His mouth lifts in a tiny, reticent smile. “A few bruises. A couple of cracked ribs. Low-grade renal trauma. See? I’ve learned a new English phrase since being admitted.”
My frown deepens. “There’s nothing funny about this.”
“I know.” He gazes up at me with such stark vulnerability, I can’t help but rest my palm against his unmarred cheek. He leans into my touch and says, “Thank you for coming.”
I don’t need to be thanked—I need to know what happened. Who did this, and when, andwhy. I need to know if he fought back, if anyone helped when it was over, if he’s reported the attack. I need to know how much pain he’s in, and when he’ll start to feel better. But right now, all that matters is comforting him.
I hover over his damaged body. “Can I…?”
He gives a nod that clearly costs him. “Carefully.”
I lay my head on his shoulder, and he eases his arm around me. I reach up to lace my fingers through his, wishing I had the power to mend his broken pieces. I hold his hand tightly, lashing us together until we’re seamless. Until we’reus. Because I still can’t believe this happened. I still don’t understand any part of how he ended up here but, God, I’m grateful he’s okay.
I’m in tears suddenly, sobbing into the starchy fabric of his gown, and it’s so embarrassing, putting my worry and my fear and myhelplessness out there this way when he’s obviously going to be all right, but then I realize he’s as upset as I am, and we’re such a mess, such a perfectly beautiful mess, I don’t care if time screeches to a halt and we’re frozen in this dreary room for eternity.
At least I’ll be frozen with him.
elise
When I’ve cried myself out, he kisses the top of my head, a long press of his lips to my hair.
I pull back, reluctant to put space between us but worried about his ribs and his many, many bruises. There’s a chair nearby and I pull it up to the bed. I sit and run a hand along his forearm, tight muscle and satin skin blemished by a myriad of scrapes. “Where are your parents?”
“Walking the corridors. They left me alone to sleep.”
“And now I’m here, interrupting your rest.”
He looks at me all adoringly. “You are never an interruption.”
I spend a moment under his glow before broaching the unavoidable. “Mati, what happened?”
His face contorts, eyes glassy, his gaze growing distant. “I remember going to the market,” he says, sort of sluggishly. “I picked up honey and peppermint because my mama asked me to. I remember hurrying because Baba was in the middle of a coughing fit and I wanted to get back to the cottage. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, though I should have been.” He shakes his head, frustrated now.“There were two men; they came from behind and nearly knocked me out. It’s cloudy, all of it, but they worked together, the two of them against me.”
My hand travels the length of his arm, a vain attempt at consoling him, at keeping my mind focused on his story, not my tumultuous emotions. “Who were they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen one of them in Cypress Beach before, several weeks ago.” He pauses, watching me warily. I sense that he’s censoring his story, and I hate that he feels the need. “That day, he was spiteful; he threw hateful slurs at me and my mama, but Cypress Beach was busy, so he had no choice but to let me walk away. This morning, I wasn’t so lucky.”
I feel somehow responsible. Americans—mypeople—attacked this person they’d be lucky to know. I’m ashamed for them; I’m ashamedofthem. “How did you get away?”
“They grew bored quickly—probably because I made little effort to fight back. After they ran off, I managed to get home. When I walked into the cottage, stooped and bleeding, my parents were horrified.” He sighs, a dismal sound, then grimaces at the toll that exhale must have taken on his ribs. “They called for help, and here I am. I’m fortunate: my ribs are only cracked, and the bruising to my kidney is minimal. The doctor said I’ll need to stay a night or two, then I’ll return to Cypress Beach with medicine for my pain.”
I’m teary again, but due more to anger than worry. There’s nothingfortunateabout what happened to him. His attackers were vicious and cowardly, and they deserve nothing but a hasty trip to hell. Taking his hand, I ask, “Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care, as long as they stay far from my parents and me.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
His eyes fall closed. When they open again, his expression betrays his powerlessness, and his concentrated sadness. “No, Elise. I can’t.”
“Why? What they did to you—you can’t let them get away with it.”
“I don’t have a choice. I’m a visitor in your country, and the climate is not good for Muslims—you know that. My baba needs to finish his treatment. I can’t do anything to jeopardize that.”
“But if you reported what happened, told the police exactly what you just told me—”
“They would measure my account against the account of two American citizens. There’s no question who they’d believe.”
“But that’s not fair.”
