“W-Wuthering Heights.” I held up the book. The cover was peeling and the spine was cracked.
“Wow! That’s my favorite.” No way! “I would have thought . . . How old are you, Paloma?” I love the way she pronounced my name. Puh-LOW-ma. I must remember to say it like that from now on.
“I’m twelve.” My voice didn’t shake as much this time, thank goodness.
“Me too!” Lihini piped in, and we both giggled again. We were both born in the orphanage, just three weeks apart, so we knew what our birthdays were. Many of the other girls didn’t, so we were lucky.
“And do you read a lot, both of you?”
We nodded our heads emphatically. That’s what we did, Lihini and I. We shared the same books and spent every afternoon we could reading. And when we couldn’t read, we talked about what we read.
“And what books do you like to read?”
“We can show you.” Lihini jumped to her feet excitedly.
“Yes, we can show you,” I echoed, following her.
We each took one of Mrs. Evans’s hands and led her over to our bookshelf. Most of the books were like Wuthering Heights—they once belonged to someone else, but now they were ours.
“These are aaaaall our books.” Lihini gestured to the library with a flourish.
“Aaaaall our books.” I tried to gesture also, but my arm knocked over a book from the corner of the shelf. It fell to the floor with a loud bang.
There was a burst of laughter from the other girls as I realized in horror what I had done. I covered my face with my hands, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.
“Oopsie daisy,” Mrs. Evans tried, but it was too late. I’d messed up.
The laughter died as suddenly as it started. I peered out from behind my fingers to see why.
It was Shanika, entering the room with two cups of tea balanced on a tray. Her face was red under her scars. Hang on, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Whenever we had visitors, she was supposed to stay in the dormitory.
“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Evans. Would you like some tea?” Her words were memorized, but they weren’t supposed to come from her. That was what Miss Chandra was to say, while she served the visitors their tea in Perera sir’s office.
Lihini gasped softly. It was like watching a disaster happen in slow motion. We were all waiting for the crash.
But Mr. Evans simply smiled and said he would love to have some tea.
“Me too,” said Mrs. Evans.
Shanika had tried brushing her hair over her left side, but it didn’t do anything to hide her scars. The burns continued down her left arm, where they were joined by longer, deeper scars, although Mrs. Evans didn’t seem to notice.
Perera sir was probably as dumbfounded as the rest of us, but he recovered the fastest.
“Shanika,” he said. The friendly smile never left his face. “Isn’t it time for your lesson with Miss Sarah?”
Shanika didn’t say anything. She obviously knew that she was going to be in big trouble. Really, really big trouble.
“I . . .” But whatever Shanika was going to say was drowned out by Miss Chandra thudding into the room, her face puffed up and purple.
“There you are, child. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She gave the visitors a knowing smile. “These children really keep you on your feet, I’m telling you.”
The Evanses laughed politely as Miss Chandra steered Shanika out of the room.
“Now why don’t we get you some cake before your English lessons?” She chatted to the scarred girl, although I couldn’t help but notice how Miss Chandra’s knuckles were white around Shanika’s thin arm as they hurried out.
“Mr. Evans, Mrs. Evans, shall we move into my office?” Perera sir asked. He looked over at us and winked. I guess none of us were in trouble after all. Thank goodness. Perera sir was usually kind, but he had gotten more strict since his wife died last year.
“Sure,” Mr. Evans said.
“Bye, sweet girl,” Mrs. Evans said as she gave us one last smile and left. The room continued to smell like her, and I took a long, deep whiff.
7
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
I ROLLED OUT OF the Uber and shut the door with a little more force than necessary. Damn, I hope I don’t lose a star for this.
“Sorry!” I called out, smiling as brightly as I could after dealing with the worst night of my life. He gave me a curt nod and pulled out. Asshole. I opened the app and gave him two stars.
I hadn’t come by since my parents left on their trip. I was supposed to drop in and water the plants but I couldn’t bring myself to do it those first few weeks. I mean, it’s just another thing I’ve failed at. Couldn’t even keep the damn plants alive while they were out saving orphans and feeding the hungry and planting trees with little plaques that bore their name. Well, our name.
And to top it all off, they’d decided to pull some bullshit Luddite move and do the whole thing without cell phones. Technology detox, they said, like it was one of those Instagram-influencer slimming teas that gave you diarrhea. I mean, I’ve never asked them to get on Snapchat. Just to drop me a text every once in a while.
But then they sat me down and gave me a lecture about how it was important that they “moved like the natives” of the lands they visited in order to “be respectful.” It would have made a little more sense if they weren’t Diamond members in the Hilton Honors program, but Mom would have been outraged if I’d pointed that out.
Fuck this.
I looked around the quiet neighborhood I spent my teenage years both loving and hating. The streets weren’t busy today, not that it ever really got busy in suburbia. twenty is plenty the speed signs read, with a cartoon of a smiling snail.
I had struggled to remember which house was mine when I first moved here. Every lawn was neat, every house mimicked the other. It was like a suburban house of mirrors. So different from Sri Lanka, where you could literally direct people by saying things like “make a left at the mango tree” or “the house opposite the one with the ugly brown wall.” I almost always missed my turn. Thank god for Google Maps.
I squared my shoulders and looked up the short path that led to our porch.
My heart stopped in my chest.
A woman was sitting on the porch chair. A woman with wild, black hair that hung over most of her face and dark, empty eyes. She held some flowers in her hand and stared at me, expressionless. She wore a tattered robe, which she clutched to her chest with skeletal fingers.
Fuck me. It couldn’t be.
Was I imagining her again?
I took a deep breath and rubbed my face. No, this time it wasn’t a ghost, or my imagination.
There was an actual woman sitting on my porch.
“Um, hello?” I ventured. I checked the number on the house. I wasn’t in the wrong place.
She didn’t say a thing. She just stood up and started walking towards me.
A pale face clawed its way into my mind, and I felt my whole body brace for impact, but the woman continued right past where I stood.
I watched her move silently across the street, where she entered what I could only imagine was her own home.
“H-hey?!” I called out, but she was inside by the time I found my voice.
I just stood there, on the now empty sidewalk, willing my heart to stop pounding. It took a moment or two longer than I would have liked.
What the actual fuck was that?
“Get ahold of yourself, Paloma. She must have just had the wrong house or something.”
I shivered as I pulled out the remote to the garage door. That’s right, I had a key to the garage, not even the front door, and was finally making my way up the driveway when my parents’ neighbor, Ida, stuck her head out from behind her shed. She must have stepped o
ut for her afternoon snoop around the neighborhood. I wasn’t really in the mood.
“Paloma! My goodness!” Her voice was high-pitched and trembling, like a puppy’s. God give me the strength. I know she hadn’t been expecting to see me, but she needed to calm the hell down.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come by.” Her forehead was a deep mess of wrinkles, though she had zero regard for how exhausted I obviously looked. “I’ve rung you a few times, you know.” Of course I know, Ida. Whoever invented caller ID probably did it because of seventysomething-year-old women like you who couldn’t take a fucking hint.
“Hi, Ida. Good to see you too.” I gave her an appropriately tight smile, eyes downcast, and then yawned theatrically.
I wonder if she knew who that woman was. I was just about to ask her when she started speaking again.
“You know we have some things to discuss, dear. Shall I pop over now? Or would you rather pop over here? Goodness, we have so much to talk about. I have a pie in the oven, I just need to get it out. It was your mom’s recipe, actually! Give me ten minutes and I’ll pop right over.”
If she said the word pop one more time . . .
Forget asking her about the woman on my porch. I just needed her to stop talking before I exploded.
“Actually, Ida, would you mind if I came over a bit later? I’ve had a pretty rough day.” I yawned again, for good measure, and then hit the button on the remote. The roller door squeaked a little, but it still worked fine, thank god.
Ida frowned a little but nodded like one of those bobbleheads everyone used to keep on their dashboards. Her oversprayed, grey hair-helmet did not move, but the loose skin around her jaw flapped around like an angry bat.
“Of course, dear. I’ll see you later. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Or even tomorrow? I’ll make chicken potpie. It’s still your favorite, I hope?”
“I’ll give you a call. Thanks, Ida.”
I smiled politely as I backed into the garage as fast as I could, then watched as the door rolled back. It took a little longer than I would have liked, and Ida kept looking concerned and waving, but I didn’t move until it was all the way down. Call me paranoid, I don’t care. The last thing I needed was some serial killer psychopath rolling in through the door after me and hiding out at my parents’ empty house.
The future’s not ours to see. The words scraped at my insides. Nails on a chalkboard. A hammer hitting the butt of a screwdriver. My jaw went numb. I rubbed my thumb over my perfect ceramic front teeth.
I was trudging through old boxes and dusty gym equipment when a handlebar snagged on the front pocket of my hoodie. I untangled the bicycle and shoved it away. I hated that damn thing, and you would, too, if yours were the only parents in your elite, snobby private school who made you ride a bike back and forth because it was better for the fucking environment. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great that my mom threw awareness parties about global warming and Dad made donations to countless charities in my name for every birthday or special occasion, but they drove a Range Rover for fuck’s sake.
I pushed my way into the kitchen. It looked exactly the same. Why wouldn’t it, after all?
I could hear the security alarm beeping away—each beep louder than the last. I crossed over as fast as I could and keyed in the code. The date of their anniversary, the same as always.
I tried not to feel too guilty about the shriveled-up pots of basil and mint on the window ledge. It made the entire kitchen stink of death. I know I promised to water them, but Mom would understand. They always understood, eventually. It was what defined this family. At least, that’s what I told myself. They understood my panic attacks when I moved here. My nightmares. My insistence that a ghost from Sri Lanka had followed me to the US because I couldn’t cope with my guilt, even though they didn’t know back then why exactly I felt so guilty. And they would eventually understand why I did what I did eighteen years ago. I had to believe that.
I pushed away the annoying voices that kept taunting me since our argument. I kept thinking they would come around, but then they left on their trip. I wish they hadn’t gone. That they had just stayed back, just this once when I asked them to, so we could have worked it all out. We gave them our word, Paloma. And who are we, at the end of the day, if we can’t keep to our word? It didn’t seem like the best time to tell them that I gave zero fucks about their word. That I needed them.
And now the dregs of our disagreement settled into the deepest parts of me, the way dust settled into crevices, and who knows when I’ll be able to get rid of them?
I pulled out the dead plants and dumped them, dirt and all, into the trash. There was a bottle of Mom’s homemade all-purpose cleaner next to the trash can under the sink—rubbing alcohol, water, lemon essential oil, and a “secret ingredient” she wouldn’t even tell me about. It was so potent, it could get rid of even the worst of stains—grease, blood, you name it.
My stomach made a rumbling sound, but first things first. I sat down at the kitchen counter and pulled out my phone.
Breathe, Paloma, I told myself.
I pulled up Arun’s number and hit dial.
And couldn’t get a fucking signal.
Goddamn this suburban hell.
I went to the opposite end of the kitchen, where I knew the reception would be better.
“Hullo. You’ve reached Arun. Please leave me a message and I will call you back. Thank you.” Hearing his voice made me want to reach through the phone and strangle him. But of course he didn’t pick up. There was nothing left to strangle. He was dead. I don’t know what I was expecting by calling him up.
I hung up and googled the Curry Palace. There were two, but I recognized a logo from the plastic bags Arun would bring back leftovers in.
It took about six rings for someone to pick up.
“Hullo, Curry Palace.” Same accent as Arun’s but the voice was too deep to be his.
“Hi, I’ve been trying to reach Arun. Did he come into work today?” Obviously he didn’t. I just had to make sure.
“Who’s speaking please?”
Who the hell did this dipshit think he was? I’m trying to reach my roommate, not the goddamned president.
“Um, I’m his roommate. Just trying to get ahold of him.”
“Arun Patel or Arun Mukerjee?”
“I—Patel?” I thought his last name was Kumar.
“He’s scheduled to come in at six.”
“Oh, I see. Thanks.” I hung up.
A face popped into my mind for just a second. Long, dark hair. Pale skin. Empty eyes.
Fuck me, it’s been eighteen years. It cost my parents thousands of dollars in therapy for me to get over it. It would have killed them to realize it had all been in vain.
It was the stress. It had to be. It’s not every day that you were blackmailed about your worst secret and then saw your dead roommate’s body in your kitchen. It probably fucked with my head. Nina would probably call it a coping mechanism.
My parents’ kitchen was worlds apart from my grimy, poorly lit bathroom, and the whole idea of Mohini seemed laughable in the eye-wateringly bright afternoon sun. Nina was right, after all, Mohini was a coping mechanism. My nightmares of her dwindled away with therapy and pills that helped me sleep better at night.
But if I imagined Mohini, then who or what the fuck had been in my apartment?
I went over to the front door and made sure it was locked. The windows as well. Maybe it’s not the worst thing that I stay here for a few days, strange lady on my porch and all.
I looked around the kitchen. The utilities were on a standing automatic payment, so the fridge was still running.
I rummaged through a few of the cupboards. Weetabix. Four jumbo boxes of Weetabix. Damn, Dad. How did a man who only ate Weetabix for breakfast every single day of his life decide he wanted to eat curr
y for all three meals? I’m sure they don’t have Weetabix, or anything remotely similar, back in Sri Lanka. I would have reminded him to pack a couple of boxes for his trip if he was actually talking to me. He was doing the whole I’m not mad, just disappointed thing at the time. It fucking sucked.
The spice rack was still labeled and arranged alphabetically. Of course Mom wouldn’t have it any other way. She had all the exotic blends—pepper from Pondicherry, black salt from Cyprus, not that she really ever used them. I made sure not to mess anything up. It used to drive her crazy when I would rummage through, adding chili flakes on everything when I first got here. Not that she was a great cook. I mean, she mostly used the electric burner on the stovetop rather than actual fire, that’s how haphazard she was in the kitchen. And even though she loved to serve canapés with hints of spice at her book club meetings, anything but salt or pepper would leave both her and Dad tag-teaming the bathroom the moment her guests left.
I’d have to get some groceries if I was going to stay.
I pulled out my phone again and clicked on my banking app, bracing myself. I’d been getting a few random gigs lately, but this is the Bay Area. Twelve bucks for avocado toast, right? But I exhaled when I saw my balance. Looks like my last few customers had come through, those sick sons of bitches. I wasn’t as broke as I had thought.
It’s your lucky day, Bethany from the bank. I won’t have to deal with you again just yet.
I threw away a few old phone messages stuck to the fridge door so I could use the magnets. I didn’t have my toothbrush or any clean underwear, but I always kept their postcards with me. They hadn’t gotten too scuffed up from being stashed in my purse.
Namaste from New Delhi! they had written. We’ll be back soon, Paloma. We can talk then from the Maldives. Wish you were here, sweet girl! from Sri Lanka. That was probably Mom. She could be cheery even when the world was ending. It hurt to swallow. The card had an elephant on it, with coconut trees in the background.
I wish we’d spoken before they left. But then, I wish a lot of things. That I had what it took to make them happy. That I didn’t disappoint them every step of the way. That I had been what they expected when they brought me back eighteen years ago and gave me this perfectly wonderful life that never felt like it was mine to begin with.
My Sweet Girl Page 4