“Elise?”
My heart cartwheels as I turn to the sound of his voice.
He’s regarding me with an expression like indecision, like he’s not ready to say goodbye but knows he probably should. His eyes are spectacular—gilded, almost luminous. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Look for me.” And then, with uncertainty, “Yes?”
I wait a moment before responding, reluctant to sound too eager, though my answer requires zero deliberation. “Yes.”
MATI
Devout Muslims pray five times a day.
In the early morning, I pray before the sun crests the horizon.
I pray midday, too,
when noon has passed its pinnacle.
I pray in the afternoon,
hours before darkness,
and at twilight,
while the sky is lavender and sunless.
I pray at night,
under a dusting of stars.
Prayer is like a song: melody, refrain, concentrated rhythm.
A recitation of verses from the Quran, a chorus of voices praising Allah.
Prayers are like dances, too.
I stand, making my intent known.
I bow, a glorification of Allah.
I prostrate, touching my forehead to the ground.
I sit, turning my face to the left, and to the right.
In America, we pray at our cottage, in a sparse, tidy room.
Baba, Mama, and I
visited local mosques a few times, but the trips were too taxing for Baba.
He is too sick, too weak, to go anywhere but the hospital.
So we kneel on woven rugs, privately,
facing the Grand Mosque in the city of Mecca, as all Muslims do.
I pray to honor Allah, to instill Him in my heart.
I pray to give Him thanks, and ask for His guidance.
I pray to demonstrate submission.
I pray to fortify my faith because sometimes I ponder Islamic teachings, as I ponder other enigmas, like the moon’s dusty surface, and the sea’s sandy floor.
I want to know more— I want to understand.
I want to exist,
comforted and fulfilled
by my faith.
So I pray, five times a day.
elise
The next morning, I find Mati sitting in the sand not far from where we had our spontaneous swim. He stands when he sees Bambi and me, and his face breaks into a sunrise smile, casting light over the beach.
Bambi greets him first, but only because she’s willing to run at him without inhibition. I trudge behind, laughing as she leaps onto him. He stoops down to pet her head, which is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. She noses her ball, which she’s dropped at his feet. He picks it up—either not noticing or not caring about the drool—and launches it. I’m close enough now to hear him laugh as she scampers after it.
“Your arm’s better than mine,” I say. “You’ve got yourself a friend for life.”
He wipes what I suspect is slobber on the leg of his pants. “She’s a good friend to have.”
“Truth. She’s my bestie.”
His brows knit together. “Bestie?”
“Best friend. I haven’t met anyone my age here, with the exception of you, maybe, so Bambi’s my confidant as well as my beach pal.” I don’t mention that my friend situation was iffy even before I came to Cypress Beach, lest he think I’m some sort of antisocial loser. I match the sincerity of his grin with one of my own. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Likewise. Are you starting your walk now, or finishing?”
“We’re about done.” I point to the staircase I usually use. “That’s the way I head home.”
“Me, too.”
I sense his unwillingness to put me on the spot, which is unfounded. He’s an opportunity to converse with someone born in the same decade as me—like I’d pass that up. “Let’s head toward town,” I say, tossing him a bone.
He nods, then pushes his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, light blue today, free of labels and graphics. I call my dog, and the three of us walk up the stairs. At the top, I secure Bambi’s leash and lead her to a spigot near a crop of picnic tables. She knows the drill and sits down to wait while I turn the faucet on. As soon as a stream of fresh water gushes out, she’s up and lapping.
“She’s a good dog,” Mati says.
“Almost always,” I say, recalling the way she’s repeatedly assaulted him. “Do you have a dog?”
“No. My mama doesn’t care for animals.”
“Oh. Your mother … Is she expecting you home soon?”
His shoulders lift in a shrug. “My parents are used to my disappearing.”
I’m tempted to needle him with questions—why does he disappear? where does he go? what makes his parents unconcerned?—but I don’t want to push him away by prying. Instead, I gesture to a picnic table. “Want to sit?”
He nods, turning toward the tables, letting the light catch his face. It’s a good face, strong but refined, with a sharp, stubbly jaw, a square chin, and pronounced cheekbones. His terra-cotta gaze is warm and super expressive, worthy of endless photographs.
He empties his pockets before sitting down on the wooden bench, making a little pile of his belongings on the table. I take inventory as I claim the spot across from him: house key on a simple carabiner, slim trifold wallet, blue ballpoint pen, composition notebook—small, about the size of my hand. I notice he’s not carrying a phone, strange, because even though I’m not on the receiving end of a deluge of calls, mine’s like an extension of my body. “No phone?”
“Oh—I left it at the cottage. It’s basic, prepaid, in case of an emergency.” He says emergency unflaggingly, like it’s a distinct possibility rather than an abstract occurrence, and my head swims with conjecture.
I point at the little notebook in front of him. “What’s that for?”
He touches its worn cover. “I write.”
“Write what?”
He gives me a ghost of a smile, like I amuse him, but he’s not ready for me to know as much. “Notes about America and the places I’ve been. Things I want to remember. Things I want to do. Things I feel.”
“A journal,” I supply, wondering if he knows the word. “Something I have zero patience for. I take photographs of the places and people I want to remember. I want to be a photojournalist. I want to travel the world, taking pictures of everything.”
He nods, as if mine is a perfectly achievable dream. “Are you in school now?”
I wrinkle my nose. “One more year of high school before I escape to college—before I start my real education.” Under the table, I cross my fingers and ask, “Will you be joining me at Cypress Valley High come August?”
He shakes his head. “I finished my schooling before I came to America last year.”
“I wish I could’ve finished before we moved here. Senior year, and I won’t know anyone.”
Flipping his pen over his knuckles, he asks, “Why did you come to Cypress Beach?”
“My sister-in-law and niece moved here last year, and it was horrible, missing them all the time. So my mom and I left San Francisco to join them. Now we get to see them all the time.”
“What about your father?”
“He lives in New York City. I hardly ever talk to him, let alone see him.” I expect Mati to follow up with a question about Janie’s father—my brother—but he doesn’t; he appears suddenly lost in thought. To fill the silence, I ask, “Why did you come to Cypress Beach?”
He glances up at the cloud cover, his expression pensive. “My baba—my father—is ill. Medical care in America is the best.”
Now I feel like a jerk, being all flippant about my relatively benign dad while his is sick enough to travel what I suspect is a lengthy distance for care. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Cancer.” His voice ripples with sadness so stark, so profound, my own throat tightens. He touches his ribs, just below his heart. “His lungs. He was granted a medical visa to come for treatment, and now he’s part of an experimental therapy.”
“And you came to take care of him?”
“My mama came to take care of him. I came to take care of her. It isn’t safe for her to travel alone, to wander the streets of an unfamiliar city—an unfamiliar country—by herself.”
“God. I’m so sorry your father’s sick.”