It’s Wednesday and freakishly warm, and it’s my third swimming lesson. I walk out of my room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and bump into my mother. Literally.
“As-salaam-alaikum, ummi.” I sound too chipper.
“You are in a fine mood, beta,” my mom replies. Of course, a wave of suspicion passes over her face. “What are you up to?”
“Can’t I just be in a good mood?”
“That’s more like it,” my mom says, a rare twinkle in her eye. It strikes me as weird that she’s not pushing me on this, but then I realize she must think my “fine mood” is because of Kareem. I wonder if she talked to Kareem’s mom and if they are planning something. Crap. And I can’t ask her. Now I’m obsessing. And guilty. She has this uncanny gift of delivering guilt tied up in a bow, and without fail, I accept it.
My dad honks from the driveway. My mom kisses me on the cheek. “Your dad is always rushing me.”
“Khudafis, Mom.”
“Khudafis, beta. And don’t forget—”
“I know, I know. I’ll eat something.”
The front door closes as I step into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Definitely tanner. One more day of sun and Mom will notice. I’ll have to lie again to explain how I could possibly get this tan at the bookstore or at the mall. I don’t have a choice. The lies make life easier for everyone. It’s not even that I’m interested in someone other than Kareem. That’s tiny compared to the big, fat NYU lie of omission.
The response deadline is May first, only days away. I’m still fantasizing that a deus ex machina will descend from the heavens to resolve the situation. Greek tragedies with their revenge, suffering, and extreme sorrow are roughly equivalent to dealing with my mother, so an intervention from Zeus or Athena seems a fair ask.
Of course, I hate when that happens in movies. Because it is one hundred percent the opposite of real life. Like if Lord of the Rings were a documentary, Frodo and Sam would’ve totally died in the fires of Mount Doom, but instead giant eagles fly into the end of all things after a fade to black to rescue them. So why didn’t Gandalf give the ring to the giant eagles in the first place? This has always bugged me. Whatever, though. Violet and I just watched the trilogy for twelve hours of Aragorn. No regrets.
I step into the shower, hoping to wash away my anxiety. It doesn’t work. If I don’t make NYU happen, I might doom myself to the stay-close-to-home-become-a-lawyer-and-marry-a-suitable-boy life that my parents dream of.
I grab a towel as I step out of the shower. “I have to tell them,” I say out loud, hoping to convince myself. Hoping to work up the courage.
I take a peek at my phone. Three missed texts. All from Kareem.
Kareem: Morning, sunshine.
Kareem: Sleeping in?
Kareem: I have a surprise for you.
My spirits sink a little lower. He’s trying too hard. Death knell. Of course, it’s not like I’ve been discouraging him. I mean, I text-flirt and wink my virtual lashes at him. I desire his interest. Basically, I’m leading him on. Now I feel like garbage.
At least the texts, while not exactly a deus ex machina, reveal a stark truth: Kareem isn’t the one. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong, except not be Phil. I know I have to break it off, but it’s never been totally on, I guess.
We did kiss, though. And it was a good kiss. Better than good. It was romantic. He is romantic. And it’s still not enough. I have to tell Kareem the truth about Phil, or I’ll be halfway to engaged by next summer. My mom already has visions of a big Indian wedding dancing in her head; I could see it in her eyes when she said goodbye.
I fall back on my bed, pulling my knees into the towel knot. A montage of the kiss plays in my brain. The flower petals. The rain. The closeness of Kareem’s skin to mine. I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, then another. I trace my collarbone with my index finger. He might not be the one, but so far at least, he’s been the only.
When I turn to the clock, it’s 10:50. Phil will be here in ten minutes.
Whirling around the room, I throw on my clothes, pull my hair tight into a low ponytail, and snag my bag and camera. Hearing Phil’s car in the driveway, I look in the mirror and frown, then slather on lip gloss. It’ll have to do, because the doorbell is ringing.
My camera rolls as Phil and I walk toward the garden. He pushes open the hip-high, rusty iron gate. I zoom in on the metal curlicues and then pan up from the gravel path to Phil’s face. He gazes directly into the camera, reveals the dimple, and begins his smooth narration. “We’re in the Fabyan Forest Preserve.”
He talks and walks, and he’s not self-conscious at all.
The camera loves him. He’s an easy subject to follow. He points out the sun-bleached wooden moon bridge, slats missing, that arches across the dried-up pool. When he points, I train my camera on the knotty dead trunks of Japanese maples and the cherry and ginkgo trees—gnarled limbs reaching toward blue sky. The buds on a weeping spruce cascade over a small embankment—a little hint of life beneath the desiccated vines and leaves. He knows all their names.
When we reach the foot of the bridge, Phil pauses, sweeping his hand over the vista as he talks about the vision of Taro Otsuka, Fabyan’s private gardener who designed this place. I walk up a gentle slope that leads to the bridge to get a long shot of Phil with the garden around him. I lose myself in his voice, imagining the garden in full bloom—pink cherry blossoms, burgundy leaves of the maple tree, yellow forsythia, red azaleas …
I’m not paying any attention to where my feet are. My flip-flop slips on some loose earth, and all at once I’m skidding downhill.
“Careful,” Phil says. He’s at my side in a flash. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was still rolling, so it’ll be a good action sequence.”
Phil laughs. “Is that all you think about?”
“Not all,” I manage to whisper. I bite my tongue and look away. I don’t trust myself not to blurt something ridiculous.
“You’re bleeding … your knee.”
A drop of blood trickles down my leg. “Crap. I don’t suppose you have a tissue?”
Phil rifles through his backpack, pulls out a napkin, and holds it to my knee. For a moment I forget about the sting of the cut and the embarrassment of my awkward nerd-crash. Phil’s hand is on my knee. Separated by a questionably clean napkin, but still. “I have a first-aid kit in the cabin,” he says, blotting and squinting at the wound. “Are you okay to walk?”
I almost laugh. “I think I can make it,” I say dryly.
He helps me up and wraps his arm around my waist. The gesture is completely unnecessary, but I pretend my little injury is maybe worse than I thought. I luxuriate in the warmth of Phil’s arm holding me. When we arrive at the stone cottage, he directs me to the recliner and disappears into the small back room—a simple kitchenette—and emerges with the first-aid kit.
“You’re such a Boy Scout.”
“Always prepared.” Phil uses alcohol-dipped swabs to clean the small gash on my leg.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. I want to make sure it won’t get infected. It’s not too deep.” Phil slathers bacitracin on the cut and covers it with a couple bandages, then uses his water bottle to rinse away the dry blood from my leg. “We shouldn’t go into the water today. The pond is pretty clean, but there’s still random stuff floating around in there, and those bandages aren’t waterproof.”
“Okay, doc. Should I take two aspirin and call you in the morning?”
“Aspirin is a blood thinner. If it hurts, take ibuprofen.”
“You really know your first aid.”
“Hope so. I want to study to be an EMT. I have ever since middle school.”
I’m taken aback. There is so much I don’t know about Phil. So much more I want to know. “Really? I had no idea.”
Phil walks toward one of the paneless windows. “My dad had a heart attack when I was in seventh grade.”
“What? Oh, my God. So glad it all turned out okay.”
“Yeah. Me, too. It’s totally because of these two EMTs. He wouldn’t have made it without them. The two of us were at home, shooting hoops in the driveway, and suddenly my dad starts clutching his arm and having these chest pains. I totally froze. But my dad told me to call 911. I did. And when they got here, they basically diagnosed it, stabilized him, and ten minutes later, they were wheeling him into the surgery.”
“That must’ve been terrifying.”
“It was. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared and helpless in my life. And I never want to feel that way again. All I could think was, I didn’t want my dad to die … I didn’t know what it was called then, but the EMTs basically performed an ECG—an electrocardiogram—right there, transmitted the data to the hospital, and an interventional cardiologist was waiting for us when they wheeled him in. They got a balloon to open his blocked artery in less than sixty minutes from when I called. That’s what saved his life. I’ll never forget how calm and together and fast the EMTs were. After they got my dad secured in the ambulance, the EMT who rode in the back with me made sure I was okay and explained everything to me. She didn’t talk down to me like I was some dumb kid, which is what I basically felt like. She was so kind and understanding and answered all my questions and stayed with me until my mom and brother got to the hospital.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was. After that, I wanted to learn everything about what happened to my dad, so I researched everything I could, and I, like, put myself in charge of his rehab at home and was on him all the time about his eating habits.”
“So that’s your origin story,” I say, brushing my hand against his shoulder.
“I guess it is,” he says, a shy smile emerging on his face, which had turned serious when talking about his dad.
“So if we’re not going swimming, do you want to head back?” I pray the answer is no.
“Not unless you want to. I’m not working till later,” he says.
“Me, neither.”
“Cool. I left our lunch cooler in the car. I’ll be right back.”
The door shuts behind him. The spare room is shadowy even with the sunlight filtering through the small windows. I notice a rolled-up sleeping bag in a corner along with an inflatable camping pillow. I get up to explore and step into the little kitchen. Cans of food line a built-in wooden shelf. There are a couple gallons of water, a thermos, and a large plastic cup filled with plastic forks and knives. The ultimate rustic bachelor pad, I think. I wonder how much time Phil spends here alone versus with Lisa.
Lisa.
She probably wouldn’t be happy knowing I’m here now. Best not to dwell on it. I take a blanket and walk outside, spreading it over a grassy patch in front of the cottage. I lie back. Passing clouds cast shadows across my face. I shut my eyes.
“Maya?”
My eyelids flutter open. Phil’s face floats over mine.
“I thought for a second you’d fallen asleep.” He settles in next to me and hands me a sandwich. We eat quietly for a moment.
I catch him eyeing my cut, making sure the bandage is in place. “Can I ask you a question?”
He looks up at me. “Sure.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone you want to be an EMT? I’m sure your parents must be thrilled.”
“They say they’re cool with it, but I think they secretly wish I would go to school but then come back home and run our family gas station with my brother. And pretty much everyone else assumes that, too. I mean, some of my friends, they’re already making plans to come back to Batavia after college … That’s just not what I want.”
And by friends, I’m assuming he means Lisa.
“So the old expectation thing? Believe me, I totally understand.”
Phil nods. “It’s not that my parents are upset. They’re actually pretty happy that I’m interested in something other than playing college football. But they wish I wasn’t going so far away. My mom has been researching all these Midwestern places where I could get certified.”
“Where are you going?” I feel like I should know this, but realize I never bothered to ask.
“Green Mountain College in Vermont.”
“Sounds all outdoorsy and autumnal.”
The tone in Phil’s voice lifts. “It’s awesome. But, you know, in the wilderness. I’ll major in Adventure Recreation and take classes in emergency medical services, so when I graduate, I can be a paramedic or work with programs like Outward Bound.”
“Adventure Recreation?”
“I know, ridiculous name, right? My mom asked me why I couldn’t have adventure and recreation closer to home and someplace cheaper. But it’s one of the best programs out there that teaches survival skills—”
“Like surviving a bear attack?”
“When I find out how, I’ll let you know.”
“I can’t wait.” I place my hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch. “But I still don’t get why you won’t tell any of your friends.”
“There’s no football team.”
This comes as almost more of a surprise than anything else Phil has told me because he’s literally the poster boy for Batavia High School football. “But don’t you want to play football? I mean, at all?”
“I was recruited to play football at a couple smaller Division One schools. Eastern has a really good coach. That could’ve meant a partial scholarship, but I honestly don’t care if I don’t play football at school. Like I told you, it wasn’t even my first choice of sport. It sort of just … happened. I love it, but now everyone expects me to play, but I’m ready to move on—try something different.”
“If your parents are okay with it, then you’re set, right? Does Lisa know?” I don’t know why I say Lisa’s name. This time, this space between me and Phil, it’s like this perfect, intricate diorama, and when I say her name, it reminds me that we’re just paper figures taped inside a shoebox.
He shakes his head and lowers his eyes, twirling a few blades of grass between his fingers. “No. You’re the first person I’ve told outside my family.”
A tiny flicker of hope lights up inside me. If Lisa doesn’t know about his college plans, she and Phil can’t be that serious anymore. Right? This could mean … something. On the other hand, I am certain they haven’t broken up. Violet is definitely certain, and I rely on her to determine the truth regarding all affaires de cœur, especially long distance from Paris. Maybe I’m just another one of Phil’s secrets.
He lies back and stares into the sky. “It’s complicated.”
“How?”
“She’s going to Eastern. She thinks I’m going with her. I know I need to tell her. I just can’t bring myself … I’ve been avoiding it.”
“Tell her what you told me. She’ll understand.” I clamp my mouth shut, but too late; the words are already out. Not only am I giving him relationship advice, but it’s totally hypocritical because it’s advice I’m dishing out but totally not able to take. From myself. I’m hiding from my parents. And, to be honest, from Kareem, too. Phil’s hiding from Lisa. We both have truths that we’re hiding from practically everyone else, except each other.
“Doubt it. She is not into the outdoors, at all. I mean, maybe an outdoor mall …”
I see a chance to ask Phil the question that’s been gnawing at me for three days. I’ve been holding back, because I know I shouldn’t fish in none-of-my-business waters. Now I cast my line. “Lisa must love this place, though. It pretty much defines outdoorsy.”
Phil is silent for a moment. “I’ve never brought her here,” he says finally.
My heart thumps against my rib cage like it has wings. My brain floods with words, but I don’t blurt them out. I hold onto the stillness of this moment, waiting for what he will say next.
“I’ve never brought anyone here. Except you. You’re the only person I can talk to about this stuff. Tom won’t get me not wanting to play football. You know Tom, right? He’s going to Eastern, too, along with Megan. All of them—Tom, Megan, Lisa—especially Lisa, have this idea that we’ll be together there and after college be back here …” Phil’s voice trails off.
I shake my head. I do know Tom, but in my mind, he’s pretty much indistinguishable from the rest of Phil’s teammates. “They’re your friends; they’ll get it.”
“Maybe.” Phil turns his attention away from the clouds and focuses on me. “Remember the other day when we were at the café and you were saying how you wanted to be in New York and were sick of being so different here? I got that.”
My heart is still beating fast. “You get wanting to go to New York and being the only Muslim girl in school?” I make a joke, but I’m keenly aware that Phil understands me more than anyone else because he’s keeping a secret, too. Maybe more than one.
Phil laughs and sits up. “Exactly. It’s cool that my whole family stayed in Batavia, but I want to see what else is out there. I want to take some time to explore. On my own. Out in the wild. I’ll carry everything I need to live in my backpack.”
My talk with Kareem springs to mind. But I don’t see him; I don’t even hear his voice. I see only Phil in front of me. “You want to go to the woods to live deliberately. You want to suck the marrow out of life.”
He blinks at me. “That sucking marrow part went over my head, but yeah, that’s the gist of it.”
“I’m quoting Thoreau.”
“That explains it.” Phil laughs again and fishes out a worn piece of paper from his wallet. “I want to show you something. A couple seasons ago, Coach Roberts had this sports psychologist come and talk to us, and he did this exercise where he told us to write down three goals on a piece of paper and then fold it up and put it away. We weren’t supposed to show it to anyone. Of course we did, anyway. Turned out that we all wrote pretty much the same thing. We wanted to win homecoming or bench-press more weight or set the school rushing record …”
“Is that what you wrote?”
He shrugs. “More or less. Because I knew what would happen. But it felt phony. Laughing with all my friends later, I almost felt sort of sick inside, and I’ve never felt that way before around them. You know, fake. So that night at home, I wrote another list and put it in my wallet. It’s been there ever since.” Phil slowly unfolds the piece of paper and hands it to me. “Here …”
I take the crinkled treasure from his hands and read his chicken-scratch writing.
1. Hike along the Knife Edge Trail to the top of Mount Katahdin.
2. Swim in the Pacific Ocean.
3. Kayak the Colorado River.
A tiny lump wells in my throat. I’m quiet.
“It’s stupid, right?”
I shake my head. Is Phil taking my silence as judgment?
“Not at all,” I say in a rush. “It’s nice. No. That’s not the right … I mean, it’s—it’s beautiful.” I stumble for words. I can imagine how difficult it must’ve been for him to show me this hallowed piece of paper. “I hope you get to do it all and much more.” I place the paper back in his hand, letting my fingers linger across his palm.
He smiles. “Number four was ‘teach Maya to swim.’”
“Liar.” I laugh.
“Okay, maybe I just added that one. But I’m going to do it.” His eyes meet mine. “You believe me, don’t you?”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I like that I can be myself around you.” Phil rolls up a towel and places it on the ground, snug against my thigh. Then he puts the top of his head on my leg, his neck supported by the towel roll. He closes his eyes. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I manage to whisper. I bite my lip. I’m thankful he can’t see my face, that his eyes are closed, because I am flushed. Every muscle in my body seems to be screaming, but I am as still as the woods. I watch the rise and fall of his T-shirt. I breathe evenly to relax, to match it.
Without a word Phil reaches out, grazes my fingers, and pulls my hand gently toward his chest. I’m not sure how much time passes. No one else exists. Only us. We sit, hands clasped, until it is time to leave.
She wakes before dawn to say her first prayer.
She’s always loved the ritual: starting off the day with a devotion to God. Sitting on the prayer rug with her legs curled beneath her, as the thread of dawn appears against the horizon.
This is the moment when she feels most at peace, before she makes breakfast for her husband, before they drive together to their small grocery store, before the shop fills with the cacophony of women searching for fava beans, cumin, apricots, dried lentils, rose water, pistachios, cardamom, pickled eggplants in vinegar.
Even after many years in this country, some still try to haggle as if they are in the bazaar back home.
She pushes the complaints from her mind.
In a few days, she will be the one preparing the feast. Kamal comes home, and there will be reason to celebrate. He will drive the entire way, seven hours, from Springfield to Dearborn. She worries the drive will be too tiring for him, that he will eat too much fast food on the way and not be hungry for dinner.
Ma, I am always hungry for your cooking, he assures her.
More and more he sounds like an American. But at least he knows how to show his mother proper respect.