The Black Isle Read Online Free PDF Page B

about the old man or the kitten. Or the sweet. To everyone apart from Li and me, and maybe the invisible guardians of the cosmos, that encounter never happened at all.
    Why do I mention the guardians of the cosmos? Well, because that night, following the day my twin and I became two separate people, was also the night I saw my first ghost.

 2 
A Child’s Feet
    WHEN LI AND I RETURNED from the Paradis that afternoon, Mother and Father were in the middle of something. Neither noticed the scuffs on my arms, the stains on my dress, or Li’s uncharacteristic exhaustion. At first I was relieved to be home. Then came cold, hard bewilderment as I heard the exchange of foreign place names—names with the forlorn musicality of Hindi, Khmer, Malay. They rang of great distance, of sweat and rot and jungle. I could tell my parents weren’t discussing holiday plans. What they were discussing I had no idea.
    Li collapsed onto the living room settee. I offered to bring him a glass of milk.
    “Scram,” he mumbled, turning away. “Just get me Sister Choon.”
    Left alone with my thoughts later that night, I wondered if I should have been more forceful at the park. I could have stood my ground, played the big sister. I could have stopped Li from following the old man, from putting his hands—his soft, warm hands—on that helpless kitten. I could have offered to take the poor thing home instead of standing there dumbstruck, no better than a pathetic crybaby. But no, I was a pathetic crybaby, shattered by the sudden realization that my twin wasn’t as bound to me as I’d come to believe. We’d only seemed tethered because something was perpetually holding us together—whether it was Sister Kwan’s iron grip or the prison walls of our mother’s house. Or the narrow bed we shared, where the only way we could both fit was to lie back-to-back.
    Li, his back pressing against mine, slept as soundly as a baby, the day’s disturbing adventure apparently already forgotten. He had on his new blue satin pajamas, a birthday surprise from Mother, the arms and legs overlong so as to last through another year of growth. In the moonlight, he shone like an iridescent eel at the bottom of the ocean. The butterscotch disk peered out from within his tightened fist, an otherworldly compass leading him to new places without me, no doubt.
    Still in my old pajamas—no new ones for me—I continued to toss and turn. The air was dead. I could hardly breathe.
    Summer nights in our house were hell on earth. Mother, fearing contagion, ordered all windows shut after dusk, trapping in the heat of the day and turning the whole place into a tomb. On July and August nights, the air heaved with moisture and the walls gave off centuries of human must—the smell, I used to think, of a dying man’s last breath (though this was before I learned what that actually smelled like).
    Naturally, when the muggy air in our bedroom turned dry and chilly instead of hotter and stickier as I tossed and turned, I knew something wasn’t right.
    “Li?” I tugged at his sleeve, my teeth chattering. No answer.
    I reached for the blanket and when my fingers grazed my bare thigh, I jumped: icicles! My fingers were stone cold. Had a window blown open? No, everything was still, the same as it was. But my heart had begun to pound, and I felt a deep, throbbing ache behind my eyes. The nausea I felt earlier in the park returned, pursued by a tingling of the tongue. The hairs on my arms rose to attention. Something was about to strike—a meteor, perhaps, or a typhoon. Something monumental.
    In the dark, I plotted the quickest route to my parents’ room. Don’t trip on the cot in the hallway. Abandon Li, if necessary.
    My breath emerged from my nostrils in pale wisps as thick as incense smoke. Thicker, when I exhaled through my mouth. Could I be on fire? Or was this the pneumonia or influenza that crept in through windows and carried off so many children in their sleep? Those terms