“Oh, nonsense,” Rasoul says, then hacks his way through a few violent coughs. He hasn’t eaten much, I notice. “American dogs are domesticated,” he says when he’s recovered. “If we were staying, perhaps we could befriend Elise’s.”
If we were staying…
The hummingbirds that took up residence in my chest a few minutes ago drop into the well of my stomach, already heavy withpilauandshlombay, leaving me queasy. Ever since Mati told me about his August 10 departure, I’ve done my best to avoiding thinking about it. Now that I’ve gotten to know him—now that I’ve grown to care about him—it sucks especially. He has to go, and I’ll be left behind.
Again.
He peers at me, eyes darkened with guilt, like he knows what I’m thinking, like it’s somehow his fault that he has to leave Cypress Beach.
In a voice far stronger than I feel, I tell Rasoul, “You can visit with Bambi anytime. She loves meeting new people.”
He laughs, which brings another coughing fit, leading to an entire glass of sipped water and a chest pounded into submission. After regaining control, he croaks, “I would like that.”
When we’ve had our fill, Mati’s mother clears the platters away. I offer to help, but she shushes me with a dismissive wave. Mati smiles his plastic smile, making me want to rescue him from the confines of this cottage. It’s obvious he loves his parents, but it’s even more obvious he’s a different version of himself when he’s with them.
Tea is a brief affair. Rasoul has evidently burned through hisenergy store; he sits quietly, sipping from his cup and—holy shit—smoking a cigarette. In the cottage. Exhaling and inhaling through a windpipe that sounds as if it’s been rubbed over with coarse sandpaper. Hala’s cold exterior has yet to thaw. She hasn’t been outright rude—nothing like my mom yesterday—but I get the distinct impression she won’t be bummed when I head out the door.
And then it’s time to do just that. I thank my hosts, giving Rasoul my warmest smile because God, sick as he is, he’s been so nice. Mati walks me to the foyer and watches as I slip my boots on. I straighten, blowing a stray tendril of hair from my face, and he hands me my bag.
“Thanks for having me,” I say with more awkwardness than I thought myself capable. Then, unsure of how to execute a goodbye with his parents in the next room, I turn for the door.
A warm hand lands low on my back, sending tiny currents of elation zinging up my spine. The contact disappears before I’ve turned all the way around, but Mati’s there, his expression a combination of plaintive and hopeful. He stuffs his fists into the pockets of his sweatshirt and asks, “Do you need to go home?”
I shake my head. My face is hot, a silly, instinctual response to his brief touch.
He smiles—his real smile. “Take a walk with me?”
elise
We walk to Cypress Beach’s cemetery, a quaint block of land that’s everything the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery isn’t: haphazard, antiquated, fantastical. Of course, Nick’s not here, which is a mixed bag. The loss of him doesn’t loom over me, but I miss the chance to talk to him.
I’ve been here before, camera in hand, so the disorderly layout isn’t a problem. I choose a spot in the cemetery’s oldest section, specifically for it seclusion. Its headstones are weather-beaten and crumbling, and its trees are sky-high and blanketed in moss. Light filters through their highest branches, making shadows like lace. I snap a few pictures, then sit on a nearby bench, all crooked and dilapidated. Deliberately, I opt for the far side, just to see how close Mati will park himself.
He takes the other end.
“Is this weird?” I ask after a few moments of quiet.
He glances around. “What? This setting?”
“Yeah. Do you think it’s gruesome that I’ve led you to two separate cemeteries?”
“Doyouthink it’s gruesome?”
“No. But maybe that’s a problem?”
He drapes an arm over the back of the bench. His hand is six inches from my shoulder. I could lean into it, if I wanted.
Thatwould be weird.
“I suppose it could be construed as gruesome,” he says, “but only by someone who doesn’t know you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know me?”
“I think so,” he says, sounding suddenly unsure.
I swivel around and put my feet up on the bench’s warped wooden slats, knees bent. I’m closer to his outstretched hand now, and he doesn’t shift away. I wrap my cardigan more snugly around myself because it’s cool beneath the tall, tall redwoods and the whispering Cypresses. “I think so, too,” I say.
He looks me over, the way I’ve folded in on myself, and because hedoesknow me, because he’s always paying attention, reading my cues like the mysterious words in his little notebook, he says, “You’re cold.”
