We Are All That's Left

by Carrie Arcos

  Also by Carrie Arcos

  Crazy Messy Beautiful

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Arcos.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Arcos, Carrie, author. | Title: We are all that’s left / Carrie Arcos.

  Other titles: We are all that is left | Description: New York, NY : Philomel Books, [2018] | Summary: Told in two voices, Nadja grows up in war-torn Bosnia in the 1990s and, in the present, refuses to discuss her youth with her daughter, Zara, until both are traumatized by a terrorist attack in Rhode Island. | Identifiers: LCCN 2017040313 | ISBN 9780399175541 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698198630 (e-book) | Subjects: | CYAC: Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Post-traumatic stress disorder—Fiction. | Terrorism—Fiction. | Yugoslav War, 1991–1995—Fiction. | Bosnian Americans—Fiction. | Photography—Fiction. | Faith—Fiction. | Bosnia and Herzegovina—History—1992—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.A67755 We 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017040313

  ISBN 9780399175541

  Edited by Liza Kaplan.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  to my children

  may you always be

  a voice of faith,

  hope

  and love

  Don’t turn your head.

  Keep looking at the bandaged place.

  That’s where the light enters you.

  —Rumi

  Contents

  Also by Carrie Arcos

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  July 1

  July 2

  July 3

  1992, Spring

  July 3

  1992, Spring

  July 3

  July 4

  1992, Spring

  July 4

  July 5

  1993, Winter

  July 6

  1993, Winter

  July 6

  July 6

  1993, Winter

  July 7

  July 9

  1994, Winter

  July 9

  1994, Spring

  July 9

  1994, Spring

  July 9

  July 10

  July 10

  July 11

  1994, Spring

  July 12

  July 12

  1994, Spring

  July 13

  July 14

  July 16

  July 17

  1994, Summer

  July 17

  1994, Summer

  July 17

  July 20

  July 21

  1994, Summer

  July 24

  July 25

  July 25

  1998, Summer

  August

  Late August

  Author’s Note

  References

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  THE RIVER DRINA begins in the mountains, between the villages of Šćepan Polje in Montenegro and Hum in Bosnia and Herzegovina. It unfurls like an emerald-green ribbon, bending and twisting, carving its bed from limestone, creating a natural border between Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina in several places. Eventually it reaches the village Višegrad, where the majestic white stone bridge stands with its eleven large, sweeping arches. Though over four hundred years have passed, the bridge still gives tribute to the might of the civil engineering and artistry of the Ottoman Empire, but most of all, to the power of a single vision.

  It began as a gift, a way to try and link two shores of people separated by faith. The idea was that if people could find a way to meet one another, they would see that one side of the bank was not that different from the other side. They would understand that God was not contained by ideologies or empires or peoples. They would know hope.

  Today the bridge is peaceful, quiet. A boat passes underneath with a father and son going fishing. Tourists sit on the stone sofa in the middle, taking pictures, enjoying the weather and the view. Friends sip strong Turkish coffee in the café, on the bank, in the shade of the trees and a single willow. The bridge is indifferent to them and to the others who have crossed over and under. But it bears witness.

  And if you stand under it long enough, if you run your hand along the cold stone, it will tell you stories. It will make you weep.

  July 1

  ANY NEW ENGLANDER worth their salt will tell you that real clam chowder is made with a thin broth and a splash of milk. It’s not the thick, creamy stuff that chain restaurants serve, where you can stick a fork in and watch it stand for days. At least, that’s what Dad has always told me.

  “Here, Z, taste this,” Dad says, and holds out a spoonful to me.

  “Perfect,” I say, already knowing before I taste it that it will be.

  Dad makes the best chowder. That’s chowda if you are a real New Englander, which Dad is. Born and raised in Fall River, Massachusetts, in the Portuguese section of town, though he’s only half Portuguese, on his dad’s side. On days like these, when he is home and cooking, he likes to think of himself as another Emeril Lagasse, one of Fall River’s biggest claims to fame. Dad is not Emeril, though his accent is similar. Most days, Dad’s an orthopedic surgeon over at Rhode Island Hospital in Providence. But some days, like today, he puts on his white apron with the big lobster on the front and plays chef.

  I take a picture of him stirring the pot because I like when he’s in this mood. It also reminds me of one of my favorite pictures from when I was little—it’s framed and hanging on my bedroom wall. I’m standing on a stool next to Dad in front of the kitchen sink. Both of us are wearing aprons. I have tiny pigtails. And Dad’s turning to the side, looking down at me and laughing. I’m smiling, huge, up at his face. I’m not sure if I remember it—I was probably only around three—but I remember the feeling. The fun I used to have in the kitchen with him. How he’d let me make a mess and not care, unlike Mom, who freaks about messes.

  These days I’m so busy, it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to cook with him.

  “Dad, we should make chicken cacciatore some night this week,” I say, knowing it’s one of his favorites.

  He looks at me with surprise. “I thought you didn’t eat chicken.”

  “Dad, come on. I started eating meat again last month.” After watching a documentary in
school about how chickens are raised for slaughter, a group of us decided to become vegetarians. I lasted the longest, but gave it up when I smelled bacon cooking. I figure meat in moderation is okay, and that seems like a good compromise.

  “All right! My daughter has finally returned.”

  I stick out my tongue at him and put in my earbuds. At the dining room table, I give my computer screen my attention again. He’s making it difficult for me to concentrate on my edits. I’ve got a new batch of photos I took of some friends as we were walking around Providence a couple days ago. Mostly it’s just them being silly. Audrey and Sibyl lying on the ground, their limbs at crazy angles. More at the food truck with us eating, and tons of shots of walking. I basically take photos of anything that interests me. But there were a few that I thought were promising. Like the one where Audrey and Sibyl are running and the image is blurry. I can play with that one. There’s also the couple I took of Max and Natasha. I like the shots where they didn’t realize I was photographing them. They feel the most authentic. The photos that are posed are good too. They just don’t feel as genuine to me.

  I probably take at least a hundred photos a day. I’ve always got my camera on me, ready for whatever I want to document. Anytime I do anything or think I want to remember this moment, I take the picture. It’s also why I love to look at my old photo albums. The ones where I’m a baby or pictures of my grandparents or Dad when he was little. It’s so gratifying to notice the details, the moments in time forever captured.

  When I look at photos, I can literally remember the smell of the room or how something tasted or even how my hand felt in someone else’s. Photography is like time travel. I know I want to pursue it full-time. Maybe be a portrait photographer, but not like the ones you go to Sears for. Unique or artistic portraits. Ones that show the personality or essence of a person. Or even a fashion photographer so I could blend the two. I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.

  For now, I’m working on the shot where Max had pulled Natasha in for a kiss. It’s a great close-up. Her eyes are actually a little open because she wasn’t expecting it. Max’s hands are on the sides of her shoulders. Both of their mouths are open, and Max looks like he’s going to eat Natasha’s face. It’s awesome, one I’ll definitely post for Blur, this online group for young female photographers that I’m a part of.

  I feel a presence behind me and hear mumbling. My right earbud gets pulled out.

  “Hey!”

  “What’s this?” Mom says. She points to the picture of Max and Natasha. “What kind of pictures are you taking?”

  “Mom, relax.”

  “Don’t say relax. These are inappropriate.”

  “What? Come on, Mom. They’re just kissing.” I close the computer, not wanting her to see the others that she’d probably freak out about even more, especially the ones with Natasha in only a bra. Not because I think they’re indecent, but because I don’t need more drama.

  “Why would you photograph that?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I don’t think God would approve.”

  Mom only pulls the God card out when she’s trying to make me feel guilty, playing Him like He’s some grump-faced old man. Like this past Halloween, when she snooped on my laptop and found photos from the slasher-themed shoot I did. I don’t normally do staged photo sessions—I much prefer to capture people in real moments—but my friend Luka was into horror makeup, and it was so cool, with cut necks and bulging eyes, bodies piled on top of one another and straggling limbs. Mom said it was disturbing to God to take such photos. And then she told me she was just seventeen the first time she saw a dead body.

  I had stopped arguing then. I waited for her to tell me about it. Surprised that she was actually bringing up something from her past and the war. But she just stared at the bodies in the photograph.

  “Death is not art,” she said, and walked away.

  I had stared at her back, feeling hot anger and confusing shame. She had, still has, the ability to evoke both in me for reasons I don’t understand, and I end up stoking those coals for hours after.

  But I have no guilt when it comes to God and art. This time, I don’t give my mom the satisfaction of having the last word.

  “Well, I think God would approve. God’s the ultimate artist, after all. He made the human body. The Earth. The galaxies. I think He can handle some kissing. Dad, will you tell her?”

  Dad gets it. He’s the one who supports my photography. He bought me my first camera two years ago, while Mom just complained about the cost.

  But Mom sends him one of her looks, and he simply raises his eyebrows, takes a taste of his soup. I swear, Mom has him so whipped, it’s ridiculous. I know what’ll happen later. Later, he and I will talk, and he’ll tell me I have to try to understand where Mom is coming from. That she grew up in a different culture. That she’s more traditional and has been through a lot, blah, blah, blah.

  I’m tempted to take her picture right now. Her green eyes are all wide. Her perfectly penciled-in brows accentuating her indignation. Her hands on her hips. Her mouth tight like a razor. Show her what she looks like. Then maybe she’ll see herself like I do. Completely unreasonable.

  “Zara, I have told you. We have rules for the photographs. No risky pictures.”

  Mom and her rules. You can’t approach art with a bunch of rules, like how she says I need to fold the laundry by folding shirts into thirds with the sleeves tucked in, right over left. How I need to clean the bathroom with specific wipes for the counter and different ones for the tub. Or brush my teeth for a full minute.

  “This is my art, Mom.”

  She points to the computer. “That looks like soft porn, not art.”

  “It’s not porn.” I stand up, laptop underneath my arm, and walk away from the dining room table. I pass Benny, my younger brother, who’s just come up from his room, probably to see what the commotion is about.

  “And the word is risqué, not risky!” I yell right before I slam my bedroom door.

  I throw my computer on the bed and feel like crying. But I don’t. I’ve been in this spot so many times with her. What’s the point of crying about it? She’s never going to change.

  I just wish for once she wouldn’t react. That she would make an effort to try to understand that I’m not just taking pictures. I’m creating art. I wish she would try to understand where I’m coming from.

  I’m going to get in trouble with Dad for what I yelled. I know how sensitive Mom is about her English. On the surface, Mom seems American enough, but it’s the small things that betray her. Like how she drops her articles. Or how she still hasn’t mastered the hard g sound of English. Sometimes she fudges idioms, like “it’s raining cats and dogs” becomes “it’s raining the dogs and cats.”

  When I was little, she used to speak to me in Bosnian. There’s this song I have a hazy recollection of, like the lingering scent of someone’s perfume after she’s left the room. But at some point, Mom stopped speaking it altogether, refused to do it when I asked. She would give some excuse, like she was tired or that she couldn’t remember the words. But it was her primary language for the first nineteen years of her life. How could she forget it?

  Now I only hear Bosnian when she’s dreaming. She talks in her sleep, and it’s always in the soft musical lilt of her first language. I’ve often listened for her Bosnian words, curious about their meaning. That is, until the dream turns into the nightmare she’s been having for as long as I can remember. The one that makes her scream.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  In the safety of my room, I can work on my photo without anyone’s judgment. But I don’t feel like doing any more work. Mom has totally messed up my creative flow. And I don’t want to stay in my room the rest of the night either. They’ll give me space, I know. Dad will think I need time to cool off and reflect, and
Mom will think I owe her an apology, so neither of them will check on me for a while, if at all.

  I throw on a sweatshirt, stuff my phone in my back pocket and sling my camera over my shoulder. Then I open my window and climb outside.

  * * *

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  Baker’s Beach is almost abandoned by the time I get there, just thirty minutes before sunset. The lot is empty. I park and head to the right for the sand dunes. Since I’m not going swimming or in need of a chair, I bypass number 223, the little bathhouse that my dad’s side of the family has rented since before he was born.

  I climb the hill and survey the dunes. They ramble along for miles like a long run-on sentence. These dunes were my playground as a kid. My friends and I would run and jump off the massive hills, or we’d tumble down, getting sand all over us like we were donuts rolling in sugar.

  The air is cool and salty, a welcome reprieve from the typical humidity and heat earlier in the day. The cool air will also keep the horseflies away. Better photo conditions overall.

  I look through the lens of my camera. There’s nothing I like from this vantage point, so I walk deeper into the dunes.

  I’m alone.

  That might scare me in a different environment, but I’ve been coming to this beach forever. Besides, it’s private, so there are never random people hanging around. Tonight, I like the desolation of it. The feeling that I’m the only one in the world.

  On top of another sand hill, I look down at the shoreline and see that I’m not as alone as I thought. There are a handful of people sitting on chairs. They’re probably staying to watch the sunset.

  I snap some pictures of them in the distance and keep walking.

  The sweeping view of the ocean and dunes presents itself before me like a painting, like there’s intentionality in the mixing of the colors from deep blue to fluorescent to yellow and orange as the sun lowers. I take a deep breath and relax. I can’t help but get swept up in the moment, like it is a holy one. Or what I imagine going to church is supposed to feel like.