“You’re different,” he says, smiling down at me.
Butterflies flap hopeful wings in my stomach. It’s strange to feel happiness amid this place drenched in somber memories. Strange, but not wrong. “Nicky would’ve liked you,” I say.
“You think so?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m Afghan.” As if that explains everything.
“Yeah, and my brother deployed with the best intentions. He was worried and he was afraid, but he wanted to make a difference because he was invested in Afghanistan and its people. He was invested in all people. He would’ve loved to have met you.”
“I’m not sure if you said that because it’s true or because you want me to feel good.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, to tell him that the answer to his question is both; he just barrels on. “Whatever the reason, though, I’m grateful to you for making me feel welcome—both here, and in America.”
I pause on the path, turning to face him. A warm breeze sails by, bringing with it the scent of rich soil and fresh grass and clean boy skin. “Mati,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His gaze slips from my eyes to my mouth and lingers, and lingers, and lingers. My skin erupts with goose bumps, though the sun is overhead, showering us with heat. If we were different—different people with different histories in a different world—he’d dip his head and kiss me, sweet and tender, mindful of our surroundings, leaving me with a hint of what might come later.
He clears his throat. “Which way, Elise?”
I sigh. I point. We walk on.
After a few minutes, we reach Nick’s plot. Mati stops just before it, but I move forward, stilling only when I’m in front of the headstone. Nicholas Parker, United States Army. I drop to my knees as I always do, just like when I was twelve and I’d walk into his room and fall onto his futon for a dose of fraternal advice.
“Hey, Nicky,” I say conversationally, like I’m talking to my big brother, not a slab of cold marble. And then I go into my usual spiel. An update on our mom. A detailed summary of Janie’s latest talents, and everything I know about what Audrey’s been up to. I tell him about Bambi, too, because when we were kids, he wanted a dog even more than I did.
“And this,” I say, when I’ve finished my report, “is Mati.”
He steps forward and crouches down beside me. “Hello, Nick.”
His tone is so respectful, his voice so saturated with reverence, I could cry.
I fish around in the small front pocket of my camera bag and produce two pennies. I drop one into Mati’s hand. “We always leave pennies,” I say. “For luck, but it’s also a military tradition. Visitors leave a penny to let the soldier’s family know they were here. A nickel says the visitor trained with the soldier in boot camp, a dime says they served together, and a quarter means the visitor was there when the soldier died.”
Mati’s eyes are wide. “Have you ever found coins left by others?”
“Yep. Nicky charmed everyone he met. His funeral was packed with people from San Francisco—friends, teachers, neighbors. Plus, there were tons of soldiers. They came all the way here, mostly from Fort Bragg, which is clear across the country. That day was unbearably sad, but it was comforting, too. Since, I’ve seen a lot of pennies, but also a few nickels and dimes. The grounds crew clears out the coins every once in a while, especially after Memorial Day, when there are lots. I’ve heard the money is donated.”
“That is … incredible.”
I smile. “Right?”
We place our pennies atop the headstone. “Love you, Nicky,” I say as we turn to go.
It’s only after we’ve walked away that embarrassment occurs to me. My time with my brother is personal, and all the talking I do … Maybe it’s weird. Maybe Mati thinks I’m nuts, leaving pennies because tradition says I should. I mean, looking in from the outside, it probably seems like nonsense—why does a dead person need luck?
But he doesn’t appear to be judging. He looks content, peaceful, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Thank you for introducing me to your brother,” he says when we step onto the path.
“Like I said, he’d think you’re cool.”
“I am cool.” He touches his hat, peeking over at me. “Right?”
I laugh. “So cool.”
“Now we get to photograph?”
“Now I get to photograph. You get to trail me like a loyal puppy.”
He grins. “We should have brought Bambi for that, but today I’ll happily take her place.”
We cruise the grounds, slowly, quietly. I stay slightly ahead and Mati, true to his word, follows like a shadow. The sun is white-bright, posing a challenge I don’t have to deal with in overcast Cypress Beach, but I get some workable shots: a shaded spiderweb spanning two headstones (still sparkling with dew), arrow-straight rows of alabaster marble markers as far as the eye can see (a few with small American flags waving serenely in front of them), and my favorite: Mati stooped down in front of a grave, touching its inscription with the tips of his fingers. His expression is a coil of pain and contemplation and admiration—God, everything I feel when I come here.
When I’ve drained my creative well and worn my feet tired, we sit cross-legged—side by side, but absolutely not touching—on a quiet stretch of path. We scan the raw photos on my camera’s digital display. Mati is full of compliments, even when it comes to the images of him, which, now that I’m looking, are numerous. His lack of inhibition is refreshing, considering Janie’s always been my only willing human subject.
“Would you mind if I tried?” he asks.
I set the Nikon to auto and show him the basics before passing it over. Immediately, he’s got the lens trained on me.
“No!” I say, throwing my hands over my face.
He lowers the camera. “But I thought Americans liked to have their picture taken?”
“No photographer ever likes to have her picture taken. That’s an established rule, Mati, like rain is wet and chocolate is divine. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Maybe I don’t care.” Quickly, he raises the camera and snaps my picture. It appears on the display and, after a quick assessment, he declares it, “Ssaaista.”
I frown. “Dare I ask what that means?”
He’s looking at my lips again, like they’re the most fascinating bit of anatomy he’s ever set his sights on. He shakes his head to clear whatever he was thinking (God, what was he thinking?) and hands my camera back.
“Ssaaista means pretty, Elise.” He raises the corner of his mouth in a smirk. “Surprised you didn’t know.”
MATI
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asks.
She is driving us home, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us.
Her attention is split between the road, and me.
“I believe in love,” I tell her.
“Everyone believes in love.”
Not everyone.
My parents care for each other.
Their marriage is one of loyalty and acceptance.
But it is a match born of profit and political gain.
My marriage will be, too.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
She glances at me, changes lanes,
then smiles.
“I think … maybe?”
I smile, too.
It is always like this with her— her emotions alter mine,
change my mood the way heat and pressure transform carbon into diamonds.
“You don’t sound certain,” I tell her.
“It’s hard to be certain of anything these days.”
She speaks like someone who knows loss, who has waded through swamps of sorrow.
My chest aches for her.
“I believe in soul mates,” I say.
Her mouth dips into a frown.
“That concept seems … impossible.”
I inhale, and revise my statement.
“I believe two people, two souls, can know each other instantaneously, and recognize how each longs
to spend a lifetime devoted to the other.
Like when you hear a song
and feel its lyrics profoundly, as if they were inscribed on your heart, and yours alone.
It’s a connection that eludes explanation, and defies logic.
It seems impossible, until it happens.”
Her eyes remain on the road.