Chapter 12 #2
“It’s not much. On a public defender salary, I can’t afford a ton of places. But it’s home,” Amaya says. “Also, for the first time in my adult life I have no roommates.”
God, I wish I didn’t have roommates. Especially ones that potty trained me.
“It’s amazing,” I respond. “I live with my parents and I really need to move out one day.” I feel embarrassed admitting that I, a fully grown-ass woman, am still living at home with my parents.
Of course I want my independence. I don’t want Ammi to constantly be demanding I date (and even worse, the son of a family friend) or asking when I’ll finally learn how to make chicken curry (for that same son of a family friend).
Mostly, I want to not constantly be accosted by memories of my brother.
Despite his death, memories of him are everywhere.
His old yellow Livestrong bracelet that was all the rage twenty years ago will show up in the bathroom, an old collar stay embedded in the carpet will stab me when I step on it, and the commemorative cup celebrating his graduation—summa cum laude, of course—stands out on the shelf.
Simultaneously, while I struggle with seeing these things, I cannot bear to part with them.
The thought of leaving my parents alone, as they grow older and more dependent on me, breaks my heart.
I can’t leave them when they are starting to need me most. Thathi is sick with his heart condition, and given his pain and slowness, I suspect he also has some additional illness my mother won’t disclose.
I help them with their bills, with their doctor’s appointments, and with house repairs.
They need me, though I wish with all my heart they didn’t.
I wish I could be a normal, carefree woman in her late twenties, hungover after a night of too many shots and in bed next to a young Ben Affleck.
Alex says my crushes are weird, but something about Ben and his unpretentious love of Dunkin’ makes me feel like he’d truly get me even though he’s from Boston.
Amaya unlocks the town house’s gate. As she pulls it open, a few more flecks of paint fall off, glittering in the sunlight like the snow I’m sure we’ll get in just a few months.
We climb the stairs, and she apologizes for her apartment’s place on the top floor of a fourth-floor walk-up.
Carrying a snake up four flights of stairs is the most exercise I’ve done in days, and I try to hide my shallow breathing when we’ve reached the top.
When my brother was alive, we used to go to the gym together.
It feels like another life, when I would voluntarily take the gym’s Pilates classes, which I’m sure would now feel like cruel and unusual punishment on muscles that only get worked when I’m punching the brakes in my cab.
I canceled the membership a few weeks after he died.
Amaya opens the door to a studio apartment. The apartment has what I assume is original crown molding, beautiful hardwood floors, and a tiny kitchen that consists of a two-burner stove and a toaster oven.
“This is so nice,” I mutter from the doorway, genuinely taken in by the space, which contrasts Alex’s expensive high-rise apartment in every way, one of the only other New York City apartments I’ve seen and so the only obvious comparison.
There are plants and books on nearly every surface, adding to the apartment’s cozy atmosphere.
“Thanks. It is nice, isn’t it?” Amaya asks.
I stand by the door, aware I haven’t exactly been invited in.
If this were my house, Ammi would have already shoved a cup of Sri Lankan tea into Amaya’s hand (with milk and one teaspoon of sugar) and a plate of short eats, a variety of sweet and savory pastries, which somehow materialized from thin air.
It’s Sri Lankan tradition, at least for our parents’ generation, to always offer your guests, even unexpected ones, food and drink.
I stand on the threshold of the doorway and look at the photographs in frames that line her bookshelves.
One photo is with someone I assume is Amaya’s mother, another with her father, others with people who appear to be her family members.
Everything in the apartment has a slightly worn appearance.
Rather than being shabby, it simply looks lived-in and loved.
Abstract art in brilliant colors hangs on the wall.
I squint my eyes to look closer at the books on her shelves.
Some titles I recognize, others I don’t—I do see they span a wide variety of genres.
I laugh when I see a Criminal Law for Dummies book.
I wish that’s all it took—reading some shoddy book on the subject—or maybe, in my instance, listening to a few podcasts.
A few books on the couch have ribbons in them marking the last page read, and I notice she doesn’t have a television.
She is not just a collector of books, but a reader, which is increasingly impressive in a world where people prefer the internet to anything on paper.
“Okay, I’m going to leave the snake here. If I come back and it’s missing, I’m calling you.” Amaya laughs a little. “I know none of this situation is funny, but I just can’t believe I have a python in my home.”
“I think they eat mice; you can buy them frozen,” I offer.
“Ugh, that’s disgusting. And how do you even know that?”
“It appeared in one of my of my true crime podcasts, actually.” Maybe after this, I’ll have had my fill of true crime altogether. It can’t hit closer to home than this.
“Oh, that’s great. I like podcasts too. Sometimes, I wonder if I listen to all of that to keep me from my own thoughts.” Amaya laughs again, this time nervously. “Sorry, that was too deep. I sound a little unhinged,” Amaya responds, almost to herself.
“No, you don’t,” I say with a smile, realizing that trying to find a form of escape from present realities is something common to us both. “Luckily, snakes are not big eaters. You’ll probably only have to feed Frankie between every five and fourteen days.”
“That is…helpful,” Amaya says, probably surprised by my oddly specific fact. “Anyways, I need some coffee. There’s a place around the corner. We should probably try to google this guy.”
Searching for someone online is basically requisite research these days.
For dates, for colleagues, for some random person you haven’t spoken to in years but are now trying to figure out if they’ve broken off their engagement from a deep-dive Instagram search.
I find most surprises about a person these days are bad, like the time I spared myself from a potentially horrible guy when I found out his ideal first date was a strenuous hike and that he preferred girls who were “fit.”
“Aren’t you tired? You’re already home. We can do this tomorrow if you’d like,” I offer, always polite even if it’s to my detriment.
I blame Ammi for my over-accommodating ways.
She raised me like this. I can’t help but be aware of how much time my case is taking up in Amaya’s day—my panic attack likely adding to her stress levels.
“Tomorrow? We don’t have time. Grand jury presentation is in five days, Siriwathi.” She stops and appraises me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to add to the stress with the big countdown.”
I must seem so much more fragile after my panic attack. “It’s okay. Now it’s four days and twenty hours. Not that I’m counting or anything.”
“Once I get some coffee, I’ll be back, good as new,” Amaya says as she ushers me out of the doorway and back down the stairs.
—
The coffee shop is quaint and welcoming despite the gloom outside.
Fall in New York City is normally perfect with colorful leaves, the promise of candy in the air, and the Tompkins Square Halloween Dog Parade, where doggos somehow become even cuter by getting into tiny costumes.
The air is crisp and comfortable, and I no longer have to worry about shaving my legs consistently, because shorts season is all but over.
But lately, every day seems downcast and threatens rain as if we’re skipping the precious days of fall and descending directly into a long and cold winter, with its yellow snow piling up on the street corners and me dressed in a jacket that looks more like a sleeping bag than actual clothing.
It’s the perfect metaphor for my predicament.
We find a seat at the front by the window, and Amaya sips on the largest coffee I’ve ever seen (Is it a bucket or a mug?
I find myself wondering) while I hold a cup of tea.
“Big tea drinker?” Amaya asks, eyeing the mug. I can’t tell if it’s an admonishment or an inquiry.
“Oh yeah, actually, yes. My parents drink it a lot.”
“Mine too.”
I marvel that so much of the world’s tea comes from Sri Lanka, just a tiny island nation.
“Have you been back to Sri Lanka since you left?” Amaya asks.
“Once, when my aachchi died. It was sad to be there for that—but even then it was incredible to be back. I didn’t realize how much I missed it. It sounds silly, but being born there means part of it is always with me.”
I know it sounds like a line from a cheesy yet incredibly poignant Disney movie, but it’s true.
My first memories are from there. I wish I could visit again, but it is so damn expensive to get there—over $2,000 for the return ticket alone.
I miss being surrounded by people who look like me.
I love not sticking out for my brown skin or dark hair, and instead sticking out for my awkward sense of humor.
“Aachchi! It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word.
I’ve always called mine Grandmother,” Amaya responds.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to Sri Lanka too.
I used to go every summer as a kid. Now as an adult it’s been hard to find a time…
or maybe I’m just making excuses. I wasn’t born there; I was born here.
Somehow, I feel out of place there and out of place here, to be honest. I’ve never felt quite like I belong anywhere. ”
I want to tell her that on many days I feel the same.
Emigrating from a country for a better life feels like an abandonment of every part of my culture.
We make curry here with the exact same ingredients, but it never tastes exactly like it did in Sri Lanka.
In NYC, even though immigrants seem to be on every corner, at least in Queens, I still feel different.
I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, but I am her client, accused of an atrocious murder, and she is my lawyer, so I stay silent.