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 unfamiliarcountry—by herself.”
“God. I’m so sorry your father’s sick.”
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 itmakes 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—arun. 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’tdoanything. 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.
