The Impossibility of Us Page 3

  Stupid boy, battling the sea with his hands.

  Stupid boy, swimming alone in biting water.

  Stupid boy, clamming up when questioned.

  I’ll wither if I ever see her again.

  I’ll wither if I never see her again.

  Mama prefers that I escort her to the market.

  The staring gets to her, as it gets to me,

  and my presence makes it easier for her to bear.

  I am her eldest son and since my father is ill,

  it is up to me to look after her.

  I walk the sidewalks

  of Cypress Beach with her,

  swallowing my complaints,

  and smothering my quarrels.

  I wear invisible blinders to block

  countless pairs of probing eyes.

  But today, we encounter more than stares.

  After passing the bakery

  and a gallery displaying paint-splattered canvases,

  a slur catapults through the air,

  striking Mama and me.

  Her eyes widen with fear;

  I want to sink into the sidewalk.

  I know better than to engage,

  though I cannot help but turn

  when the deep voice adds,

  “Go home, hajjis! You’re not welcome here!”

  I flinch, my vision blurring with rage

  as I look at evil incarnate.

  He is a large man,

  leaning casually against a brick facade.

  He wears work boots with jeans,

  and a vest crowded with pockets.

  Copper hair, flint eyes, menacing smile.

  He is foolish.

  He uses the word hajji as a slight,

  though it is a title of respect

  given to Muslims who have lived long enough

  to make a pilgrimage to Mecca.

  His ignorance is almost as offensive as his bigotry.

  I open my mouth to enlighten him,

  but Mama nudges me—

  a reminder of where we are,

  and who we are.

  “You got somethin’ to say?” the man taunts,

  raising his arms in invitation.

  “Matihullah,” Mama says,

  shifting her bags to grip my elbow.

  She drags me forward, away from the threat.

  “Home! We must go home.”

  My heart thrashes against my ribs as I follow,

  listening to the man’s unrelenting jeers,

  clenching my hands into useless fists.

  I hate him,

  but I hate myself more.

  It reeks of weakness,

  allowing prejudice to affect me,

  to hurt me.

  But sometimes …

  Sometimes I wish I were anywhere but here.

  elise

  Bambi is up at dawn. She wakes me with slobbery kisses.

  I roll out of bed, then throw on a pair of leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, one my brother sent me after he and Audrey moved to Fort Bragg, leaving me behind for what would not be the first time. It’s black with a crest of blue, yellow, and white, set off by a red lightning bolt. His unit’s motto—Advise, Support, Stabilize—is embroidered below. I sport it so often it’s pilling and faded. Last year I had to mend a hole along the right sleeve’s seam. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s too old to pass as wearable.

  Bambi bounces around while I brush my teeth and twist my long hair into a knot, her claws clicking against the hardwood. I leave the house sans camera, and she seems pleased that I’ve got nothing to slow me down. In the front yard, I clip her leash to her collar and hold her tennis ball out so she can clamp it between her jaws; she likes to carry it all the way to the beach. We’re heading down the cobblestone path when our salt-and-pepper-haired neighbor, Iris, approaches the waist-high box hedge that separates her yard from ours.

  “If it isn’t my dear Elise,” she says. “And Bambi, too!”

  Bambi turns an excited circle, grinning around her ball. She loves Iris, and Iris loves her—almost as much as she loves her garden, which encompasses her entire yard, front and back. I appreciate her green thumb because sometimes, when my window’s cracked and the wind whirls just right, my room smells of gardenia and lilac and rose. She’s outside all the time, pruning, planting, weeding, and eavesdropping on neighborhood goings-on.

  “Morning, Iris.”

  She holds up her hands, a pair of garden clippers in one, and a basket full of periwinkle hydrangeas in the other. “Seems I’ve got more blooms than I know what to do with. I can tie a bundle for your mother, if you think she’d like them.”

  “She would. Her library could use some cheering up.”

  “Has she locked herself in there again? Someone should remind her that soil and sunshine are good for the soul.” She adjusts her knitted cardigan and casts a disparaging glance at our yard, which, generously put, is overgrown.

  “I’ll tell her, but do you know what she’ll say? ‘I’m on a deadline, Elise.’”

  “We’re all on a deadline. Every day’s a step toward extinction. Why not make the best of our time?”

  “Exactly. Why else would I be up before the birds, on my way to the beach?”

  “You’re better for it. So is that darling pup of yours.” Bambi wags her tail as if she understands. Iris puckers her lips and blows my dog a gale of kisses before saying, “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got company arriving today.”

  “Oh yeah? Family?”

  “My grandson, Ryan. He lives in Dallas, but he’s coming to spend the rest of the summer with me. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him. He’s a good boy, headed to Texas A&M this fall.”

  “Impressive,” I say sincerely. I’ve had my sights on the San Francisco Art Institute for years, but everything I’ve heard about Texas A&M has been positive. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to meet him.”

  “I bet you will. He’ll be excited when I tell him a pretty girl lives next door.”

  “Oh, Iris. Don’t go getting his hopes up.”

  We come spinning out of nothingness,

  scattering stars like dust.

  —Rumi

  elise

  The beach is deserted.

  Just like yesterday, the sky is thick with clouds, the air cool but humid. Bambi chases her ball ecstatically. She’s got beach amnesia—for her, every morning is new and remarkable.

  We play fetch long enough for the clouds to dissipate into tendrils of fog, and then other beachgoers begin to intrude on our solitude. Bambi makes all kinds of friends, human and canine, and I do my best to connect with the old people who stop to chat. Part of me wishes we would’ve moved to Cypress Valley, the town just east of Cypress Beach. It’s ten miles from the ocean, but it’s where the high school’s located, and where the bulk of the teenage population lives, according to Audrey, anyway. But she and Janie are here and it would’ve been counterproductive to settle more than a few minutes’ walk from their cottage.

  Bambi starts to slow as we reach the end of the beach, walled off by an outcropping of jagged rocks that jut into the sky. There’s a set of wooden stairs just before the rocks, as there are sporadically down the length of the shore. I can put on Bambi’s leash and take them up to town for a walk through the neighborhoods of Cypress Beach, or I can backtrack the way we came, to the stairs that are a few blocks from home. I’m debating, sand or sidewalk, when I see him—the boy from yesterday.

  He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, and his hands are crammed into its kangaroo pocket. He’s got on workout pants again, lightweight and loose, and he’s trotting down the stairs I was considering—was, because now they’re a no-go.

  I spin away from him, hoping he doesn’t spot me. Doesn’t recognize me. Though Bambi’s splashing around in the nearby surf, and she’s memorable. I pat my leg, hoping she’ll come running. She looks up at me, then beyond, to the stairs the boy has descended. Her ears perk
and her tail wags and—damn it!—she darts toward him, barking jovially.

  As much as I love my dog, I’m kind of wishing she’d vanish into a puff of smoke.

  I take a breath, summon some cojones, and call her back. “Bambi! Come ’ere, girl!”

  She might as well be deaf. She leaps, barreling into the boy, leaving two sandy paw prints on the front of his sweatshirt.

  Oh God.

  I chase after her, shouting her name as she jumps on him again and again. He keeps turning away, trying to block the brunt of her assault, but she thinks he’s playing and now she’s even more fired up. He’s saying something to her, a jumble of aggravated-sounding words set aloft in the wind.

  As I get closer, though, I realize he’s not aggravated—he’s laughing. He’s pushing her away, but cheerfully. And she’s eating it up.

  “Bambi,” I say sharply. She picks up on my exasperation and, finally, scuffles over to where I stand. I clip on her leash and snap, “Sit.”

  She does, right beside me, like the good dog she usually is.

  I look up at the boy. He’s covered in sand, and his hood has slipped down, revealing the whole of his face and his thick sable hair. He’s not laughing anymore, but he looks intrigued, which is a lot like how I’m feeling. This is the third time I’ve seen him in twenty-four hours and that seems significant somehow.

  But then I recall the woman he was with yesterday—his mother, I suspect—and the way she wore a scarf over her hair, a clue I’ve refused to let myself ruminate on until now. She’s Muslim, which means he’s likely Muslim, which makes me think of my brother—miss my brother. Sadness like I haven’t felt in months bubbles up my throat, until I’m forced to swallow it back, blinking a haze of gloominess from my vision.

  “Sorry about my dog,” I mumble, still not sure he understands English.

  He must not because, once again, he’s quiet. Where is he from? I wonder, and then: How long has he been in the States? How long will he be in the States? Where yesterday his silence fueled my swim-induced frustration, today I feel awkward and a little anxious.

  I should go.

  I hurry past him, headed for the stairs. I’m all but dragging Bambi, who’s clearly disappointed about leaving her new buddy.

  I’m halfway up the steps when he calls, “Wait!”

  I’m so surprised to hear him speak, I freeze.

  Behind me, his footfalls ascend the stairs. I sense him pulling to a stop a few below the one where I stand and pivot so his face isn’t level with my butt. Before I can stop her, Bambi lunges, dragging me down a step. I yank on her leash and, through clenched teeth, say, “Heel.”

  She sits with her front paws on the step below the one her rear lands on.

  “Your dog seems nice.”

  I eye him, wary. “Really? She just jumped all over you.”

  “I have survived worse.”

  “You do speak English,” I blurt, and then I’m cringing at how unintentionally impolite my words sound. I attempt to clarify. “I mean, you didn’t talk yesterday—not at all.”

  He tightens his jaw, watching me a moment before his expression relaxes. “I was … struck dumb. And maybe a little embarrassed.”

  “What the hell were you doing in the water?”

  He winces. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m so abruptly aware of him, I catch it. “I needed to clear my head. Impulsivity got the better of me, but I can swim.”

  “Can you? Because that was…”

  Pitiful. Dangerous. Stupid.

  All the above.

  He looks out over the water, slate and spirited. “I have experience with pools and lakes and rivers,” he says, low, emphatic, hypnotic. He speaks precisely, with a lilting accent I can’t place. “But the ocean and its waves are new to me. I didn’t realize they could be so powerful.”

  “But you were wearing your clothes.”

  He shrugs, chagrined.

  How does it feel to act so spontaneously? To ignore risk? Consequence? I wonder how old he is—now that I’m up close, I’m thinking he’s a year or two older than me. His face has the chiseled quality of a man’s, but there’s something innocent about his eyes—a vulnerability.

  “You learned your lesson? No more impromptu swims?”

  The corners of his mouth rise, a tiny smile I read as assent.

  “Are you new to town?” I ask, to keep the conversation afloat.

  “I’ve been here nearly a year, but I am finding it … hard to adjust.”

  His candor surprises me. So does the sudden sense of camaraderie that’s replaced my earlier anxiety. “Me, too. Though I’ve only been here a few weeks.”

  He peers at me, then murmurs something, kaishta, I think. I have no idea what the word means, and I don’t have a chance to ask before he says, “What’s your name?”

  “Elise.”

  “I’m Mati.” His accent makes the syllables sound like pitter-patter raindrops: Mati. Gentle, genial, a name that clashes with his ruggedness, his solemnness. He climbs up a step and leans forward to pat my dog. “And who is this?”

  “Bambi.”

  The slight curve of his mouth pulls into a genuine smile. “Like the little deer?”

  “Yep. My three-year-old niece named her. Watch a lot of Disney movies, do you?”

  “Among others. They help me with my English. Bambi might be a secret favorite, though.”

  And I’m grinning, just like that.

  My dog lets out an impatient whine, and Mati gestures up the stairs, toward town. “Do you need to go?”

  “Oh—yeah.” And then I just turn away, like the freak show I apparently am, and start up the stairs. No goodbye, not even a parting glance. Bambi trots after me, snuffling my legs like, What the heck are you doing?

  “Elise?”

  My heart cartwheels as I turn to the sound of his voice.

  He’s regarding me with an expression like indecision, like he’s not ready to say goodbye but knows he probably should. His eyes are spectacular—gilded, almost luminous. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Look for me.” And then, with uncertainty, “Yes?”

  I wait a moment before responding, reluctant to sound too eager, though my answer requires zero deliberation. “Yes.”

  MATI

  Devout Muslims pray five times a day.

  In the early morning,

  I pray before the sun crests the horizon.

  I pray midday, too,

  when noon has passed its pinnacle.

  I pray in the afternoon,

  hours before darkness,

  and at twilight,

  while the sky is lavender and sunless.

  I pray at night,

  under a dusting of stars.

  Prayer is like a song:

  melody, refrain, concentrated rhythm.

  A recitation of verses from the Quran,

  a chorus of voices praising Allah.

  Prayers are like dances, too.

  I stand, making my intent known.

  I bow, a glorification of Allah.

  I prostrate, touching my forehead to the ground.

  I sit, turning my face to the left, and to the right.

  In America, we pray at our cottage,

  in a sparse, tidy room.

  Baba, Mama, and I

  visited local mosques a few times,

  but the trips were too taxing for Baba.

  He is too sick, too weak,

  to go anywhere but the hospital.

  So we kneel on woven rugs,

  privately,

  facing the Grand Mosque in the city of Mecca,

  as all Muslims do.

  I pray to honor Allah, to instill Him in my heart.

  I pray to give Him thanks, and ask for His guidance.

  I pray to demonstrate submission.

  I pray to fortify my faith because

  sometimes

  I ponder Islamic teachings,

  as I ponder other enigmas,

  like the moon’s dusty surface, />
  and the sea’s sandy floor.

  I want to know more—

  I want to understand.

  I want to exist,

  comforted and fulfilled

  by my faith.

  So I pray, five times a day.

  elise

  The next morning, I find Mati sitting in the sand not far from where we had our spontaneous swim. He stands when he sees Bambi and me, and his face breaks into a sunrise smile, casting light over the beach.

  Bambi greets him first, but only because she’s willing to run at him without inhibition. I trudge behind, laughing as she leaps onto him. He stoops down to pet her head, which is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. She noses her ball, which she’s dropped at his feet. He picks it up—either not noticing or not caring about the drool—and launches it. I’m close enough now to hear him laugh as she scampers after it.

  “Your arm’s better than mine,” I say. “You’ve got yourself a friend for life.”

  He wipes what I suspect is slobber on the leg of his pants. “She’s a good friend to have.”

  “Truth. She’s my bestie.”

  His brows knit together. “Bestie?”

  “Best friend. I haven’t met anyone my age here, with the exception of you, maybe, so Bambi’s my confidant as well as my beach pal.” I don’t mention that my friend situation was iffy even before I came to Cypress Beach, lest he think I’m some sort of antisocial loser. I match the sincerity of his grin with one of my own. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Likewise. Are you starting your walk now, or finishing?”

  “We’re about done.” I point to the staircase I usually use. “That’s the way I head home.”

  “Me, too.”

  I sense his unwillingness to put me on the spot, which is unfounded. He’s an opportunity to converse with someone born in the same decade as me—like I’d pass that up. “Let’s head toward town,” I say, tossing him a bone.

  He nods, then pushes his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, light blue today, free of labels and graphics. I call my dog, and the three of us walk up the stairs. At the top, I secure Bambi’s leash and lead her to a spigot near a crop of picnic tables. She knows the drill and sits down to wait while I turn the faucet on. As soon as a stream of fresh water gushes out, she’s up and lapping.