What Lies Between Us (30 page)

She says, “Remember how you used to read to me?”

I remember our two bodies pressed together, the whisper of pages. Those nights when I was good.

I nod.

She says, “I really liked that, Mommy. It was nice. You were such a good mama.”

I hug her to me. I'll never let her go.

Other times she is harder to please. She asks, “Why?”

My heart clenches. I say, “They were going to take you. I couldn't keep you. They would have taken you.”

“Who?”

“Them. Your father and his people. You would have grown up without me.”

“So you did this thing instead?”

“I didn't mean to.”

“It hurt! When I fell into the cold, it was so painful. I was just a little girl. I was so small.”

Her lips are suddenly blue, her eyes bloodshot, her hair dripping. The cell fills with the rush and roar of seawater. It smashes past my ankles and then my knees. I am flailing, thigh-high in the churn of an angry ocean. The water is reaching higher. It will rise above my head soon. She comes to grasp me in her drenched embrace, the scent of brine reaching deep into my head. She smiles her siren smile and her eyes are emerald again, her silver tail flashes. I must wrench myself away from her with a cry, and then I am again alone in my small bed.

*   *   *

I have committed the unimaginable sin. I am the one who makes all other mothers
good
mothers. In America, to be a mother is to be crucified in a million ways. There is no way to do this job perfectly. Each decision will be derided or decried. Beyond all that, I am the madwoman in the house, I am the maternal nightmare. But also consider this: this is a place that devours its young. Here there are so many other little ones destroyed by these who should love them most.

But I'll say this also. If you had looked closely enough, you would have seen. Most of us were damaged long ago, hurt in some tender place long, long before we were mothers. Wounded flowers, bruised even in their tight closed bud, bear bitter fruit. The prisons are full of us.

*   *   *

My mother writes often. She begs for permission to come to America, to see me. I never answer her letters. I am coming to some sort of understanding. It had not been Samson, as she had revealed in that fateful phone call. It was that other that I still cannot bear to name. It had been too hard for my mother to see or speak the truth, and I had been the sacrifice.

And in turn, this is my inheritance: silence and shame. A silence around the body so complete that the idea of breaking it was worse than the specter of death. A shame so deep that it needed to be buried. And the soil this secret would be buried in, my flesh. I wonder what it would have meant if I could have spoken up in childhood. What would it have meant if I knew I would have been believed? This is not a justification. This is only my truth.

They say that family is the place of safety. But sometimes this is the greatest lie; family is not sanctuary, it is not safety and succor. For some of us, it is the secret wound. Sooner or later we pay for the woundings of our ancestors. This was the truth for me and for my beautiful bright-faced child.

*   *   *

People talk of forgiveness. They say that it's merciful to forgive, that entire religions were founded on the concept. They say that I should be forgiven. They forget that I don't want this. I should be locked in this cell for life.

If this was a fair world, the old machines that enacted retribution would be employed. The rack, the scavenger's daughter, that coffin-like box you stepped into with long spikes that pierced your organs so that you bled out slowly over days. They used to burn witches and pull the hags half alive out of the flames, so that all could see the weight of justice before plunging them back into the flames.

On the island, the Kandyan kings used elephants. They secured the prisoner spread-eagled on the ground, then drove the elephant to plunge a thousand pounds onto his back. You could probably hear the snap of the man's spine, the pop of his skin, the hissing escape of his blood. This is what I deserve; these are the retributions I long for.

*   *   *

In all the years I have been here, there have been few visitors. I have refused to see almost all who have asked. But when she writes, I can only say yes. When she sits on the other side of the thick glass, I see that she's grown older, of course, more staid. There's a wing of white at each temple, but she is still tiny, and I can still see the imprint of features I loved in a different time. I say in my raspy, unused voice, “Dharshi?” and she nods and smiles, and instantly I remember how we were then when we were only girls and before so much happened. She says, “How are you?” I wave it away. My days have been the same for so many years that the question has no meaning.

We are awkward with each other. She tells me about her life. She's an architect, as she always wanted to be. She's created a life she likes. We talk about those long-lost days when we lived in her room, those two beds just feet away from each other. We remember those long walks after school, the hours watching TV, our feet resting on each other. She reminds me: “When you came you were such a scraggly thing. Like an alien from another world. You didn't even know how to shave your legs. Do you remember?” I think of her showing me, of her sliding the razor along my skin. The way we had been, that kingdom of girlhood. We laugh a little shyly, aware of the sound bouncing around these walls. Her face here in this place is a blessing. I had never expected to see her again. Never expected to hear the sound of her voice. She is a dispatch from the world of the living.

It's almost time to leave when she says she wants to show me something. She reaches into her pocket and the guard in the corner shifts, but she pulls out a photo and lays it against the glass facing me and he calms down. The picture is of her and Roshan, with two tall boys who tower over them and a pretty girl. They all have their arms around one another, their heads tilted together. They are laughing, and the love between them is alive, beating. She smiles and says, “You have to meet the kids. Their names are Dinesh and Dhumal. My girl is Asha. I'll bring them to see you sometime.”

I say, “They're beautiful.” Determined not to cry. No one has shown me such love in years. I don't deserve it.

*   *   *

Another gift comes. Something I had never dared imagine. A postcard bearing a single red dahlia bursting off its surface. I run my fingers along its surface every day. I know its hues so well that I can close my eyes and see every folded petal. I imagine the live blossom in my hands, its wild exuberance lighting up this dark place. He must know that I miss flowers. Flowers and the scent of him. His writing. It says, “I'll never forgive you. I'll always love you.” It says his name. And this is everything.

*   *   *

There is one last thing I must reveal. You know my story and now you must know my name. My name is Ganga. Amma named me after the River Goddess. In the ancient Hindu epics, the Goddess Ganga flows down all the way from the frozen Himalayas across the immense stretch of the subcontinent and into the welcoming Ocean. She is birthed out of the purest snowmelt. In the cities they burn their dead upon her bosom, they fertilize their fields with her, they bathe and drink from her endless flow. And yet the water is always sacred, always pure, an elixir of life. I bear the name of flowing water. A name that reminds us that all liquid is connected. In this way, each of us is bound, one to the other.

I am here now alone, except for my beloved dead.

 

Acknowledgments

My profound gratitude to the following:

Jennifer Weis, my editor at St. Martin's Press. This book is all the better for your careful work on it.

Dori Weintraub, my publicist at St. Martin's Press, for all your dedication to this book.

Ellen Levine, my wonderful agent. Thank you for being my champion.

Sylvan Creekmore at St. Martin's Press, for always responding to my smallest concern.

Lauren Cerand, for taking on this book.

My mother, Upamali Munaweera, whose love for her daughters and granddaughter is fierce and true.

My father, Neil Munaweera, who sees more than we know and whose gift of storytelling has entered my blood.

My sister and brother-in-law, Namal Tantula and Shehan Tantula, for their sweet presence in my life. To Miss Taylor Tantula, who brought the sunshine. I'm glad you were born after I was pretty much done with this book. I couldn't have written it after I saw your tiny face.

My in-laws, Kathy and Daniel Missildine, who remind me that marriage can be blissful and that a shared life of the mind is the best possibility.

The early readers, who are also family and dear friends: Nat Missildine, Ayesha Mattu, and Yosmay Del Mazo.

Candi Martinez, the girl who survived and kept on doing so, so much love to you.

Phiroozeh Romer, so many days writing this book in cafés next to you. Thank you for being there and listening to me work out life and writing.

Yosmay Del Mazo, in gratitude for the many walks and talks on the days when writing this book was just too painful. You inspire me in all ways.

Keenan Norris, our friendship over the years is a beautiful part of my life. No one I'd rather talk writing and books with than you.

Master Melissa McPeters and Gustavo El Diablo Sandi, deep and long friendship. (Gus, if I mention you here, will you read this book?;)

Ian Brownlee, thank you for so many things, including allowing me to steal your day job, and for your incredible paintings and your talent. All paintings and murals described in this book belong to Ian Brownlee and can be viewed at
www.ianbrownlee.com
.

Dinesh Rajawasan, you've been my partner in crime from the crib. Here's to so many more adventures together.

Reetika Vazirani, I never met you and I was deep into the writing of this book when I heard your story, but your voice was there all along. Your poetry endures.

If it takes a village to raise a writer, here are my villagers: Raj Ponniah and the Ponniah family, Dhumal Aturaliye, Muthoni Kiarie, Melissa Rae Sipin-Gabon, Sandip Roy, Shyam Selvadurai, Kathryn Shanks, Alina Moloney, Yael Martinez, Nathanael F. Trimboli, Susan Ruth, Faith Adiele, Janet Fitch, Jen Cat Kwong, Ajesh Shah, Hector Coronado, Meow Mix, Tara Dorabji, Cecile and Julie and Louise Missildine, Kavya and Saakya Rajawasan, Nina and Matt Missildine, Neelanjana Bannerjee, Nawaaz Ahmed, Serena Wong and Nick Van Eyck, Jolan Brogan and Scott Martinez, and the St. Martin's de Porres House of Hospitality Tuesday Crew.

The various writing programs that have supported me: VONA Voices, Kearny Street Workshop's IWL, Litquake, Write to Reconcile, and the Squaw Valley Community of Writers.

 

About the Author

Nayomi Munaweera
was born in Sri Lanka and grew up in Nigeria. She immigrated to the United States in her early teens and now lives in Oakland, California. Her first novel,
Island of a Thousand Mirrors,
won the 2013 Commonwealth Book Prize for the Asian Region, was long-listed for the 2012 Man Asian Literary Prize, and was short-listed for the 2013 DSC Prize for South Asian Literature. You can sign up for email updates
here
.