by Tahereh Mafi
“No, thank you.”
Kenji blinks. “What do you mean, no, thank you?”
“I don’t want any more surprises,” I say, my chest constricting at the very thought. “I can’t take any more surprises.”
“Listen, I can honestly understand what you might be feeling right now.” He sighs. “Your head is probably spinning. I tried to tell her—I told her it wasn’t a good idea to spring a wedding on a person, but whatever. She just does her own thing. Anyway, this is a good surprise, I promise. Plus, I can give you a little tour of your new place.”
It’s this last line that uproots me from where I stand.
There’s a short set of steps leading up to the house, and I take them slowly, my heart pounding nervously as I look around. There’s a sizable front porch with freshly painted beams and railings, a decent area to set up a table and chairs when the weather’s nice. The large windows flanking the front door are accented with what appear to be functioning, pale-sage-green shutters, the front door painted to match. Slowly, I push open this door—which has been left ajar— crossing the threshold now with even greater trepidation. The wood floor underfoot creaks as I step into the front hall, the clamor and commotion of the room coming to a sudden, eerie halt as I enter.
Everyone turns to look at me.
The drumbeat in my chest pounds harder, and I feel, for a moment, afloat in this sea of uncertainty. I’m lost for words, having never been prepared, in all my life, to deal with such a strange scenario.
I try to think, then, of what Ella would do.
“Thank you,” I say into the silence. “For everything.”
The crowd erupts into whoops and cheers at that, the tension gone in an instant. People shout congratulations into the din, and as my nerves begin to relax, I’m better able to make out their individual faces—some I recognize; others I don’t. Adam is the first to wave at me from a distant corner, and I notice then that he’s got his free arm wrapped around the waist of a young woman with blond hair.
Alia.
I remember her name. She’s a painfully quiet girl, one of the troupe who collected Ella earlier—and one of Winston’s friends. Today she seems unusually bright and happy.
So does Adam.
I nod at him in response, and he smiles before turning away to whisper something in Alia’s ear. James appears then, almost out of nowhere, tapping Adam on the arm aggressively, after which the three of them engage in a brief, quiet discussion that ends with Alia nodding fervently. She kisses Adam on the cheek before disappearing into a room just down the hall, and I stare at the door of this room long after she’s closed it.
Ella must be in there.
For what feels like a dangerously long time I feel paralyzed in place, studying the imperfect walls and windows of a home that is mine, that will be mine today, tonight, tomorrow.
I can’t believe it.
I could kiss its rotting floor.
“Follow me,” Kenji says, his voice stirring me from my stupor. He leads me through the small house as if he’s walked these paths a hundred times—and I realize then that he has.
All these days he’s been working on this project. For Ella. For me.
I experience a sharp, distracting stab of guilt.
“Hello?” Kenji waves a hand in front of my face. “You want to see the kitchen, or no? I mean, I don’t really recommend it, because the kitchen probably needs the most work, but hey, it’s your house.”
“I don’t need to see the kitchen.”
“Great, then we’ll just get right to it. Winston first, then the backyard. Sound good? You never seem to have a problem working in a suit, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem for you today, either.”
I sigh. “I have no problem assisting with manual labor, Kishimoto. In fact, I would’ve been happy to do so earlier.”
“Great, well, that’s what we like to hear.” Kenji slaps me on the back, and I grit my teeth to keep from killing him.
“All right,” he says. “So, I’m not going to torture you with any more unknowns, because I don’t think you actually like surprises. I also think you’re probably the kind of guy who likes to be able to pre-visualize stuff—helps manage the anxiety of not knowing things—so I’m going to walk you through this step-by-step. Sound good?”
I come to a sudden stop, staring at Kenji like I’ve never seen him before. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“How did you know that I don’t like surprises?”
“Bro, you’re forgetting that I watched you have an actual panic attack.” He taps his head. “I know some things, okay?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Okay, well”—he clears his throat—“there’s also this doctor we’re working with now—one of the ladies leading the exit evaluations for the asylum residents—and she’s, like, crazy smart. She’s got all kinds of interesting things to say about these patients, and everything they’ve been through. Anyway, you should talk to her. We had a patient who was cleared—healthy, fine, totally normal—to be returned to their relatives, but this dude couldn’t get on a plane without having a major panic attack. The doctor was explaining to Sam that, for some people, getting on a plane is terrifying because they have to be able to trust the pilot to control the plane—and some people just can’t trust like that. They can’t cede control. Anyway, it made me think of you.”
I deeply loathe this comparison, and I tell him as much. “I am perfectly capable of getting on planes,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know, but—you know what I mean, right? Generally?”
“No.”
Kenji sighs. “I’m just saying that I think it probably helps you to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You like being in control. You don’t like not knowing things. You probably like to imagine things in your head before they happen.”
“You had a single conversation with a doctor and now you think you’re capable of psychoanalyzing me?”
“I’m not—” Kenji throws up his arms. “You know what, whatever. Let’s go. Winston’s waiting.”
“Wait.”
Kenji looks up at me, irritation written all over his features. “What?”
“There might be a small grain of truth in what you said. A very, very small grain.”
“I knew it,” he says, pointing at me. “I told her, too, I was like, wow, you should really talk to this one guy we know, he could use a lot of help working through some—”
“You didn’t.” A muscle jumps in my jaw. “Tell me you didn’t actually say that to her.”
“I did too say that to her. She was a smart lady, and I think she might have some really interesting things to say to you. She was talking about some of these inmates and the problems they were facing and I was like, oh my God, you could be describing Warner right now.”
“I see,” I say, and nod. “I should just kill you here, shouldn’t I? In my own house. On my wedding day. It could be your gift to me.”
“This, right here!” He throws out his arms. “This is a perfect example! You don’t know how to problem solve without resorting to murder! How do you not see this as an issue?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man, you really might want to consider—”
I take a sharp breath, staring up at the ceiling. “For the love of God, Kishimoto. Where is Winston, and what does he want with me?”
“Did someone say my name?” Winston pops his head out of a door in the corridor ahead. “Come on in. I’m all ready for you.”
I shoot Kenji a scathing look before retreating down the hall, peering into the new room with some concern. It appears to be some kind of a bedroom, though it’s in desperate need of work. And paint. Winston has set up what appears to be a small command center—a dingy folding table displaying an artfully arranged selection of ties, bow ties, cuff links, and socks. I stare at it, beginning to understand, but I’m distracted by a strange, pungent odor that only seems to strengthen the longer I stand here.
“What on earth is that smell?” I ask, frowning at the old wood paneling.
“Yeah,” Winston says, shrugging. “We don’t know. We think maybe there’s a dead rat in the wall. Or maybe a couple of dead rats.”
“What?” I look at him sharply.
“Or!” Kenji says brightly. “Or, it’s just mold!”
“A delightful alternative.”
“Okay.” Winston claps his hands together, beaming. “We can talk about the rats tomorrow. You ready to see your suit?”
“What suit?”
“Your wedding suit,” Winston says, staring at me now with a strange expression on his face. “You didn’t really think you were getting married today in the clothes you’re wearing, did you?”
“Not they aren’t nice clothes,” Kenji adds.
“To be fair.” I meet Winston’s eyes. “I haven’t been able to predict a single thing that was going to happen to me today. How was I supposed to know that you’d managed to salvage my wedding suit from the wreckage? No one told me.”
“We didn’t salvage it from the wreckage,” Winston says, laughing. “I made you a new one.”
This leaves me briefly speechless. I stare at Winston, then Kenji. “You made me a new suit? How? Why? When?”
“What do you mean?” Winston is still smiling. “We couldn’t let you get married without a proper suit.”
“But how did you find the time? You must’ve—”
“Been up all night?” Brendan ducks his head into the room, then steps fully inside. “Finishing most of the work by hand? Yes, Winston was up all night on your behalf. Hardly slept at all. Which is why it wasn’t very nice of you to be so rude to him this morning.”
I glance from Brendan to Winston to Kenji.
I have no idea what to say, and I’m just thinking of how to respond when Adam and James show up at the door, two sets of knuckles knocking a rapid staccato on the frame.
“Hi!” James says, abandoning the door and his brother to invade my personal space. “Did they tell you I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding?”
“No.”
“Well, I am. I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding. My friends are super jealous right now because they’re all stuck in class.”
“And was there any particular reason,” I ask carefully, “why they made an exception for you?”
James rolls his eyes and lunges at me, hugging me right around the middle in a show of unprecedented self-assurance that shocks me, briefly, into paralysis.
“Congratulations,” he says against my sweater. “I’m really happy for you guys.”
I have to remind myself that James is not only— biologically—my brother, but also a child, and undeserving of rejection. I pat him on the head in a single, wooden movement that startles a laugh out of Kenji, a gasp from Winston, stunned silence from Brendan, and slack-jawed astonishment from Adam.
I clear my throat, disengaging from James as gently as I can.
“Thank you,” I say to him.
“You’re welcome,” he says, beaming. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I didn’t invi—”
“So!” Adam cuts me off, trying and failing now to fight a smile. “We, um, we just came by to check in with you on a couple of details.” He glances at James. “Right, buddy?”
James nods. “Right.”
“First of all: Did anyone talk to you about your vows? Do you want to go traditional, or do you plan on saying something—”
“He’s going traditional,” Kenji says, answering for me before I’ve had a chance to respond. “I already told Castle.” He turns to face me. “Castle is doing the ceremony, by the way—you know that, right?”
“No,” I say, staring at him. “I did not know that. But what makes you think I don’t want to write my own vows?”
He shrugs. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to get up in front of a crowd and shoot from the heart. But I’m happy to be wrong,” he says. “If you want to write your own vows, stand in front of a ton of people—most of whom you hardly know—and tell Juliette her face reminds you of a sunrise, no problem. Castle is flexible.”
“I would rather impale myself on a pike.”
“Yeah.” Kenji grins. “That’s what I thought.”
Kenji turns away to ask Adam a question, something about ceremony logistics, and I study the back of his head, confused.
How? I want to ask. How did you know?
Winston unfolds a garment bag, hangs it on a nearby door, and unzips the length of it while Brendan unearths a box of shoes from a dingy closet.
Adam says, “Okay, I still have a few questions for Warner, but I need to confirm with Castle about the vows, so we’ll be right back—and I’ll find out about the music—”
And I feel as if I’ve stepped into a strange, alternate reality, into a world where I didn’t think I’d ever belong. I could never have anticipated that somehow, somewhere along this tumultuous path—
I’d acquired friends.
THIRTEEN
The backyard is a modest rectangle of scorched land, the sparse and parched grass nicely obscured by a selection of time-worn wooden folding chairs, the arrangement parted down the middle by an artificial aisle, all of which face a hand-wrought wedding arch. Two thick, ten-foot cylindrical wooden stakes have been hammered into the ground, the five feet of empty space between them bridged at the top by a raw, severed tree limb, the joints bound together by rope. This crudely constructed bower is decorated with a robust selection of colorful wildflowers; leaves and petals flutter in the gentle breeze, infusing the early-morning air with their combined fragrance.
The scene is at once simple and breathtaking, and I am immobilized by the sight of it.
I am in a perfectly tailored, dark green, three-piece suit with a white shirt and black tie. My original suit was black, by request; Winston told me he decided to go with this deep shade of green because he thought it would suit my eyes and offset my gold hair. I wanted to argue with him except that I was genuinely impressed with the quality of his work, and did not protest when he handed me a pair of black, patent leather shoes to match. Absently, I touch the gardenia affixed to my lapel, feeling the always-present weight of the velvet box against my thigh.
There are folding tables arranged along the opposite end of the yard still waiting for their tablecloths, and I have been assigned the task of dressing them. I have also been ordered to see to the tables and chairs that need to be arranged inside the as-yet-unfurnished living and dining rooms, where the reception is meant to take place later this evening after a break post-ceremony, during which our guests will change work shifts, see to things back at the base, and Ella and I will have a chance to take pictures.
This all sounds so perfectly human as to render me ill.
I have, as a result, done none of things requested of me. I’ve been unable to move from this spot, staring at the wedding arch where I will soon be expected to stand and wait.
I clutch the back of a chair, holding on for dear life as the weight of the day’s revelations inhale me, drowning me in their depths. Kenji is right; I don’t enjoy surprises. This is fundamentally true, and yet—I would like to be the kind of person who enjoys surprises. I want to live a life like this, to be able to withstand unexpected moments of kindness delivered by the person I love most in the world. It’s only that I don’t know what to do with these experiences; my body doesn’t know how to accept or digest them.
I am so happy it’s physically uncomfortable; I am so full of hope it seems to depress my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.
I draw in a sharp breath against this feeling, forcing myself to be calm while doing, over and over, the mental gymnastics necessary to remind myself that my fears are irrational, when I feel the approach of a familiar nervous energy.
I turn around carefully to meet her, surprised she’s sought me out at all.
“Hey,” Sam says, trying to smile. She’s dressed up; she even appears
to have attempted something like makeup, her eyelids shimmering in the soft light of the morning. “Big day.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that last night. Really, I didn’t.”
I nod, then look away, staring into the distance. This yard is separated from its neighbor’s by only a short, shabby wooden fence. Kenji will no doubt spend the rest of our lives tormenting me from over top of it.
Sam sighs again, louder this time. “I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye,” she says, “but I’m hoping maybe—if we get to know each other better—that’ll change.”
I look up at that, analyzing Sam now.
She is being sincere, but I find her suggestion unlikely. I notice Nouria in my periphery then, huddled up with her father and three others, and shift my gaze in her direction. She’s wearing a simple sheath dress in a shade of chartreuse that compliments her dark skin. She appears to be happy at the moment—smiling—which even I realize is rare for Nouria these days.
Sam follows my line of sight, seeming to understand where my thoughts have gone. “I know she’s a little hard on you sometimes, but she’s been under crazy amounts of pressure lately. She’s never had to oversee so many people, or so many details, and The Reestablishment has been a lot harder to deconstruct than we’d thought—you can’t even imagine—”
“Can’t I?” I almost smile, even as my jaw tenses. “You think me incapable of understanding the weight of the burden we shoulder now?”
Sam looks away. “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.”
“Our position is worse than precarious,” I say to her. “And whatever you think of me—whatever you think you understand about me—I am only trying to help.”
For the third time, Sam sighs.
Now, more than ever, those of us at the Sanctuary should be allied, but Sam and Nouria have grown to detest me over the last couple of weeks because I challenge them at every turn, refusing to agree with their tactics or ideology when I find it lacking—and unwilling to acquiesce merely to get along.