“Visiting from where?”
I could lie, easily, but lying feels like disloyalty, and I know Mati well enough now to feel shitty about betrayal by omission. “I’m going to tell you,” I say, “because I like him and I want you both to like him, too. But you’re going to be surprised. You might even be unhappy, at first. But just … think before you react, okay?”
“He’s from Mars, isn’t he?” Aud says with a cheeky grin.
“No. He’s from Kabul.”
Her smile vanishes, and her mouth gapes open like the entrance to a cave. “What?”
I close my eyes, praying for patience, for grace. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I think it is! Who the hell is this guy and why are you hanging out with him?”
I give a brief recount of what Mati’s told me about his father, his cancer and year of experimental treatment, finishing with, “He came along to help his parents.”
Audrey’s eyes spark with realization. “Wait—we saw him in town last week.”
“I didn’t know him then.”
“Why would you want to know him?”
“Because I don’t know anyone else? Because he’s nice? Because I’m allowed to choose my friends?”
My mom’s been quiet, frowning and fidgeting, but now, she says, “Elise, I don’t like—”
“Mom, think, okay?”
She sighs, a tired, shrewd, mom sort of sigh. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Does anyone ever? He’s nothing like what you’re thinking.” Because she’s thinking of terrorists and Aud’s thinking of firefights, and they’re both so, so wrong. “Mati’s…” smart, sweet, sincere, “… different.”
“I’m sure,” Audrey says, emitting waves of cynicism. “All boys want you to believe they’re different, but be logical. Do you have any idea how women are treated in Afghanistan?”
“Mati’s not trying to dominate anyone.”
“How can you be sure?” Mom says. “I’ve read stories about Afghan women who’ve been stoned, women who’ve gone to prison for premarital sex, women who’ve been lynched for suspected adultery. Do you want to be involved with a boy who believes in honor killings?”
“Oh my God! Mati does not believe in honor killings!”
Audrey arcs an eyebrow. “You don’t know that. Does he even speak English?”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “No. We’ve been communicating in Pig Latin.”
“English is probably the only thing you two have in common.” She shudders. “Does he know about Nick?”
“He knows enough.”
“Well, don’t bring him around me.”
“Me, neither,” Mom says.
I fight the urge to pick up the Ken doll by my feet and chuck it at them. I throw glares instead, aiming first at Audrey, then my mom. “You’re both being terrible. He’s a person.”
“A person who can’t be trusted,” Audrey says. She glances at Janie, her eyes murky with sadness. She’s thinking about Nick, his death and its cause, and I don’t blame her. My brother lost his life because of duplicity at the hand of the Afghan Army. I understand her wariness, and I understand that she’s worried about me, but I absolutely cannot accept her assumption that Mati—that all Afghans—are the enemy.
“Shoes, please,” Janie says, holding out Barbie and a pair of tiny high heels.
Aud lets go of whatever memory she fell into and pushes the heels onto Barbie’s perpetually arched feet. Her hands are trembling and, despite my frustration concerning this conversation—concerning my family’s reaction to a boy they’ve never even met—I feel sorry for her. Losing Nick changed her in a lot of ways; this is one.
She hands the doll back to Janie, tucking a strand of baby-fine hair behind her daughter’s ear before returning her attention to me. Gravely, she says, “I think you should stay away from him.”
Mom, who’s staring me down like she pities me—like I’m the ignorant one—nods. “I agree.”
Damn it—I’m so flustered. They’re teaming up on me, making me doubt my judgment and my instincts, but it’s the two of them—a woman who fled a city she loved instead of braving its risks, and a woman who’s so hung up on her dead husband she still cries herself to sleep at night—who’ve got issues. They’re issues rooted in fear, in grief, but that doesn’t make them any less offensive.
I push out of my chair and bend to kiss Janie’s cheek. “I’m going to bed. Night, girlie.”
“Night, Auntie.”
“You’re just going to walk away?” Audrey says, halting me mid-step. “Real mature, Elise.”
“You should talk,” I sputter. “You’re the one playing with dolls, like life’s some sort of freaking fairy tale.”
“Yeah. I sure got a happily ever after, didn’t I?”
Mom makes a little choking sound.
Audrey touches her knee. “I’m sorry, Jocelyn. That was insensitive.”
They look to me, like they’re waiting for my apology. I stand, stunned and solitary, thinking of Nicky and that day on the sidewalk all those years ago.
Don’t walk through life blind, he told me, and I’m starting to understand what he meant.
“You’re wrong, both of you,” I tell Mom and Audrey. “Someday you’ll see.”
Mom rolls her eyes, infuriatingly haughty. “I don’t understand why you can’t chase a nice, normal boy. A boy like Ryan.”
I snort. “I’m not chasing anyone. Besides, Ryan’s gay.”
I whirl around and bolt for the safety of my room.
elise
The next morning, after we’ve strolled the beach, Mati offers to walk me home. “Unless you’re ready to tell me goodbye,” he adds, bashful.
I surrender to an irrepressible smile. “No. I’m not ready to tell you goodbye.”
He holds his hand out, and time screeches to a standstill as I stare at his palm. His life line is long, deeply defined, and commalike. I’m not surprised; he’s full of spirit and warmth. His love line is almost indiscernible, fading well before it reaches his index finger.
Wait—does he want to hold my hand?
“May I walk Bambi?” he says, tipping his chin toward her leash.
“Oh. Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I pass the leash over, silently berating myself for entertaining the possibility of taking his hand.
We head for the Parker cottage, walking at the leisurely pace I set because I’m not in a big hurry to get home. I point out Audrey’s cottage, and we detour through a few side streets, admiring yards bursting with flowers.
“My mama’s fallen in love with gardening since we came here,” Mati tells me.
“Mine hasn’t. She hardly leaves our cottage.”
“Because she’s so busy writing, I bet. That was me before I met you.”
I glance up at him, wondering whether he means to flatter me, or if saying lovely things is something he does inherently. The latter, I think. “Does your mom garden in Afghanistan?”
He shakes his head. “We have a courtyard with some grass and a few plants, but Kabul is not so good for growing things. It’s arid and urban and very crowded.”
“Have you always lived there?”
“No, I was born in Ghazni Province. My baba is khan—leader—of a tribe there. After Americans started coming to Afghanistan in the early 2000s, he helped launch contracting companies for the U.S. and Afghan governments, which made him more money than he ever could have imagined. We moved to Kabul so he could expand his business, and so my brother and sister and I could go to international schools.”
I think about leaving bustling San Francisco for quiet Cypress Beach, what an adjustment it’s been. “Was it hard, starting over in a new city?”
“Sometimes. I’ll go back to Ghazni eventually, but had we never left, I probably wouldn’t have learned English. I probably wouldn’t have started writing. I might not have come to America, either.” Our eyes meet, and it’s there, unspoken, but etched into the bronze of his gaze: I wouldn’t have met you.
I look away, pleased, and a little rattled. “Are your brother and sister still in Kabul?”
“My sister, Leila, is married. She and her husband live in Ghazni. My brother, Aamir, is in Kabul. He’s still in school, so he is staying”—he pauses, his jaw tensing—“with my uncle.”