Chapter 26
After dinner, we stand outside the restaurant.
“Look, you can see Polaris, almost,” I say, pointing toward the sky.
“Polaris?”
“The North Star.”
“Where?” Amaya says, looking up in the direction of my finger.
“The two outermost stars in the Big Dipper point toward the North Star.”
She pauses, before excitedly exclaiming, “I see it! I never see stars in the city.”
It was my brother who taught me about the stars.
A reminder, he always said, that we’re just tiny specks in the universe.
At the time, I found this moment to be ridiculously cheesy and a little cringey—but thinking back on it now, I feel my chest tighten and a flood of sadness overwhelming me.
We’d stargaze while attending our neighbors’ summer bonfires—roasting marshmallows, mine always catching on fire and burning to a crisp, his always just perfectly toasted.
We’d strain our eyes hoping to see something, and then one day, miraculously, we saw the North Star.
“It’s called that because it’s a compass.
It’ll always guide you,” he said before giving me a noogie.
He’d always been so wise, so self-assured.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “It’s rare to be able to see anything. There’s too much light pollution,” I say. Ammi would tell me the chance event of seeing Polaris is a good omen and then mutter some Sinhalese prayer under her breath.
“I should call Alex,” I say as Amaya continues to stare at the little bit of light in the sky.
“Alex,” I say on speakerphone, knowing I won’t have to identify myself, “are you home?”
“Yes, I’ve been waiting to hear from you!” Alex exclaims.
“We got some tech questions, for the case.” I also need to ask him if he knew Brett.
“You got it.”
“We’ll be there in twenty,” I say before hanging up the phone as Amaya hails a cab.
“I know Alex can seem a bit much,” I explain to Amaya as I open the door of the cab for her, “but we’ve known each other since I moved here in third grade and became close friends in middle school.
We were both bullied pretty bad. Do kids still give each other wedgies now?
” I ask, feeling so out of touch with kids these days, which I suppose is entirely normal since I don’t have any of my own.
“I think they’ve moved on to cyberbullying,” Amaya responds.
I shudder at the thought and am grateful my most awkward years were kept off the internet.
“Or maybe blowing vape smoke in your face.” Amaya grimaces as if she’s been personally victimized by a bubble gum–flavored vape cartridge like I’ve seen sold at so many bodegas, clearly marketed toward children and teenagers.
“Alex is basically my brother at this point.” Claiming someone as a sibling is the highest praise I can give, knowing what it was like to have had a biological brother that I loved so dearly.
“My parents are pretty much his surrogate guardians. They used to even sign permission slips for him since his parents were never home.”
“I’m glad you have him,” Amaya replies, though her eyebrows are raised in skepticism that suggests otherwise.
She must have spoken to him a few times to arrange my bail.
His swaggering bravado has either a charming or an annoying effect, and in this case it seems to have been the latter. For most women, it’s the former.
We are an odd duo on the surface, but we still both love the same dorky stuff that drove us together in the first place all those years ago. Alex may seem cool now, but deep down he’s still the awkward kid who loves watching Jeopardy! and cat videos and reading comic books.
“He’s been there during some hard times.
The hardest, actually.” I feel little goose bumps dot my arms, making the hair on them stand straight up.
“When my brother died, I was applying to law school. It had been my dream for my entire life.” I pause for a moment, unsure if I can continue my story, as even thinking about it induces a panic attack–like feeling.
Talking about it feels like having a rat scamper over my sandaled foot while I’m outdoor dining.
It’s horrible. I can barely begin. Despite this, for once, I can’t stop myself.
“Life here hasn’t been easy. My dad worked long hours as a taxi driver.
My mother worked all sorts of odd jobs. They scrimped and saved and amassed a small, but mighty, savings account.
My parents had left Sri Lanka to give us a better life here, and finally it seemed like it was happening.
Nothing to make us rich, just enough for school.
Then my brother got sick. He got a rare form of cancer, and a lot of his treatments were experimental and they weren’t covered by insurance. ”
Amaya tuts like she knows what I am about to say.
“My parents drained their savings, borrowed money from shady lenders, did anything and everything. At some point, the only money left was what was put aside for my law school.” I can’t stop speaking now, as if everything I’ve kept pent up for so long is spewing out like a geyser.
“Siriwathi…” Amaya’s face is contorted into a grimace, almost as if she can physically feel the pain and sorrow that radiate from my body. She is sitting close to me now, having moved from the opposite end of the back seat to the middle.
“My brother made me promise that I wouldn’t use those funds.
He said that he was dying and I just had to let him go.
How can you let go of the person you love most in the world?
He wanted to go knowing that I would be a lawyer; that’s all he wanted.
He wanted me to go to law school because that was my dream.
Not to mention the doors it could open for not just me, but my parents too. ”
I am crying now, openly, even though Amaya’s the one who had two glasses of wine. I haven’t discussed this with anyone outside of my parents, not even Alex, and to talk about it makes the grief feel fresh again. I am choking on the words through my tears.
Amaya squeezes my hand. Hugs from friends, an arm around my shoulder, the simple day-to-day things that make us feel connected and human have been missing for so long in my life.
“I would do anything for him, even a treatment that only had a fifteen percent chance of success. Fifteen wasn’t the zero percent it would’ve been if we had done nothing.
So I took back the year’s tuition money my parents had paid up front, emptied the entire account for law school, and put it toward the experimental treatment.
When he found out what I had done, he screamed at me.
He told me he would refuse it. He told me to never talk to him again.
And for a week of precious time, we didn’t talk.
I went to see him, but he was so angry he refused to speak to me.
The treatment was already paid in full, so he got it.
At first, it looked so promising. He was feeling better, but ultimately it didn’t help.
It bought him one more month, until he was gone, and the last days we had together were still tinged with his disappointment and anger with me.
I failed him. I failed my parents. I failed myself. ”
Amaya hands me a fistful of Kleenex that came from her seemingly bottomless bag, and gives me a hug. I hold on to her tightly as I continue to cry in the back seat of the cab on our way back to Manhattan, the skyline growing larger as we approach.
—
By the time we pull up in front of Alex’s chic condo building twenty minutes later, I am feeling much better.
Confessing my feelings released some of the grief and guilt I’d been harboring all these years.
Swallowing my emotions and burying them down deep inside has taken more energy from me than I realize.
I feel lighter, as if the more I talk about my brother at the end and the more I face my worst moments, the quicker I can accept what happened.
When I talk about my brother, I remember the good moments too.
I remember when we cut class one time to go have a day at Coney Island complete with those stomach-turning rides, funnel cake, and even a stuffed animal my brother won me at one of those silly games.
My parents’ anger was lessened when he told them it was his idea.
I remember the time my brother took us to one of those fancy French restaurants for Ammi’s birthday, and he, insistent on ordering in French, accidentally got us all frog legs, which ended up being pretty tasty.
Leave it to my brother for a mistake to become a triumph.
I remember when I slugged a kid in the face for calling me numerous racial slurs, but it was my brother who tried to take the blame, and when that failed, he gave a brilliant explanation of why my actions constituted self-defense.
I want to remember his face, and his bravery, and I want to live life as he did. With zeal and compassion.
“Has Alex got a good job or rich parents?” Amaya inquires as we approach the building.
“Both,” I reply as a congregation of pigeons demolish a hot dog bun.
I confidently stride inside the building, one of the only places I feel comfortable doing so, and lock eyes with the doorman, Ed, who waves me up.
The fact that the doormen, in their freshly pressed suits, all seem to remember me is a nice touch.
The first few times, they thought I was a girlfriend, but I quickly clarified that no, I’m just a sista from another mista.
The front doorman seemed amused and probably relieved that he no longer had to keep the slate of women Alex brings home a secret.