The food is good, thank God, and I shower it with compliments, but the fact that I have no idea what animal died to provide the rice’s protein is a little unsettling. Mati explains that the diluted milk concoction is shlombay, and is actually yogurt thinned with water. The green bits are mint and cucumber. After some persuading from Rasoul, I try a sip and, nope—not good. It’s trying to be refreshing, but I’m getting saltwater-flavored-with-toothpaste vibes. It’s a challenge not to shudder as I drink, but I manage because I am not about to insult these people who invited me into their home.
Still, Hala eyes me cynically, like she’s just waiting for me to make a misstep. As a diversion, I think, Mati launches into a monologue about my photography in a voice that rings with pride. Rasoul picks up the thread, asking about how I got started and what kind of camera I prefer and if I’m one of those people who “snaps pictures using the tiny screen of a phone.”
I laugh. “On occasion. I don’t always carry an actual camera, but I have a very cute niece and sometimes I can’t resist taking pictures of her, even if all that’s handy is my phone.”
“Elise has a dog, too,” Mati says. “Bambi. She takes pictures of her as well.”
Hala’s face twists sourly.
“In Afghanistan, dogs that aren’t strays are mostly used for work,” Mati explains to me. “Things like guarding and herding.” He smiles at his mother, a smile different from any I’ve seen him wear before; it’s genteel, almost artificial. Still, it helps to unscrew her expression. “Even you might like Elise’s dog, Mama. She is very friendly.”
Hala gives her head a frantic shake. “Dirty.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Rasoul says, then hacks his way through a few violent coughs. He hasn’t eaten much, I notice. “American dogs are domesticated,” he says when he’s recovered. “If we were staying, perhaps we could befriend Elise’s.”
If we were staying …
The hummingbirds that took up residence in my chest a few minutes ago drop into the well of my stomach, already heavy with pilau and shlombay, leaving me queasy. Ever since Mati told me about his August 10 departure, I’ve done my best to avoiding thinking about it. Now that I’ve gotten to know him—now that I’ve grown to care about him—it sucks especially. He has to go, and I’ll be left behind.
Again.
He peers at me, eyes darkened with guilt, like he knows what I’m thinking, like it’s somehow his fault that he has to leave Cypress Beach.
In a voice far stronger than I feel, I tell Rasoul, “You can visit with Bambi anytime. She loves meeting new people.”
He laughs, which brings another coughing fit, leading to an entire glass of sipped water and a chest pounded into submission. After regaining control, he croaks, “I would like that.”
When we’ve had our fill, Mati’s mother clears the platters away. I offer to help, but she shushes me with a dismissive wave. Mati smiles his plastic smile, making me want to rescue him from the confines of this cottage. It’s obvious he loves his parents, but it’s even more obvious he’s a different version of himself when he’s with them.
Tea is a brief affair. Rasoul has evidently burned through his energy store; he sits quietly, sipping from his cup and—holy shit—smoking a cigarette. In the cottage. Exhaling and inhaling through a windpipe that sounds as if it’s been rubbed over with coarse sandpaper. Hala’s cold exterior has yet to thaw. She hasn’t been outright rude—nothing like my mom yesterday—but I get the distinct impression she won’t be bummed when I head out the door.
And then it’s time to do just that. I thank my hosts, giving Rasoul my warmest smile because God, sick as he is, he’s been so nice. Mati walks me to the foyer and watches as I slip my boots on. I straighten, blowing a stray tendril of hair from my face, and he hands me my bag.
“Thanks for having me,” I say with more awkwardness than I thought myself capable. Then, unsure of how to execute a goodbye with his parents in the next room, I turn for the door.
A warm hand lands low on my back, sending tiny currents of elation zinging up my spine. The contact disappears before I’ve turned all the way around, but Mati’s there, his expression a combination of plaintive and hopeful. He stuffs his fists into the pockets of his sweatshirt and asks, “Do you need to go home?”
I shake my head. My face is hot, a silly, instinctual response to his brief touch.
He smiles—his real smile. “Take a walk with me?”
elise
We walk to Cypress Beach’s cemetery, a quaint block of land that’s everything the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery isn’t: haphazard, antiquated, fantastical. Of course, Nick’s not here, which is a mixed bag. The loss of him doesn’t loom over me, but I miss the chance to talk to him.
I’ve been here before, camera in hand, so the disorderly layout isn’t a problem. I choose a spot in the cemetery’s oldest section, specifically for it seclusion. Its headstones are weather-beaten and crumbling, and its trees are sky-high and blanketed in moss. Light filters through their highest branches, making shadows like lace. I snap a few pictures, then sit on a nearby bench, all crooked and dilapidated. Deliberately, I opt for the far side, just to see how close Mati will park himself.
He takes the other end.
“Is this weird?” I ask after a few moments of quiet.
He glances around. “What? This setting?”
“Yeah. Do you think it’s gruesome that I’ve led you to two separate cemeteries?”
“Do you think it’s gruesome?”
“No. But maybe that’s a problem?”
He drapes an arm over the back of the bench. His hand is six inches from my shoulder. I could lean into it, if I wanted.
That would be weird.
“I suppose it could be construed as gruesome,” he says, “but only by someone who doesn’t know you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know me?”
“I think so,” he says, sounding suddenly unsure.
I swivel around and put my feet up on the bench’s warped wooden slats, knees bent. I’m closer to his outstretched hand now, and he doesn’t shift away. I wrap my cardigan more snugly around myself because it’s cool beneath the tall, tall redwoods and the whispering Cypresses. “I think so, too,” I say.
He looks me over, the way I’ve folded in on myself, and because he does know me, because he’s always paying attention, reading my cues like the mysterious words in his little notebook, he says, “You’re cold.”
“No, I’m okay.” I fail to quell an ill-timed shiver.
He unzips his sweatshirt, then shrugs it off. He’s got a T-shirt on underneath, not enough to keep him comfortable in the shade. Still, he holds his hoodie out to me.
“Mati, no. Then you’ll be cold.”
“I will not.” He gives his hoodie a little shake. “Go ahead.”
I take it, slipping my arms into the soft cotton. I zip it all the way up, the way he wore it, and his scent engulfs me. It’s so good—comforting, like being in a bathtub full of warm, rich bubbles. I’m reminded of yesterday, the hug that felt more intimate than any interaction I’ve ever had with a boy. The hug that felt like a promise. I relive it down to its finest detail, wrapped up in his hoodie.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he answers.
Somehow, there’s more behind our words than a borrowed sweatshirt.
“Your parents are nice,” I tell him.
“Baba likes you.”
“I like him, too. God, Mati, he’s so sick. And he still smokes?”
“One cigarette, always after lunch. He says it’s a reward for making it to another day, but I think he lacks the strength to quit completely.”
“I didn’t realize it was…” so bad.
“I know. Today is a good day, though, believe it or not, and his doctors say he’s showing improvement.”
“Do you think he really wants to meet Bambi?”
Mati nods. “I can already picture him playing with her in the yard. Most things Westerners do, he wants to try. He would probably eat pork chops and applesauce if he could.”
“What about your mother?”
He grimaces. “She prefers the Afghan way. I wish she would have acted … differently.”
“She’s an amazing cook.”
“But with you … I wish she would have been different with you.”
I give a humorless laugh; I sound like a baying hound. “Yesterday my mom treated you like shit. Your mom was downright chummy in comparison.”
“Your mom did not treat me like—she did not treat me badly. She was uncomfortable. It’s hard to let go of conceptions we’ve spent years building. When I think about your brother, it makes sense that she’s angry.”