Catherine and I have our routine down to a science.
Sometime around five a.m. she wakes up and pads sleepily to the hallway. The girls pray for a few minutes and then all get ready for school. Catherine puts on her blue jumper and goes downstairs for a cup of Milo (hot chocolate) and piece of toast with kaya, a kind of egg jam. She’s long gone before I ever unstick myself from my mattress.
By the time she gets home from the Tamil school at two-thirty pm, I’ve drunk at least six cups of tea, had my quiet time and planned for the afternoon Bible study. She comes in quietly, both hands clutching the straps of her backpack, big eyes searching for me. I’m sitting at the kitchen table when she comes in, and she comes right over, knowing I’m probably sitting on her towel. She goes to bathe for the second time that day, a habit I really should get into since the temperature inside is a whopping 8,347 degrees despite the fans.
When she comes down for lunch at three pm, her hair is still dripping with water. She prays quickly over the curry, then digs in with one scooped fist. She looks at me and makes the “eehh?” noise in the back of her throat, asking me if I’m eating. I already have, I tell her, but I’ll sit with her. She downs the rice and vegetable dahl in minutes, but isn’t fast enough to escape Auntie’s scolding.
We pile onto the couch together to pre-read the Bible verses for the afternoon study and indulge in the first of many tickle fights. She’s realized that we have moles and scars in almost all the same places, which delights both of us to no end, so we spend a few minutes pointing them out. She tells me that my eyes are lots of colors. Today, they are “green color then brown color and orange color.” I remember a conversation in Honduras where someone stopped mid-sentence and said, “You have fire in your eyes.” I laugh and Catherine tilts her head, says, “huh?” “Nothing, baby,” I tell her. She points to the verses in Romans I have starred and says, “This one?” “Yeah, those.” “Ohhhh,” she lets the word drag out.
She sits through Bible study, mostly quiet as I read the verses in English, then Reetha reads in Bahasa and Angeline finishes in Tamil. I know that most of it goes straight over Catherine’s head but at least she looks like she’s paying attention. Under the table, her feet are wrapped around mine. Physical touch is definitely our love language, because we spend most moments sprawled over and around each other in an unending extension of arms and legs. After Bible study we go to the park or watch movies. She brings me her homework to check and practice English, then looks over my shoulder as I blog.
It amazes her to no end that if she hits the "c" button on my computer, the letter "c" shows up on the screen. She writes her name a half dozen times, then makes me write mine. We laugh. We sit down for dinner around seven thirty, more curry for her, a bowl of oatmeal for me. (There's only so much curry a girl can handle after all.) The questions start.
"Tomorrow, you go?" An indistinct wave of her orange-stained fingers.
"Not tomorrow, baby. Friday. Today is Monday." We count the days on my still-pale fingers. Monday, one.
Tuesday, two. Wednesday, three. Thursday, four. Friday, five. There are still four days between then and now.
"I go too?"
It gets me everytime. A rush like my lungs are about to collapse and then the memory of Shalini telling me to take her with me, that it would be better for her to go with me. But I say, "No baby girl. You stay here."
She gets quiet, turns those big brown eyes down and doesn't say anything. I tell her, "Remember, we said we wouldn't be sad till Thursday, ok? We still have three days until Thursday."
She stays quiet until bedtime, cuddled against my side. It doesn't matter that we're both covered in layer upon layer of sweat. It doesn't matter that we only have three days left. We're going to make those three days mean something beautiful.
This is going to be the hardest goodbye ever.
