that it would dissolve,
disappear.
“You can’t possibly understand,” the girl
said, her voice throbbing with passion, with grief. Her eyes saw
right through Anjali, fixed on Matthew’s stone, tall and impassive
across the path.
Anjali laughed briefly. “You’re right. I
don’t understand anything.” And perhaps a hint of her own emotions
colored that laugh, because the girl actually focused on her, those
blue eyes narrowing.
“Where are you from? Not from here.” That
much was obvious.
“Sri Lanka.” Clearly, that meant nothing to
her. “It’s an island, near India.”
“I’ve heard of India. My great-grandfather
sailed there; he sent my grandmother this. That’s what my mother
said.” The girl’s hand went up to her throat, to touch a slender
gold chain that circled it.
“It does look Indian.” And it did, the gold
heavier, darker than American gold, with a rich luster even in the
moonlight that suddenly made Anjali ache for home, for the noise
and heat of the Colombo markets, the auto-rickshaws screaming past,
the bullock-drivers trundling their carts along, patient and slow.
She still hadn’t written back to her mother. She didn’t know what
to say. “I’m Anjali.” She didn’t know what to say to this girl
either, but at least it would be safe to talk to her.
“Jessica. You knew that, didn’t you?” Jessica
stared, curious, at Anjali.
“Yes.” She had known, despite her rational
scientific training. There are more things on heaven and earth… .
She had always believed, always hoped that.
“And you aren’t scared?” Jessica took a step
closer, and another, so that her skirt was almost brushing the hem
of Anjali’s coat. Even in the cold graveyard, a chill emanated from
the slender girl.
Anjali shrugged. “My grandmother talked to
ghosts all the time. They don’t bother me.” Though maybe it was
thanks to Neil that she could stay so calm right now. She had been
feeling numb for months.
“Good.” Jessica smiled, and took a step back.
“It’s been a long time since I had a girlfriend.”
Anjali’s PDA beeped at her, warning her that
it was time to go home, shower, get ready for class. It was still
dark, but the sun would be rising soon over the mountains, and her
students would be waiting.
“I have to go. Will I see you again? Do you
have to stay in the cemetery, by your stone?” Anjali knew the usual
rules for ghosts, but she wasn’t sure if any of them actually
applied. Her grandmother had had a hundred rituals for dealing with
them, ranging from leaving a dish of ghee outside the kitchen door
to always putting a dash of homemade mustard on her wrists. She had
never been able to explain why these things were important—and
somehow, Anjali doubted that American ghosts followed the same
rules.
“I’ll find you, anywhere in the city. This is
my city, you know. I helped build it.” Jessica smiled again, and
with that smile she went from very pretty to just plain beautiful.
There was a certain strained exhaustion on her nineteen-year-old
face, but Anjali could understand why Matthew had wanted to marry
this girl. At a nubile sixteen, she must have seemed like a spring
morning, like water in the desert.
“I’d like to hear that story.” Anjali stood,
shaking her head to loosen the pile of accumulated snow on her long
hair, stamping her feet to bring back the circulation. She had good
boots on, but she had been sitting still for a long time. She
turned downhill, and started walking towards home, leaving Jessica
behind her, once again gazing at Matthew’s grave.
“What are you doing?” Jessica asked.
Anjali looked up from her pile of papers to
see the girl sitting across from her in the cafe, hands neatly
folded on the table. Jessica seemed to fit there, in her white
blouse with the long sleeves, not so dissimilar from what the
missionary girls wore in Temple Square, right outside the cafe
window. In late February, the snow had melted from the
disappear.
“You can’t possibly understand,” the girl
said, her voice throbbing with passion, with grief. Her eyes saw
right through Anjali, fixed on Matthew’s stone, tall and impassive
across the path.
Anjali laughed briefly. “You’re right. I
don’t understand anything.” And perhaps a hint of her own emotions
colored that laugh, because the girl actually focused on her, those
blue eyes narrowing.
“Where are you from? Not from here.” That
much was obvious.
“Sri Lanka.” Clearly, that meant nothing to
her. “It’s an island, near India.”
“I’ve heard of India. My great-grandfather
sailed there; he sent my grandmother this. That’s what my mother
said.” The girl’s hand went up to her throat, to touch a slender
gold chain that circled it.
“It does look Indian.” And it did, the gold
heavier, darker than American gold, with a rich luster even in the
moonlight that suddenly made Anjali ache for home, for the noise
and heat of the Colombo markets, the auto-rickshaws screaming past,
the bullock-drivers trundling their carts along, patient and slow.
She still hadn’t written back to her mother. She didn’t know what
to say. “I’m Anjali.” She didn’t know what to say to this girl
either, but at least it would be safe to talk to her.
“Jessica. You knew that, didn’t you?” Jessica
stared, curious, at Anjali.
“Yes.” She had known, despite her rational
scientific training. There are more things on heaven and earth… .
She had always believed, always hoped that.
“And you aren’t scared?” Jessica took a step
closer, and another, so that her skirt was almost brushing the hem
of Anjali’s coat. Even in the cold graveyard, a chill emanated from
the slender girl.
Anjali shrugged. “My grandmother talked to
ghosts all the time. They don’t bother me.” Though maybe it was
thanks to Neil that she could stay so calm right now. She had been
feeling numb for months.
“Good.” Jessica smiled, and took a step back.
“It’s been a long time since I had a girlfriend.”
Anjali’s PDA beeped at her, warning her that
it was time to go home, shower, get ready for class. It was still
dark, but the sun would be rising soon over the mountains, and her
students would be waiting.
“I have to go. Will I see you again? Do you
have to stay in the cemetery, by your stone?” Anjali knew the usual
rules for ghosts, but she wasn’t sure if any of them actually
applied. Her grandmother had had a hundred rituals for dealing with
them, ranging from leaving a dish of ghee outside the kitchen door
to always putting a dash of homemade mustard on her wrists. She had
never been able to explain why these things were important—and
somehow, Anjali doubted that American ghosts followed the same
rules.
“I’ll find you, anywhere in the city. This is
my city, you know. I helped build it.” Jessica smiled again, and
with that smile she went from very pretty to just plain beautiful.
There was a certain strained exhaustion on her nineteen-year-old
face, but Anjali could understand why Matthew had wanted to marry
this girl. At a nubile sixteen, she must have seemed like a spring
morning, like water in the desert.
“I’d like to hear that story.” Anjali stood,
shaking her head to loosen the pile of accumulated snow on her long
hair, stamping her feet to bring back the circulation. She had good
boots on, but she had been sitting still for a long time. She
turned downhill, and started walking towards home, leaving Jessica
behind her, once again gazing at Matthew’s grave.
“What are you doing?” Jessica asked.
Anjali looked up from her pile of papers to
see the girl sitting across from her in the cafe, hands neatly
folded on the table. Jessica seemed to fit there, in her white
blouse with the long sleeves, not so dissimilar from what the
missionary girls wore in Temple Square, right outside the cafe
window. In late February, the snow had melted from the
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