Chapter 18
I close the door quietly, hoping my parents are sleeping, nonetheless suspecting they are both up anxiously awaiting my return.
It’s been hard for them to sleep when I’m not home, something that is probably clingy for the parents of a full-grown adult.
Although, they may debate the “full-grown” part.
They certainly seem to treat me like a petulant, rule-breaking child by attempting to micromanage every aspect of my life.
The double standard between me and my “do no wrong” brother sometimes still annoys me, but it feels weird to be jealous of someone who is dead.
And while I dread my parents’ reactions to my arrest, after jail there is a comfort in being home.
The house smells of cardamom instead of puke, which is a major plus, for starters.
“Putha!” Ammi comes running from the direction of the kitchen.
Putha means “son” in Sinhalese; those at school always made jokes about how it sounded like puta, which is something decidedly less endearing in Spanish.
To my parents’ credit, they always called both my brother and me putha, the much more endearing and revered term than the one for daughter, trying at least on the surface to make us feel like we were equals.
My mother begins muttering a Buddhist prayer in Sinhalese under her breath.
She does this every time I leave the house and every time I come back, believing the words keep me safe.
I’ve also found different trinkets hidden in my taxi, blessed talismans placed there to ward away evil spirits.
Given that a man was murdered in my taxi, I’d say they are probably not working.
“Ammi,” I say as I stop myself from crying as she squeezes me tightly. I can hear her sniff me a little, a polite reminder that I need a shower. “How are you and Thathi doing?”
“Never mind how we’re doing. You’re the one we’ve been worried about.”
I look at Ammi. Her eyes are wrinkled with exhaustion. Her mouth is downturned. Her hair, in just a few days, seems more dull and white.
“I didn’t do it, Ammi.”
“Of course you didn’t, chuti.” Chuti means “little one” or “baby,” a name that used to annoy me, but now just feels like a term of endearment I need after this ordeal. I’m fighting so hard for my independence, but now that I’m home, I realize there’s no other place I’d rather be.
“Where is Thathi?”
“He’s sleeping. He’s tired.”
I furrow my brow. Thathi would normally be up with Ammi waiting for me—or at least he would if it were my brother in this mess.
“Is he okay? You can be honest,” I plead.
“He is fine. You need to get some rest.” Her answer is uncharacteristically curt. Normally, Ammi loves to talk.
I remember the bags of food I’m holding, definitely cold by now, and shove them toward my mother.
“You should have come straight home after the investigation,” my mother says with a disapproving sniff as she takes the bags from me.
“I needed some fresh air,” I reply.
She heads toward the kitchen with the bags with me trailing behind her. I want to demand that she tell me the truth about Thathi’s health, only I know that will likely result in her bursting into tears. She’s been through enough already.
“I’m going to go back out and investigate tomorrow with Amaya.”
“Ah, too bad your lawyer is a Sri Lankan woman and not some handsome Sri Lankan man,” my mother says.
“Ammmmi!” I screech. I am literally arrested for murder, and my mother is still trying to set me up.
I’d imagine this awful situation could be made better with a loving partner—someone supporting me through the roughest time of my life.
Or it could be made worse. Ask anyone who has been cheated on.
So instead I’ll take friendship. Who says that friendship can’t be just as good as romantic love?
After all, it’s thanks to Alex and Amaya that I’m actually out of jail.
It’s Amaya, not some boyfriend who won’t text me back for days, tracking down all these leads with me.
She doesn’t roll her eyes in annoyance when I share my often crappy investigative leads or theories.
I love her heady, loud laugh. How loud she is all the time, actually.
My parents want me to blend in, to quiet myself in a country that isn’t mine. Amaya makes her presence known.
“Amaya called us and explained everything. What the case involved, next steps. She seems like she really cares. But…”
“But what?”
“Your father and I, we can take out a second mortgage on the house if you think we should hire a private lawyer. They are expensive, Siriwathi, but this charge is serious. You could go away for the rest of your—” My mother pauses, with a strange gargle in her throat that makes an appearance when a character on her favorite TV show is killed off or during those ASPCA commercials.
She is always so stoic, so seeing this rare display of emotion hurts my heart.
“No. I’ll be okay. Amaya is good. Public defenders get a bad reputation.
She cares a lot.” I feel both annoyed and extremely touched by my mother’s suggestion.
She wants the best for me, hurt feelings of anyone else be damned.
I hate how things and people associated with the poor are always seen as less than, a marker of bad service and poor quality.
Am I trying to convince my mother as much as myself that I should stick with Amaya? Are Amaya and I both in over our heads?