Tiger's Curse

  The worst part was . . . I did this to myself.

  How was it possible that I had fallen in love? And with someone so . . . complicated? The past few months had flown by so quickly. Somehow I had gone from working at a circus to traveling to India with a tiger— who turned out to be an Indian prince—to battling immortal creatures to trying to piece together a lost prophecy. Now, it was all over, and I was alone.

  It was hard to believe just a few minutes ago, I had said good-bye to Mr. Kadam. He hadn’t said much. He just gently patted my back as I’d hugged him hard, not letting go. He pried my arms from the vise I’d locked him in, muttered some reassurances, and turned me over to his great-great-great granddaughter, Nilima, and we were off.

  Thankfully, Nilima left me alone on the plane. I didn’t feel like company. She brought me lunch, but I could not even think about eating. I’m sure it was delicious, but I felt like I was skirting the edge of a pit of quicksand. Any second I could be sucked down into an abyss of despair. The last thing I wanted was food. I felt spent and lifeless, like crumpled-up wrapping paper after Christmas.

  Nilima removed the meal and then tried to tempt me with my favorite drink: ice-cold lemon water. But I just left it on the table. I stared at the glass for who knows how long, watching the moisture bead up on the outside and slowly dribble down, pooling around the bottom.

  I tried to sleep and forget about everything at least for a few hours— but the dark, peaceful oblivion eluded me. Thoughts of my white tiger and the centuries-old curse that trapped him raced through my mind, and I ended up staring into space. I looked at Mr. Kadam’s empty seat across from me. I stared out the window and watched a blinking light on the wall. I gazed down at my hand, tracing over the spot where Phet’s henna design had faded away.

  Nilima returned and brought me an MP3 player with thousands of songs. Several were Indian musicians, but most of them were American. I scrolled through and found the saddest break-up songs I could find. Putting the plugs in my ears, I selected play.

  I unzipped my backpack and retrieved my grandmother’s quilt, remembering only then that I had wrapped Fanindra inside it. Pulling back the edges of the blanket, I spied her golden body and set the serpent next to me on the armrest. The enchanted piece of jewelry was coiled up, resting, or at least I assumed she was. Rubbing her smooth, scaly head, I whispered, “You’re all I’ve got now.”

  Spreading out my quilt over my legs, I leaned back in the reclined chair, stared at the ceiling of the airplane, and listened to a song called “One Last Cry.” Keeping the volume soft and low, I placed Fanindra on my lap and stroked her gleaming coils. The snake’s jeweled eyes softly illuminated the cabin of the plane, and the green glow comforted me as I let the music fill the empty place in my soul.

  1

  wou

  the plane finally landed several mind-numbing hours later at the airport in Portland, Oregon. When my feet hit the tarmac, I shifted my gaze from the terminal to the gray, overcast sky. I closed my eyes and let the cool breeze blow over me. I could smell the forest and feel a soft, dewy sprinkle settle on my bare arms. It must have rained recently. It felt good to be home.

  Taking a deep breath, I felt Oregon center me. I was a part of this place, and it was a part of me. I belonged here. It was where I grew up and spent my whole life. My roots were here. My parents and grandma were buried here. Oregon welcomed me like a beloved child, enfolded me in her cool arms, shushed my turbulent thoughts, and promised peace through her whispering pines.

  Nilima had followed me down the steps and waited quietly while I absorbed the familiar environment. I heard the hum of a fast engine, and a cobalt blue convertible pulled around the corner. The sleek sports car was the exact color of his eyes.

  Mr. Kadam must have arranged for the car. I rolled my eyes at his expensive taste. Mr. Kadam thought of every last detail—and he always did it in style. At least the car’s a rental, I mused.

  I stowed my bags in the trunk and read the name on the back: Porsche Boxster RS 60 Spyder. I shook my head and muttered, “Holy cow, Mr. Kadam, I would have been just as happy to take the shuttle back to Salem.”

  “What?” Nilima asked politely.

  “Nothing. I’m just glad to be home.”

  I closed the trunk and sank down into the two-toned blue and gray leather seat. We drove in silence. Nilima knew exactly where she was going, so I didn’t even bother giving her directions. I just leaned my head back and watched the sky and the green landscape zip by.

  Cars full of teenage boys passed us and whistled. They were admiring either Nilima or the nice car. I’m not sure which inspired the catcalls, but I knew they weren’t for me. Older men cruised past us slowly, too. They didn’t whistle, but they definitely enjoyed the view. Nilima just ignored them, and I tuned them out, thinking, I must look as awful as I feel.

  When we entered downtown Salem, we passed the Marion Street Bridge, which would take us over the Willamette River and onto Highway 22 heading for the farmlands of Monmouth and Dallas. I tried to tell Nilima she missed a turn, but she merely shrugged and said we were taking a short cut.

  “Sure,” I said sarcastically, “what’s another few minutes on a trip that lasts for days?”

  Nilima tossed her beautiful hair, smiled at me, and kept driving, maneuvering into the traffic headed for South Salem. I’d never been this way before. It was definitely the long way to Dallas.

  Nilima was driving toward a large hill that was covered with forest. We wound our way slowly up the beautiful tree-lined road for several miles. I saw dirt roads leading into the trees. Houses poked through here and there, but the area was largely untouched. I was surprised that the city hadn’t annexed it and started building there. It was quite lovely.

  Slowing down, Nilima turned onto one of the private roads and followed it even higher up. The tree line was thick. Although we passed a few winding driveways, I didn’t see any houses. At the end of the road, we stopped in front of a duplex. The home was nestled in the middle of a pine forest.

  Both sides of the duplex were identical, mirror images of each other. Each had two floors with a garage and a small shared courtyard. A large bay window looked out over the trees. The house’s wood siding was painted cedar brown and midnight green, and the roof was covered with grayish-green shingles. In a way, it kind of resembled a ski cabin.

  Nilima glided smoothly into the garage and stopped the car. “We’re home,” she announced.

  “Home? What do you mean? Aren’t you taking me to my foster parents’ house?” I asked, even more confused than I already was.

  Nilima smiled understandingly. She told me gently, “No. This is your house.”

  “My house? What are you talking about? I live in Dallas. Who lives here?”

  “You do. Come inside and I’ll explain.”

  We walked through a laundry room to the kitchen, which was small but had brand new stainless steel appliances, lemon yellow curtains, and walls decorated with lemon stencils. Nilima grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge.

  I plopped my backpack down and said, “Okay, Nilima, now tell me what’s going on.”

  She ignored my question. Instead, she offered me a soda which I declined, and then told me to follow her.

  Sighing, I slipped off my tennis shoes so I wouldn’t mess up the duplex’s plush carpeting and followed her to the living room, which was small and cute. We sat down on a beautiful chestnut leather sofa. A tall library cabinet full of classic hardbound books that probably cost a fortune beckoned invitingly from the corner, while a large, flat-screen television mounted above a polished cabinet and a sunny window also vied for my attention.

  Nilima began rifling through papers left on a coffee table.

  “Kelsey,” she began. “This house is yours. It’s part of your payment for your work in India this summer.”

  “It’s not like I was really working, Nilima.”

  “What you did was the most vital work of all. You accomplished much more
than any of us even hoped. We all owe you a great debt and this is a small way to reward your efforts. You’ve overcome tremendous obstacles and almost lost your life. We are all very grateful.”

  Embarrassed, I teased, “Well, now that you put it that way—wait! You said this house is part of my payment? You mean there’s more?”

  With a nod of her head, Nilima said, “Yes.”

  “No. I really can’t accept this gift. An entire house is way too much—never mind anything else! It’s much more than we agreed on. I just wanted some money to pay for books for school. He shouldn’t do this.”

  “Kelsey, he insisted.”

  “Well, he will have to un-insist. This is too much, Nilima. Really.”

  She sighed and looked at my face which was set with steely determination. “He really wants you to have it, Kelsey. It will make him happy.”

  “Well, it’s impractical! How does he expect me to catch the bus to school from here? I plan to enroll in college now that I’m back home, and this location isn’t exactly close to any bus routes.”

  Nilima gave me a puzzled expression. “What do you mean catch the bus? I guess if you really want to ride the bus, you could drive down to the bus station.”

  “Drive down to the bus station? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, you aren’t making any sense. Why don’t you just drive your car to school?”

  “My car? What car?”

  “The one in the garage, of course.”

  “The one in the . . . Oh, no! No way! You have got to be kidding me!”

  “No. I’m not kidding. The Porsche is for you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not! Do you know how much that car costs? No way!”

  I pulled out my cell phone and searched for Mr. Kadam’s phone number. Right before I pressed SEND, I thought of something that stopped me in my tracks. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Nilima winced. “Well . . . he also took the liberty of signing you up for Western Oregon University. Your classes and books have already been paid for. Your books are on the counter next to your list of classes and a map of the campus.”

  “He signed me up for WOU?” I asked, incredulous. “I had been planning on attending the local community college and working—not going to WOU.”

  “He must have thought a university would be more to your liking. You start classes next week. As far as working goes, you may if you wish, but it will be unnecessary. He has also set up a bank account for you. Your new bank card is on the counter. Don’t forget to endorse it on the back.”

  I swallowed. “And . . . uh . . . exactly how much money is in that bank account?”

  Nilima shrugged. “I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s enough to cover your living expenses. Of course, none of your bills will be sent here. Everything will be mailed straight to an accountant. The house and the car are paid for, as well as all of your college expenses.”

  She slid a whole bunch of paperwork my way and then sat back and sipped her soda.

  Shocked, I sat completely still for a minute and then remembered my resolve to call Mr. Kadam. I opened my phone and searched for his number again.

  Nilima interrupted, “Are you sure you want to give it all back, Miss Kelsey? I know that he feels very strongly about this. He wants you to have these things.”

  “Well, Mr. Kadam should know that I don’t need his charity. I’ll just explain that community college is more than adequate and I really don’t mind staying in the dorm and taking the bus.”

  Nilima leaned forward. “But, Kelsey, it wasn’t Mr. Kadam who arranged all of this.”

  “What? If it wasn’t Mr. Kadam, then who . . . Oh!” I snapped my phone shut. There was no way I was going to call him, no matter what. “So he feels strongly about this, does he?”

  Nilima’s arched eyebrows drew together in pretty confusion, “Yes, I would say he does.”

  It almost tore my heart to shreds to leave him 7,196.25 miles away in India, and somehow he still manages to have a hold on me.

  Underneath my breath, I grumbled, “Fine. He always gets what he wants anyway. There’s no point in trying to give it back. He’ll just engineer some other over the top gift that will only serve to complicate our relationship even further.”

  A car honked outside in the driveway.

  “Well, that’s my ride back to the airport.” Nilima rose and said, “Oh! And I almost forgot. This is for you, too.” She pressed a brand new cell phone in my hand and hugged me quickly before walking to the front door.

  “But, wait! Nilima!”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Kelsey. Everything will be fine. The paperwork you need for school is on the kitchen counter. There’s food in the fridge, and all of your belongings are upstairs. You can take the car and visit your foster family later today if you wish. They are expecting your call.”

  She turned, gracefully walked out the door, and climbed into the airport shuttle. She waved gaily from the passenger seat. I waved back morosely and watched her until the shuttle drove out of sight. Suddenly, I was all alone in a strange house surrounded by quiet forest.

  Once Nilima had gone, I decided to explore the place that I was now going to call home. Opening the fridge, I saw that the shelves were indeed fully stocked. Twisting a bottle cap off, I sipped a soda and peeked in the cupboards. There were glasses and plates, as well as cooking utensils, silverware, and pots and pans. On a hunch, I opened the bottom drawer of the refrigerator—and found it full of lemons. Clearly, this part was Mr. Kadam’s doing. The thoughtful man knew drinking lemon water would be a comfort to me.

  Mr. Kadam’s interior design touch didn’t end in the kitchen, though. The downstairs half bath was decorated in sage green and lemon. Even the soap in the dispenser was lemon-scented.

  I placed my shoes in a wicker basket on the tiled floor of the laundry room beside a brand new front-loading washer and dryer set and continued on to a small office.

  My old computer sat in the middle of the desk, but right next to it was a brand new laptop. A leather chair, file drawers, and a shelf with paper and other supplies completed the office.

  Grabbing my backpack, I headed upstairs to see my new bedroom. A lovely queen bed with a thick ivory down comforter and peach accent pillows was nestled against the wall, and an old wooden trunk sat at the foot. Cozy peach-colored reading chairs sat in the corner facing the window overlooking the forest.

  There was a note on the bed that lifted my spirits right up:

  Hi, Kelsey!

  Welcome home. Call us ASAP!

  We want to hear all about your trip!

  All of your things are stored away.

  We love your new home!

  Love,

  Mike and Sarah

  Reading Mike and Sarah’s note in addition to being back in Oregon grounded me. Their lives were normal. My life with them was normal, and it would be nice to be around a normal family and act like a normal human being for a change. Sleeping on jungle floors, talking to Indian goddesses, falling in love with a . . . tiger—well, none of that was normal. Not by a long shot.

  I opened my closet and saw that my hair ribbon collection and all my clothes had indeed been moved from Mike and Sarah’s. I fingered through some things I hadn’t seen in a few months. When I opened the other side of the closet, I found all the new clothes that had been purchased for me in India as well as several new items still in garment bags.

  How on earth did Mr. Kadam get this stuff here before me? I left all this in my closet back in India. I closed the door on the clothes and my memories, determined not to open that side of the closet.

  Moving to the dresser, I pulled open my top drawer. Sarah had arranged my socks exactly the way I liked them. Each pair of black, white, and assorted colored socks was wound into a neat ball and placed in a row. But opening the next drawer wiped the smile off my face. I found the silky pajamas I had purposely left in India.

  My chest burned as I ran my hand over the soft cloth and then reso
lutely shut the drawer and moved onto the bathroom, which was white and soft, powdery blue with glistening tiles. Turning to leave the bright, airy room, a detail suddenly hit me, causing my face to flush scarlet red. My bedroom was peaches and cream.

  He must have picked these colors, I surmised. He’d once said that I smelled like peaches and cream. Figures he’d find a way to remind me of him even from a continent away. As if I could forget . . .

  I threw my backpack on the bed and instantly regretted it, realizing that Fanindra was still inside. After taking her out carefully and apologizing, I set her on top of a white pillow with peach embroidery. I stroked her golden head for a minute and then set to work putting away my traveling clothes.

  When that was done, I lay back on the bed and pulled my new cell phone out of my jeans pocket. Like everything else, the phone was expensive and totally unnecessary. It was designed by Prada. I turned the phone on and expected his number to show up first, but it didn’t.

  There weren’t any messages either. In fact, the only numbers stored on the phone were Mr. Kadam’s and my foster parents’.

  Various emotions raced through my head. At first I was relieved. Then I was puzzled. Then I was disappointed. A part of me pondered, It would have been nice of him to call. Just to see if I arrived okay.

  Annoyed with myself, I called my foster parents and told them I was home, tired from the flight, and that I would come over for dinner the next night. Hanging up, I grimaced, wondering what kind of tofu surprise would be in store for me. Whatever the health food meal turned out to be, I was happy to sit through it as long as I got a chance to see them.

  I wandered downstairs and made myself a snack of apple slices with peanut butter and started rifling through the college papers on the counter. Mr. Kadam had chosen international studies as my major, with a minor in art history.