The Impossibility of Us Read online

  “Mom,” I say, “this is Mati.”

  He towers over her, and it’s satisfying to watch her crane her neck to look up at him. Awe skips across her face (who can blame her—he’s strikingly handsome), followed closely by displeasure. “Jocelyn Parker,” she says without inflection.

  “I’m happy to meet you. Elise tells me you’re a writer.”

  She purses her lips. “A novelist.”

  One of Mati’s eyebrows lifts, just enough to reveal his discomfort. He pushes his hands into his pockets. “I was on my way home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Elise?”

  I nod, and he turns to go, shoulders bunched up, head hanging low. My mom’s watching his retreat with her hands on her hips in this repulsively superior way that pulverizes my nerves. This isn’t a game, but I’m not about to let her think she’s notched a point on the mental scorecard she’s apparently keeping.

  “Mati,” I call, just before he reaches the corner. “Hang on!”

  He stops and pivots. His eyes widen with surprise when he sees me jogging toward him. I capture his gaze and hold it, thinking don’t freak out. I stop when we’re a breath apart. And then I lean into him, winding my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek to his chest.

  I hear his rapidly pounding heart. I feel tension contracting his muscles, and heat soaking through his T-shirt. For a half second he’s motionless, rigid, and then he just … melts. He shifts his feet and releases a soft sigh and wraps his arms around me. He holds me close, so close, squeezing me against the length of his body like he’s wanted to hug me for days … weeks … lifetimes.

  It lasts only a moment, but it’s the best moment.

  I ease back and tip my chin so I can see his face—he’s wide-eyed, flushed. He looks traumatized. I shuffled back, stammering, “I shouldn’t have—that was … I’m so sorry.”

  He reaches out, watching his hand as if it were an entity separate from the rest of him. Gently, he brushes his fingertips across my cheek. “Don’t be sorry. Tomorrow morning?”

  I smile. “Tomorrow morning.”

  He rounds the corner, and I’m left to make a dead-man-walking journey back to where my mom still stands, feet rooted to the sidewalk.

  “You’re making a mistake, Elise,” she says, tailing me through the gate and into the yard. Bambi bounds over and gives my hand a slobbery kiss.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I don’t want you to see him again.”

  I whirl around, surprised and, at the same time, not. “When did you start telling me who I can see?”

  “When you started thinking with your hormones instead of your head. Was he with you yesterday?”

  “Mom—”

  “He was, wasn’t he? How dare you take him to Nicky.”

  God, her nerve infuriates me. “Why do you care? It’s not like you ever visit him.”

  Her eyes flash, and her fingers flex. For an instant, I think she’s going to strike me, and I take a step back. “It’s blasphemous,” she seethes, “the way you’re inviting that boy into your life. Our lives. Your brother would be disappointed.”

  “No he wouldn’t. Nicky accepted differences—embraced differences.”

  “Oh, Elise. Think of Audrey.”

  “Think of me!” It’s all streaming out of me at once—the grief and the anger I’ve kept on lockdown over the last three years, along with the resentment I’ve felt since Mom insisted on moving to Cypress Beach. “It’s thanks to you I’m stuck in this town,” I say, pointing a finger in her face. “It’s thanks to you I met Mati.”

  She sets her mouth in a firm line. Her arms are crossed and her shoulders are squared; she’s exhaling puffs of air in quick succession, like an angry bull. She was like this after Nick died: insensitive to anyone’s needs but her own, paranoid, and so distressed, depressed, years passed before she could write again.

  She’s afraid—stupidly afraid.

  “I mean it,” she says, callous, as if I haven’t spoken at all. “I want you to stay away from him.”

  elise

  I spend the afternoon holed up in my room, editing the photos from Sacramento.

  They’re good, with the exception of the one Mati snapped of me. The fault’s not his; technically, the picture is fine. He framed it well, setting me slightly left of center to capture an American flag undulating on a tall flagpole in the background, and the way the afternoon light hits my face has a softening effect. Too bad my expression is all sorts of dopey.

  I’m trying to figure out a way to crop myself out altogether when the doorbell chimes. Bambi barks, claws clicking against the hardwood as she does her doorbell dance. I wait, listening, hoping my monster mom will emerge from her library to answer. Lo and behold, she does. I catch a few hints of murmured conversation before she calls, “Elise!”

  Her tone is saccharine-sweet, so the visitor’s not Mati. I smooth my ponytail as I make my way to the foyer. There’s Ryan, all smiles. Bambi’s practically mauling him.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he says, nudging my dog away. “I need a milkshake. Show me where to get one?”

  “Um…?”

  “She’d love to,” Mom says. Her expression asserts be nice. Of course she’s all pleasantries with Ryan. I bet she thinks she can drag him into heterosexuality, just like she thinks she can drag me away from Mati. “There’s a diner in town, The Hamlet. Their milkshakes are to-die-for. Aren’t they, Elise?”

  I frown. “They’re average.”

  “Average works,” Ryan says. He looks around suspiciously, like he thinks our cottage might be bugged. He whispers, “I need to get out for a while. Gram wants to teach me to knit.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” he says, bumping his glasses up his nose. “Plus … I met someone. Come with me, and I’ll fill ya in on the details.”

  “Okay, yeah. I could go for a milkshake.” The Hamlet and gossip about Ryan’s love life are a thousand times better than being trapped in the cottage, stewing over how my mom acted on the sidewalk earlier.

  “Have fun!” she calls, waving us out the door.

  When we arrive at The Hamlet, we claim seats at the end of the counter and order shakes: Oreo for Ryan, coconut for me.

  “Okay,” I say, swiveling in my stool as we wait for our drinks. “Let’s hear about this new prospect of yours.”

  His smile is immediate. “His name’s Xavier. We met at the library. I was trying to escape Gram, and he was studying. He’s in the air force.”

  “Your interest in the MLI paid off, then?”

  His smile turns sly. “He’s a student there, studying Portuguese. They sent him right after boot camp. He’s got another six months before he graduates and gets an assignment.”

  “So he’s smart?”

  “Totally. And hot. Gram met him the other night. I introduced him as a friend—which he is, but you know. Anyway, she hasn’t stopped talking about how great he is.”

  “Does he know you’re here short term?”

  “Yeah, and it’s cool ’cause he’s short term, too.” He pauses as a waitress serves our milkshakes. He thanks her, pops straws into our glasses, then takes a gigantic gulp of his shake. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he says, “Who knows what’ll happen, but for now, we’re caught up in that phase where everything’s new and glorious.” He pokes me with his elbow, waggling his eyebrows. “You know what I mean, right?”

  I swirl my straw through my shake, mixing in the whipped cream, and shrug noncommittally. “When do I get to meet this guy?”

  “I’ll set something up. But in the meantime—and this is the real reason I wanted you to come with me today—I have a confession.” He rolls his shoulders, like whatever he’s got to tell me is a big deal. I brace myself. “I heard what went down in front of your cottage this morning,” he says. “Between you and Mati and your mom.” He grimaces. “Brutal.”

  “I’d say so. Wait—were you spying?”

  “Give me some credit. You know
how Gram is with her windows. Always open. I just—I felt for you, you know? My mom and dad are cool now, but they haven’t always been. Sucks when your parents are assholes to the person you’re dating.”

  “Mati and I aren’t dating.”

  He flashes me a knowing grin. “Call it what you will. Your mom was cold, and I thought it was awesome that you stood up to her. Takes balls to do that.”

  But have I stood up to her? I snuck Mati to Sacramento because I knew she’d object. Plus, I’m waffling about lunch with his parents, partly because sharing a meal with them makes me so nervous my palms sweat anytime I think about it, but also because my mom would freak at the idea of my visiting their cottage.

  Granted, there’s a whole lot of unfamiliar protocol and extraneous nonsense dictating this thing between Mati and me, but still … I could be more assertive.

  I sip my milkshake. The coconut’s good. Above average, actually, though I will not be admitting as much to my mom. After weathering a wicked brain freeze, I tell Ryan, “Mati asked me to have lunch with him and his parents. I’m pretty sure my mom’s head will explode if I go and she finds out.”

  “What’s her beef, anyway?”

  I give him the abridged version of Mom’s past in New York, as well as my brother’s deployment and resulting death. “Mati might as well have been there that night, on the wrong side of the attack. My mom acts like he’s reprehensible, but he’s not. He’s…” Amazing-extraordinary-incredible. Because there’s no one word to describe Mati. He’s an intangible feeling: a force, a sense, a purpose.

  “So? What’re you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I think I want to go, but at the same time, I’m scared.”

  “Of your mom?”

  “Sort of. And also of making a bad impression.”

  “Elise, Mati wouldn’t have invited you if he didn’t think you could hang. One of my buddies back in Texas is Muslim. His parents moved to the States from Bangladesh—nice guy. I hang out at his house sometimes and seriously, it’s a lot like my house. There are a few things I had to get a handle on so I didn’t come off as, like, a heathen, but it was no big deal. Want the lowdown?”

  I push my milkshake back and fold my hands on the countertop. “Okay, yeah. Lay it on me.”

  “So I’m sure it’s not a universal experience, having a meal in a Muslim home, but here’s what I picked up.” He ticks suggestions off on his fingers. “Show up on time, and take a gift—something small. Take your shoes off in the foyer. Smile. Be gracious, but not timid. Don’t swear, and don’t talk about religion or politics, but compliment the food. Oh, and drink the tea. I passed at my buddy’s house once, and he told me later that his mother was offended.”

  “That’s a lot to remember,” I say. A lot to screw up. And God, I swear in front of Mati all the time, plus I’ve grilled him about Islam and Afghan politics. How does he not think I’m a complete barbarian?

  “Don’t stress, Elise,” Ryan says, squeezing my shoulder. “Just be your delightful self.”

  I snort, because I’m totally delightful. “Easier said than done. Also, if I’d known you were a savant in all things Islam, I would’ve treated you to your milkshake.”

  He grins. “Next time. And hello? This milkshake rocks. Average, my ass.”

  MATI

  I think about girls.

  Often, and without abandon.

  I used to think of them in the abstract,

  a mysterious,

  forbidden,

  segment of the population.

  Now, I think about her.

  Her fingers,

  wandering the length of my spine.

  Her ribs,

  rising and falling with breath,

  as they press against my chest.

  Her hair,

  silky and fine,

  vanilla-infused,

  tickling my throat.

  I think about intimacy—

  and not as the necessary exploit

  of an arranged union.

  I think about intimacy with her.

  I will endure her mother’s wrath

  a thousand times

  for the chance to touch her again.

  Later, she calls to tell me that

  she will come to our cottage for lunch.

  My veins flood with

  relief,

  excitement,

  anxiety …

  Friendships between girls and boys

  defy Islamic ideals,

  but Baba is sympathetic;

  he understands the Western way,

  and my need to spread my wings.

  More than that, though,

  he recognizes that our time in America

  is brief, temporary, transitory.

  Being with her may be a sin,

  but our expiration date is fixed.

  Therefore, a shared lunch

  gives him little reason for concern.

  Mama, however, is contrary.

  “Girls are temptation, Matihullah.

  She will lead you to wrongdoing.

  She will bring you shame.”

  No. Secrets bring me shame.

  “Let the boy have fun while he can,” Baba says.

  And then he coughs,

  a ferocious fit that shakes our cottage.

  Mama brings water.

  After he drinks, he says,

  “When summer is over,

  there will be no time for fun.”

  When summer is over,

  we will know whether he will live or die.

  When summer is over,

  we will make the long journey back to Afghanistan.

  When summer is over …

  I will say goodbye to her.

  elise

  This morning I met Mati at the beach in yoga pants and a tattered sweatshirt because whatever, but choosing an outfit for lunch is no joke. Shorts won’t do, and most of my dresses are scant in the fabric department. Jeans seem like a safe enough option, but finding a pair that doesn’t fit super-skinny or have intentionally shredded holes is a challenge.

  I finally manage to dig a dark-rinsed pair from the depths of my closet, which I top with a pale pink cardigan. I weave my hair into a French braid, then pack lip gloss, my wallet, and my Canon pocket camera (just in case) into a shoulder bag.

  Good enough, I hope.

  I cut through town and stop by the florist, then walk on, checking my appearance in every shop window I pass. Now that I’m nearing Mati’s cottage, I worry that I look all wrong. Maybe it’s my reflection, warped in the windowpanes, but my jeans stretch too tight across my butt, the heels of my ankle boots appear a smidge too high, and my hair … Maybe I should’ve left it down?

  I grip my just-purchased bouquet a little tighter and pick up my pace.

  I knock on the door at noon—right on time. I mentally review Ryan’s notes: compliments good, cursing bad; gracious good, timid bad; drinking tea good, talk of religion bad. I’m so nervous, so on-edge, I’m dizzy.

  Mati swings the door open. He’s wearing jeans, too, and a hoodie, dark green, zipped all the way up. He looks handsome—he looks hot. Of course he does. Because if I’m not thinking naughty things about him while his parents serve me rice, cooked with meat and vegetables, lunch just won’t be any fun.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, moving aside so I can step into the foyer, where the scents of grilled meat and earthy spices—saffron, turmeric, paprika—waft through the air.

  I indicate my appearance and, with a perfunctory cringe, whisper, “Do I look okay?”

  He leans in, just a little, and whispers, “Kaishta.”

  And now I’m blushing. Perfect.

  I hold up the bunch of gerber daisies I bought in town. They’re vivid pink and sunny yellow, and their stems are tied with a burlap ribbon. “I brought these for your mother. Do you think they’re okay?”

  He nods, smiling. Cue sigh of relief.

  He steps out of the foyer, toward wha
t I assume is the living room, and I’m a half second from following when I notice his sock-clad feet and remember what Ryan said about removing my shoes. I slip off my boots, relieved to find my socks presentable. God—what if I hadn’t worn socks? I’d be traipsing around in my bare feet with my Very Cherry pedicure calling attention to my toes. I glance up to see Mati watching as I line my boots neatly by the door. “Is this okay?”

  He laughs. Gently. Sweetly. “Everything is okay.” He grasps my hand and gives it the briefest squeeze. “Please, stop worrying.”

  I take a deep breath. He’s right—I’m freaking out. Be gracious, but not timid. I repeat Ryan’s words like a mantra as I follow Mati into the living room.

  The cottage is very tidy and sparsely decorated, though there are beautiful rugs thrown randomly across the floor. Mati’s parents sit on a sofa not unlike ours, overstuffed and comfortable-looking, across the room from a dark television. His mother, who I remember seeing in town weeks ago, the day Mati and I met, holds a jacketless book. His father—and I’m despicable for even thinking this phrase—looks like death warmed over. He’s thin and pale, and a cream-colored cap covers what I suspect is a bald scalp. He’s got his head tipped to rest on the back of the sofa, and his eyes are closed. I’m pretty sure he’s dozing.

  “Mama, Baba,” Mati says with enough volume to coax his father awake. “This is Elise. Elise, my parents, Hala and Rasoul.”

  Hala helps her husband stand, gripping his elbow, and I smile as Rasoul welcomes me. His English is as good as his son’s, though his voice is raspier, and his accent is thicker. Hala, while cool and quiet, seems satisfied enough by the bouquet I offer. She leaves the room while Mati and I make small talk with his father, then returns a few minutes later carrying the flowers in a vase filled with water.

  She waves us into the dining room, and we sit down to lunch, cross-legged on cushions placed in a circle on the dining room floor. Mati’s across from me, next to his father. His mother takes the spot beside me after bringing an enormous platter from the kitchen. It’s overflowing with golden rice, bits of brightly colored vegetables, and hunks of unidentifiable meat—though, I guess it’s safe to assume it’s not pork.