The summer grass is turning yellow, leaning back in the sun, and Carlos and I are falling into each other.
Sanctuary. Usually a sanctuary is meant for a family. They were just getting it ready when Lidia called. For us, it means we’re not on our own anymore. We’re under the watchful and kind eyes of the congregation, people who show up and make sure we’re fed and taken care of. A trio of women bring cans and dried goods, cooked meals in Tupperware, lasagna trays. Sam checks on us all the time—sometimes I think he’s making an excuse—seeing if a bulb needs changing or fixing a loose hinge on a cupboard. He’s an energetic, small man with watery green eyes behind his glasses. He tells me he has a teenage son off visiting his daughter, who’s studying in France. He lingers, his big eyes looking over everything. He’s probably missing his kids.
Jayne, a lawyer, shows up our first day, sits Carlos down for a long interview, writing heavily on her pad about his case. Lidia calls, and she and Carlos speak for a long time in rapid-fire Spanish. When he hangs up, I ask, “Well?”
He shakes his head. “She isn’t sure.”
I take his hand. That’s all I can do. All he can do. For now.
There are two buildings surrounded by a brick wall—one is the synagogue, a modern structure across the way. The other building must have been some kind of mansion, with dark-paneled walls and a wide carved staircase covered in red carpet. On the first floor is a Hebrew school and currently a small summer camp. The second day a counselor knocks on our door and offers to let Kamal join them. Kamal presses tight against my hip, but I hold his hand, take him down the narrow stairs, and bring him to one of the classrooms. When he sees the counselors are all young, like Carlos and me, he loosens just a bit. His damp fingers still clutch mine as he watches a group of kids build a Lego city in the middle of the room.
“Come join us,” a counselor says. She’s got reddish hair and gold freckles all over her arms.
He tilts his face to me. “You only have to stay for a little bit, Aapi.”
“Just a little bit?”
He gives me a cross look. “I’m not a baby!”
He lets go and heads to a corner, where the Magna-Tiles are. I lean against the wall and watch him flapping and flipping the plastic pieces, concentrating hard as he makes different combinations. Kamal needs something to focus on to make him feel secure. At snack time he joins the others around a table, grinning at the juice box and cookies on a paper plate. A little girl next to him is carefully counting her cookies and when she realizes she has one extra, she gives it to him. He happily crams it into his mouth. I leave, my mood light.
Carlos and I hold hands and move in and out of the apple trees, up into a maple grove, where the old syrup lines glint like spider threads, strung from trunk to trunk. I take off my favorite jacket, spread it on the dry grass.
We roll toward each other. I can see his stomach, breathing in and out.
Our lips brush. We kiss, pull apart.
“That was nice,” I say.
“You’re nice.” He squeezes my waist.
“No, I’m not. I’m a pain.”
“A nice pain.” He smiles. “I like it when you get mad. Your eyes get so bright. Like daggers.” He cups my hair. “That night at the restaurant, I just wanted us to have a real date.”
“But you didn’t say that!”
“I could not.”
“Why?”
He puts his arm beneath me so the back of my head rests snug against his arm. “I was responsible for you, Rania. For my little hermanito. It wouldn’t be right. At home, I would ask permission.”
A surge of joy explodes inside me. “I give you permission!” I laugh and kiss him full on the mouth.
Sanctuary. That word. I want to feel its meaning as these people are offering it: food, camp for Kamal, lawyers. They are trying to smooth away our worrying. But the best part of this time is being with Carlos, every day, exploring the nearby hills.
Over the next week, while Kamal is in camp, Carlos and I take walks in the sloping woods behind the synagogue grounds. He brings his sketch pad and draws the view as I pull out an old paperback and read, sometimes write in my notebook. I texted Fatima again but she hasn’t answered. Maybe that’s what we need right now: a little space. Though it hurts.
I’m happy, but also a sadness draws through me, like the shadows lengthening on the ground. Fall coolness seeps through our T-shirts. We kiss some more, then we brush off our legs and climb down the hill. At the synagogue, Carlos teasingly pulls some stray stalks of grass from my hair. At dinner, we’re still flushed, so Kamal makes faces at us.
I wish we could tie ourselves, like those syrup lines, to these sturdy people who care for us. On Saturday I wake to the sound of services. I remember, long ago, the call to prayers over scratchy speakers. At the end of the day, Ammi and I would weave through the bazaar, strung bulbs fizzing and spitting in each little stall. During Ramzan, Abu would return in the evening with steaming containers of rice and kebabs. Ammi made a big pot of seviyan kheer and we’d eat that first, gulping down the slippery sweet strands, until she scolded me to save room for the rest.
All these sounds and tastes once locked in the box of the past come spilling out. Nights with my parents. Mild air, bougainvillea on wrought-iron fences. Abu and Ammi’s friends sitting on blankets, listening to singers on a stage. They sway, arms around their knees, and sing too. We stay for hours until I fall asleep on Ammi’s lap. Then we are in the back of a taxi, streetlamps stripe the windows, the hum and bump of road. To think this is what those fundamentalists want to bomb away, Abu remarks. Hush, Ammi says, her fingers stroking my hair. Don’t let the driver hear. They push their voices low. Another memory: I hear the landline ringing. Ammi slamming it down, in tears. How could I forget so much? Even my old-school uniform—a light blue shalwar kameez, a cardigan for the cold mornings.
As I lean against Carlos, a snatch of ghazal comes to me, and I start to sing, badly:
Tajdaar-e-haram
Tajdaar-e-haram ho nigaah-e-karam
Tajdaar-e-haram ho nigaah-e-karam
Ham ghareebon ke din bhi sanwar jaaenge
Haami-ye be-kasaan kya kahega jahaan
Haami-ye be-kasaan kya kahega jahaan
Aap ke dar se khaali agar jaaenge
Tajdaar-e-haram
Tajdaar-e-haram
“What’s that mean?” Carlos asks.
“O king of the holy sanctuary / Bless us with your merciful gaze / O king of the holy sanctuary / So that our days of woe may turn for the better / O patron of the poor, what would the world say / If we return empty-handed from your door? / O king of the holy sanctuary.”
I grin at him. “The guy who sings it is way cuter than you.”
He gives me a teasing push.
Sanctuary. The real meaning: a place where these kind people have returned us to ourselves, to our own memories. Carlos softens against me. We can be kids again, remember who we were before we ran.
We lie on my bed, legs tangled, giggling, recalling old silly stories. I tell him about a party where I grabbed a chicken leg from another girl and she let out a wail so piercing, my mother took me home. He tells me about promenading with his cousin around his town’s square, pinching the arm of a girl his cousin liked, so he ruined the whole thing. “We were awful!” I say. We shake with full belly laughs. We kiss, longer. My head fits snug against his throat. He pulls his fingers through my hair. I touch his tattoo, tracing the intertwined fish. Maybe we too are the fish: circling round and round each other.
“I’ve got something to show you. Come.”
Sam is at our door. He leads us down the road until we arrive at a big barn, with a faded sign hanging from a post: GRETA’S BARN SCHOOL—NO VERY SERIOUS ADULTS ALLOWED, and next to that a wooden table. He unhooks the gate and leads us into the run-down building.
To my surprise, it’s a series of brightly painted rooms, some with chalkboards and cubbyholes and hooks. Sam explains that his mother ran a little school here; though he’s given most of the items to the synagogue—the chairs and blocks, the sitting cushions and crayons—he can’t bring himself to sell the property, not yet. Then he leads us down a narrow corridor to a set of rough wooden pens. Dried and dirty straw lies scattered on the floor.
“Stinky!” Kamal complains.
“This is where the pigs were. And back through that door was the chicken coop. Greta would have the kids gather the eggs and then she’d set them out on the table. People would come by, buy them, and simply tuck the money into a metal box. It was all an honor system.”
“Trust,” Carlos says.
Sam gives him a sharp look. “Exactly.” He grins at Kamal. “You want to see the real barn?”
Kamal jiggles with excitement. “Yes, yes!”
We step outside and then into a huge open space, dusty shafts of light streaming from a giant window. To the left is a platform, thick bales of hay stacked high, and a ladder leading to the loft, spread with more hay.
Sam pauses, head tilted back, taking in the huge space. “My mother survived World War II hiding in a barn in southern France. She always felt that so much of her youth was stolen. And so when she came here—” His eyes look moist. “She wanted to give that back to children.”
That’s why he volunteers for the sanctuary.
“Kamal, you want to jump in the hay?” He points to the loft.
“Yes!” Kamal squeals. He’s afraid, but loves watching brave feats.
Carlos streaks up the slanted ladder while Kamal and I straggle behind, through the itchy, warm hay. We look up to see Carlos, arms out, then he arches his back and sails downward, belly first, landing in the bales with a terrifying thud. My heart jolts into my mouth. Is he okay?
A rustling noise. Carlos emerges from the hay, straw sticking every which way from his hair. He gives a lopsided grin. “¡Qué chido!”
Sam claps his hands. He looks like he wants to cry and laugh. Above, Kamal stands on the edge. “Me too!”
“Kamal, be careful!”
He shoots me an annoyed look.
Carlos has returned to the landing and stands behind Kamal, gently explaining. “Just like in the water, hermanito. Bend your knees. Then jump.”
Kamal’s legs quiver. He thrusts his arms in front of him, pushes his head down. Then he drops with a squeal, bouncing on the hay bales. “I did it!” he shouts.
We spend the afternoon jumping from the loft. Over and over, laughing each time we sprawl in the crackling straw, then kicking ourselves up again, and dropping, again and again. I feel strangely safe. This is the best kind of sanctuary: not the prayers, that hushed space, where people’s devotion makes them care for us. Just three kids, leaping into the air, the hay softly catching us.
That night, curled again on the sofa with Carlos, a new memory loosens and I describe it to him: I am with Ammi, hurrying to the market. Our flat in Lahore is topsy-turvy from packing. We must buy a new piece of luggage because the zipper was broken on ours. But a man steps out from behind a stall. I do not recognize him; he argues with Ammi. He is handsome, with a strong face, and he takes her pale wrist and pulls on it. I cannot see Ammi’s expression—she wears sunglasses all the time from her crying. You stop that! I want to say. He reaches for me, holds me clumsily. Come to Papa, he says.
You’re not my papa! I giggle and try to wriggle away.
He lets go his grip. You will regret this, he hisses to Ammi, and then he is gone.
“Whoa,” Carlos says. He strokes my back until I grow calm. “That is creepy. How come you didn’t remember?”
“I sort of did. In snatches. But that time when we left is such a blur.”
“When you run, you run. You don’t look back.”
I rest against him, shut my eyes. That fear has faded. After a while, he says, “You should tell Lidia. Maybe it will help your mother’s case.”
“It won’t.”
“Let her decide that.”
He’s tracing my knuckles with his thumb. I like to do that to him, as if to understand how his long fingers can do all that drawing. It sends a shivery, tingling sensation through me.
Carlos’s scars glow on his neck. I touch them. We are in the dark, which is why he can speak. “Tell me,” I say.
His memories rush like a river. It was night. A fence, meant for cows, for animals. The coyote explained that Carlos must go down through the hole beneath the sharp wire. And he did, crawling belly first, and then a sharp pain flared down his neck. Warm liquid soaked his collar. He cried out, but the man smacked him. Keep going. Pretend it is your jacket that is torn, not you.
“That was the only way to get across,” Carlos tells me. “I had to become a thing.”
Now I understand why Carlos holds himself tense, apart, and wary. When he draws, it is a way of saying, I am not a thing. A headline. I feel. I see.
I rest my head on his shoulder. There are so many ways to be held. This place with its heavy beams. The barn and its itchy hay. All these kind people, doing what they can. And Carlos, with his own stories, his arms around me, mine around him.
The door to the living room is shut, but I can hear voices murmuring on the other side. There’s a nip in the air—when I climb out of bed, my toes curl on the cold floorboards. Sam and another adult are talking. School. Registration. Appeal.
I twist the knob and when the door swings open, I see Carlos sitting on the sofa, Jayne and Sam opposite. Their eyes flash upward at me. “I’m sorry, Rania,” Jayne says. “If you don’t mind, we need to talk to Carlos alone.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine, dear. We’ll be done soon.”
I feel like I’ve been poked in the chest. I back away and try to busy myself in the kitchen, but all I’m doing is washing the same pot. I check emails. More stuff from Hunter. Freshman orientation. An advisor assigned. A book I need to read. And then an email from Amirah: Rania, I’m starting to wonder if you want this job…I slam the laptop shut, my eyes stinging. Then I force myself to write back. So sorry. I had a family emergency. End of August?
Someone is tapping me on the shoulder. I turn to see Sam. He looks grave. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Come.”
In the living room, Carlos is still staring at the rug. He doesn’t even look up when I sit beside him.
“Rania,” Jayne says. “My colleagues and I have been going over Carlos’s case.”
Why did they leave me out?
“The thing is, the situation in the US is very tough.”
No kidding.
“He can stay here and we can work on his application. See if we can start the process all over again. But from what I’ve been seeing, the chances aren’t great.”
“There has to be something! He told you about the gang—”
“Unfortunately the US doesn’t recognize gang threat—especially local ones. His case was always shaky.”
“But he can’t go back!”
“In three months Carlos will turn eighteen. His chances of being deported as an adult go up exponentially.”
A shiver in the back of my neck.
“There is another possibility.”
Here my mind is whooshing upward: My mother will adopt Carlos. He’ll be part of us. He’ll come back to Brooklyn. I have it all worked out.
“Canada,” Sam says.
“Canada?”
Now I get why Carlos couldn’t look at me. He lifts his head and his eyes are glazed. He’s barely holding it together.
“No!” I cry.
Jayne’s voice is gentle. “We have some colleagues in Buffalo. Not far from the border. They run a kind of safe house. They can take him in and show him the process so he can start over again. He’s allowed under the unaccompanied minors exception. And he says he has a cousin there.”
“You barely know him!” I say.
Carlos shrugs. “He’s all I’ve got.”
“If someone is willing to claim him, even better. He can make a fresh start.”
Claim, I think. Another funny word. Like he’s a piece of luggage left at the lost and found.
“No!” I stand up. “That’s not right. He can’t!”
“Rania,” Jayne says mildly. “It’s for Carlos to decide.”
This stops me. I stare at Carlos. He still has his eyes on the rug. Every bit of me wants to protest. And then I can’t stand it. This place feels too tight and close, with its slanted ceiling, its dim light. I rush toward the door, and down the stairs. They call after me, but I don’t care. I just keep going—passing the big windows, where I can hear the cheerful sounds of little kids, through the gate and out, onto the road. Past the barn, where I can almost hear our whoops inside, then farther.
How many times can you lose a person? It was hard enough with Abu. Ammi taken away in the night. Then Abu wasn’t Abu, so I lost him in another way. And now Carlos.
I’ve turned into a path and am walking toward a slope where there’s a large tree. I throw myself down, blood pumping in my ears, sun blazing on my head. I find some stones on the ground and fling them, again and again. Run. That’s what Ammi taught me. When it’s tough, when you’re in trouble, you run. Again and again, we tossed our belongings into suitcases, fooling the man at the airport, then when people said nasty things about Ammi in our apartment house, then the shelter. Ammi signaled: grab the car keys, move, there’s always another solution ahead. A place to rest before you push on. But what happens when you don’t want to run anymore? When you want the world to stop spinning? To finally stay.
A crunching noise on grass.
“Hey,” Carlos says.
“Hey.”
He drops down beside me, dry blades folding around him. “Kamal is almost done with camp. He’ll be looking for us.”
“Uh-huh.”
He nudges me. “Irresponsible sister.”
I don’t say anything.
“Come on, Rania.”
“Come on what? Why don’t you try? You can let Lidia and Jayne work on your case! And you can live with us in Brooklyn and—”
He interrupts, “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He sighs. I suddenly see that his eyes are circled by bluish shadows. “I watched what my aunt went through. I’m tired, Rania. I’m tired of fighting to be here. You have your mother at least. A job. A lawyer. A family.”
“Fight to be with me!”
He bites his lip, lowering his eyes. I hang my head. There’s a thickness on my lashes. “Besides, my family is a big mess.” I turn to him. “This was our time. On the road. Can’t we hold on to that?”
He offers a wavering smile. “We can write. FaceTime. WhatsApp. DM on Instagram.”
“I hate social media. I’m bad at keeping in touch. You saw how I messed up with Fatima.”
“You suck at being a friend.”
“And you just suck.”
I can’t look at him.
We can’t quite leave.
Carlos begins, “My aunt used to tell me this story. About a fisherman who was in love with a woman in her village. He could never find the right words to tell her how he felt. But every night he would go fishing in the night sky of stars. There the words were perfect! Crystal sharp. They said what was in his heart. So he gathered his star-words in his net and set them in a letter by the girl’s window. By morning the crystal words had dried to ugly salt flakes. The girl would see nothing but the dirty paper and toss it away. She understood nothing of his love, nothing of what he was saying.”
He looks at me. “Don’t you see? That’s what it’s like for me. I was that fisherman who went out to fish in the night sea. I gathered up my words. I was so sure I could move the immigration people. But it didn’t work. They can’t hear my story.”
I start to cry. “I hear your story.”
He tightens his fingers around me. “I know, mi amor. I know.”
“Mi amor,” I repeat. The words blow through me. Mine.
Everything seems to be melting: The sun is tipping lower in the sky, spreading across the ground in a gold glow. The smell of old grass and dirt hovers over us. Carlos slaps his knees, stands, holds out his hand. I take it and we head down the old cow path.