“You wouldn’t be here if it was just a few bruises.”
His mouth lifts in a tiny, reticent smile. “A few bruises. A couple of cracked ribs. Low-grade renal trauma. See? I’ve learned a new English phrase since being admitted.”
My frown deepens. “There’s nothing funny about this.”
“I know.” He gazes up at me with such stark vulnerability, I can’t help but rest my palm against his unmarred cheek. He leans into my touch and says, “Thank you for coming.”
I don’t need to be thanked—I need to know what happened. Who did this, and when, and why. I need to know if he fought back, if anyone helped when it was over, if he’s reported the attack. I need to know how much pain he’s in, and when he’ll start to feel better. But right now, all that matters is comforting him.
I hover over his damaged body. “Can I…?”
He gives a nod that clearly costs him. “Carefully.”
I lay my head on his shoulder, and he eases his arm around me. I reach up to lace my fingers through his, wishing I had the power to mend his broken pieces. I hold his hand tightly, lashing us together until we’re seamless. Until we’re us. Because I still can’t believe this happened. I still don’t understand any part of how he ended up here but, God, I’m grateful he’s okay.
I’m in tears suddenly, sobbing into the starchy fabric of his gown, and it’s so embarrassing, putting my worry and my fear and my helplessness out there this way when he’s obviously going to be all right, but then I realize he’s as upset as I am, and we’re such a mess, such a perfectly beautiful mess, I don’t care if time screeches to a halt and we’re frozen in this dreary room for eternity.
At least I’ll be frozen with him.
elise
When I’ve cried myself out, he kisses the top of my head, a long press of his lips to my hair.
I pull back, reluctant to put space between us but worried about his ribs and his many, many bruises. There’s a chair nearby and I pull it up to the bed. I sit and run a hand along his forearm, tight muscle and satin skin blemished by a myriad of scrapes. “Where are your parents?”
“Walking the corridors. They left me alone to sleep.”
“And now I’m here, interrupting your rest.”
He looks at me all adoringly. “You are never an interruption.”
I spend a moment under his glow before broaching the unavoidable. “Mati, what happened?”
His face contorts, eyes glassy, his gaze growing distant. “I remember going to the market,” he says, sort of sluggishly. “I picked up honey and peppermint because my mama asked me to. I remember hurrying because Baba was in the middle of a coughing fit and I wanted to get back to the cottage. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, though I should have been.” He shakes his head, frustrated now. “There were two men; they came from behind and nearly knocked me out. It’s cloudy, all of it, but they worked together, the two of them against me.”
My hand travels the length of his arm, a vain attempt at consoling him, at keeping my mind focused on his story, not my tumultuous emotions. “Who were they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen one of them in Cypress Beach before, several weeks ago.” He pauses, watching me warily. I sense that he’s censoring his story, and I hate that he feels the need. “That day, he was spiteful; he threw hateful slurs at me and my mama, but Cypress Beach was busy, so he had no choice but to let me walk away. This morning, I wasn’t so lucky.”
I feel somehow responsible. Americans—my people—attacked this person they’d be lucky to know. I’m ashamed for them; I’m ashamed of them. “How did you get away?”
“They grew bored quickly—probably because I made little effort to fight back. After they ran off, I managed to get home. When I walked into the cottage, stooped and bleeding, my parents were horrified.” He sighs, a dismal sound, then grimaces at the toll that exhale must have taken on his ribs. “They called for help, and here I am. I’m fortunate: my ribs are only cracked, and the bruising to my kidney is minimal. The doctor said I’ll need to stay a night or two, then I’ll return to Cypress Beach with medicine for my pain.”
I’m teary again, but due more to anger than worry. There’s nothing fortunate about what happened to him. His attackers were vicious and cowardly, and they deserve nothing but a hasty trip to hell. Taking his hand, I ask, “Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, as long as they stay far from my parents and me.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
His eyes fall closed. When they open again, his expression betrays his powerlessness, and his concentrated sadness. “No, Elise. I can’t.”
“Why? What they did to you—you can’t let them get away with it.”
“I don’t have a choice. I’m a visitor in your country, and the climate is not good for Muslims—you know that. My baba needs to finish his treatment. I can’t do anything to jeopardize that.”
“But if you reported what happened, told the police exactly what you just told me—”
“They would measure my account against the account of two American citizens. There’s no question who they’d believe.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“Mati, this is wrong. They deserve consequences.”
“The chance of me, an Afghan with a quickly expiring visa, getting justice in America is slim. There are too many people who look at me and see a threat. Who associate my family with bombs and fire and death, with men who carry assault rifles, who pledge their undying obedience to Allah and defend their brutality with the Quran. When I say that the climate for Muslims is ‘not good,’ I really mean that it’s dangerous—very dangerous. I can’t walk into a police station and accuse two white Americans of attacking me because who knows what lies they might counter with? I cannot entangle my family with the law, not now, when Baba is as near as he’s ever been to healthy. Not now, when we are so close to returning to Afghanistan.”
My face is hot with rage. A rash of disjointed arguments scramble up my throat, but then Mati eases his hand out of mine and raises it to the crown of my head. He runs his palm over my hair, slowing my pulse, nudging my anger away, if only for a moment. The way he’s looking at me … it’s an appeal, a plea for understanding, and while I absolutely do not understand—will never understand how he can be so rational, so selfless, so composed in the face of gross inequality—I can appreciate how different his experience is from mine.
I’ve never walked in his shoes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stroll beside him. That doesn’t mean I can’t learn from his perspective and offer support in all the ways I know how.
His hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing the arc of my cheekbone, the curve of my jaw. “Elise, this morning … I was scared. I was lost. I made it through, back to the cottage and all the way here, thinking of you. I don’t know what that means for me, for you, for us, but…” He trails off, his expression unguarded, simultaneously hopeful and tormented, and I see us, suddenly, as if out-of-body: his hand cupping my face, my fingers clutching his elbow, our cheeks rosy and tear-stained, our eyes wide and worshipful.
We look lovesick, just like Audrey said.
“Kiss me,” he whispers.
I do, gingerly pressing my mouth to his, mindful of his split lip and bruised cheek, gentle with his battered body. I have never kissed anyone so carefully, so attentively, yet I’m as hungry for him as I’ve ever been. It’s a good kiss, a restorative kiss, a long-overdue kiss. It lasts a fraction of a second, and a thousand lifetimes.
And then I hear muffled voices, an opening door, Ryan’s amused, “Oh, oops,” followed by deep chuckles.