“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 willneverbe 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, therightboy. 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’ssowrong. 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 herracism, 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 willnevercare 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,
