The Hungry Ghosts (51 page)

When I reached the hall, I said, “The house smells amazing, Robert. Thanks for making your saffron bread.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.” He gave me one of the grocery bags to alleviate my awkwardness.

When we entered the kitchen, Michael was kneeling on the floor, pumping up the mattress to check for leaks. By the time it had been inspected, he had
recovered enough to put on a show of good humour and join in talk about my family’s visit and our plans for them.

I had expected Michael to bring up the incident later, that we would have one of our cathartic fights, following each about the apartment, bringing up past grievances, flinging around the word “always” even as we prepared dinner. But he did not refer to it at all and instead, like me, maintained a distracted air as we went about fixing dinner. I could sense he wanted the catharsis as much as I did, but could not bring himself to fight and was bewildered by this new barrier between us.

In those last days before my mother’s and sister’s arrival, this separation between us remained so that by the time we stood in the airport lounge, waiting for my family, we were strained with each other.

Soon, my mother and sister came through the sliding doors.

“Amma, Renu,” I called, and moved forward to meet them.

They saw me, nodded, and started to come down the ramp. We walked parallel to each other but separated by the ramp bars, the two of them paying close attention to their trolleys, not looking at me. My mother’s face had filled out and her hips were rounder. She had grown her hair and styled it in waves to her shoulders. The increasing greyness contrasted well with her caramel complexion, giving both hair and skin a glow. Though Renu was still skinny, her face too had filled out, softening her severity and giving her a curiously dreamy, bemused look. She had cut her hair into a puffy bob that bounced as she walked along.

When we met at the bottom of the ramp, we stood, looking at each other, nervous and unsure. But then all the years of our life together gathered and took on weight so that, when my mother leaned forward to kiss my cheeks, it felt as if a much shorter time of separation had passed. She held me for a long moment before she pulled back. Her eyes were luminous. “Ah, son, it is good to see you.”

Renu gave me her usual angular embrace, patted my back and declared, “Seems like the Vancouver air agrees with you. You’re looking very well. Do I see the beginning of love handles?”

I laughed and pulled my shirt tight around my waist. “Only very small ones.”

Michael had joined us, and I made the introductions. He shook my mother’s hand. “It’s nice to thank you in person for your tea. I can never get
anything as good here. My parents are envious.” His tone was formal, the words prepared in advance.

“But I wish I’d known! I would have sent you more, Michael,” my mother cried. “Honestly, Shivan, why didn’t you tell me Michael’s parents liked our tea? I would have got them some, too.”

This admonishment established her role as my mother and eased her shyness with Michael. I grinned sheepishly, playing the recalcitrant son.

As Renu shook Michael’s hand, she said, “I see you’re the gentleman responsible for my brother’s love handles. Good going.”

Michael nodded, amused.

“It’s nice to finally put a face to the voice,” my mother said, and Renu added, “Yes, and a very pretty face, too, if I may say so. What are you doing with a train wreck like my brother?”

Michael blushed and laughed. He took one of the trolleys and I grabbed the other, and we led the way out of the building. As we walked along, I noticed a large cooler under the suitcase on my cart.

“What on earth is this?” I asked.

My mother and sister chuckled.

“It was Amma’s idea.”

“No it wasn’t,” my mother retorted with mock crossness. “You’re an equal partner in crime.”

“Sri Lankan food,” Renu announced to Michael. “We went a bit overboard, as you can tell.”

“You should have seen the look our ticketing agent gave us when she checked the luggage,” my mother added with a laugh.

I laughed too. “You both are incorrigible.”

“Great,” Michael enthused, “I love spicy food.”

“And I’m a lousy cook. Poor Michael.”

“Yes, you are lousy,” he replied fondly, then nodded to my family. “Thank you, it’s very kind and generous of you.”

By the time we got to his parents’ car, borrowed for the occasion, we were all slightly exhausted from the conviviality.

To keep the silence at bay on our drive, my sister complained about her bus ride from Ithaca to Toronto. “Oh, it was intolerable,” she said. “An obese American sat next to me, and I got squished against the window. But, so,
what’s new? It’s impossible to escape them on any bus journey. And then there are those agents of Canadian imperialism at the border. They’re so blond. Always treating me as if I’m illegal.”

“They have to be vigilant,” my mother said, giving Michael and me a nod as if we were on her side. “Otherwise Canada would be flooded with migrants from Mexico and everywhere else.”

“So?” My sister spread her arms. “Let this place be flooded. It’s the price we must pay for exploiting the rest of the world.”

“Anyway, it’s your fault,” my mother said, tapping me on the shoulder. “Look at her shoes, will you?” I turned and took in Renu’s scuffed footwear. “Doesn’t she look like a real refugee, Michael?” my mother said, drawing him in. Michael tried to subtly observe Renu in the rear-view mirror. He smiled noncommittally, unsure if she was trying to put him at ease or a real quarrel was brewing. “I’ve told her and told her to get Canadian citizenship and a passport.”

“Never, never.” Renu shook her head vigorously.

“Then you must suffer the consequences,” my mother declared.

Unlike Michael, I could clearly see that no real rancour existed between them. There was also a new wryness in my sister’s declarations, an acceptance that her political positions were radical and she no longer expected everyone to adopt them.

That evening, we decided that for dinner we would have the lamprais my mother had brought. Michael showed her around the kitchen then kept a discreet distance, staying nearby if she needed him. While my mother steamed the four rice and curry portions, each wrapped in its banana leaf, Renu and I caught up on the balcony. Michael came out to join us between laying the table and helping my mother put away the rest of the food she’d brought in the fridge and freezer.

Two extra people in our small apartment demanded an alertness that kept Michael and me occupied. After we had settled them in and eaten dinner, we took our guests for a late-evening stroll along the beach, made sure they had everything for the night, then inflated our mattress, glad to be so busy. At last, my mother and sister were in bed and the apartment grew quiet. There were a few last creaks from the bed in our room, the sound of someone switching
off a light. Michael lay on our air mattress with his hands under his head, gazing up at the ceiling. His silence and the dark now pressed in on me. I propped myself up on an elbow and looked down at him.

“Your family, they’re very nice,” he whispered, but his face was pensive.

“Charming but fucked up.” I placed a hand on his stomach. “Thank you for making them feel so much at home. I really appreciate it, Michael.”

He nodded, then turned away to face the balcony door. Beyond it we could see the faint twinkle of ships along the horizon. I pressed hard into him, putting my arms around from behind, and he grasped my hands fiercely and pulled me tight.

My family had come on a Friday and so the weekend was taken up with sightseeing. We went on Saturday to the Museum of Anthropology, which gave me a chance to take them through UBC and show off my office which was in the oldest building on campus, explaining to my impressed family how the 1920s building was in the “collegiate Gothic” style. On Sunday we went to Galiano Island for a picnic. All of this kept us busy, and it was only at night that Michael and I were alone. His mood would turn pensive then, as if he had been holding in his melancholy all day and it flooded him in the dark. I would lie next to him, concerned about his mood but too overwhelmed by my own worries to address his emotions.

On Monday, Renu’s conference started and Michael went back to work. I took my mother to the Capilano Park, as Michael had told her about the ancient Douglas firs and she was keen to see them. On the way there, my mother chatted about her life in Toronto and described a trip she and David had made to McGill University in Montreal, where his son was in third year. She did not get involved in his children’s lives—“I’ve raised two of my own, that’s more than enough, thank you”—but had gone, nonetheless, to help the son find new accommodation, as he was not happy in his current digs. My mother also told me about her new friendships among fellow students at York. Some of them were older single women with whom she went for dinners and films, but she also had a coterie of young friends—mostly children of immigrants who saw her as a liberated woman, since dating a white man was more than many of them would have dared. Though she pretended to find their image of her droll, I could tell she enjoyed acting as a mentor and
advisor. Her hectic chatter filled me with dread. This was our first time alone without Michael, and I could sense we were heading for that conversation she had come all this way to have.

Finally, we were in the park, and my mother grew silent as we followed the wooden boardwalk from fir to fir and stared up at the massive trees, many of which were hundreds of years old. We soon came to a fir that had stairs leading up its side to a deck built into the trunk. A sign at the bottom told us we could get a “squirrel’s view” over the landscape. By the time we reached the deck, my mother was panting, and she sat down on a bench to recover her breath.

I was reading an interpretive sign about the surrounding scenery when my mother declared, “Shivan, I am so pleased to see you have a happy life here.” She patted the bench, but I leant back against the deck rail, arms folded. “I think you are healed enough to begin some reconciliation with Aachi. It’s important you do so. She won’t live forever.”

I went back to studying the sign, lightheaded with relief. So this was the reason for her visit, not something unimaginably terrible.

“Has she accepted responsibility for what happened?”

“Whether she accepts responsibility or not isn’t the issue. The issue is—”

“Only time will heal what happened, and as you see, it is already doing that.” I held out my arms to show proof.

“Time isn’t enough, you must also forgive.”

“How can you forgive someone who hasn’t taken responsibility for their actions?”

“You start by forgiving yourself, that’s where you start.”

“What should I forgive myself for? Did I kill Mili? Did I? Is that what you think?”

“I want you to know,” my mother continued, ignoring my anger, “that your aachi gave me power of attorney and I sold our share in those flats to that wretched thug of hers. I am looking for the Tamil family who lived there to give them their proper dues, and I have a lead in Australia. Aachi, of course, doesn’t know this.”

“It doesn’t fix what happened.” I went to the top of the stairs. “Nothing can fix that, nothing can reverse her actions. It’s too late to make any—”

“No, no, enough of your anger.” She stood up. “I won’t pander to it anymore.”

I started to go down the steps and she yelled at me in that old way of hers. “Come back here. I haven’t finished with you.”

I stopped and turned in surprise.

My mother ran a hand over her forehead and gave a frustrated gasp. Then she straightened the shoulders of her blouse and smoothed down the front of her trousers. “The thing is, son,” she said quietly, “the thing is, you need to consider letting Aachi into your life again, because she is coming back into it.” She grimaced at my questioning look. “Perhaps I should have told you this before. I applied last year to bring her over to Canada.”

I was silent, waiting for some emotion to well up in me, but instead it seemed as if a void had opened within.

“The application has to be considered by the Immigration Appeal Division, because Amma is too old and ill to be a productive member of society. Anyway, our lawyer tells us we should hear back soon, and it looks promising.”

“I wish you hadn’t come here.”

She leaned over the interpretive sign, pretending to read it. When she had gained control of herself, she turned back to me. “And I am guessing that Michael doesn’t know anything about what happened, probably doesn’t even know you have a grandmother. You have kept it all from that poor man.”

I fiddled in my pockets as if looking for something.

She sat down and clasped her hands, staring at me. “It’s not fair, Shivan. He deserves better.”

“Just keep out of my relationship,” I snarled.

“We should have stayed on campus,” she said wretchedly.

“You should have. Instead of which you’ve come and shat all over my happiness. Yes,
shat
,” I cried, at my mother’s shock. “I was happy. Why did you have to come and ruin everything? Haven’t you done enough damage to my life?”

Emotions struggled with each other across my mother’s face, then it became impassive. She stood up. “Let’s go on and do the suspension bridge.”

I followed her down the steps, frightened and furious.

We spent the rest of our day visiting the Vancouver Museum and then seeing a film, avoiding further intimate conversation. When we got back to the apartment, Michael and Renu had already returned and were seated on the sofa
looking at albums from Michael’s time in Dublin. He came to greet us at the door. “Did you have a nice day, Hema? Were the firs impressive?”

“Yes-yes, they were wonderful.” She touched his elbow. “Thank you, Michael, for everything you have done to make this visit so pleasant.”

He laughed, taken aback by the fervency of her gratitude. “It’s a pleasure, Hema.”

“You’re a good man, son.” She kissed him on the cheek and went to her bedroom.

Michael frowned at me and I shrugged. “What happened?” he whispered.