The Impossibility of Us Read online

  Still, he frowns. “Elise, if you don’t want—”

  I grab his hand, quieting him. “Don’t, okay? I want.”

  He weaves his fingers through mine and stoops to meet me. Our goodbye reaffirms the conviction I found last night, and I’m smiling when he draws back. He is a masterful kisser.

  “Call me later?”

  I nod, leaning in for one more.

  * * *

  My mom is in a rage.

  She’s disheveled and unshowered. I’m not sure she’s eaten since I left to babysit Janie last night. Fox News blares in the next room, and I suspect she’s been up all night, glued to the TV, cataloging Islamophobic sound bites.

  “How could you do this?!” she cries, smacking the kitchen table with a rumpled dish towel. Bambi’s cowering beneath, her brown eyes anxious and confused. She’s not used to tension between Mom and me—we never used to argue. She lets out a low whine.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell my mom. I am sorry—for ignoring her calls and for making her worry. But I’m not sorry about Mati.

  “You’re sorry? Unacceptable. I’ve been up all night, waiting and worrying. Have you heard about what happened in Oakland?”

  I’ve been cocooned in a world of bliss since I stepped onto that drawbridge. An asteroid could’ve struck the planet and I’d be none the wiser. Of course, my mom’s so melodramatic, she might be freaking out about a fender bender. “No. What?”

  “A letter arrived at the VA Office. A threat against veterans, current service members, and their families. Terrorists. Imagine how I felt, knowing you were out with that boy, one of them.”

  I fall into a chair. “God, Mom. Mati is not one of them.”

  She waves her hand, a throwaway gesture, like, I’ve heard it all before. “I’ve lost a child, Elise. My firstborn. I know you can’t comprehend how that feels, but I thought you knew enough to be considerate—to avoid putting me through that sort of anguish a second time.”

  “Are you hearing yourself? I lost Nicky, too. I’m sorry I made you worry, but Mati and his family aren’t dangerous. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  She makes an exasperated sound and blows right past my point. “You can’t stay out all night, not with that boy—not with anybody!”

  “Fine. I get it. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t. When I said I didn’t want you to see him, I meant it. Look at the trouble he’s caused. When Audrey told me what she walked in on last night, I just—I couldn’t believe my ears.” She drags a hand over her face, creased with lines of aggravation. “It would’ve been inappropriate no matter who the boy was, but that boy … It’s as if you’re bound and determined to send me to an early grave.”

  I roll my eyes—a splash of gasoline on her already blazing fire. “We were kissing, Mom. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She drops her chin to her chest; I think she’s praying for serenity, or the strength to keep from whacking me with that towel that suddenly looks more like a weapon than a rectangle of linen. “Audrey suggested it was more than a kiss, and while Janie was asleep down the hall. You took advantage of her trust, and then you snuck off to stay the night with him.”

  “Are you kidding? This, from the woman who used to let her teenage son and his girlfriend spend time behind a locked door?” I push my hands through my snarled hair, frustration cranking my heart rate higher and higher. “God, Mom! I know you’re stressed and I know you’re angry, but set all that aside. How is Mati and me hanging out at the park any more scandalous than Audrey and Nick having sleepovers in your house?”

  She practically growls. “Audrey and Nick were in love.”

  I blink, stunned by her nerve. What I feel for Mati is no less powerful than what Nick felt for Audrey during their early days. All that’s different in my case is Mati’s background, which is completely inconsequential.

  I raise a challenging eyebrow. “I’ll ask again: How is my situation with Mati different?”

  She inhales sharply. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare tell me you’re in love with that boy.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything, because you haven’t asked. You haven’t asked how I feel, or what I’m going through. It’s always how could you do this to me? Or think of Audrey. Or, we’re moving and you have no say-so.” My voice is so loud, so harsh, I suspect Ryan and Iris can hear me next door. But I don’t care. I’ve needed to say these things for a long time, and now that I’ve let loose, criticisms and accusations and anger are blasting out of me like water from a geyser. I smack my palms against the table. “What about me, Mom?”

  Bambi low-crawls from her hiding space, creeping out of the room. My mom shakes her head, like she’s trying to jiggle the last twelve hours out of her conscience. “You’re proving you’re not sensible enough for a mature discussion. And besides, you could have come to me. If you’re so desperate for conversation, you could have approached me. Instead, you slink around with someone I’ve asked you to avoid. First, your trip in Sacramento, and now this. Who knows what else you’re keeping from me where he’s concerned.”

  A lot, if we’re getting technical—which we aren’t. She hasn’t earned the right to details, a fact that’s overwhelmingly disappointing. “I shouldn’t have to come to you. You’re the adult. You’re the mother. You should be present for more than coffee brewing and takeout dinners.”

  She stares at me, mournful, as if I’ve wounded her deeply. Then her expression closes off, like invisible shutters have swung over her face, blocking out all signs of emotion. Coolly, she says, “Give me your phone.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’m taking it. That’s what present mothers do—invoke consequences when their children screw up.” She holds out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  “You cannot be serious.” My phone is my link to Mati. We talk every night, and text during the day. Our time together is already limited; surely she won’t sever this tie, too.

  “Oh, I’m serious,” she says evenly.

  I yank my phone from my pocket and slam it down on her palm. “Happy?”

  “Not in the least.”

  I push my chair back so hard its feet screech across the hardwood. It topples over, landing with a clatter. I trace Bambi’s escape route but, just before I stalk out of the kitchen, I spin around, look my mother square in the face, and say, “You’ll never keep me away from him.”

  elise

  After too many hours spent tolerating Mom’s cold shoulder, lamenting the loss of my phone, and scattering hundreds more silver stars across my ceiling, I leave the house with Bambi, headed for Audrey’s. Upset as I still am, I want to make a gesture that might earn me her understanding.

  I knock. She opens the door. She frowns. But she lets my dog and me in, which is a start.

  Preschool’s out for the day and the TV is on, tuned to the Disney Channel. The cottage smells of pancakes and maple syrup. My stomach gives a hungry grumble.

  “Breakfast for lunch?” I ask, overcompensating in the chipper department.

  Audrey shrugs. “It was easy.”

  “Got any leftovers?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  She leaves me standing in the entryway and goes to sweep Janie up and carry her to the couch. They snuggle up under a knit throw to watch Mickey and his clubhouse friends attempt to crack another case. Bambi makes herself comfortable at their feet, a panting traitor.

  I slap a stack of pancakes on a plate, douse them in syrup, and inhale them while standing at the counter. I pilfer a mug of cold, leftover coffee, too, dumping in a couple of heaping spoonfuls of sugar before effectively pounding it. Thanks to my night at the park, I’m nearing zombie status. After rinsing my plate and refilling my mug, I shuffle into the living room and say, “Aud, can I talk to you?”

  She doesn’t look away from the television. “Go ahead.”

  “Yeah, Auntie,” Janie says. “Go ahead.”

  I clear my throat. “In the kitchen, maybe?
”

  Audrey groans and digs out from under the blanket. She plants a kiss on Janie’s head before following me to the kitchen, where she crosses her arms and says, “What?”

  I fold my arms, too, but while her stance is contentious, mine’s about self-preservation. “I came by to tell you … I feel bad about last night.”

  “You feel bad? You’re only standing in my kitchen because you’re Nick’s sister and I owe it to him to hear you out, but shit, Elise. I feel bad is not going to cut it.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Uh, you could tell me you were wrong, and that you understand why I’m upset, and that you’ll never betray me like that again.”

  “See, I would say those things if I thought you were mad because I had a guy here while you were out. But you’re pissed because of who you think the guy is.”

  “You’re right. And guess what? That’s my prerogative because this is my house and Janie’s my daughter. What if something had happened to her? What if something happens to her tomorrow, or next week, because your friend knows where I live?”

  “It won’t,” I say.

  “It could,” Audrey retorts. “The only thing about Nick’s passing that’s brought me any peace is knowing that he died doing something noble and good. He was out there because he chose to be, aware of the risks but willing to face them. Bringing that boy here … You took away my autonomy, my right to choose who comes into my house, and who meets my daughter.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice trembling. She’s got a point—right or wrong, she gets to decide who spends time within the walls of her cottage. “I get it. I swear I do. And I’m sorry I didn’t check with you before inviting him here. If I had it to do over, I would.”

  “And I’d say no. I will never be okay with him.”

  “But he’s the gentlest person I know. He’s not a threat to Janie, or you, or anyone.”

  She lifts her chin. “Yeah? Prove it.”

  I can’t, of course. I know Mati is thoughtful and benevolent—I’m confident in the same way I know the sun’s outside, hanging behind the thick cloud cover—but Audrey doesn’t. She never will. Not if she refuses to give him a chance.

  When the silence has stretched thin and it’s clear I’ve got no verifiable proof, she says haughtily, “That’s what I thought. Elise, it kills me to say this, but if you can’t stay away from him, then you have to stay away from us.”

  My eyes go wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugs, like her assertion was clear and I’m an idiot for not comprehending. “If you’re going to keep seeing him, you’re not welcome here. I’m sure you’ve seen the news by now: Military dependents have become a target. I can’t risk Janie’s safety.”

  “But what about your job? Who will watch her?”

  “Your mom, I hope, and if not her, I’ll hire a nanny. I’ll quit if I can’t find one. Anything’s better than leaving you here with my daughter, knowing I can’t trust you to keep your Taliban boyfriend from dropping by.”

  “He’s not—” But I can’t. I can’t fight this same fight again, not when she’s threatening me with Janie. I’m short of breath; I’m desperate. “She’s my niece, Audrey—she’s Nicky’s! How could you keep her from me?”

  “It’s not my decision. You want to make your own choices? Make them. But you’d better be prepared to face the consequences.”

  “You’re being so unfair. He’s nothing like you think. He’s sweet to me, and he was so good with Janie. She liked him. If only you could have seen—”

  Her eyes flare with anger. “I don’t want to see! I don’t want to hear another word about him! I don’t want to think about him, or his country, or what his people did to my husband. And you shouldn’t, either!”

  “Mama?” Janie, from the living room.

  Audrey appears momentarily startled, like she forgot Janie was in the cottage. She sucks in a breath and calmly calls, “I’ll be right there, baby.” And then she levels me with a look so formidable, so full of revulsion, I have to shift my gaze.

  “It’s time for you to go,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.

  I slip into the living room to retrieve my dog, pausing to give Janie the tightest squeeze.

  “You’re going home, Auntie?”

  “Yep,” I say, my vision swimming. I hate this: fighting with my mom, fighting with Audrey, worrying that my time with Janie is going to be dramatically reduced. Because I can’t stop seeing Mati—I just can’t, no matter what Mom takes away, no matter what Aud threatens.

  He’s a star, throwing light and warmth into my life, and I won’t give him up.

  Not until I have to.

  I kiss Janie’s soft hair. “I love you, girlie.”

  “See you soon, Auntie!”

  My eyes spill a waterfall of tears as Bambi and I walk out the door.

  MATI

  Baba’s coughing wakes me.

  His hacking is nothing new.

  It is as if he has swallowed metal:

  iron, nickel, tin, steel.

  A bucketful of nuts and bolts,

  rattling behind his ribs.

  I should check on him,

  but I am in no mood to face Mama.

  She has been chilly since I

  came home from the park yesterday.

  Her disappointment is explicit,

  though I am not sure I care.

  The coughing continues.

  I hear movement in the kitchen.

  A slamming cupboard door,

  rushing water, hurried footsteps.

  Mama calls my name,

  her voice tattered with worry.

  “Go to the market,” she says.

  “Buy honey. And peppermint.

  We need to calm his cough.”

  I push my feet into shoes,

  donning yesterday’s jeans and a rumpled shirt,

  and do as she asks.

  In Cypress Beach,

  early mornings are still and peaceful.

  I breeze through the market,

  where I choose local honey,

  thick and amber in its jar,

  and a generous sprig of peppermint.

  They are nature’s cure

  for the grating-grinding-retching

  that lives in Baba’s chest.

  I pay, hurriedly.

  Clutching my bag,

  I return to the sidewalk.

  I have only just passed the bakery,

  and the sun is only just beginning to rise,

  when I am cuffed from behind,

  a wallop that pitches me forward,

  tangling my feet and my wits.

  My bag plummets to the ground and,

  while everything else is abruptly

  jumbled,

  muddled,

  blurred,

  so clearly, I hear the honey jar

  shatter on impact.

  My hands break my fall,

  saving my face from striking the sidewalk.

  My sluggish brain registers:

  my palms, scraping coarse pavement,

  male voices, slicing the quiet morning,

  and ire, dense as fog.

  I struggle to right myself, disoriented

  but determined to confront my attackers,

  to fight back.

  A blow finds my middle, robbing me of breath,

  creating a sharp spasm of pain in my chest.

  I curl in on myself,

  and try to make sense of my assailants.

  A foot,

  in a work boot,

  attached to leg,

  attached to a man.

  An American man.

  A citizen of Cypress Beach.

  Bronzed hair and freckled skin,

  he is familiar;

  he mocked Mama and me weeks ago,

  as we walked through town.

  He stands with a friend: a blonder, squatter man,

  who boasts wicked eyes an
d a smarmy snarl.

  He glares down at me,

  then kicks at the sticky, broken glass

  and crushed peppermint that litter the sidewalk.

  Their derisiveness sends a chill down my spine.

  My stomach sours as the men,

  stout and steadfast, work to move me.

  Off the sidewalk.

  Into an alley.

  Where there will be no interruptions.

  Where there will be no witnesses.

  My lucidity fades

  like tendrils of smoke

  in a turbulent sky.

  elise

  My mom comes into my room bright and early, dropping a flyer on the pillow next to my head. Groggy, I squint up at her. She’s frowning at my blackened walls and the mural of stars I’ve splashed across the ceiling. Sensing that she has no plan to leave until I engage, I tunnel out from beneath my quilt and pick up the flyer. Cypress Valley High New Student Orientation! printed in bold letters.

  I’d forgotten; it’s today.

  “No way,” I say.

  “You can’t sulk in your room forever.”

  “I’m not sulking—I’m sleeping.”

  “I’ve never known you to be such a sullen teenager,” she grumbles. “This is that boy’s influence, isn’t it?”

  Here we go … “Mati’s? No, not at all. In fact, he’d probably encourage me to go to orientation—you know, if he could get in touch with me.”

  “You’re wasting your summer, Elise. When will you see reason? You have no future with him.”

  I pull my quilt up to cover my face. Muffled, I say, “You don’t know that.”

  She yanks the blanket away, eyes flashing. “It’s not as if you can marry him!”

  I sit up so I can face her head-on, rather than supine. “I’m seventeen, Mom. I’m hardly planning a wedding. But for the record, I could marry him. It’s not unheard of for a Muslim man to marry a non-Muslim woman; it’s not even against the rules. Afghanistan’s current president is married to a freaking Catholic. Bet you didn’t know that, for all your knowledge of Islam.”

  She gives me a long, hard look, then says, “You’re going to orientation. You need to get to know the campus. You need to get a sense of what classes are offered. And for God’s sake, you need to meet new people.”

  “No I don’t. I have Ryan. I have Mati.”