experience with?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why did you choose it?”

  “Because,” I replied indignantly; the writing hadn’t been that bad.

  Zayed seemed to sense my mood changing. He picked up his teacup again and stopped talking. Watching me again.

  “What?”

  “You’re a fighter.”

  “I am not!”

  “You’re fighting right now! I don’t mean in a bad way. I mean you are a survivor. You don’t back down easily.”

  I set my lips. “I guess not.”

  “I like that.”

  “Oh.” I shifted back into my chair. “Thanks.”

  “You should write about something that has personal meaning to you, Mars. Not only will the writing feel more genuine, but you will more easily be able to understand the arguments on the opposing side and use preemptive rebuttals to support your argument.”

  I stared at Zayed. The truth was, I didn’t understand his thought process or what I was supposed to be getting from this discussion, and that scared me. As a senior at one of the best high schools in Washington state, I was expected to be able to carry on conversations with anyone from anywhere in the world about topics ranging from pop culture to philosophy. Yet, here I sat, distractedly watching a woman trying to squeeze herself behind my armchair, holding a power cord for a laptop.

  “What would an example of what you’re saying be?” I tried my standard question for when I didn’t know the answer in class.

  “In the second paragraph, you talk about how countries that have been ravaged in war need to move forward and appreciate what is being done for them. This is much more personal. But did you see how the point of view changed and how you no longer support your premise? Now you’re saying they shouldn’t remember the past.”

  “What I meant was that people in these countries need to keep the memories of what happened to them in mind, but they should also remember the people who helped them.”

  “People like your father, you mean.”

  “Yes,” I answered quickly. I had already talked more about Dad to Zayed than I’d planned to, but somehow every conversation came back to him.

  “This is why this argument is more genuine, because this is something that’s more real to you. What are other examples from real life where you believe past experiences play a key role?”

  “My therapy group,” I finally blurted out.

  “Will you tell me about that?” Zayed poured more tea into his cup and refilled mine, touching my hand for much longer than needed. It was as if he knew what had been going through my head and also how unwilling I was to let him know what it was. I was reluctant to talk about therapy with Zayed; I didn’t want him to think there was something wrong with me.

  “Please go on, Mars,” he asked gently as I continued to hesitate. “I won’t make fun anymore. I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  I smiled at him as he squeezed my hand. This time we left our fingers intertwined.

  “The leader of our therapy group isn’t someone who’s had a tragedy to deal with, at least recently,” I said, willing to let him in a little bit. “She isn’t someone who can understand what the rest of the people in the group are experiencing, so she’s not as efficient. She doesn’t know what to say and sometimes she can come off as very insensitive.”

  “And the lesson to be learned?”

  “We need a leader who can relate to these experiences of sadness, loss, and grief. It has to be someone who has memories of those emotions and can understand that people take different amounts of time to heal.” I took a deep breath. These were all concepts I’d learned about in psychology and had found fascinating. “The leader who has been through something similar is going to be able to give people the time they need. They are going to be able to understand that even if someone knows they need to move on, it doesn’t mean they can just do it. Acceptance isn’t one step.”

  “It sounds like you’d make quite a fine therapy leader. Have you considered volunteering for the position?”

  “What? No.”

  “You seem to have the experience. You definitely have the desire.”

  “That’s crazy. I don’t have the experience. Why do you say that?”

  “Because you understand what those other teenagers are going through. Because you feel a deep empathy for them. Because you seem to passionately care about this subject,” he said. “Have you enquired about filling the role in your group? This might be a good way for you to get hands-on experience with psychology and therapy in case you’re considering pursuing it as a career in college.”

  Zayed was reading way too much into my desire to make our therapy sessions more productive and useful. It did not mean I was about to make a commitment to studying something as terrible as grief for a career.

  “Mars?”

  I didn’t like the way he was looking at me anymore. Like he was not going to back down. And I didn’t like the way he seemed to know exactly what my thoughts had been at the last therapy session. Those gray eyes knew entirely too much about me already.

  “Can we get back to the essay?” I asked.

  “You’re not comfortable talking to me about this. I understand. I apologize for overstepping.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I couldn’t help but protest, even though I knew I sounded incredibly immature. “I do need your help with the essay though.”

  Zayed must have sensed me shutting down and paused to cut the tomato, basil, and olive focaccia sandwich in half. “I’m enjoying this night. This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”

  I blushed again.

  We chewed for a few minutes.

  “When will he come home to you? Your father,” Zayed asked finally.

  “I don’t know. He was supposed to be back a month or so ago.” I almost snapped. I hadn’t meant for my tone to be so harsh, but I asked myself that same question ev
ery day and came up with the exact same answer. I was more than ready for a definitive answer and was sick of no one being able to give me one.

  “Do you have an idea of why he isn’t back?”

  That was the question of the year, wasn’t it? Where was he, and why wasn’t he back?

  “He always said that he would stay there until his infantry had completed their mission. He wasn’t going to leave the civilians with no protection.” I recalled one of our controversial dinnertime conversations. Lana had insisted that going above and beyond for the Afghanis was not part of his job. Dad had insisted that it was the heart of his job. I had just wanted the fight to end.

  “That could be a long time. Until the civilians are safe, I mean. The country is very unstable, and insurgents rise all the time. It’s very hard to quiet every insurgent group, or even to know who or where they are.”

  “How would you know?” I asked, knowing I sounded snarky. It wasn’t as if Zayed had been in the line of war while living cozily in Paris.

  “Have you tried to contact him? Or has he contacted you?” Zayed pressed on, ignoring my question.

  I shrugged, hating the look Zayed was giving me. A you’re-keeping-something-from-me look. As if he was one to judge, with all of his cryptic rooftop talk of blackouts.

  “This sandwich is pretty good. Not as good as my PB&J, though,” I changed the subject on my own, ready to drop the topic.

  “What is a Pee-Bee and Jay?” Zayed asked, having a final bite of his sandwich.

  “You’ve never had a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich?” I set my half sandwich down and dusted off my hands.

  “What an odd combination. I don’t believe I’ve had peanut butter in anything.”

  “You’re missing out.” I smiled, realizing what I was about to do. “How about I bring you one on our next date?”

  “Does that mean this one has to end?” His face broke into a smile. Those dimples. They would be my undoing.

  I felt that familiar fire from my dreams start to spread through my belly again.

  I had a thought. “Do you have plans for Friday?”

  * * *

  I felt a little giddy as I drove home that night and parked in the darkened garage. The evening had been very different than I’d expected. I didn’t understand why I felt so comfortable around Zayed. On one hand, I was not someone who opened up to new people quickly, and yet with him, I was talking about my most personal thoughts. My father, my therapy, Lana, the uncertainty around it all. We’d argued, we’d debated, and we’d laughed. I loved every moment of it and wanted to see him again. I wanted to see him tomorrow. I could tell he wanted the same by the way he’d lingered next to my car instead of saying good-bye right away. At one point, he touched my chin, and I thought he was about to kiss me.

  He didn’t, but in my mind we were past that point already.

  I wanted to make him laugh with my stories. I loved hearing him laugh. I didn’t understand what was happening or why. I barely knew this guy, but I was already planning what I would bring other than PB&Js for the plans we’d made to spend more time together on Friday. I hadn’t realized I was smiling, but when I entered the house and saw someone kissing Lana in the kitchen, that smile disappeared.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Choice

  “His name is Vivek. Vivek Joseph. What kind of name is that? I think Lana’s a little old to date a ‘Vivek.’”

  Erica didn’t answer as she brushed at her canvas with another stroke of paint. I still had no idea what she was painting. Distinct giant red brushstrokes covered the black canvas in straight diagonal lines. I assumed she knew what she was doing as she was an artist by profession. Several of her paintings hung in galleries in Kirkland downtown as a way to earn extra money for her family.

  I’d skipped school. Convinced Erica to do the same. We were holed up in her bedroom, me venting, her painting. At some point, we’d both called the attendance office at school pretending to be the other’s mother and pledging “the time of month” as the reason for our respective absences. Usually we did this at my place and had Lana call in for both of us, but given my fight with her last night, I had a feeling she wouldn’t be feeling too generous today.

  “Are you angry about his age, or that he exists in Lana’s life?”

  “Both. Can’t I be angry about both?”

  “You can be angry about anything you want to. At least you’re actually showing it for once. The therapy group will be impressed.”

  “Don’t share this with them, please,” I warned her. I was not ready to discuss this with anyone but my closest friend.

  “Here. You finish.” She shoved the paintbrush in my hand.

  “What do you mean? I don’t want to ruin the painting.”

  “Mars. It’s a bunch of lines. Do what you want!”

  “What the hell is she thinking? Doesn’t she know this makes her look ridiculous?” I practically stabbed an angry red line onto the canvas. I watched the thick paint form raised ridges as it dried within seconds. This was actually somewhat therapeutic.

  “It makes our family look stupid. My dad’s off fighting in some never-ending war. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t come home. And now Lana’s dating some twenty-five-year-old!”

  “He’s really twenty-five?” Erica asked from her dressing table, where she sat arranging her hair into an elaborate updo, her pink highlights effervescent and glittering under the dim black light that rained down the walls of the bedroom.

  I nodded. “And he’s rich. Like, owns-his-own-plane rich.”

  “Trust-fund brat?”

  “Ugh, that’s the problem. No. He created a start-up in college, which got bought out for almost a billion dollars by some company. He just consults with local companies now. That’s only when he’s not traveling or having fun!”

  “So his name is Vivek, he’s hardworking, seems to like Lana—”

  “I have no idea why. She’s like twice his age.” I created a swirl of red in the center of the canvas. It almost looked like an exploding rose at that point. The Briar Rose unleashed.

  “More like fifteen years older. And she’s gorgeous, may I remind you.”

  I glared at Erica as I took another swipe at the canvas.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Do you even know anything about him? Or do you hate him on principle?”

  “On principle, and if you loved me, you would hate him too.”

  “I’ll hate anyone for you, Mars.” Erica grinned.

  “Thank you. Now stop smiling like that!” I snarled. I knew I was acting like a brat, and this whole thing had been fairly predictable. As soon as Lana started looking for eligible bachelors, I knew she would end up with someone almost immediately.

  Men fell in love with her vulnerability, charm, and incredibly beautiful eyes, just like the first time she had met my father at a war rally. He’d asked her to marry him within a week.

  That was supposed to be forever. I didn’t understand how she could have someone at the house she shared with my father so quickly.

  “How long have they been going out?”

  “They met on that Matchmaker site, and last night was their fifth date! Can you imagine? Five dates in like two weeks!”

  The fact that neither of them had real jobs and could spend days and nights together didn’t hurt things, I supposed. I could only hope that the free time would expedite their relationship and they could move onto the fighting and breakup stage quicker.

  “Did he come over just to meet you last night?”

  I’d stood frozen in the kitchen for almost a minute before Vivek saw me and pulled away from Lana to greet me. He was good-looking in a somewhat classic, soap-commercial way. He looked ridiculously young in a graphic t-shirt and slim jeans with a hole in the knee. He looked like he could easily still be in college.

  He was polite even as I gave him the icy treatment, responding to my questions with an easygoing smile. He promised to come by and make breakfast for us s
oon, suggesting he was a good cook and that our kitchen could use some “breaking in.” It was my father’s kitchen; it didn’t need anything from him, I’d wanted to say but had turned on my heel and retreated upstairs instead.

  “Apparently, Lana told him I would ‘love’ him, and he had to meet me. I talked to him for maybe five minutes.”

  “Is she going to keep seeing him?”

  “Of course she is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I think she loves that I disapprove of him. Now, it really can be just like the first time, when my grandparents hated my dad.”

  “You think she just wants to relive her youth?”

  “Yes! Except, he’s a child. And. And get this: his family is from India. He’s one of those first-generation success stories. I wonder how excited his parents are going to be when they hear about his forty-year-old girlfriend who isn’t divorced from her husband and who has a teenage kid!”

  I huffed a breath. Lana had tried to talk to me after Vivek had left about how they were taking things slowly. Apparently, the only reason he was at our house was to meet me. She said I should try and get to know him rather than immediately despise the idea of him. She assured me things were not serious between them and I had no reason to overreact.

  I gave her a week until he proposed to her and she accepted. I wondered how she would send divorce papers to Afghanistan. I doubted there was a fax machine ready at my father’s campsite.

  The argument had totally ruined the wonderful evening I’d had with Zayed. Something bad always happened after I saw Zayed. Every. Single. Time. I was not a believer in signs, like my father was, but even I had to admit something wasn’t right. I couldn’t quite zone in on what it was, but I knew it was there. Last night, I’d half been hoping Lana would be home so I could talk to her about Zayed. I had a feeling those days really were gone.

  I sighed angrily.

  “It’s good you’re handling this in a typical way with a hissy fit. Not keeping everything bottled up.” Erica swung back out of her chair and joined me at the canvas to look at my handiwork. “This looks pretty good. Very abstract.”