What was the worst that could happen if someone found out my secret?
One of the first things I did when I moved to the US and learned about the internet was go online and research my options. I’d even double-checked after my last conversation with Arun. I knew that there was an agreement between the United States and Sri Lanka that was signed in 1999 that allowed for extradition. I also knew that extradition wouldn’t be barred because of a lapse of time, which meant that I could always be sent back if I was found guilty. It hadn’t changed in eighteen years.
But what was I guilty of? It’s not like I could describe it in a few words—narrow it down to a simple Google search. All I know is that I had kept it a secret from everyone. And it stayed that way until Miss Chandra’s fucking letter.
First my parents read it. Obviously they did. The damn thing was addressed to them. But taking it from their box of documents and keeping it with me—that was my mistake.
I still couldn’t believe Arun had it in him to nose around and actually find it. What a shit.
My hands shook a little. It’s almost a shame he was dead. I’d have liked to teach him a lesson.
My phone beeped—Nina. It’s almost like she knew.
Just wanted to check in—you never booked your appointment for this month.
Fuck, that’s right. I’d been so busy trying not to think about her as I snuck in a glass or two of Dad’s scotch that I forgot I was supposed to schedule our meeting.
Fantastic. Now I needed to figure out a way to tiptoe around all this bullshit without her knowing how upset I was.
I looked at Mom’s clothes again, and pulled my towel closer around my body. Who the hell was I kidding? I’d just run the clothes I’d been wearing through the laundry. I could chill out for an hour or two in a towel. Mom’s clothes would never fit me right anyway.
12
RATMALANA, SRI LANKA
THE WORST THING ABOUT the religion lesson with Sister Cynthia was that it wasn’t scheduled for a particular day of the month. She would just show up at our classroom and we would have the day’s lesson, which usually ended with one of us getting caned and the rest in tears.
Miss Sarah once let us watch The Sound of Music as a special treat, but imagining Sister Cynthia sing was impossible. Imagining her as anything but an evil skeleton was inconceivable.
Bony. I guess that was the best word to describe her. She looked like a heap of bones wrapped up in a bedsheet. The flesh on her cheeks and neck sagged down like cobwebbed, brown curtains, and her wimple dragged far back on her forehead without a trace of hair, making her look more like a skull than a face.
But she wasn’t scary because of the way she looked. She was scary because of the way she made us feel.
Like when we happily skipped into our sewing lesson the next day and found her sitting at the front of the room, where Miss Nayana usually sat.
It was like someone knocked all the air out of us.
“Hello there, girls.” Her voice was high-pitched and soft, like a little child’s. Too high to come from a skeleton. It made the small hairs on my arms stand up. It was worse somehow than if she shouted at us.
“To your seats now. Let’s not waste time.”
We quickly shuffled to our chairs and sat down, not meeting her eye. None of us wanted any reason to get into trouble.
Sister Cynthia twirled a cane in her hand. I’d never seen her without it. Her thin fingers wrapped around the stick, the way ivy wrapped around the gutters outside our playroom. Was this one of the seven canes she kept in her office?
And where was Lihini? She must be late because she was helping Miss Chandra clear up breakfast. I kept peering out the door for her, but she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She’d get punished for sure today. She needed to get here soon.
“Now let’s see, we have some unfinished business from last month,” Sister Cynthia went on. She hadn’t noticed me look for Lihini.
“Dumila, where are you?”
Dumila was meek when she lifted her hand.
“Here, Sister.”
“Good. Now I trust you had time to reflect on your actions from last month?”
Dumila’s cheeks were as red as a tomato.
“Yes, Sister.”
“And you have your lines, do you?”
Dumila had a newspaper clipping of Chaminda Vaas, the Sri Lankan bowler, that she kept in her notebook. It was one of her most prized possessions. She said she was his biggest fan, which we all argued with, but she did talk about him nonstop. Sister Cynthia had found the clipping the last time she was here and made Dumila stand at the front of the class while she scolded her, calling her names like harlot, though none of us knew what it meant and Miss Sarah wouldn’t tell us afterwards either. Then she asked her to write I will not have impure thoughts five hundred times, saying a prayer between each line. She told her that God will know if she didn’t. And every messy letter and every spelling mistake will get her caned three times each.
“Come to the front of class, then?”
Dumila rose slowly and walked up, clutching a sheaf of papers to her chest.
Sister Cynthia smiled. The rims outlining her teeth were grey, like her gums were rotten. It wasn’t a friendly smile, and Dumila looked like she was going to faint.
“What did you write?”
“I—I will, I will not have i-impure thoughts.”
“And how many times did you write it?”
“F-f-f-five hundred times, Sister.”
“And did you ask God to have mercy on your soul between every time? So you won’t burn in the eternal fire?”
“Y-y-yes, Sister.”
“Show me.”
“S-Sister?”
“Show me how you prayed to God.”
Dumila knelt down slowly, and we all held our breath because she looked like she was about to fall over. She clasped her hands in front of her.
“D-d-dear God. Please f-forgive me for the wrong thing I d-did. Please have m-mercy on my soul and save me from the fires of hell.” I was surprised she could speak. Her forehead was glistening with sweat.
“Very good. Now stand up.”
Dumila rose to her feet.
“Did you check that you had five hundred lines exactly?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And have they been written neatly, with no errors?” She twirled her cane then, and Dumila went white.
“Y-y-yes, Sister.”
Sister Cynthia reached out and grabbed Dumila’s ear. Dumila winced but didn’t say anything, though we could see the skeletal fingers tugging hard.
“Are you absolutely sure, Dumila?”
“Y-yes, Sister. I promise.”
And we knew she wasn’t lying. Dumila had spent hours on those lines. She had even asked Miss Sarah to check if they were okay. Five hundred lines wasn’t easy, but there was no way she was silly enough to risk the cane. She had used her neatest handwriting, erasing and rewriting everything until it was perfect and her fingers had dark red marks on them from holding the pencil.
“Are those your lines, in your hands?”
“Y-y-yes, Sister.”
Sister Cynthia let go of Dumila’s ear.
“Then tear it up please.”
“S-Sister?” Dumila was confused. So was I.
“You heard me. Tear up the papers.”
“Y-you don’t want to see them?”
Sister Cynthia smiled again with satisfaction in her eyes.
“No. God knows everything, and he knows if you have written them properly. Tear them up please.”
Dumila blinked hard, and slowly but surely tore up her hard work.
“Bin is over there.” Sister Cynthia pointed with her cane. “Now take your seat. We don’t have time to waste. Today’s story is from the first book of Kings, chapter
three. Maya, if you would be kind enough to read.”
Maya took Dumila’s place at the front of the classroom and was midway through the reading when Lihini dashed into the classroom.
“Sorry, Miss Nayana!” she called out cheerfully. “There were so many dishes today and I—” The deathly silence gave away that something was wrong, or maybe it was our terrified faces.
Lihini froze, too, finally realising that it wasn’t Miss Nayana in the class.
“Hello, Lihini.” Sister Cynthia spoke softly, pleasantly, like she had just bumped into Lihini while out for a walk. We all knew that this was the worst.
“I’m sorry, Sister Cynthia. I didn’t realise I was late and there was a lot of washing up today.”
“I see. So you have an excuse. Very good. Let’s see if God will believe your excuses when you are trying to get into heaven.”
Lihini kept her head down.
Sister Cynthia paused and looked Lihini over. Her sparse eyebrows rose and my heart sank.
We usually wore a jumble of donated clothes and were allowed whatever fit us and was comfortable. Neither Miss Chandra nor Perera sir ever scolded us for what we wore, unless we were leaving the orphanage or having a visit. But Sister Cynthia was very particular about our clothes, especially about our shirts having sleeves and the length of our skirts. She said we were tempting the devil by showing off too much, and that as young ladies it was our responsibility to dress so that we were fit to enter the kingdom of God.
She had once caned Shanika for her skirt ending three inches above her knees, and Lihini’s skirt today was at least two inches shorter than that.
“Look at your skirt.”
Lihini glanced at it, suddenly realising her mistake as well.
“I’m sorry, Sister. I washed my clothes yesterday and they haven’t been put to dry yet.” We didn’t even know that Sister Cynthia was coming today, so how were we supposed to dress especially for her? I’m sure she did this on purpose.
“Come here,” Sister Cynthia said simply.
Lihini slowly walked to the front while Maya shrank back to the corner. I could see her shaking and I wished there was something I could do.
“Tell me, child. Have you not heard anything I have told you about sinning?”
“No, Sister. I mean, yes, Sister. I’ve heard.”
“And even still, even still here you are. Dressed like a prostitute.”
We all gasped. We definitely knew what that word meant, even though we probably weren’t supposed to.
Lihini’s bottom lip was trembling and her eyes were filling with tears. I felt so sorry for her. I wished there was something I could do but I knew I would only make it worse if I said something.
“I’m sorry, Sister Cynthia.”
“No point apologising to me. There’s a higher power you need to beg forgiveness from.” She lifted up her cane and Lihini winced.
“But I do suppose I should give you something to help you remember.”
Lihini took a deep breath and held out her hand. When Sister Cynthia caned Shanika, she couldn’t even hold her teacup for three days.
“And what is this?” Sister Cynthia smiled.
“My hand, Sister.”
“And why would I want your hand?”
Lihini looked helpless.
“For you to cane, Sister.”
Sister Cynthia smiled again and I thought I was going to vomit. All of us in the classroom were holding our breath, our eyes wide in fear.
“Turn around first. Let everyone here see the way a prostitute dresses.”
Lihini hesitated.
“Turn around,” Sister Cynthia said, her voice going even higher.
Lihini turned in a circle, slowly, like the ballerina in a music box.
“Stop,” Sister Cynthia ordered when her back was to the classroom.
Lihini stopped. I couldn’t see her face but my heart was breaking for her.
“Now lift your dress.”
Lihini’s head snapped towards Sister Cynthia to make sure she heard her. We all weren’t sure we heard her.
“Lift. Your. Dress.”
Lihini just stood there.
“You seem to want to show the world everything you have, so lift your dress. Now.”
Lihini’s hands could barely grip the sides of the pink cotton fabric, but she inched it up just a little bit.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Higher.”
Her face was towards the wall again, but the back of her neck was red. If she lifted it any further, then we would see her panties.
“More.”
“Sister, I—” Lihini sounded like she was crying.
“Do it.” Sister Cynthia swung the cane through the air. It made a whooshing sound and Lihini jumped.
She edged up her dress until her white panties could be seen by the whole class.
“Is this what you like? To show off your private parts to everyone?” And with that, Sister Cynthia caned the backs of her legs.
She did it fast, the cane cutting through the air. She only did it once. We all gasped. I could see the red welt forming on the back of Lihini’s thighs.
Lihini didn’t cry out though. She didn’t make a sound.
When Sister Cynthia made her return to her seat, I could see her face was soaked with tears.
I tried to make eye contact with her to tell her how sorry I was for her, but she didn’t look at me.
“None of this will be tolerated when you girls join me at St. Margaret’s, do you hear? I’m just training you now so you know what to expect. I will make well-behaved young ladies of you yet.”
There was a small sob from my right, and I looked to see if it was Lihini. But she was staring determinedly at her notebook.
The sob came from further down. It was Shanika, who had covered her face with her hands.
There was no way I could go live at St. Margaret’s when I turned fifteen. There was no way I could deal with Sister Cynthia every day. I’d burn everything to the ground if they tried.
13
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
I DREW A LINE with my fingernail over the cushion of the pristine white couch and then ran my thumb over the mark to erase it. It disappeared with a satisfying softness.
How the hell did Nina manage to keep her couch so clean when she had different clients sit on it all day? I had asked her once, but she just smiled. She could be infuriating like that. Don’t get me wrong. Nina is great. Just in a smug-kindergarten-teacher-who-vaped-in-the-playground-after-the-kids-went-home kind of way. She might be cool, but she did spend most of the day telling people what to do.
“Paloma?” Nina uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Her white socks framed her pale, thin ankles, and she tapped her pen against the armrest of her chair.
Damn it, I’d drifted off again. She gets annoyed when I do that. Says I should be trying to focus more on the present. On the conversations that I’m really having, instead of the ones I reimagine in my head. I really needed to get my shit together. What was her question again?
“Paloma, I asked what made you so sure that Arun was dead?”
Oh yes, this is why I zoned out.
Because I saw his damn body, I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t scream at Nina. I needed her on my side. That’s why I couldn’t tell her everything. Not what Arun found. Not how he used it against me. And certainly, definitely not that there’s the teensiest, tiniest part of me that’s fucking relieved he’s gone.
“I know what I saw, Nina.” I kept my voice even. “I didn’t imagine it.” I don’t do that anymore. I didn’t say it, but Nina knew.
She kept her voice level with mine.
“I’m not saying you imagined anything. I’m just asking if you were absolutely certain, that’s all.”
“I’m certain.”
“So, you saw Arun’s body in the kitchen, and you called the police right away?”
“Um, not exactly.”
Nina did this super-annoying thing where she didn’t say anything and just waited for me to elaborate. She did it on purpose because she knew the awkward silence would force me to keep talking. God, I hated it when she did that.
I didn’t really want to tell her about what I saw next. We’ve spent so long deconstructing this idea of why I couldn’t get an old Sri Lankan folktale out of my mind. Why a made-up ghost followed me all the way to the Bay Area and plagued my nightmares since I was twelve years old.
I couldn’t tell her that I’d seen Mohini again, after so many years. We’d worked so hard for me to understand that I’d just made the whole thing up to deal with my guilt of leaving. I get that now. I didn’t quite know what the hell I saw in my apartment, but I did know that it would just upset her. And I didn’t want her to be upset. Nina was one of the few friends I had.
I know you probably think it’s strange that I consider my therapist a friend. I don’t think even Nina likes it so much. She got all uncomfortable when I mentioned it once. But I do think of her as a friend. I mean, you would tell your friend when you’re mad at your parents for leaving you, wouldn’t you? You would bitch to your friend about the assholes you met on a daily basis, and you would tell your friend about some fucked-up ghost you thought you saw when you were a kid, right? Of course, a friend doesn’t charge you a hundred and sixty dollars an hour that you have to co-pay for because your private insurance plan is crap, but a real friend would cancel the rest of her afternoon when you told her you saw your roommate slumped dead across your kitchen table. So, yeah, Nina was a friend. Probably one of my only friends.
“I freaked out, obviously. I rushed out of the apartment. And I think I passed out.”
I couldn’t read Nina’s expression. Her next question seemed innocent enough.
“Have you been taking your meds?” she asked, looking inside a pristine white file. Mine, obviously. She kept all her pristine white files inside a pristine white filing cabinet, in a corner of her pristine white office. When I say pristine, I mean surgical-level clean. When I say white, I mean eyeball-searing, detergent-commercial white. She even asked her clients to take their shoes off so they wouldn’t mess up the spotless shag carpet. And it always smelled like freshly laundered sheets. She probably had an air freshener tucked behind the couch or something, because there was never any laundry in sight.
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