I poke at a stray piece of lint on my pants. “My dad and I haven’thad a proper conversation in over a year, because he’s so depressed. And I don’t know how to help him, and I’m angry at him for leaving me alone. I lost Mama too. He doesn’t even know I applied to a school in San Francisco, because he never asked. He thinks I’m going to stay here. And I don’t know how to tell him, because he stopped listening to me.”
It feels easier to speak to Jamie when he gives pieces of himself. It’s like we’re holding those pieces in our cupped hands, each tentatively showing the other. Alexis was there to see me when the pain was at its crux, and then I got scared she would get fed up, so I kept the rest to myself.
Jamie runs a hand over his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so sorry too,” I say. We sit in our silence for a while.
He lets out a long exhale. “I keep thinking of Bà Ngo?i. She’s getting older, and she won’t be able to pick up the sheep anymore.”
“What?”
“The sheep sometimes like to run at full speed toward you, and you have to catch them,” he says matter-of-factly. “They think it’s a game, and it is until they’re sitting on you.”
“That… sounds awesome!” I exclaim, and he grins. “Theysiton you?”
“Trust me; it’s not as cute as it sounds. They’re heavy and usually have been running in the mud. Their little legs are adorable, though.”
“So lucky.” I know we’re both thinking the same thing. We’re going to be separated in less than a year. I wonder if we’ll still talk. If he’ll reach out from time to time.
“You can visit whenever you want.”
My heart pitter-patters. “Really?”
He nods enthusiastically. “It’s a big farm, and we don’t just have sheep. We have horses too. I could—Bà Ngo?i could teach you how to ride. Plenty of things to draw and paint too.” His eyes widen likehe’s realized something. “I mean, if it’s all right for you to visit me. If it’s okay for you as a Muslim. Bà Ngo?i will cook halal.”
I bring my knees to my chest, hugging them, and I find no awkwardness when he mentions Islam. There’s no hint of a condescending tone. No exasperation. “Thank you. That’s really kind.”
“It’s an open invitation.”
“I think in another life in Syria, my family could have had a farm too. Do you ever think about that? What kind of person you’d be if you’d grown up in Vietnam?”
He hums. “All the time. I speak Vietnamese because Bà Ngo?i was adamant I learn it. Mom isn’t as fluent as I am. Bà Ngo?i regrets not teaching it to her as much as she wanted to. She was still learning how to live here, worried if she pushed Mom, Mom might be resentful. And even though I’m fluent, I don’t think it’s as strong as it would have been if I grew up in Vietnam.”
“Me with Arabic.” My chest feels lighter. “I’ve never been to Syria, and I sometimes think if I ever go there, it’s not going to feel like home. And then where does that leave me?”
Jamie nods. “I know what you mean. It did feel strange the first time I visited Vietnam. For the first few days, it was like I was trying too hard. Everything I did felt forced. I got some weird looks when I spoke Vietnamese because…” He gestures at his face. “I wasn’t fitting in, and it sucked. But one night Bà Ngo?i and I went for dinner at one of those food markets, and it was just after the sun set. The sky was a clear deep blue. It was crowded, the smell of cooked fish and rice everywhere. I could hear the sea. And it just clicked.” He inhales slowly, a soft look in his eyes. “I could actually see an alternate version of myself who lived there his whole life. There wouldn’t be a farm, but there would be the sea.”
“What would you have done then?”
He grins. “Raised a whole fleet of fish, that’s what.”
I snort.
He glances back at the mural. “For someone who’s never been to Syria, you do draw her with so much love.”
“Her?” I ask.
Jamie scratches his hand absently. “When you told me you’re Syrian, I went back and researched it. For a country so old, that has seen so much, I believe she’s alive.”
I stare at him. “I think so too,” I murmur.
He smiles at me, but then his smile changes for a second. Becomes something like curiosity, like understanding. It then vanishes, and for some reason, his cheeks turn a shade darker.
Something stirs in my heart, but it feels too foreign, so I nudge it away.
He clears his throat, looking ahead. “What will you draw next?”
I rest my head on my arm, looking at the mural as well. “Something happy.”
