He shrugs. “He has always been fond of cigarettes. Many people in my country smoke.”
His country … Lebanon? Kuwait? Pakistan? Based on looks alone, he could be Greek, but if he’s Muslim, then it’s more likely he’s Middle Eastern or South Asian.
“Mati.” It’s the first time I’ve used his name aloud, and the shape it makes of my mouth, the taste it leaves on my tongue … a little thrill shoots through me. “Where are you from?”
He waits a beat, like he can sense the significance of his answer. He waits, and my palms go clammy with sudden anticipation.
Then, softly, he says, “Kabul. Afghanistan.”
elise
I need to stand, to move, but my bones have gone as soft as boiled noodles. I surge upward anyway, off the bench, away from the table, and nearly fall on my ass. My chest heaves like I’m having a panic attack.
I might be.
Kabul.
Afghanistan.
Nick.
Shit.
I’m walking, moving, away, away, away, hauling my dog along with me.
I hear Mati say my name, once, and then he just … lets me go.
I break into a run—a run. Bambi, who must understand that something’s wrong, assists by towing me toward our cottage like a sled dog. I don’t realize I’m crying, messily, irrationally, until I push through the gate that leads into our yard and see Iris standing on her porch. She’s with a blond guy who’s wearing a short-sleeved plaid button-down and a pair of glasses with thick black frames.
They stare.
I drag my sweatshirt sleeve across my cheeks, but fresh tears swiftly replace the ones I’ve wiped away. I can’t even pinpoint why I’m so upset. It’s not Mati; I’m not afraid of him. He didn’t do anything. It’s my brother—it must be. Memories of his death and the weeks that followed, resurfacing thanks to the mention of Afghanistan.
Nick’s constant, permanent absence, raw and aching as it was three years ago.
“Elise,” Iris says, stepping up to the hedge. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah—yes. Of course.”
Bambi whine-howls discontentedly.
“You’re upset.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
She glances dubiously at her companion—the grandson she mentioned the other day? He gives her an uneasy shrug. She leans over the hedge to examine Bambi’s sandy paws. “Did you come from the beach?”
My eyes feel swollen, my face chafed. I’m desperate to be inside, but I feel like I can’t bail without explanation; they’re gawking at me like I just fell out of the sky. I clear my throat. “I did,” I say, only just realizing that Bambi left her tennis ball under the picnic table. This, ridiculously, brings another rush of tears.
“Did somebody bother you?” Iris asks.
“No—nothing like that.”
“You’re sure? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone. You can’t be too careful.”
I force a smile and inch toward our front door. “You sound like my mom. I’m sure she’s waiting for me, so I’m just going to head in—”
“But you haven’t met my grandson!”
God. Could there be a worse time?
“Maybe later, Gram,” the blond says, giving Iris a pointed nudge.
“Nonsense. I’ve told Elise all about you. Come say hello!”
Ryan. She dropped his name yesterday. He’s cute—of course he is. We stand at the hedge, awkwardly shaking hands over its top.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. Another accent: his, a Texan’s lazy drawl.
“You, too.” My cheeks burn hot thanks to my run and my cry and my mortification. “Hope you have fun in Cypress Beach.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Maybe you can show him around,” Iris says to me.
“Gram, don’t put her on the spot,” Ryan says with a flustered chuckle. “She’s probably busy.”
“No she’s not,” Iris says. “All she does is spend time with her dog.”
Wow. Yeah, I guess I do. Until today. For a few minutes this morning, I had what might’ve been a new friend. Now, loneliness floods my heart, hollowing it into a deep, dark pit. Because not only is Mati from Afghanistan, the country where my brother was killed, but he’ll likely be heading back soon.
Channeling energy into a friendship with him … It’s absurd.
I sigh and sniffle and wipe my eyes and, because civility demands it, tell Ryan, “Yeah, I could show you around.” Bambi barks and turns a circle. “Not now, obviously,” I add, waving a hand at my rolled-out-of-bed, stood-in-a-wind-tunnel appearance. “But sometime, maybe.”
Ryan gives his glasses a nudge. “Yeah? That’d be really cool.”
He grins. He has nice teeth, straight and even and white. His hair is trimmed neatly, his face is round, and his eyes, framed by his hipster glasses, are placid blue. He’s very handsome, but from an artistic standpoint, a little generic. He wouldn’t be as interesting to photograph as Mati, whose bone structure is sharper, whose lips are fuller, whose eyes glint like they’re embedded with slivers of gold.
Mati, from Afghanistan.
In the back of my mind, in a cavern where good sense is currently cowering, I know he isn’t responsible for my brother’s death—of course he isn’t. But what if he has friends who fight with the Taliban? What if he has relatives who are linked to al-Qaeda? On the flip side of that same coin, though, it’s entirely possible that he and his family belong to the group of Afghans who help American soldiers—the farmers and shopkeepers and mullahs Nicky used to write about in his letters.
Based only on our few brief conversations, I peg Mati as someone who’d choose ally over adversary.
And yet, I ran from him.
Bambi barks again, agitated, like, I want breakfast already!
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell Ryan, mostly so his Gram will leave it alone.
And then I make a beeline for the front door.
When I’m finally inside, I take to my room, for once reveling in its gloominess. I finish my cry in private, clutching the sweatshirt my brother gave me to my chest.
MATI
Home is a rented cottage.
A spongy sofa,
a mattress with coiled springs.
Polished appliances,
and counters of gleaming stone.
A dining table moved to the garage, cushions dotting the floor like lily pads in a pond.
“Home is what we make it,” Mama says.
Cypress Beach is everything Kabul is not.
Green, lush, serene.
The air smells of eucalyptus and the sea.
The streets are meticulously plotted, and the cottages carefully maintained.
The restaurants are lively,
but none sell kebabs or naan.
The shops peddle expensive wares, but there is not a street vendor in sight.
The people here are sleek:
hair, jewelry, shoes, smiles.
Cypress Beach shines.
There is no destruction.
No signs of fatigue or failure.
There is no dust or debris.
No evidence of wars past.
It is as if history has elapsed this place.
I used to wonder if Allah created Cypress Beach in Jannah’s likeness, beautiful, peaceful, perfect.
But now I know better: this town is not without flaws.
I have glimpsed its grit,
and experienced its hostility.
I sit on the porch of our cottage, where the air is clean and clear, where disease does not hover like stagnant smoke.
I write …
Words about her.
Words to her.
Because even though she left, without explanation or farewell, I believe she is the key
to unlocking Cypress Beach’s magic.
elise
I’m wading out of my pity party by dinnertime, when Audrey and Janie are due to come over with Chinese takeout.