Disorient

When Amesha was five years old, and her mother wasn’t looking, she trotted her way into the woods behind her family’s Midwestern home. There wasn’t much distance between her backyard and the first line of deciduous trees — especially for an energetic toddler in the early morning. Some minutes into her trek, Amesha had found settled under a dead tree that her father used to bring her to as an infant — though, at the time she didn’t know this. Her tiny legs were strained and the darkness of the woods grew more intimidating by the second.

“Amma!” she yelled with her might, beckoning a mother that would not find her for another hour. She tried four more times, her lungs only giving so much volume. Her young throat hoarse, she whispered one last time, “Amma.”

Slouched against the dead tree’s trunk, Amesha gave up. She decided, if all else failed, her mother would find her eventually. She’d seen Jungle Book and growing up like Mowgli wouldn’t be all that bad a fate — although she wasn’t sure if panthers existed in subrural Ohio. She was lost, that’s what mattered most. And what she knew about being lost was this much: don’t keep walking Amesha — just stay put — I’ll come and find you, always. 

So when Amesha started to hear a small voice calling out to her, she thought it was her mother. 

“Amma?” Amesha asked, peering behind her tiny jacketed shoulder. She found herself face-to-face with a little, deeply green child with a wreath of braided leaves around her  chin-length locs — she screamed.

The little green person — her height — frowned, “My name is Syke, not Amma.” 

∞

Twenty years later, to the day, Amesha is inside her childhood home cleaning up after a memorial for her deceased mother. There are plates all over the granite counters in the kitchen, half-eaten dhoklas and lamb rolls consume the overflowing trash bags crowding the tiled floor. They were once her mother’s favorite appetizers. The kitchen smells like curried meats left out overnight — which is exactly what happened — and the excess saccharine of grocery-store sweets.

Amesha doesn’t live here anymore, she lives not too far away from the OSU campus in Columbus, but the familiar scene outside the kitchen sink window takes her back to the memories of her childhood. 

Her mother made sure that Amesha knew how to take care of herself from a very young age. The year after her father died unexpectedly — Amesha was four when this happened — her mother made sure that Amesha had a college fund, that Amesha was the sole inheritor in her newly-written will, and that Amesha would go into the safe hands of her best friend if anything untimely would happen to herself. And she made sure to inform Amesha of all these decisions. At four, all Amesha could have possibly done was nod, but she likes to think that she was busy writing everything down and diligently asking questions. Amesha’s mother, in her paranoia and fear, had prepared everything to go smoothly. 

Even though she had not died an untimely death like Amesha’s father,  Amesha still can’t help but to feel a little lost without her. The house, which she regularly visited at least two weekends a month, is quiet — unusually large and empty. Her large yard isn’t occupied by her mother making her morning rounds in her imported ethnic-woman nightie, checking the fruit and vegetable garden in the far-right corner. The forest, in which she got lost several times, looks farther away and scarier than it has ever been. Her mother is no longer here to come find her. 

Amesha continues to wash the dishes, counting how many are left just in the sink. She recounts the upcoming tasks she has left to fulfill: she needs to sign the house’s deed tomorrow, in two days she’s meeting with the life insurance rep, on Thursday she has to hand the second pair of house keys — the keys that used to be hers — to her mother’s best friend, and on Friday she has to leave before four in the afternoon so she can be back in Columbus before seven. The structured nature of the few days gives Amesha some time before she has to face the reality of being truly alone. 

She wishes, only in times like these, that she had more family than just her mother. Her parents were estranged from both sets of grandparents, for reasons Amesha doesn’t know to this day. She doesn’t know if any of them were alive, if her parents had siblings, or even if Amesha had cousins. In some ways, the burden of familial expectation was removed — but now, in an empty house, washing dishes in silence, Amesha wishes she had some type of help. Some type of guidance. 

∞

When she finishes cleaning the whole kitchen it is a little before noon. It seems unfair to ruin all her hard work in making lunch. It is Monday, and most of her neighbors are at work, so the steady stream of pity-meals has yet to begin. She orders a pizza from a local place not too far from her house, and collapses on the sofa while waiting. She surfs the few channels her mother’s cable subscription covers, settling on a nature documentary about the turtles in the Caribbean sea. 

She is half-asleep when she hears the doorbell. The pizza is fifteen minutes earlier than it should be, but she’s not complaining. Her tiredness is getting to her, eating a quick lunch can let her get some much-needed rest. Let her sink into her mother’s bed, and forget for a little while that her mother can no longer precisely wash and perfume the sheets to achieve the scent that Amesha finds so comforting. 

She answers the door yawning, eyes teared up and blurry. She doesn’t see to whom she reaches her arm out expecting the papery texture of a cardboard pizza box. Instead her hand reaches into flesh, and when her eyes clear, her vision centers on a confused face.

“Syke?”

A tall, slender woman, deeply green in skin tone, stands in front of her with a bag in hand. “You seemed distressed, so I came.”

“I thought you were the pizza person,” Amesha tries to clarify, “that’s why I had my arm reached out to you like that.”

“It’s okay.” Skye finds her way to the sofa that Amesha’s laying body had warmed. Flicking her fingers, Syke’s otherwise normal clothes transform into her typical dressings: a flowy white dress, her crown of leaves, and bare feet. Her hair lets down, her locs longer than when Amesha had seen them last. Skye takes the bag from her hand and puts it on the wooden table, “I brought figs.”

“You always bring figs.”

“To offer my condolences, Amesha, it’s customary to bring sweets. You look gaunt. You should eat a few.” 

“Are they fresh?”

“No, I remembered that you prefer them dried.”

“You missed the memorial, I wish you’d come.”

“It would have been difficult, there is only so much I can conceal. I can’t change my skin yet. Not to human shades,” Syke opens the bag and removes a dried fig, placing it on the palm that Amesha has outstretched. “Besides, your mother didn’t even know me. It would have been inappropriate.”

“Right.” Amesha had invited Syke to feel a little less alone. After all, her friends in Columbus couldn’t skip out on a school examination to attend a funeral of a non-family member. She bites into the fig Syke gave her. Sweet, dried at the very moment it reached perfect ripeness. “Still, it would have been nice to see you that day. At the memorial.”

“Do you remember the day we met? It was the only time I’d ever seen your mother”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Do you remember what you told me when I asked you why you didn’t run away?”

“My mom tells me to stay put when I’m lost.”

“Yes. I was just thinking….You did stay put, and your mother did find you. She was beautiful then, unlike any human woman I’d seen in all my years in that forest.”

“Yeah. A relief.”

“She was a reliable woman, Amesha. Strong.”

“Mm.”

“I can stay with you for some time, Amesha, to help keep the house while you fulfill your duties. I can keep you company until you leave — when is that?”

“Friday.”

“Yes, I’ll stay until Friday.”

“I’d like that. Thank you, Syke.” Amesha’s shoulders feel a little less heavy.

“But you cannot stay put this time,” Syke says. “I cannot stay put this time.”