My Sweet Girl

by Amanda Jayatissa

  I braced myself. He was going to start scolding me at any moment. Would he stop me from attending English classes? Or take away my books? Maybe I could hide just one book before he took them away. I could sneak it under my mattress. Or ask Lihini to hide it for me. I wonder if he would send me to St. Margaret’s to live with Sister Cynthia. Surely I didn’t deserve that?

  “Paloma, you did very well at the last visit. Very well, indeed. So well, that Mr. and Mrs. Evans would like to welcome you into their family. Paloma, they would like to adopt you.”

  I counted eight beats of my heart. Then I took a deep breath.

  He must be joking. There was no way.

  “Me?” I asked. My goodness, I sounded so stupid.

  “Yes, you. They initially thought they wanted someone younger, which is why they spent so much time with the smaller girls. But after Mrs. Evans saw you reading her favourite book in the playroom, well, she said you shared a connection.”

  If miracles did exist—if fairies and pots of gold at the ends of rainbows and geese that laid golden eggs were all given to me, if every wish I had ever wished for decided to come true all at once, I still couldn’t believe this. This. This was pure magic. I thought back to Mrs. Evans and the way her golden hair shone in the sunlight. She truly was an angel. And she had flown down from heaven and chosen me, her sweet girl.

  “Paloma, are you okay?”

  I nodded my head. My legs felt weak even though I was sitting down. I was about to burst out crying. I couldn’t explain why.

  “I just—I just can’t believe it,” I finally managed. My voice shook. It felt hard to speak. Or to breathe.

  “Well, take it in. This is big news. The Evanses have been trying to adopt for quite a while and have finally been cleared by the NCPA, that’s the National Child Protection Authority. We are lucky they decided to visit our home after getting their approvals. They have gone back to California for now, to make all the necessary arrangements while your paperwork gets cleared from this end. But it shouldn’t take too long, thanks to Mr. Whittaker’s connections.”

  He kept talking more about forms I had to sign and interviews I needed to have with the NCPA, but I couldn’t listen. California! That was in America! America, like we saw on TV! America, where beautiful, light-haired women roller-skated on the beach, and they drank milkshakes, and ate burgers and french fries, and went shopping and got these big, beautiful cardboard bags with shop names printed on them in fancy letters. America, where movies were made. Where everyone wore tennis shoes, not rubber slippers like we did, and denim jackets and denim jeans.

  “Paloma, do you understand? You need to keep this to yourself for now, okay? We’ll call an assembly tomorrow to announce the news.”

  “I can’t tell anyone?”

  “Just for today, it’ll be our little secret, okay?” He winked at me. “News like this, well, you know how some of the girls might get upset.” He meant Shanika, of course. We’re always having to tiptoe around her now.

  “It’ll be a hard adjustment when you leave too. For your friends to get used to you being gone.”

  Oh my goodness! Lihini! How could I have forgotten? How could I live without her, all the way in a faraway country? She would be heartbroken if I left her. A memory flashed into my mind of Lihini crying, the way she cried that time Beth died in Little Women. And that wasn’t even real. Oh gosh. Suddenly, America didn’t feel so exciting after all.

  “Perera sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will they—will Mr. and Mrs. Evans be adopting only me? Wouldn’t they like someone else also?”

  “Why, Paloma, are you scared to go?”

  “No. No, sir, I just thought—”

  But I couldn’t finish.

  Perera sir smiled, but it was without his usual twinkle.

  “No, Paloma, it’s just you.”

  19

  SAN FRANCISCO, CA

  I PUT THE BOTTLE of scotch back in my dad’s liquor cabinet and dumped my mug into the sink, running the tap so the remainder of last night’s drink rinsed off. I’ve always taken Dad’s scotch in a coffee mug. He had been so mad at me the time he found me drinking from one of his lowball tumblers from Tiffany’s. I think that upset him more than the fact that I was sneaking his scotch at fifteen. God, I must have been a difficult kid.

  I eyed the six glasses with their diamond-point edging, laid out next to the matching $500 ice bucket. I suppose I could just drink from them now. He’d never find out.

  Somehow it felt preposterous.

  More preposterous than the drink I needed last night after watching the hour hand of the clock above my bed slowly circle its way around more than three times while I tried to stop myself from imagining Mohini snaking her fingers around my neck.

  It’s not real, I kept telling myself. She’s not real. But things that don’t feel real during the day have a way of sliding into bed with you at night, caressing you until you’re too numb to move, choking you down until you can’t breathe.

  And there was that image of me, taking the mop out of the janitor’s closet. Surely, I had to remember that? I know I liked to stress clean, but I had passed out in the stairwell for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t about to go Marie Kondo my apartment when I’d just seen my roommate’s dead body there. Right?

  Fuck, I need to shake myself out of this bullshit.

  I could smell my breath, rancid and sour. Whatever was left of the drink churned around in my stomach. I needed some actual coffee in my mug.

  My phone had died and I’d left my charger in the kitchen last night, so I plugged it in while I waited for my coffee to brew.

  I felt my heart beat a little faster as the phone turned on, but there was nothing serious I had missed. Of course there were no calls from the police. I don’t know what the hell I was expecting anyway.

  I loaded up my email. There was one from Mr. Williams, right on top. My thumb shook a little as I tapped on it.

  Miss Evans,

  There’s really no point in going to such lengths to avoid me. We will meet sooner or later. It is certainly in your best interest to return my calls.

  That fucker. Who does he think he is, trying to force my hand like this? I’ll see you in hell first, asshole. I hit delete.

  I had two emails from some of my more normal clients—Sweaty and Wet;) read one subject line, Pink Floral Panties??? read the other, but those were fine, I’d deal with them when things settled down a bit. I also had two voice mails.

  That’s weird. Who the hell leaves voice mails anymore? Doesn’t everyone just text?

  I hesitated for a second but then took a deep breath and tapped the notification.

  I listened to the first few seconds, my breathing slowing down. The first one was only Ida. I suppose it’s impressive that she even had a cell phone to start with.

  Hello, dear. Glad you’re back home and hope you are settling in. Just wanted to check in with you. Let me know if tomorrow at ten a.m. is a good time for you to come over? There’s someone I’d like you to meet. As you know, we do have a few things to chat about. Anyway, I’ll see you at ten tomorrow at my place. This is Ida, by the way.

  Someone she’d like me to meet? Hell, no. Dealing with random strangers at my parents’ dinner parties was bad enough, but I’ll be damned if I let myself be cornered into an old lady’s matchmaking scheme.

  I tapped on the icon to listen to the second voice mail.

  It was Ida, again.

  Hello again, dear. It’s Ida. I can’t remember if I told you, but could we meet at ten a.m. tomorrow, at my place? There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Hope that’s all right with you? See you soon.

  Wow, Ida really was getting old.

  I looked through my texts. Nothing unread, but I realized with a jolt that I had, in fact, followed through on my promise to Nina and messaged Sam. We were supposed to me
et this evening. What the actual fuck was drunk me thinking?

  It’s not that I didn’t want to meet him. I should. I needed to. I had to know if Arun had told him anything. It was the way he said it—I’ve heard so much about you. It started up the humming again. The same humming I felt when I saw the note that was left on my fridge.

  Even though Arun found out about what I did, how could he have found out about the song? He must have had contact with someone from Sri Lanka. Or did someone else leave me that note on the fridge? Perhaps the same person who killed Arun, and this was his way of telling me I was next? Or maybe I was just being a paranoid lunatic.

  Fuck me, there was only one way to find out. And we’d already set up a time and place to meet in the city.

  I just can’t believe that I don’t remember messaging him. I guess this is what Nina meant. Drinking on my meds wasn’t the best idea.

  I turned my laptop on and logged on to my Facebook account, keying in Arun Patel in the search bar. There were fucking hundreds of them. Arun Mukerjee was no better. And every single goddamned one of them forced me to think of Arun’s vacant eyes after I pulled his head back in my kitchen.

  I tried searching for Sam and then Saman. I didn’t have his last name, and it was an even more useless exercise than searching for Arun, so I let it go.

  But I did go on my own profile to check what Sam would see if he figured out who I was. Not that he would have much luck, I’m sure. I was always cautious about my privacy online. I only used my initial, P. Evans, and lord knows there were enough Evanses around to give me at least a little anonymity.

  My last post was about a month ago. A video of a puppy dancing around on his hind legs with his dinner bowl in his mouth. Nothing too heavy, nothing too political. Good. A few weeks before that, someone had tagged me in a flyer about some club opening. I didn’t go, obviously, but at least it made it look like I had some sort of social life going on. I looked good, albeit a little blurry, in my profile picture too—a candid of me holding a giant ice cream cone and laughing, my new, perfect teeth on full display. The shot was grainy enough, edited to look “vintage” so my features weren’t super clear. It was taken by my ex-roommate Fern, before the whole diamond-earring debacle. It’s almost a shame she left. She sure could take a mean photo.

  On autopilot, I clicked on my newsfeed and scrolled through, only half glancing at the bland memes and news articles people shared to make themselves look funny, or concerned about the environment, or politically inclined. I stopped when I saw a post by Christina Hannigan, who made my life in private school absolute hell—she was holding a fat pink baby, her hair still falling in perfect, blond, artfully messy waves, casually tucked behind one ear to reveal a perfect pearl Chanel earring. How tacky. She was fucking glowing though. I visited her profile and scrolled through carefully. I didn’t want to accidentally “like” something and have her know I was stalking her.

  She’d posted something about the benefits of a vegan diet. She’d captioned it I just really care what I put into my body. I saw the boys you dated in high school, Christina. You most certainly do not.

  Christina married a wealthy finance-bro type. You know what I mean, the kind that has an Armani suit in every shade of charcoal and takes helicopter rides up to Napa Valley. He looked like a goblin decided to procreate with a scarecrow, but whatever, they seemed pretty happy. Her profile was full of pictures of her baby, who was unfortunately taking after his dad. Ah, well. Karma is a bitch, or something like that anyway. You couldn’t even see the scar on her chin anymore from when I punched her and it split open. Of course, her parents flew her to LA to meet with the best plastic surgeons, and she was given a BMW convertible so she would “feel safe getting to school and back,” while I was suspended for a week and had my phone privileges taken away. Like, who the hell was I going to call anyway? And she was the one who got Adam Green, the class creep, to tell everyone that I’d let him go to third base with me and that I smelled like onions and garlic down there.

  My hands were shaking again, so I closed my laptop and went over to the fridge. I was careful not to look at the postcards, even though I had already stuck on the one with the leopard that I picked up yesterday when I went back to my apartment.

  The kitchen window looked into the street, and the lacy white curtains were open. The girl with short, neon-pink hair was walking Ida’s dog. Damn, I knew Ida was old, but she really must be getting on if she needed someone else to help walk her dog. She loved that terrier like it was a child of her own. Of course, she never had a child of her own, so maybe Ida did have more common sense than I gave her credit for.

  I noticed the woman across the street suddenly, and almost dropped my coffee mug. She was standing at the top of my driveway, staring straight at the house. That’s all she did—just stood there, swaying slightly. Her hair was even wilder than before, like it hadn’t been brushed in days, and she wore the same white robe she had on earlier. It hung open over a T-shirt that had a picture of a cross on it.

  I was rooted to the spot. I wanted to go out there, to ask her what the fuck she wanted, but I couldn’t make myself move. I don’t know if she could see me through the window, but she suddenly cocked her head to one side and smiled.

  And then she put something in my mailbox.

  I could hear the blood pounding in my ears as she turned around and walked back to her house.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there, willing myself to calm down. It’s nothing, I said to myself. She’s just a neighbor. She just put something in your mailbox. Just because she’s brown and her hair is disheveled doesn’t mean she’s someone from your past that’s out to get you.

  When I finally felt like I could be steady on my feet, I walked slowly down my driveway. I looked over at her house, but there was no movement from inside. If she was standing by a window, watching me, I’d never know.

  It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid, Paloma, just do it quickly and get it over with.

  I yanked open the door to the mailbox and reached inside, bracing myself.

  It was a package wrapped in brown paper. I ripped it open.

  An aged copy of Wuthering Heights.

  I flipped to the first page even though my hands shuddered enough that I could barely hold the book.

  I saw what I knew would be there—To our sweet Paloma, from your new mom & dad.

  The book they gave me when I first moved here. A welcome present, they said.

  How the hell did the nut job across the street get her hands on this?

  I rushed back inside and locked the door, making sure I had activated the alarm. I can’t remember if I did it last night. Fuck, I needed to be more careful when I was drinking. I hugged the book to my chest and took deep breaths.

  Calm down, Paloma. There must be some explanation for this. No need to jump to any conclusions.

  I took another deep breath and looked at the time. Shit, it was well after noon. I should shower, and start getting ready for my meeting with Sam. I thought about the effort of shaving my legs and drying my hair. I mean, I know it isn’t a date or anything, that I’m just meeting him to make sure that Arun didn’t go shoot his mouth off. But there was no way I was going to meet him looking like shit. If my mother taught me anything, it was that it’s far easier to get what you want when you look like the best possible version of yourself.

  Nothing wrong with being well presented, she would say, and judging from the amount of free stuff she would get, it’s true. She was pure sugar. I could never be that sweet. Especially not with men.

  Maybe I should just cancel with Sam. It did seem like a lot of effort right now.

  If only Arun’s face didn’t claw its way into my mind every time I shut my eyes.

  Fuck, if I don’t figure out what the hell is going on sooner than later, I will seriously lose my shit.

  20

  RATMALANA, SRI LANKA


  I HAVE NEVER BEEN very good at running. Not terrible, of course. I wasn’t a slowpoke like Dumila, who huffed and puffed after just one round of run and catches. But I was never fast enough to be picked first. Actually, I have never been picked first for anything my whole life. The only reason I even got cast as Mary in the Christmas play was because I had begged and begged Miss Sarah, and even then, it was the angel Gabriel who got more lines. So I really, really couldn’t understand how Mr. and Mrs. Evans chose me.

  She had said it was because I liked Wuthering Heights. Thank goodness I hadn’t finished the chapter I was on the day before. Wuthering Heights—how fitting. Mrs. Evans was going to be my Catherine. She was going to save me.

  But was that all? Surely they wouldn’t just invite me into their family based on a book? I considered myself, weighing out the pros and cons like Lihini always kept saying I should. I was fairer than most of the girls, like a suddha, a foreigner, myself. At least according to everyone else. Maybe that was one of the reasons why they would like me? I mean, Miss Nayana says it’ll be easy for me to find a husband one day because I’m so fair, but that wouldn’t be why the Evanses would choose me to be their child, right? Could people’s lives really change like that, just because of how fair or dark they are?

  Besides, Lihini is as fair as I am, and they still picked me. Me, with my ugly, chipped tooth that she had said was adorable, for some amazing reason. I made up my mind, right then and there—I was going to be Mrs. Evans’s sweet girl. I was going to be as sweet as they came. I was going to be worthy of her love, or both of their love, and not just because of the lightness of my skin.