I catch up. “Hey, talk to me.”
“I just—I feel…” He sighs, drawing a hand slowly over his face. He reappears, looking wrecked.
“I know,” I say, weaving my fingers through his. I know, and I don’t want to talk about it, acknowledge it, face it, either. I push up on my toes to press my cheek against his. “I know,” I say again, my heavy heart dragging my pitch low. “But right now, I want to be here with you—present, with you. I want to forget next week, saying goodbye, the future. Mati, help me forget?”
He leaves a trail of kisses on my cheek, a slow journey to my mouth, and then, for a few minutes, I really do forget. Because the beach is ours and he’s holding me close and it’s impossible to think of anything but the way he kisses… as if he cherishes me, as if he’s giving himself over to a longing that will never be satiated.
He pulls back, returning briefly to press his lips to my forehead, then starts walking again, with my hand folded into his. He seems lighter, and Iamlighter. I lean into him, vowing to retain this feeling. To focus on it, the good, every time I start to feel down.
He sidesteps Bambi as she barrels past, sopping wet tennis ball clamped in her jaw. Conversationally, he says, “My baba mentioned you this morning.”
“Uh-oh.”
He laughs. “The opposite, actually. He really does like you.”
“Unlike your mother.”
“Mama doesn’tdislike you.”
I roll my eyes. I’m so tired of feeling like the truest part of my life is on display for others to judge, or hidden away so otherswon’tjudge.
“I mean it,” he says. “The truth is, she has very little experience with your culture and because of that, in some ways, fromherposition, you’re… exotic.”
I snort—I can’t help myself. I couldn’t be less exotic—moreordinary—if I tried.
“Think about it,” Mati says. “Your life is so different from the life she led as a teenager. By the time she was your age, she was married and managing a household. She didn’t have the luxury of exploring the world, of considering colleges, of choosing her husband.”
“Like that’s my fault?”
“It’s not. But it’s still a factor. And beyond that, I think she sees you as a threat. She’s laid out a narrow path for my sister and brother and me, and when she sees one of us stepping away, her instinct is to look for someone to blame. I’ve strayed. I’ve disobeyed Allah and defied the Quran—I’ve sinned—and she believes that’s because of you.”
“But that’s not fair!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re tangled up in all this, but I promise, the way she acts has more to do with my choices than with you personally.”
I fight the impulse to dig my heels in on this, because stubbornness due to hurt feelings is pointless, a complete waste of energy. As we walk, I let Mati’s words permeate, making a genuine effort to broaden my point of view. Hala and I lead different lives, but that’s not her fault or mine. She loves her son, obviously, and it makes sense that she’d resort to defensiveness when it looks like he might be veering away from his values—especially with a girl she doesn’t understand.
Hala deserves grace, even if she doesn’t always give it.
“I talked to her about what she saw at the hospital,” Mati says, squeezing my hand. “Baba spoke to her as well. She agreed to let it pass.”
“That’s generous, I guess.”
“So generous you’ll consider coming by this afternoon?”
I turn to gape at him. Grace or not, that’s a terrible idea. But then I think of my own mother, about compassion put into practice, and how she’s failing epically. I find myself swayed by Mati’s expression, awash in hope. “Oh God… I don’t know.”
“With Bambi. My baba wants to meet her. He asked specifically, and he’s feeling well enough to sit out in the yard with her.” He loops his arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. “Your visit would be good for him, and it would be good for me.”
“How’s that?”
He leans down to speak into my ear. “I spend my afternoons thinking about you. Wondering about you. Writing about you. Missing you. If you come over, you’ll spare me the suffering.”
I roll my eyes. “You know you’re too good at this, right? It’s unfair, really. There’s this saying, something like ‘he could sell ice to an Eskimo,’ and that’s totally you. You open your mouth and all these lovely, convincing words spill out, and suddenly I’m nodding, ready and willing to do anything you ask.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Anything?”
I laugh. “In this case, I was referring to bringing my dog to visit your baba. But yeah… pretty much anything.”
