I give a brief recount of what Mati’s told me about his father, his cancer and year of experimental treatment, finishing with, “He came along to help his parents.”
Audrey’s eyes spark with realization. “Wait—we saw him in town last week.”
“I didn’t know him then.”
“Why would youwantto know him?”
“Because I don’t know anyone else? Because he’s nice? Because I’m allowed to choose my friends?”
My mom’s been quiet, frowning and fidgeting, but now, she says, “Elise, I don’t like—”
“Mom,think, okay?”
She sighs, a tired, shrewd,momsort of sigh. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Does anyone ever? He’s nothing like what you’re thinking.” Because she’s thinking of terrorists and Aud’s thinking of firefights, and they’re both so, so wrong. “Mati’s…”smart, sweet, sincere, “… different.”
“I’m sure,” Audrey says, emitting waves of cynicism. “All boys want you to believe they’re different, but be logical. Do you have any idea how women are treated in Afghanistan?”
“Mati’s not trying to dominate anyone.”
“How can you be sure?” Mom says. “I’ve read stories about Afghan women who’ve been stoned, women who’ve gone to prison for premarital sex, women who’ve been lynched forsuspectedadultery. Do you want to be involved with a boy who believes in honor killings?”
“Oh my God! Mati does not believe in honor killings!”
Audrey arcs an eyebrow. “You don’t know that. Does he even speak English?”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “No. We’ve been communicating in Pig Latin.”
“English is probably the only thing you two have in common.” She shudders. “Does he know about Nick?”
“He knows enough.”
“Well, don’t bring him around me.”
“Me, neither,” Mom says.
I fight the urge to pick up the Ken doll by my feet and chuck it at them. I throw glares instead, aiming first at Audrey, then my mom. “You’re both being terrible. He’s aperson.”
“A person who can’t be trusted,” Audrey says. She glances at Janie, her eyes murky with sadness. She’s thinking about Nick, his death and its cause, and I don’t blame her. My brother lost his life because of duplicity at the hand of the Afghan Army. I understand her wariness, and I understand that she’s worried about me, but I absolutely cannot accept her assumption that Mati—thatallAfghans—are the enemy.
“Shoes, please,” Janie says, holding out Barbie and a pair of tiny high heels.
Aud lets go of whatever memory she fell into and pushes the heels onto Barbie’s perpetually arched feet. Her hands are trembling and, despite my frustration concerning this conversation—concerning my family’s reaction to a boy they’ve never even met—I feel sorry for her. Losing Nick changed her in a lot of ways; this is one.
She hands the doll back to Janie, tucking a strand of baby-fine hair behind her daughter’s ear before returning her attention to me. Gravely, she says, “I think you should stay away from him.”
Mom, who’s staring me down like she pities me—likeI’mthe ignorant one—nods. “I agree.”
Damn it—I’m so flustered. They’re teaming up on me, making me doubt my judgment and my instincts, but it’s the two of them—a woman who fled a city she loved instead of braving its risks, and a woman who’s so hung up on her dead husband she still cries herself tosleep at night—who’ve got issues. They’re issues rooted in fear, in grief, but that doesn’t make them any less offensive.
I push out of my chair and bend to kiss Janie’s cheek. “I’m going to bed. Night, girlie.”
“Night, Auntie.”
“You’re just going to walk away?” Audrey says, halting me mid-step. “Real mature, Elise.”
“You should talk,” I sputter. “You’re the one playing with dolls, like life’s some sort of freaking fairy tale.”
