TCTE Short Fiction Contest

Lingam Cream House

by Abbinaya Parakaran

     My fingers slip into the gaping woman’s purse like it belongs to me. I fish around before clasping onto a wallet. I brush against her like a feather, as if I’m just as impatient to get through the flock of people milling about in STC Mall. It isn’t hard to do- everyone is always rushing about looking for the next biggest sale.

     I barely inhale the woman’s sweet fragrance of perfume, and I’m gone, wallet in hand. I stuff it into my beat-up sweater pocket and push my way out.

     By the looks of it, I have enough to cover the expenses at the motel I’m currently in. I steal enough to get by—no more, no less. I pull the drawstrings of my hoodie and begin to walk with the stream of people trickling out. I notice one of the security guards scrutinizing a girl while holding out his walkie-talkie, but I don’t panic.

     I’ve got a gift.

     My hands are swift and undetectable. I steal passionately, infused with talent. Just some strange swivel of DNA giving gifts like mine. But I don’t believe that I was “chosen” like they say in those fantasy movies. I think I was damn blessed.

     I catch the bus to the next block, making sure to avoid all possible eye contact with the other commuters. I stare at the couple across from me, their hands intertwined, resting between the busted vinyl seats. My fingers itch in desperation for my sketchbook, wanting to draw every detail with my stolen pencils. So instead, I picture the way I would sketch those hands by using short crisscross strokes to show the way the couple’s hands clasp together, with patches of lines on the knuckles where the dry skin splits. Something is just mesmerizing about the way their hands look.

     “Next stop, Eglinton Ave East.” announces the bus driver, breaking my train of thoughts, and I jump up quickly to head out. I look up to see the night sky; the stars sparkle like sequins glued on black velvet. Distracted by the sky, I don’t notice an old lady walking towards me in the opposite direction.

     I bump into her arm, tripping over her wooden cane, as I land flat on the concrete floor with a thump. Fuck.

     “You’d better watch where you’re going, young lady!” grunts the woman, pointing her cane near my face. I think her favorite color must be grey, because her hair, sweater, and tote bag all seem to match.

     The fuck? You’d better get your eyes checked ‘cause clearly, you can’t see!” I spit back—fully aware that I was the one who stumbled up. I’m not about to own up to my mistake.

     “Excuse me? Who was the idiot with her head in the clouds?”

     “Will you honestly just shut the fuck up—”

     “Gosh, people these days,” she shakes her head in disgust. “In whatever language your parents must be speaking to you in…” She slowly walks away, leaving me in utter shock.

     I felt the shattering of broken glass in my stomach the moment she said the word parents. That one word I wanted demolished, ground into millions of glass slivers, its glittering fragments thrown into a dustbin and never looked back at.

     It’s been 1,825 days since I’ve seen Mom. That’s about five years if you do the math. The last time we spoke was when I was 16, at Tova Motel, the motel we shared before… her disappearance.  Five years is a long time for memories to blur into one line, but her last words have stuck with me like maple syrup on your fingers long after you’ve washed your hands.

“Stay strong, Ember.”

     At the time, those words never made sense to me. Even as she left the door to whisper the last goodbye, taking nothing but her clothes. Even when the police came by to investigate and ask questions my brain didn’t have the answer for. Even as the days flew by, I had hope. That she would come right back and knock on Room 435, and she would tell me she was sorry and things would go back to normal.

     That day never seemed to come. And as days became weeks, and weeks became months, and months became years, I began to lose it. My heart is wrapped around by thick coils of vines, the pain of their thorns stabbing at my flesh and blood. So many ifs and buts without any response.

     But in the end, aren’t we all broken in our own special ways?

     I walk the rest of the block as I pass by the various shops and convenience stores. The streetlights cast a faint orange glow on the glass windows selling vintage clothes and cotton candy and second-hand toys. That’s the essence of this neighborhood. Tight knit, but moving in our own way. This place is known for the I-don’t-give-a-shit vibes. And I am here for it.

     I cross St. Gerard Ave. and make my way down the alley into Queen Motel. I make sure to keep my head down to avoid eye contact with the men scattered around the parking lot.

     I’m just about to head inside the lobby when something makes me pause.

     I take a step back.

     I get a whiff of the air as I inhale deeply. The air around me begins to shift, a sugary scent coating the area around me much like sprinkled sugar over cake. I quicken my pace to the motel’s corner, following the source of that delightful fragrance.

     A few blocks away is a run-down building in its mid-fifties, a grey square box with a rusty copper exterior and fogged-up glass windows. The store name, sitting right at the top in an arch with purple wiring, reads Lingam Cream House.

     What an absurd name. It holds this sort of eerie, ambiguous feeling—it's literally in the middle of nowhere, hidden from public view. How strange. I have never seen this shop in the three years I’ve stayed at this motel. Not being able to take the suspense any longer, I decide to make my way inside and see what this shop is all about.

     “Boy, I’m tryna meet your Mama on a Sunday...

     Then make a lotta lo-”

     I slip on the welcome mat right in front of the door, my hands proactively dropping to the ground. Shit.

     Just before I can pick myself up, I hear a loud crash, and the high pitch of a woman’s voice as the door swiftly opens, and a burst of light blinds my eyes. The woman peers down at me and helps me get to my feet.

     “Are you hurt?”

     “It's alright, thanks. I’m not hurt.”

     “You sure? I hear you fall from the back of the shop.”

     “I said I’m fine.”

     “Ah, okay. You come in, c-come inside. It's very kaathu outside, you know.”

     “K-what?”

     “Oh, I meant it's very w-windy outside.”

     “Yeah, it is.”

     The lady opens the door to let me in, and I begin to take in my surroundings with awe and astonishment. Something about this place feels so comfortable, with the baby pink walls, luminescent chandeliers, long embroidered flower-print curtains, walnut-colored tables, and sparkling white tiles. I feel like I’ve stepped into euphoria.

     “I’ve never seen this shop before—you guys new here?”

     The lady turns and smiles. “It's a pop-up shop. We’ll be here for a while.”

     “Ahh, that explains it.”

     “By the way, what is your good name?”

     Good name? “Um, it's Ember.”

     “Nice to meet you.”

     The shop is dimly lit, and no one is here, which is odd. She gestures to sit, and I sit down, the chair screeching beneath me on the tiles.

     An awkward sort of tension fills up the air because it's empty and no one is talking. I try to rattle my head for possible questions.

     “So, what’s your name?”

     “Me? Oh, it's Thulasi. Thulasi Thayaparan.”

     “Damn, that’s a long-ass name. And… you're from?”

     “Sri Lanka.”

     “I’ve never heard of that place.”

     “It’s small island country. Right under India. Very small.”

     “Ohh, I didn’t know. What language... is English your first language?”

     “No, Tamil is my first language.”

     “Damn, I wish I could speak another language. Must be so cool.”

     “Ah, so where your parents are from?” she asks.

     The sharp pain returns, but I try forcing them away. “I’m sorry, b-but I don’t like talking about my parents.” The vines around my heart get tighter, spiking my anxiety.

     “Oh yes, makes me sad to talk about my parents as well.”

      I start to feel a little curious. “Oh really? W-why is that? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it either, if you don’t want to.”

     “Well, I was born in Sri Lanka but came to Canada about thirty or so years ago. Not my Amma or Appa—just me. They stay in Sri Lanka, but I never went back.”

     “Why not?” Wait—why’d you even come here?”

     “Ah, because of the Civil War that happened from 1983 until 2009. It was a war between the Sinhalese and Tamils. We had the LTTE.”

     “What’s the LTTE?” I ask, curious to educate myself on a war that I’ve never heard of before.

     “Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam. Eelam is Sri Lanka basically. Over 100,000 deaths. 50,000 fighters. Thousands missing. To this day, there’s no justice.” She sighs.

     “Do you remember anything specifically?”

     “Yes. My parents and I hid in a bunker underground while bombshells blasted over our heads. So much military occupation and violence, and genocide. My parents use their bodies to shield me. It was life or death.” She pauses and looks into my eyes while I motion for her to continue, stunned by all of this information.

     “While the war was starting, I was a teenager, so they send me off with Vimala Aunty and her kids to London. I finish school there, then marriage. After marriage, I come to Canada, and now…I’m here.”

     She looks into my eyes, and I can see her carrying all this emotional baggage. I can’t even begin to think about how traumatizing this must’ve been.

     “I’m sorry for bringing this all up, it's my fault.” I look down at my hands, embarrassed.

     “No need for sorry, Ember. I was the one who brought this up.”

      The dancing crinkles under her red-rimmed eyes remind me of Mom. I can see my mother through this woman, and it stings.

     “And also, five years after I came here, my mother passed away because of high sugar.”

     “Sugar?”

     “Ah, I mean diabetes Type 2. She wasn’t eating properly or taking her medications.”

     “Oh. Right.” My mind wanders to where my Mom might be and what she might be doing. Is she even alive? God knows. I would do anything to see her face for the last time.

     A small tear rolls down her cheek, and her jaw begins to tremble.

     “I a-am s-saying this a-all s-so simply, but p-pain will never go a-away!” she says with such a rawness in her voice I can feel her crippling pain second-hand.

     I inhale sharply. No self-pity, Em. Chin up. Thulasi doesn’t deserve your shit. I push down my tears and reach deep inside of me and pull out the part of me she does deserve. The old Ember. Thulasi needs the comforting one, so I pluck her out, dust it off, and get up from my chair to hold her hand in the most affectionate way I can.

     “Thulasi, I’m so sorry that you’ve had to experience this. I can only imagine how unbearable the pain must’ve been.”                           

     She wipes her tears with her sleeve. “It’s okay, Ember. I feel my mother’s presence in this room and make me feel good. I miss her so much because she was the light of my life.”

     My heart ached at her pain. Her words hit so close to home. My soul silences itself like fall leaves under frost—my blood chills through me as I endure the agony of my own mother’s absence.

     “But I feel much better now. I got to pour out my feelings, so I have to thank you. For listening to my story.”

I nod back, as tender tears of inexplicable feelings stream down my face and I wipe it before she could see. Even though our traumas are miles apart, I feel her words give me the strength to also take off my armor once in a while—to open up and spill out the poison lurking within me. To realize that everyone is going through a battle we may not know about. To be kind.

     She smiles back. “Ember, please wait here. I have something special to give you.”

     She walks into the back of the store and comes running back with a white Styrofoam container and a green smoothie-drink.

     “These are Tamil sweets. My favourite, called Dodol. And this drink is Nelli Crush- it's very good!” She places it gently into my hands.

     I peer into the container. It looks like a sweet confectionery, the color a dark-chocolate brown sprinkled with nuts. I take a bite and the juice of the raisins, the crunch of the cashews, and the sweet chocolate taste all mingle in my mouth. It's heavenly.

     “Mm. This tastes good.”

     “You're welcome. I’m glad you enjoy it.”

     I put my hands in my pockets to take out the stuffed-up bills. Nothing. It's empty. I walk to the front and double-check to make sure that I didn’t drop it when I fell at the front of the shop. Nope. I bite my tongue as hard as I can.

     I walk back up to her, my hands stuffed in my pockets, but this time I’m not here to steal. I’m not here to manipulate. I’m here to be an honest person, and Thulasi makes me feel hopeful—a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time.

     “Thulasi, I don’t have any cash on me right now. I’ll come back tomorrow with cash, okay?”

     She shakes her head. “Oh, Ember. I don’t need money to make this shop grow because your words are enough to give me happiness.” I nod back unconvinced, enough to make her run on a tangent.

     “Ember, money does not bring happiness. Money can buy you all the materialistic things in the world, but it can never bring back loved ones or memories close to the heart. Like Lingam, my brother. He was a fighter of the LTTE.

     “That’s why you named the shop after him?”

     “Yes, but not for honour. For remembrance.” Thulasi wipes her hands on her apron. “It's time you get going, Ember. I’m about to close up very soon.”

     I thank her for the sweets and head outside the door, my hands carrying the heavy Styrofoam container and drink.

     I feel the vines around my heart loosen up, just a little.