“Things will improve. Summers are funny that way. They’re days unaccounted for, a time-out from real life. As soon as school starts, you’ll be yourself again.”
She’s trying to help, but she’s only succeeding in making me want to cry all over again. I don’t know who I am anymore—I’m not the girl who pulled a stranger out of the surf, who left him sitting alone at a picnic table. I’m not the girl who took him to cemeteries and kissed him in turrets. I’m not the girl who opened her heart because her soul told her she should.
That girl who used to make wishes and count on them to come true—where did she go?
My mom has no clue what happened to me this summer, during those days unaccounted for, and I so desperately want my brother. He was always better with emotions—better with life. If he were alive, here in Cypress Beach today, he’d be beside me, acknowledging my feelings instead of attempting to wave them away.
“School’s not going to make me feel better,” I tell my mom.
She sips her coffee, then changes the subject. “I sent my manuscript to my editor today.”
I dig up the wherewithal to smile. “Congratulations.”
She puts down her mug, then straightens the pile of napkins in the center of the table. She’s focused on her task when she says, “I want us to spend more time together, Lissy. I want to come to the beach with you and Bambi. I want you to show me more of your photographs. I want to hear about the classes you’ll take this fall. And I’d like for us to go to Sacramento together, to see Nick. I’ve been thinking about what you said, how I haven’t been present, and you’re right. Since your brother … I haven’t been myself.”
“Mom, neither of us has.”
“But you’ve managed your grief better than me.”
“He was your son. There’s no right way to cope with his death.”
She shrugs, allowing this, then reaches for my hand. Her palm is cool and dry. “I hate that I’ve disappointed you this summer, but my feelings regarding that boy haven’t changed. I’m relieved he’s leaving—look how miserable he’s made you. He’s not good for you, Elise. He will never be good for you.”
“Because he’s Muslim.”
She looks at me, unflinching in her bigotry. “You’ll understand, one day. You’ll meet a nice boy, the right boy. You’ll have children of your own, children you’re desperate to protect, and you’ll see that what I’ve been saying is true. You’ll see that I’ve had your best interests in mind. When you’re older, when you’ve gained some life experience, this summer will become nothing but a distant memory.”
She’s wrong—she’s so wrong. This summer may amount to a memory, but that doesn’t make my feelings less real. That doesn’t excuse her intolerance, her refusal to see Mati for who he is rather than where he’s from. It’s unbelievably audacious, her assertion that I’m the one who needs to acquire life experience. She’s so stuck in her head, in her racism, she can’t see good when it’s right in front of her.
She purses her lips. “I know it’s hard now, but trust me—his going back to where he came from? You’ll be better off in the long run.”
I rear back, shocked that she’d say such a thing, today of all days, while I sit empty, desolate as a dried up lake bed. I think of that afternoon with my brother, when he gave money to the homeless veteran in San Francisco. Don’t walk through life blind, he told me.
I have never understood a directive so clearly.
Our mother is blind; Nicky was not.
I want to be just like him.
I rise from my chair. “I won’t be better off when Mati goes back to Afghanistan, Mom. Whenever I think of him, for the rest of my life, my heart will hurt. Neither time nor distance will change that. You won’t, either. I love him, and I don’t care if you approve. I will never care if you approve.”
I turn on my heels and walk out of the kitchen. I don’t have strength left for arguing or spite or bitterness; I’m sapped just trying to keep it together. Besides, my mom’s the loser in all this—she missed out on Mati.
And so I make my way out the front door, into the fresh air of the yard. I march all the way to the sidewalk, where I continue to move west, toward the beach, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be while I’m so consumed with thinking of him.
I’ll never see him again, I think, my feet dragging.
I should have told him. I should have said it outright.…
Mati, I don’t want you to go.
MATI
I walk to the beach in a fog, driven by a desire to see the horizon, that elusive place where water meets sky.
This beach, after all,
is where she swept me to sea.
My bags are packed.
Our cottage is tidy.
It is nearly time to go, to fly, fly, fly home.
But first …
I reach the cluster of picnic tables, where the air smells of salt and cypress, and is haunted by conversations past.
I run a hand over the smooth tabletop where I once left her a message, then make my way to the stairs.
I find the beach empty, with the exception of a lone figure— a figure so familiar, my stomach dives, seagull-like,
before soaring skyward again.
She is sitting on a driftwood log, knees pulled to her chest, wearing the sweatshirt her brother gave her.
I move closer,
studying her as the space between us shrinks.
Her caramel hair hangs loose around her shoulders.
Her eyes are bright, her cheeks rosy-red.
She is biting her lip, distorting her heart-shaped mouth.
Even now,
as an overwhelming sense of loss thickens the air, as my ears buzz
and my eyes burn
and my knees quake …
She dazzles me.
Since we said goodbye yesterday, I have been a dandelion seed adrift, snagged by an errant breeze.
Now, I am rooted.
Rooted in her.
She is not surprised to see me, and so,
I think it is meant to be.
I sit beside her,
take her in my arms,
murmur against her ear, “Za ta sara meena kwam.”
I speak to her in Pashto; my voice is sure to break if I attempt English.
She fists my shirt in her hands, pulling me closer,
her long hair whipping in the wind.
She exhales, shaky, and says, “Mati, please. I don’t want you to go.”
“I have to. You know I do.
I cannot forsake my family.…
Not yet.”
My parents and I
have spoken about the future.
Baba is unhappy,
but says he will try to smooth things over with Panra and her family.
I think, perhaps,
he is envious of my autonomy.
Mama thinks I am selfish, foolish, idealistic.
She cannot look at me without disdain.
My parents’ displeasure will never be enough
to keep me from her.
I take her face in my hands.
Her cheeks are hot, damp with tears.
I look into her eyes,
and make the only promise that will ever matter.
“Elise, I will come back to you.”
Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there.
—Rumi
elise
My senior year passes with surprising speed.
Somewhere between my part-time job at The Hamlet, work on my photography portfolio, and monthly trips to Sacramento to visit my brother, I get to know the girl I spent the summer becoming.
In September, I join Cypress Valley High’s yearbook staff. Quickly, I become a lead photographer. I make friends. Maybe not forever friends, but I think that’s okay. I find myself laughing again, and anticipating school days with something not unlike enthusiasm. I log countless hours on the phone with Ryan, and video chat with Mati every chance I get. Luckily, connectivity in Kabul is decent.
In November, Audrey and I sign up for a painting class. We’re the youngest students by decades. She thinks it’s lame, but I become kind of obsessed. I cover canvases with smears of paint: of my dog, San Francisco’s skyline, Cypress Beach’s horizon.
I still love photography best.