She ambled over to the stove, lifted the lid off the pot, and declared, “Looks like it’s all cooked up.” She turned off the heat. “So what I’m saying is that I think Julian and Tom got hung up on singular versions of each other. And then they told themselves a certain story about the other one. A story that wasn’t necessarily false, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.” She shook her head. “That’s one of the toughest things about love, right? The way the people we love are constantly changing and we have to learn how to accept those changes. Love isn’t a constant thing, you know? It’s active. It’s always growing.” She smiled again with her eyes. She wrung out her hands. “But what do I know? You probably think I’m just a crazy old woman rambling nonsense at you.”
Before I could respond, Julian stepped into the kitchen. He lifted his nose dramatically into the air. “Something smells wonderful.”
Debra playfully hit him with a dishrag. “No need to butter me up.”
“I’m being honest. It smells amazing.” He turned to me. “Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It smells pretty great.”
And it tasted even better. We sat out on the back porch and crowded around the feast that Debra had prepared. In a big wooden bowl, she’d served a salad of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and mozzarella. The shining star of the meal had been the beer-battered catfish that she’d paired with smashed red potatoes and balsamic-drizzled green beans. My favorite part though, was the endless glasses of sweet tea—sugary, lemony, and poured from a large glass pitcher.
“I think I might burst,” I groaned as I shoved my plate away from me. I wanted to keep eating, but I didn’t think it was physically possible for me to fit any more food inside of my stomach.
“Don’t burst yet!” Debra said as she sprang up out of her chair. “We still have dessert coming.”
As Debra slipped back into the kitchen, I swiveled in my chair to face Julian. I had ignored him most of the dinner, but the delicious food had radically improved my mood. “Were all your family meals like this growing up?”
Julian shook his head and laughed. “Only special occasions. But Mom did always make me beer-battered catfish for my birthdays, because it was my favorite.” His eyes clouded over and he focused on the darkening sky. “It was my dad’s favorite dish, too. One of the few things we had in common.” He turned back to me, a sad smile on his face. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence it’s what Mom chose to make.”
I leaned back in my wooden rocker. Very aware of the fact that the seat I was sitting in had presumably been crafted by Tom. “Your mom seems to think you and Tom aren’t really as different as you seem to think you are.”
Julian’s sad smile disappeared. He drew his eyebrows together in thought. “I feel awful, because I think my bad relationship with my dad really affected my mom.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Debra was still in the kitchen. “My mom,” he continued, “she has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She just wanted us both to be happy, and I think it broke her heart that my father and I—our paths to happiness oftentimes seemed diametrically opposed. That put her in a tricky situation.” He sighed and took a sip of his iced tea. “I’ve always felt guilty for that. But you have to understand, my father and I hardly ever openly fought. It was more about what we didn’t say. My father was a quiet man, sometimes maddeningly so.”
“Is,” Debra said. We hadn’t realized she’d stepped out onto the porch. Her face was drained of color. She looked so much more exhausted than she had just an hour ago in the kitchen. “Your father is a quiet man, Julian. And he’s still alive.”
What she didn’t say was: He’s still alive, for now.
Julian bowed his head deferentially. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mom.”
I got a shiver when I heard him say that. There’s an S.I.T.A. song called “Sorry, Not,” where Julian famously croons, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
It was too weird to hear it in context. To put faces and specifics to the emotion that I’d made my own. I guess that’s the magic of songs. The very best ones, they let you forget that they were written by someone about something that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Instead, you bend them to your life, matching the “you” of the song with whomever you want. The songs feel so much like your pain, your love, your longing, that you forget they were born from someone else’s.
“No,” she quickly said, setting a silver pie dish down in the middle of the table. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about …”
“It’s going to be okay,” Julian said, but it felt like he was trying to reassure himself just as much as her. He stood up and gave Debra a tight hug. She let him embrace her but didn’t quite hug him back.
She sat back down in one of the wooden rockers. She leaned back, resting her arms on the armrests. Her posture reminded me of a tired queen about to announce her army’s defeat in battle. The sadness, but also the relief, that comes with the end.
“I’m sorry,” Debra said. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”
“Mom,” Julian said. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“Please eat.” She gestured eagerly toward the pie dish. “It’s pecan pie. Another one of your favorites.” Then she looked at me. “And if I’m remembering correctly, your mother also loved my pie.”
As Julian cut himself a large slice, he said, “She sure did.”
Oak Falls, 1994–1998
Lena and Julian quickly fell into a routine. At first, they only saw each other three times a week, but before long, they were seeing each other every day. And it still didn’t feel like enough time.
Lena’s cousin was concerned. It wasn’t that she had anything in particular against Julian, except for the obvious—he wasn’t a fellow college student, and oh yeah, he was white, not Muslim, and didn’t speak a single word of Arabic.
“What does that matter?” Lena challenged her cousin one afternoon when they were sitting at the kitchen table, eating a snack of pita bread slathered with za’atar and olive oil.
“We’re in America now. Doesn’t it make sense that I should date an American?” Lena continued, switching from Arabic to English, and the language transition clearly caught her cousin off guard.
“You want to speak in English now?”
“It’s good for us to practice.”
Her cousin shoved more slices of pita in Lena’s direction. “If you marry an Arab, you won’t need to worry about your English.”
Lena bristled. “Untrue. I live in America, regardless of whom I marry. And maybe I won’t marry at all.” Then she added, “Or maybe I’ll marry Julian.”
“Allah y’eanna.” Her cousin blew on the top of her steaming cup of mint tea and sighed.
Lena stretched out on the floor of Julian’s bedroom. She was resting on her stomach, fiddling with her latest project. A miniature collection of women, all carved from pinewood. She’d recently become more intrigued with woodworking after speaking with Julian’s father about the craft.
She studied the miniature figurines. She liked the way they had turned out, but there was something missing.
There was no spark.
Julian slid down beside her and gently kissed her cheek. She turned to him and held out one of her figurines. “Tell me what is wrong with them.”