Afterward, I have to admit I look different, better, more American. I start performing covert operations, hiding an entire outfit under my own, pulling clothes off in the girls’ bathroom, displaying my new hairless calves. And it is true, Amma never notices. She hasn’t looked at me closely since we lost Thatha. She has looked at everything else, but not at me.
When we first came to this country she slept on the couch all day and all night. She looked shell-shocked and barely talked to anyone. Aunty Mallini and Uncle Sarath left her alone for a few weeks, but now they take her with them to the office. They are teaching her how to book flights, how to use a computer and talk to clients on the phone. She works almost every day now. When I do see her, she is exhausted.
Instead it is Uncle Sarath who looks at me closely and says, “What have you done to your face?”
“Nothing, Sarath Uncle.”
He stares at me, then says, “Ah, I see Dharshi has got at you with her tweezers. Trying to make you a proper American girl, ah?” He laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mom.” Then he says, “How are you? What do you think of the US of A?”
I shrug. I cannot tell him everything brilliant and terrifying that has happened in these few months. But it’s the first time anyone has asked, and for this I am grateful.
*
On the weekends other families come to gather around the table and the food. At Christmas we throw a big party. I have never celebrated Christmas before. On the island only Christians marked the day, but in America, it seems even a household of Sinhala Buddhists with a Buddha shrine in the alcove feel moved to celebrate.
Uncle Sarath brings a tree into the house. It sits in the living room shedding needles, releasing its scent into the air. There are presents under it wrapped in shiny paper. Amma and I have agonized about what to buy. We have spent hours walking the mall trying to understand what is appropriate. Our presents seem ridiculous. A perfume bottle for Aunty Mallini, a tie for Uncle Sarath. Clichés of the worst kind, but it’s all we can think of to give. But when they open them on Christmas morning and exclaim in gratitude, we feel better, feel that we are in a kind of home, that we are indeed with family.
Various people come that night. There is a huge dinner, rice and curries made by my mother and her sister. Christmas cake, for which Dharshi and I had spent hours chopping fruits and nuts till our fingers ached. But now tasting the small rectangular pieces under their snowy coating of almond icing, we decide it was worth the trouble.
After the food is cleared away, they put on music. Aunties and uncles sing and hold hands like kids. A crashing of Christmas bells signals the arrival of Santa Claus, and the children’s eyes grow huge. They had thought Santa was the exclusive property of their white classmates. But now here he is, wearing the proper red suit over the right belly, sporting the perfect snowy beard.
Old Sri Lankan Saint Nick sets himself up in a chair by the tree, picks up presents one by one to call out names. A six-year-old tugs at his mother’s skirt to whisper, “Santa looks like Sarath Uncle.” And Santa, hearing this, roars, “Ho ho ho! That’s because Santa Claus is Sri Lankan! Didn’t you know that, little boy? Santa Claus flies through the air on his sled pulled by elephants. All that reindeer stuff they told you at school is nonsense! Elephants fly so much faster! It’s a lonnnng journey from Colombo, but now I am here. Come and get your present, no?” The little one rushes up. His ideas about Christmas are now a little muddled, but he is much happier about this new version of the story. He will boast to his friends at school in the coming week that Santa Claus hails from the island, and they, finding flying elephants so much more evocative than reindeer, will have to agree.
*
On weekends Dharshi and I absolutely cannot go on trips to the grocery store or to the car wash with our parents because we have homework to do. We are at the kitchen table, our heads bent over our books, pencils working furiously as they get ready to leave. Aunty Mallini says, “Okay, ladies, both of you study hard. You have those math tests next week.” Uncle Sarath ushers them out, winks at us behind their backs as they all leave. We wait breathless, heart-thumping minutes, our ears wide open for the sound of the car starting, the garage door closing behind them.
When we are sure they are really gone, we run into the living room. We turn on MTV and sing as loudly as we can into hairbrushes, jump from one end of the couch to the other. We cock hips and leer lips in the mirror. We are material girls; we just want to have fun. We are Billie Jean in faded denim with fluffy bits of lace in our hair and black plastic bands encircling our wrists. We are Billy Idol platinum blonds walking like Egyptians on Manic Mondays. We tease our hair into giant sprayed edifices, draw long curling tails on the corners of our eyes. But when they come home, we are again safely parked at the kitchen table, studious, dedicated studiers of algebraic equations.