My Name Is Karma

By N. A. Cash

The terrifying aftermath of an encounter with a school yard bully shocks young Karma into awareness. She’s not like other girls. Realizing that she is the amalgamation of her family’s supernatural gifts, Karma must now do battle with forces seen and unseen. She must struggle with the strength of her abilities, the emotions that frequ

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duho Books
• Release date: Dec 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999077443

N. A. Cash

N.A. Cash, Bahamian author and Miss Earth Bahamas 2005, channels supernatural suspense through fiction. Cash, a self-described extraverted introverted psychologist, spins tales that merge her own vivid imagination with narratives inspired by her decades-long analysis of mysterious internal worlds of individuals encountered through her practice. My Name is Karma is her first novel. For more, visit www.AuthorNACash.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The school bell rang. High-pitched giggles and screams erupted from the closed red painted door of the elementary school. Thirty little bodies excitedly bumped into each other as they exited the building and dispersed into various areas of the playground for recess. The teachers dispensed at the rear of the rambunctious group in twos, barking orders.

John, don’t push Lisa!

Susie, put down your skirt!

Oh, Tim, stop trying to push that pencil up your nose!

In exasperation, they almost ran to the offenders. None of them took note of me. I was used to this by now. I stood in the doorway of the building and watched my fellow classmates, run, jump, scream, and play. A game of Red Rover started on the left side of the tiny playground. Mick led it. Mick always led the group games. I didn’t know much about leadership back then, but if I had, I would have identified Mick as a leader. He stood taller than the rest of us in second grade and his thick, round body made him seem larger than life. When he spoke, everyone listened and obeyed his every command. I also didn’t know a lot about bullies, but if I did, Mick would have been the very definition of one. He used his authority to get whatever he wanted, including my lunch every Thursday. Why on Thursdays? I’m not sure. I guess I was just a part of the rotation. So was Susie, who I saw sneak off behind the bathrooms to kiss him on Tuesdays during first break, and George, who I saw gave him money on Friday mornings.

I hated Mick. Being average height but skinnier than most of my classmates, though, I could do nothing about it. Plus, I guess I should be thankful that taking my lunch was the only thing that he did to me. It could have been worse because of my particular peculiarity. I have one hazel eye and the other emerald green. That alone was the source of torture from kids in my class since we could hold conversations. They would stare at me and call me bad names like freak or weirdo. None of these things bothered me much really. What did bother me was the isolation. The names were bad, but being sentenced to being alone because of my defect stung. I guess, in thinking back on that, I should thank Mick for being one of the first ones to break the ice to talk to me in first grade. Never mind it was only to demand that whenever he wanted my lunch, he could take it. That rise in hope of having a possible friend was demolished by the embarrassment of having my brown paper bag containing my lunch snatched out of my hand, and being subsequently pushed to the floor, led me to glare at Mick and his comrades now, as I always did when they weren’t looking.

I moved silently along the outside of the building, taking care to stay as much in the shadows as possible. I had a banana in my hand and was excited about relishing the sweet and grainy mushiness. I found a spot on the side of the building under a huge pine tree, where the architect of the playground saw fit to place benches and tables for students to sit and eat. I knew I could still be seen by the raucous crowd and the teachers, but I felt hidden enough to enjoy my treat in peace.

As I sat on the wooden bench and spread the book I held on the table, a shadow passed over me. I peered up and around, seeing nothing but the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the empty parking lot on the other side of the chain linked fence that encased the school. Glancing behind me and seeing no one, I explained the shadow away to a bird or a squirrel. I placed my elbow on the book to hold it open and started to peel my banana.

You didn’t think to share?

The snide comment came from to my left, further alongside the school building. He was standing there, leaning against the wall with a threatening smirk on his face. I wondered how it was possible for him to get there so quickly.

Mick, I replied calmly, I didn’t have breakfast. Can I please have this? I felt a pang of anger because of the weakness in my voice. I shouldn’t have to be asking him to have my own snacks! I kept my anger at bay, however, knowing that his arms alone could hold down a student and cause them to cry.

You didn’t want to share with me? He walked slowly towards me, allowing his hands to sway loosely at his sides. He stopped right next to me, towering above me, his round belly pushing against my arm.

But Mick! I protested in earnest.

But nothing, you selfish freak! He grabbed the banana out of my hand and shoved me so hard, I slid off the bench and tumbled to the floor. I fell on what I assumed to be a sharp rock and felt the prick of it pierce the skin on my arm. My head bumped the ground hard and for a moment, I felt as if I was going to black out. I lay there for a moment, feeling the tears from my helpless situation rise up within my throat and spring to my eyes. I could hear his laughter mingled with the continuous noise of the others on the playground. I didn’t want to cry, but the dam of hot tears burst within me. Through my blurry eyes, I watched Mick stroll off towards the others on the playground, eating my banana. I slowly pulled myself into a sitting position, knees drawn towards my chest and cried. I wished and wished and wished, at that moment, that Mick would die.

CHAPTER TWO

The next day, I protested my parents’ insistence that I go to school because I could not prove that I was sick, despite all of my efforts to try to convince them otherwise. I was dropped off to the opening in the chain link fence that served as an entrance for all student arrivals. I felt sick to my stomach. I could not face him again. I had made up in my mind that even if my parents could see through my façade, my teachers wouldn’t care enough to investigate my claims; therefore, I could spend all day in the nurse’s office. I walked up to my class, trying to make myself appear as miserable as possible. A huddle of two teachers and our principal, Mrs. Knowles, stood outside the door. They were positioned closely together, all their faces pale and frightened. I didn’t want to have my opportunity for my grand dramatic performance of illness to be interrupted by another issue, so I hung back behind a nearby wall and listened.

Is it really true? The voice of my teacher, Ms. Greene choked out.

Yes, they found him last night in a dumpster outside of the Blue Diner on Market Street this morning. Mrs. Knowles’s voice, which usually sounded loud and commanding, appeared small and constrained. I heard the other teacher, Mrs. Boone let out a small cry before she audibly slapped a hand over her mouth.

But how? When? What happened? Ms. Greene asked shakily.

He never showed up to his house last night. His parents called the police around six yesterday evening and they searched for him all night. One of the diner workers said they saw him in there with an old man around nine before closing time. They assumed it was his grandfather. Both of them left together and another worker found his body in the dumpster this morning. Mrs. Knowles spilled this information quickly. A group of students ran past me to enter the class before the bell rang skidded to a stop in the front of the gathering.

Go into class students! Quickly! Ms. Greene tried to sound as authoritative as possible despite the shakiness in her voice. I peeped my head around to see the students usher into the class. It was at this time, Ms. Greene spotted me and called.

Miss Patel! What are you doing outside? Class is about to begin!

I built up my courage and dragged my feet towards the group. All my efforts to look forlorn and downcast fell on blind eyes as I was grabbed by my shoulders and gently shoved into the class. The door slammed behind me. I wasn’t about to let go of my façade just yet. I heaved myself to the back of the class, where I usually sat. A bubble of whispers stirred around me like a hive of bees. Kids were leaning their heads towards each other as nervous excitement stirred. I glanced around the room, curious as to what was happening. I noticed Susie in the corner with her hands pressed over her face as she sobbed, and three of her friends stood around her comforting her. I noticed several of the boys in class huddled in a corner, their faces pale with shock and numbness. Other students showed terror stricken and nervous expressions as they bent from one person to another, listening to and passing whispers.

Ms. Greene entered the class accompanied by Mrs. Knowles. The voices in the class silenced at once with their presence. Everyone returned to their respected seats, and all eyes held their gazes attentively.

Class, Ms. Greene started, Mrs. Knowles has something to tell you. Mrs. Knowles cleared her throat.

Students, I’m sure all of you have heard in one form or another, the sad news that we have to present to you this morning. She paused dramatically to stare at each student’s face. Curiosity caused my face to perk up as I became transfixed with her words. She took a huge breath before beginning again.

Unfortunately, one of your classmates died this morning. Mitch Wallace. A collective gasp sounded, my own voice being caught up in the noise.

How? Brandon, another student in my class, spoke up.

The details are not…verified as yet, Mr. Moss. We do know, through his family, that he did not show up to his house yesterday after school, as he was supposed to. So, if any of you have any information that could be provided to us, please speak now. His family is desperate to know what happened. Mrs. Knowles paused and scanned the room again. Her eyes stopped, for what seemed like an eternity, on mine. I held her gaze and then turned my head, distracted by Susie’s friend, Zyanna pushing her hand into the air.

Susie knows what happened to him after school. Susie shot her friend a malicious expression. Zyanna whispered to her, "You have to say something Susie!"

Susie? Ms. Greene asked. Susie burst into a fresh set of tears, burying her head in her hands. Ms. Greene walked over to her and placed a hand on her back, patting softly.

Ms. Greene, take her to my office please. We will have to notify her parents. Mrs. Knowles continued to scan the room as Ms. Greene helped Susie to her feet and out of the room. The door closed behind them. Zyanna’s hand shot up as soon as the door was closed.

Mrs. Knowles, will Susie get into trouble? She bit her lip as she awaited the response.

Well, it depends on what she has to say. Mrs. Knowles’s dark-brown eyes studied Zyanna intensely.

She saw Mick get into a car with an old guy after school yesterday, Zyanna blurted out. She told him not to go, because the guy was creepy, but Mick told her that he knew the guy, that that’s the guy who always gives him cool stuff. She said he just jumped into the car and it sped off. Zyanna’s eyes were wide now.

Mrs. Knowles paused for a moment before speaking. Children, we’ve always taught you not to get into cars with people who aren’t your parents or relatives. Her speech about safety faded into the background as I stared out the window. I started to feel sicker than I felt this morning. The only thing playing through my head now was, I wished he was dead. And now he is.

CHAPTER THREE

Before continuing my tale, I should introduce myself. My name is Karma Patel. I know, atypical. I’m presently in my mid-twenties, light caramel skin and medium build. I think I’m pretty ordinary, except I live alone in the middle of a small forest, just outside the city of New Orleans. This life wasn’t my choice, but you’d have to understand my background and my family to comprehend.

I lived with both of my parents until I was twelve. I always thought my family fit into the category of normal as most families go, with the exception of my mom. To say she was eccentric would be an understatement. She had a condition called agoraphobia, which left her paranoid and fearful of the outside world. According to the whispers circulating through our neighborhood, she was in her thirties when a panic attack struck her one day while visiting the local market in town. It happened once again shortly thereafter while visiting the movie theatre with my father. I was only a little girl then, too little to understand why Mam stayed at home all the time. When she wasn’t crying, she gave in to long bouts of staring out the window with such an expression of melancholy on her face that it would break anyone’s heart.

Because of her condition, she could not leave the house, and my father had to work around the clock. When I began middle school, I learned how to catch the bus home out of necessity. One day, I came home to Mam sitting on the threshold of the open apartment door softly crying. I dropped my school bag and ran to her, thinking something must have gone wrong. This was the furthest she had ever gotten to the door since I could remember. When I dropped to my knees beside her, I knew better than to say anything, so I gently shook her shoulder. When she glanced up at me, her red eyes and tear-streaked face masked in ruined mascara spoke volumes more than I cared to admit. I pulled her up by her elbows and helped her to the couch. I turned to go into the kitchen to get her a glass of water when she grabbed me by my bony wrist. She stared deep into my eyes and softly whispered, He’s gone, child. We have to move.

Nothing registered in my limited brain, until I slowly surveyed the miniature apartment. It looked almost the same except I noticed all traces of my father gone—his pictures from the mantle, his mud-caked shoes by the door, his thin jacket which hung on the post. My mom let go of my wrist as her body began shaking with sobs. I walked as if wrapped in a dim cloud of cotton to their room and noticed all of his drawers pulled out and emptied. All of his clothes in the closet were gone from their regular places. It seemed as if his smell even evaporated in the sadness which compressed the house.

Pap (my pet name for him) and I didn’t have the kind of father-daughter relationship that would win awards or be featured in some parenting magazine; however, we loved each other. Every day, I eagerly waited for him to come home. I knew what time he would arrive—exactly at five thirty every day. My father exuded an aura of structure and order. He worked as an electrician for a small company on the outskirts of the city. Every morning, he would dress in his crisp blue overalls and scuffed black tennis shoes, which he tried to shine to make like new. He would return home with them covered in dirt from going to outdoor sites.

The main thing I loved about him was his unruly mop of brown hair. No matter how much pomade he used to try to slick it down, there was always a patch in the center that would escape with the slightest breeze. I treasured this part of his hair because I had a similar unruly patch on my own head. It would be this patch of hair I would reach for when he got home and scooped me into his arms. I would hug his neck as tight as my little arms could manage, and then my sneaky fingers would work their way up to gently tug on the disorderly spot. This would normally bring a smile to his face as he tried to playfully chastise me for causing it to remain out of place.

Every night before I went to bed, Pap would come in after Mam read me a story to kiss me on my forehead and tell me I was his little girl. Of course, by the time I became a teenager, I no longer considered myself to be little but I understood what I meant to him. It was this thought that plagued my mind as I went to bed after he left.

The next week flew by in a blur as my mom drifted around the house, touching the ghosts left by my father. I vaguely remembered Aunt Vern coming by, helping us to pack. Aunt Vern, to me, had always been the scary aunt. Despite her extraordinarily tall and lanky body, which would be the envy of any model, she always wore too many layers of frumpy clothes. Her lean face was framed with simple wire glasses that sat on a thin nose. Her bright hazel eyes pierced your soul. When she spoke to me, it was always in crisp tones and short sentences, more like commands barked from a drill sergeant than a loving aunt. When she spoke to Mam, however, her voice dropped to barely a whisper. She and Mam were always close. They shared some secret connection I could never figure out; something drew them to each other like sisters who shared a womb together, even though they were five years apart.

I recall when Aunt Vern and I piled up all our stuff into her old station wagon. The car lacked three of its four hubcaps and had weird claw-like marks across the chipped paint on one side. The odor inside resembled a light musk; it was both revolting and intoxicating at the same time. When the time came for Mam to approach the car, Aunt Vern ordered me to stay by the door to hold it open while she went inside to fetch Mam. When they both emerged from the building, Mam was covered with a heavy coat, despite the stifling summer heat, and an oversized straw hat shielding most of her face. Aunt Vern guided her to the car as I got the feeling Mam’s eyes were closed the entire time. She stuffed her and the coat into the back door of the wagon and snapped her fingers to indicate I should get into the passenger side next to her. I remember I would have given anything to be in the back seat with my nose pressed in a book, ignoring the sights and sounds and the terrible dread of what was to come coupled with the loss of my father. Unfortunately, I felt this was going to be a long trip.

CHAPTER FOUR

I slept during most of the travel to our new home, being rocked by the rhythmic sway of uneven tires on hot asphalt. For the first part of the journey, I tried to stay awake, memorizing street names and numbers, as if to leave mental breadcrumbs so I could find my way back home. After passing through what felt like countless visions of tar and green fields, and being lulled in and out of consciousness by the oscillating car, I felt as if I glided down a dark hole with just enough light to illuminate the space around me. I drifted into a deep abyss of dreamless sleep.

The abrupt stopping of the car lurched me back into consciousness. I opened my eyes to see a simple wooden cottage lying ahead. The one-story structure stood partially covered in damp green moss. The windows were caked with dirt, and tall fingers of grass crept up the side of the building. Although the structure looked like it hadn’t been used or occupied in ages, I didn’t see any rust on the door’s hinges as we approached. The outer screen entry still resolutely held in place and didn’t make a sound as Aunt Vern inserted her key and swung it open. She held firmly onto Mam’s elbow as she guided her inside the outdoor porch. We approached the second door, which I assumed to be the main opening to the inner cottage. This structure also appeared untouched and firm. Aunt Vern pulled out a second key and inserted it in the lock.

When the access swung open, the inside of the cottage emitted warm, stale air. There was a peculiar, yet familiar, spiced scent which poured out after the initial musk. It smelled like cinnamon apples at Thanksgiving. The scent wasn’t overwhelming, but brought back memories of dinners shared by my small family during happier times. Those memories now felt like an eternity ago.

We walked into the house and Aunt Vern flipped a close-by light switch. The room illuminated with a myriad of soft glowing lights popping on one at a time around the room. The space was comfortably furnished with oversized couches and blankets that looked as though they could wrap you up and keep you warm for a thousand winters. The rest of the furniture was wooden, old and rustic, but homely. The walls contained small frames of country scenes, mostly containing rivers and forests.

As I walked around, I noticed several small trinkets on the tables in the shape of hand-carved wooden animals. Being the curious person that I was, I reached out and touched one. I felt stunned when the wood glowed softly with a melodic vibration underneath my fingertips. I snatched my hand back and stared at the object, wondering if I had felt what I thought I felt, or if I had hallucinated. Aunt Vern’s tall shadow fell across me and I realized she had seen my reaction.

Don’t worry child, you’ll get used to it. This was the first time she spoke to me in a tone other than commanding authority. I felt slightly taken aback when I gazed up at her