He nods proudly, like I’ve spoken a whole soliloquy of Pashto, not two simple words. “At home, we sometimes flavor our chai with saffron. And we often sit on the floor when we drink it. On a rug, or cushions. But not at a table like this.”
I glance over my shoulder at the woman behind the counter. She’s stocking the pastry case with buttery baked goods, paying no attention to us now. “We could ditch our chairs, if you want. Camp out on the floor.”
“I have no desire to draw extra attention to myself.”
I appraise him, trying to make sense of his remark, and his suddenly serious expression. When I can’t, I ask, “Do you hate it here?”
His mouth lifts with wry amusement. “At this cafe?”
I smile—I can’t help it. These peeks at his playful side are surreptitious glimpses of the person he really is; the person who I suspect is being stifled by family illness and a foreign land. “America,” I clarify. “The differences?”
“I did. I still do, occasionally. Not the differences—I like learning about your culture—but the judgment. The stares. The assumptions.”
“You’re ready to go home,” I say, an observation, not a question.
“Sometimes. And sometimes I feel rushed, like I’m hurtling toward August tenth, like there’s no way I’ll be ready to go when the time comes.”
August 10 … God, just over a month from now. Five weeks—that’s how long we have to get to know each other before a country halfway around the world reclaims him.
I knew it—I knew he was too good to be true.
Afraid my disappointment might be transparent, I look down, swirling my coffee in its mug. Across from me, Mati shifts, stretching like he’s going to touch my arm. My heart trips over itself, but then he drops his hand to the table, letting his fingertips rest beside mine.
Their warmth reaches for me.
“Tell me something about you,” he says, a blatant attempt at a lighter topic. He lifts his mug, inhales steam, then waits—for me to share an enlightening tidbit, I guess. When I’ve been quiet too long, he prompts me. “I want to hear about the pictures you take.”
I break into an irrepressible grin—photography fills me with intangible joy. “I snap photos every chance I get. My dog and my niece are my most challenging subjects—they’re never still—but their pictures are usually my favorites. I’m working on a series of cemetery images, part of a portfolio I’ll use for college admissions down the road. It’s a life-among-death sort of thing. My mom doesn’t get it.”
“Is she a photographer, too?”
“No, she’s a writer. My older brother took a photography class in high school, though, and he was really into it. Back then, I wanted to do everything he did, so I’d sneak his camera out of his room and take pictures of the street in front of our condo: fire hydrants, power lines, stoops. When he figured out what I’d been doing—and that I had a pretty good eye—he bought me a camera of my own. Not a very good one, but the best he could afford. I’ve been hooked ever since.”
“He sounds like a good brother.”
My throat swells with sorrow. “He was the best brother.”
We’re quiet for a pause, watching each other over the tops of our mugs.
Mati says, “I’m afraid to ask about him.”
“Because you don’t want me to walk away?”
“Because I don’t want you to be sad.”
I look out the window; my vision’s gone watery and I’ll die before I cry at this table. I blink, inhaling, wheedling a thread of composure from the warm, coffee-infused air. I meet his gaze and, monotone, say, “He was killed three years ago. He was in the army, he deployed, and … that was it.”
Mati’s face changes, constricts with conjecture, followed closely by comprehension.
“I am very sorry,” he says, so softly I wonder, for a moment, if I imagined his apology. But he’s looking at me with intensity that makes the sights and scents and sounds of the bakery fade away. I feel his stare, physically, in the depths of me. I feel it in the way my flesh tingles and my heart skips and my cheeks warm.
He knows, and I know he knows, and somehow—some miraculous way—we’ve made a complete circle.
MATI
Baba: strong, vigorous, indomitable.
Deteriorate: decline, worsen, fail.
A sight no son should witness: the systematic wasting
of the man who gifted him life.
There is …
nothing worse
… than watching Baba’s light fade.
He is warm, tolerant, selfless.
He values education over power, and earns the respect some demand.
He is the sort of man I hope to be.
Cancer: a proliferation of poison, a robber of dignity,
a squanderer of vitality, money, time.
A plague—multiplying, intensifying, destroying.
Worse than its symptoms?
Worse than the side-effects of its treatment— coughing, nausea, fatigue, infection?
Worse than a head pillaged of hair?
Worse than weeks, months, years spent suffering?
The knowledge that it never had to be.
Wisps of smoke
curl through my memories.
When I was young,
the acrid fumes burned my nose.
Later, cigarettes were the scent of comfort; Baba was near.
Now, tobacco smells of regret, of slow decline,
of encroaching death.
The new medicines are
why we came to America,
Baba, Mama, and me.
They are meant to help, to heal.
I am not sure they are doing their job.
It is possible we have traveled around the world for nothing.
Left Leila, my older sister,
under the governance of her husband, and Aamir, my younger brother, in the care of my crooked uncle.
It terrifies me to think ours is a journey spurred by false hope.
Death: unavoidable, undeniable, unbearable.
elise
Audrey and Janie join Mom and me for dinner. We’ve just finished sub sandwiches, and now we’re hanging out in the living room. I’m curled up in the leather recliner with my laptop, and Janie’s on the floor in front of a mountain of Barbie dolls, some hers, some mine from eons ago. My mom and Audrey share the couch with twin mugs of tea. Tonight is Aud’s last night off before she works a string of closing shifts at Camembert, and she claims to be banking relaxation.
“So? What’d you do today, Lissy?” she asks, resting her feet on the coffee table.
I’ve spent the last half hour reading up on Ramadan (a month of ritual fasting meant to help Muslims seek nearness to and forgiveness from God), but now I give her my attention. “I walked Bambi. Worked on my portfolio. Went to Van Dough’s.”
Aud lights up. “With who? The boy next door?”
“His name’s Ryan.”
“Okay, with Ryan?”
“No, someone else. But I did hang out with Ryan at the beach this morning.”
“Hang on,” my mom interjects, holding up her hand. “You suddenly have two new friends? After months—years—of solitude?”
“God, Mom. Way to make me sound like a loser.”
“Tutu, please,” Janie says, handing her mama a naked Barbie and a miniature pink tutu.
“You’re not a loser,” Audrey says, slipping Barbie’s tutu over her nonexistent hips. She passes the doll back to Janie. “Now, are you going to tell us about this mysterious second friend or not?”
I refocus on my computer, reluctant to spill about Mati. I suspect it’ll take my family a while to warm to his background; between Mom’s presence in New York City on September 11 and Nicky’s death in Afghanistan, their firsthand experiences with Islam have been negative, and deeply impactful. I’m not sure they’ll be willing to accept that when it comes to Muslims, Mati is the rule, not the exception. “All you need to know is that he’s very nice,” I say. “And, he bought me a coffee.”
“What’s his name?” they ask in unison.
I glance up and am met with a pair of inquisitive stares. Feeling double-teamed and sort of isolated all the way over here in my chair, I mumble, “Mati.”
Mom lifts an eyebrow. “He’ll go to school with you in the fall?”
Code for, He’s not too old for you, is he? “He’s only here through August tenth. He’s visiting with his parents.”