“Oh yeah? Family?”
“My grandson, Ryan. He lives in Dallas, but he’s coming to spend the rest of the summer with me. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him. He’s a good boy, headed to Texas A&M this fall.”
“Impressive,” I say sincerely. I’ve had my sights on the San Francisco Art Institute for years, but everything I’ve heard about Texas A&M has been positive. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to meet him.”
“I bet you will. He’ll be excited when I tell him a pretty girl lives next door.”
“Oh, Iris. Don’t go getting his hopes up.”
We come spinning out of nothingness,
scattering stars like dust.
—Rumi
elise
The beach is deserted.
Just like yesterday, the sky is thick with clouds, the air cool but humid. Bambi chases her ball ecstatically. She’s got beach amnesia—for her, every morning is new and remarkable.
We play fetch long enough for the clouds to dissipate into tendrils of fog, and then other beachgoers begin to intrude on our solitude. Bambi makes all kinds of friends, human and canine, and I do my best to connect with the old people who stop to chat. Part of me wishes we would’ve moved to Cypress Valley, the town just east of Cypress Beach. It’s ten miles from the ocean, but it’s where the high school’s located, and where the bulk of the teenage population lives, according to Audrey, anyway. But she and Janie are here and it would’ve been counterproductive to settle more than a few minutes’ walk from their cottage.
Bambi starts to slow as we reach the end of the beach, walled off by an outcropping of jagged rocks that jut into the sky. There’s a set of wooden stairs just before the rocks, as there are sporadically down the length of the shore. I can put on Bambi’s leash and take them up to town for a walk through the neighborhoods of Cypress Beach, or I can backtrack the way we came, to the stairs that are a few blocks from home. I’m debating, sand or sidewalk, when I see him—the boy from yesterday.
He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, and his hands are crammed into its kangaroo pocket. He’s got on workout pants again, lightweight and loose, and he’s trotting down the stairs I was considering—was, because now they’re a no-go.
I spin away from him, hoping he doesn’t spot me. Doesn’t recognize me. Though Bambi’s splashing around in the nearby surf, and she’s memorable. I pat my leg, hoping she’ll come running. She looks up at me, then beyond, to the stairs the boy has descended. Her ears perk and her tail wags and—damn it!—she darts toward him, barking jovially.
As much as I love my dog, I’m kind of wishing she’d vanish into a puff of smoke.
I take a breath, summon some cojones, and call her back. “Bambi! Come ’ere, girl!”
She might as well be deaf. She leaps, barreling into the boy, leaving two sandy paw prints on the front of his sweatshirt.
Oh God.
I chase after her, shouting her name as she jumps on him again and again. He keeps turning away, trying to block the brunt of her assault, but she thinks he’s playing and now she’s even more fired up. He’s saying something to her, a jumble of aggravated-sounding words set aloft in the wind.
As I get closer, though, I realize he’s not aggravated—he’s laughing. He’s pushing her away, but cheerfully. And she’s eating it up.
“Bambi,” I say sharply. She picks up on my exasperation and, finally, scuffles over to where I stand. I clip on her leash and snap, “Sit.”
She does, right beside me, like the good dog she usually is.
I look up at the boy. He’s covered in sand, and his hood has slipped down, revealing the whole of his face and his thick sable hair. He’s not laughing anymore, but he looks intrigued, which is a lot like how I’m feeling. This is the third time I’ve seen him in twenty-four hours and that seems significant somehow.
But then I recall the woman he was with yesterday—his mother, I suspect—and the way she wore a scarf over her hair, a clue I’ve refused to let myself ruminate on until now. She’s Muslim, which means he’s likely Muslim, which makes me think of my brother—miss my brother. Sadness like I haven’t felt in months bubbles up my throat, until I’m forced to swallow it back, blinking a haze of gloominess from my vision.
“Sorry about my dog,” I mumble, still not sure he understands English.
He must not because, once again, he’s quiet. Where is he from? I wonder, and then: How long has he been in the States? How long will he be in the States? Where yesterday his silence fueled my swim-induced frustration, today I feel awkward and a little anxious.
I should go.
I hurry past him, headed for the stairs. I’m all but dragging Bambi, who’s clearly disappointed about leaving her new buddy.
I’m halfway up the steps when he calls, “Wait!”
I’m so surprised to hear him speak, I freeze.
Behind me, his footfalls ascend the stairs. I sense him pulling to a stop a few below the one where I stand and pivot so his face isn’t level with my butt. Before I can stop her, Bambi lunges, dragging me down a step. I yank on her leash and, through clenched teeth, say, “Heel.”
She sits with her front paws on the step below the one her rear lands on.
“Your dog seems nice.”
I eye him, wary. “Really? She just jumped all over you.”
“I have survived worse.”
“You do speak English,” I blurt, and then I’m cringing at how unintentionally impolite my words sound. I attempt to clarify. “I mean, you didn’t talk yesterday—not at all.”
He tightens his jaw, watching me a moment before his expression relaxes. “I was … struck dumb. And maybe a little embarrassed.”
“What the hell were you doing in the water?”
He winces. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m so abruptly aware of him, I catch it. “I needed to clear my head. Impulsivity got the better of me, but I can swim.”
“Can you? Because that was…”
Pitiful. Dangerous. Stupid.
All the above.
He looks out over the water, slate and spirited. “I have experience with pools and lakes and rivers,” he says, low, emphatic, hypnotic. He speaks precisely, with a lilting accent I can’t place. “But the ocean and its waves are new to me. I didn’t realize they could be so powerful.”
“But you were wearing your clothes.”
He shrugs, chagrined.
How does it feel to act so spontaneously? To ignore risk? Consequence? I wonder how old he is—now that I’m up close, I’m thinking he’s a year or two older than me. His face has the chiseled quality of a man’s, but there’s something innocent about his eyes—a vulnerability.
“You learned your lesson? No more impromptu swims?”
The corners of his mouth rise, a tiny smile I read as assent.
“Are you new to town?” I ask, to keep the conversation afloat.
“I’ve been here nearly a year, but I am finding it … hard to adjust.”
His candor surprises me. So does the sudden sense of camaraderie that’s replaced my earlier anxiety. “Me, too. Though I’ve only been here a few weeks.”
He peers at me, then murmurs something, kaishta, I think. I have no idea what the word means, and I don’t have a chance to ask before he says, “What’s your name?”
“Elise.”
“I’m Mati.” His accent makes the syllables sound like pitter-patter raindrops: Mati. Gentle, genial, a name that clashes with his ruggedness, his solemnness. He climbs up a step and leans forward to pat my dog. “And who is this?”
“Bambi.”
The slight curve of his mouth pulls into a genuine smile. “Like the little deer?”
“Yep. My three-year-old niece named her. Watch a lot of Disney movies, do you?”
“Among others. They help me with my English. Bambi might be a secret favorite, though.”
And I’m grinning, just like that.
My dog lets out an impatient whine, and Mati gestures up the stairs, toward town. “Do you need to go?”
“Oh—yeah.” And then I just turn away, like the freak show I apparently am, and start up the stairs. No goodbye, not even a parting glance. Bambi trots after me, snuffling my legs like, What the heck are you doing?