The Impossibility of Us Page 23

  “School’s not going to make me feel better,” I tell my mom.

  She sips her coffee, then changes the subject. “I sent my manuscript to my editor today.”

  I dig up the wherewithal to smile. “Congratulations.”

  She puts down her mug, then straightens the pile of napkins in the center of the table. She’s focused on her task when she says, “I want us to spend more time together, Lissy. I want to come to the beach with you and Bambi. I want you to show me more of your photographs. I want to hear about the classes you’ll take this fall. And I’d like for us to go to Sacramento together, to see Nick. I’ve been thinking about what you said, how I haven’t been present, and you’re right. Since your brother … I haven’t been myself.”

  “Mom, neither of us has.”

  “But you’ve managed your grief better than me.”

  “He was your son. There’s no right way to cope with his death.”

  She shrugs, allowing this, then reaches for my hand. Her palm is cool and dry. “I hate that I’ve disappointed you this summer, but my feelings regarding that boy haven’t changed. I’m relieved he’s leaving—look how miserable he’s made you. He’s not good for you, Elise. He will never be good for you.”

  “Because he’s Muslim.”

  She looks at me, unflinching in her bigotry. “You’ll understand, one day. You’ll meet a nice boy, the right boy. You’ll have children of your own, children you’re desperate to protect, and you’ll see that what I’ve been saying is true. You’ll see that I’ve had your best interests in mind. When you’re older, when you’ve gained some life experience, this summer will become nothing but a distant memory.”

  She’s wrong—she’s so wrong. This summer may amount to a memory, but that doesn’t make my feelings less real. That doesn’t excuse her intolerance, her refusal to see Mati for who he is rather than where he’s from. It’s unbelievably audacious, her assertion that I’m the one who needs to acquire life experience. She’s so stuck in her head, in her racism, she can’t see good when it’s right in front of her.

  She purses her lips. “I know it’s hard now, but trust me—his going back to where he came from? You’ll be better off in the long run.”

  I rear back, shocked that she’d say such a thing, today of all days, while I sit empty, desolate as a dried up lake bed. I think of that afternoon with my brother, when he gave money to the homeless veteran in San Francisco. Don’t walk through life blind, he told me.

  I have never understood a directive so clearly.

  Our mother is blind; Nicky was not.

  I want to be just like him.

  I rise from my chair. “I won’t be better off when Mati goes back to Afghanistan, Mom. Whenever I think of him, for the rest of my life, my heart will hurt. Neither time nor distance will change that. You won’t, either. I love him, and I don’t care if you approve. I will never care if you approve.”

  I turn on my heels and walk out of the kitchen. I don’t have strength left for arguing or spite or bitterness; I’m sapped just trying to keep it together. Besides, my mom’s the loser in all this—she missed out on Mati.

  And so I make my way out the front door, into the fresh air of the yard. I march all the way to the sidewalk, where I continue to move west, toward the beach, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be while I’m so consumed with thinking of him.

  I’ll never see him again, I think, my feet dragging.

  I should have told him. I should have said it outright.…

  Mati, I don’t want you to go.

  MATI

  I walk to the beach in a fog,

  driven by a desire to see the horizon,

  that elusive place where water meets sky.

  This beach, after all,

  is where she swept me to sea.

  My bags are packed.

  Our cottage is tidy.

  It is nearly time to go,

  to fly, fly, fly home.

  But first …

  I reach the cluster of picnic tables,

  where the air smells of salt and cypress,

  and is haunted by conversations past.

  I run a hand over the smooth tabletop

  where I once left her a message,

  then make my way to the stairs.

  I find the beach empty,

  with the exception of a lone figure—

  a figure so familiar, my stomach dives,

  seagull-like,

  before soaring skyward again.

  She is sitting on a driftwood log,

  knees pulled to her chest,

  wearing the sweatshirt her brother gave her.

  I move closer,

  studying her as the space between us shrinks.

  Her caramel hair hangs loose around her shoulders.

  Her eyes are bright, her cheeks rosy-red.

  She is biting her lip, distorting her heart-shaped mouth.

  Even now,

  as an overwhelming sense of loss thickens the air,

  as my ears buzz

  and my eyes burn

  and my knees quake …

  She dazzles me.

  Since we said goodbye yesterday,

  I have been a dandelion seed adrift,

  snagged by an errant breeze.

  Now, I am rooted.

  Rooted in her.

  She is not surprised to see me,

  and so,

  I think it is meant to be.

  I sit beside her,

  take her in my arms,

  murmur against her ear,

  “Za ta sara meena kwam.”

  I speak to her in Pashto;

  my voice is sure to break

  if I attempt English.

  She fists my shirt in her hands,

  pulling me closer,

  her long hair whipping in the wind.

  She exhales, shaky, and says,

  “Mati, please. I don’t want you to go.”

  “I have to. You know I do.

  I cannot forsake my family.…

  Not yet.”

  My parents and I

  have spoken about the future.

  Baba is unhappy,

  but says he will try to smooth things over

  with Panra and her family.

  I think, perhaps,

  he is envious of my autonomy.

  Mama thinks I am selfish, foolish, idealistic.

  She cannot look at me without disdain.

  My parents’ displeasure

  will never be enough

  to keep me from her.

  I take her face in my hands.

  Her cheeks are hot, damp with tears.

  I look into her eyes,

  and make the only promise that will ever matter.

  “Elise, I will come back to you.”

  Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there.

  —Rumi

  elise

  My senior year passes with surprising speed.

  Somewhere between my part-time job at The Hamlet, work on my photography portfolio, and monthly trips to Sacramento to visit my brother, I get to know the girl I spent the summer becoming.

  In September, I join Cypress Valley High’s yearbook staff. Quickly, I become a lead photographer. I make friends. Maybe not forever friends, but I think that’s okay. I find myself laughing again, and anticipating school days with something not unlike enthusiasm. I log countless hours on the phone with Ryan, and video chat with Mati every chance I get. Luckily, connectivity in Kabul is decent.

  In November, Audrey and I sign up for a painting class. We’re the youngest students by decades. She thinks it’s lame, but I become kind of obsessed. I cover canvases with smears of paint: of my dog, San Francisco’s skyline, Cypress Beach’s horizon.

  I still love photography best.

  I spend the early months of winter hanging out with Bambi, meeting up with Xavier for milkshakes, and baking cookies with Janie. Ryan comes to visit at Christmastime, bunking at his gram’s, so I get t
o spend tons of time with him. Mati and I continue to email daily—hourly, sometimes. I send him snapshots of our beach, our park, any dandelion I happen upon. He sends me poems about nothing, and poems about everything.

  In January, after a painting class I attend on my own (because Audrey gave up brushes and acrylics weeks ago), I treat myself to a slice of pie at The Hamlet. I have a table to myself, only my thoughts for company, and it feels good, being alone but not lonely; it’s a sense of peace, a strengthening of character thanks to new people and new experiences.

  I realize I like this girl I’ve become. I think my brother would, too.

  It’s there at that table, halfway through my wedge of cherry pie, that I make myself a promise: I will continue to funnel energy into myself, but I will try to reestablish a relationship with my mom, too. It will have to be a new relationship—a different relationship—because while her opinions regarding Afghans and Muslims and Mati haven’t changed, I think it’s possible to love her despite her prejudices.

  On a chilly Saturday morning in February, as I’m getting ready to drive to Sacramento to see Nick, she walks into my room. “I’d like to come along,” she says, voice quavering.

  I turn away from my mirror to face her. She’s dressed in a pair of khakis and a cable-knit sweater, and she’s holding two travel mugs. “I’d like that,” I tell her. “Nicky would, too.”

  She drives, slow and cautious. Halfway to the cemetery, she broaches the topic that’s been tabled since August: Mati. “You’re still in contact with him?”

  “Every day.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Hopefully, I’ll see him again—we’re working on it.”

  “It’s not good for you, pining for that boy.”

  “I’m not pining for him—I’m carrying on. I’m staying busy. I’m making a life for myself. But I love him, and nothing you say will change that.”

  “I wish you’d never met him,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

  I pat her arm, sorry for her obstinacy, and sad about the good she misses because of it. But my sympathy only stretches so far, and my voice is ironclad when I tell her, “I’m so glad I did.”

  This is what I’ve learned: While my mom might continue to dig her heels in regarding Mati, his culture, and his religion, I don’t have to stop modeling acceptance. I don’t have to stop believing that someday, she’ll come around.

  In March, Xavier moves to San Antonio. He’s been stationed at Lackland Air Force Base, less than three hours from Texas A&M. I’m bummed to see him go but thrilled for him and Ryan. I use my surplus of free time to do more reading on Islam. I learn about its doctrine and its customs. I come to appreciate its history and its values.

  In April, I find out that I’ve been accepted into the San Francisco Art Institute. Mom cries, and I do, too. I’m happy—so, so happy—but I’m going to miss Cypress Beach. I start to spend more time on the sand, more time on the quiet sidewalks, more time in the overpriced boutiques. I soak it up, this town I thought I’d hate.

  In June, I graduate from Cypress Valley High. I ask my manager at The Hamlet to up my hours. I squirrel away every cent I earn. Living in San Francisco is costly, and even though my mom has agreed to help me with rent (I found a furnished studio apartment in a safe neighborhood, close to campus), there will be plenty of other expenses.

  In August, I begin to pack my things. I spend every spare minute with Bambi, because she has to stay in Cypress Beach while I’m away at school. I hope she’ll keep my mom in check.

  A week before the semester is to begin, I walk my dog next door, where Iris will keep watch over her while my family and I head for San Francisco. Then I climb into the loaded-down BMW with Mom, Audrey, and Janie, and we drive north to the city.

  They help me unpack. Audrey paints the wall next to my bed the same blue-green she picked for my room back home. I hang some of my photographs and paintings, sporadic, like a little gallery. My mom stocks my cabinets with cereal and bread and cans of tuna, new dishes, a toaster, and a rice cooker. Janie draws a picture of the four Parker girls on a stray sheet of packing paper, then tapes it to the fridge.

  When they leave, a piece of my heart trails behind them.

  At the same time, though, finally, I am free. Free to make choices that are right for me, to love the soul handpicked for mine.

  Two days later, I hail a cab for a ride to the San Francisco International Airport.

  Mati has been granted a student visa and accepted at San Francisco State.

  I am joyful.

  Like me, he’s renting a studio apartment. I checked it out for him yesterday; it’s only a few blocks from where I’m living. It’s full of light and there’s a built-in writing desk next to a big bay window. It’s perfect.

  I arrive at the airport early and loiter near the baggage carousels. The place is full of people: families returning from tropical vacations, smartly dressed men and women traveling for business, plus lots of greeters, like me. I long to pace the floor, but it’s too crowded and I’m reluctant to appear as eager as I feel. I snag a miraculously empty chair and people-watch, fidgeting, until …

  Oh God.

  Until I see him walking toward me, long and lean and beautiful. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and there’s a sweatshirt draped across his arm. He’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair is shorter than it was the last time we video chatted, like he’s recently had it trimmed.

  His eyes are the same—bright, blazing.

  They settle on me, and his face opens in a grin, and before I register moving, I’m out of my seat, running toward him. I leap into his arms, wrap myself around him, bury my face in his neck. We’re a spectacle. He’s laughing and I’m laughing and finally, finally, I pull myself together enough to call up the sentiment I’ve written at the end of every email, every letter I’ve sent him over the last year.

  Only now, I get to use it while holding his hands, while losing myself to his wildfire gaze.

  “Za ta sara meena kwam.”

  He grins, misty-eyed, and kisses me.

  Minutes, hours, days pass. I’d forgotten this—how his kisses feel, and how they make me feel. When it’s over, I’m warm, malleable, practically purring. He grins, knowing, and weaves his fingers through mine. Hand in hand, we walk to the baggage carousel, where we’ll wait for his luggage.

  “So,” he says, pulling me into his chest, touching my hair, my cheeks, my neck, his eyes skimming my face like centuries have passed and all he cares to do is relearn my features. “This is San Francisco.”

  I smile up at him. “This is San Francisco. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “No more waiting,” he says. “No more distance. Never again.”

  This time I kiss him, and it’s the best kiss, because I’m certain now.

  A million more will follow.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am so fortunate to be part of the Swoon Reads family, where I feel at all times supported and celebrated. Jean Feiwel and Lauren Scobell, thank you for cultivating this incredible community. Kat Brzozowski, working with you has been a dream. Your insight, wisdom, and warmth have taught me so much. Because of you, The Impossibility of Us is a book I am truly proud of.

  Kelsey Marrujo, thank you for rocking all things publicity. Emily Settle, thank you for your helpfulness and eternal patience. Ashley Woodfolk, thank you for championing this book, and for your brilliant title suggestion—it’s so much better than mine was! Lauren Forte, thank you for lending your copyediting expertise to this story. Liz Dresner and Becca Syracuse, thank you for the beautiful, beautiful cover; I still can’t stop staring at it! And to the authors known affectionately as the Swoon Squad, um … wow. What an amazing group of people to walk this road with.

  Victoria Marini, I can’t imagine doing this publication thing without you. Your guidance, expertise, and humor are invaluable. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything.

  Arvin Ah
madi, Rania, and Silanur, thank you for imparting your knowledge of Islam on this story, and me. Your thoughtful feedback and generously shared personal experiences have made Mati, Rasoul, and Hala stronger and more complex characters. Khalid Ahmad, thank you so much for your assistance with the Pashto translations in this book. Any inaccuracies in story or text are mine alone.

  Alison Miller, Temre Beltz, Riley Edgewood, and Elodie Nowodazkij, you are far and away the best critique partners a girl could ask for. Your combined intelligence, compassion, and generosity are awe-inspiring. I am a better writer thanks to the four of you. Additional thanks to Rachel Simon, Jaime Morrow, and Lola Sharp for the beta reads. Your early enthusiasm was exactly the encouragement I needed.

  Tracey Neithercott, Karole Cozzo, Mandie Baxter, Liz Parker, Christina June, Jessica Love, Christa Desir, Sara Biren, and Erin Bowman, thank you for the reassurances, the much needed moments of commiseration, and the celebrations. How lucky I am to have you all in my life. And to the many 2017 Debuts who’ve become wonderful friends, thank you for sharing this journey with me.

  Mom and Dad, thank you for your boundless support and infinite love, and for hand-selling my books to your friends. Mike and Zach, while you might not be fans of young adult romance, I know you’re fans of me and really, isn’t that all that matters? ☺

  Bev and Phil, thank you for making me feel like part of the family from day one. Andy, Danielle, Grant, Reid, Caroline, Sam, Kacie, Grandpa, Michele, Gabe, Teddy, and Thomas, your continued cheerleading means the world to me.

  Claire, you inspire me every day. I look forward to putting this book in your hands; I hope you love it as much as the Judy Blume novels you’re constantly devouring. Lizzie, you are a source of endless smiles, and I’m eternally grateful for your presence in our lives. Girls, you bring me indescribable joy. Love you forever.

  Matt, this book wouldn’t exist without you. Thank you for the nudge, and for your help with the story’s mentions of the military and Afghanistan. Your genuine excitement over my successes, both big and small, make me feel unstoppable, and very loved. You are an amazing friend, father, and husband, and you are still my happily ever after.