Trail of Broken Wings (15 page)

“Is this what you wanted to see?” Gia demands, allowing the shirt to fall down her arms. Bruises, some black and blue, others green,
decorate her body. Two on her abdomen, framing her belly button. Gia loved playing peekaboo with her belly button as a toddler. Raj had found a flap book that showed different babies showing their belly buttons. It became Gia’s favorite game for weeks. Her shirt up and then down, laughing in fits when her belly button was exposed.

Two more bruises on Gia’s back. From her own experience, Marin determines that the ones on the back are older. As a teenager, Marin would wonder what her maximum number would be at one time. Just as the old ones would fade, new ones were created to replace them. Ten was the max. The magic number. Four is apparently Gia’s.

“Who did this to you?” Marin longs to reach out, to enfold Gia in the security of her arms. But when your mother never offered you comfort, you are unsure how to give it to your daughter. “Who hit you?”

“You just did.” Gia pulls on her shirt and buttons it, hiding the bruises. Finished, she palms the cheek Marin slapped. “Seconds ago.”

“Gia.” Marin is adrift with no compass to steer her. She graduated high school at sixteen and college at nineteen. When she was hired in finance at the age of twenty, she swore she would never be lost again. She believed herself free, capable of being her own beacon. “I’m sorry.”

It is the first time Marin has ever apologized to her daughter. Whether it is for the bruises that mark Gia’s body or for the slap, neither can say for sure. Regardless, it shocks Gia. Her eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away quickly. Tucking her shirt back into her skirt, she meets Marin’s gaze. “I should get to my schoolwork.”

“Not yet. Please.” Marin reaches for her daughter’s hand, but Gia pulls away. Accepting the gulf she has created, Marin asks her to join her on the sofa. When Gia refuses yet again, Marin pleads, “Were you in some kind of a fight?”

“No.”

“Was it . . .” She pauses, struggling to say the name aloud. A desperate reach for all the imaginable ways the bruises might have come about. Raj? The possibility occurs to her only in the darkness that has
descended. It would seem impossible on its face. He was the loving father, the gentle giant incapable of hurting his beloved Gia. But the world saw Brent differently too. No one would have ever guessed what he was capable of. The monster he became when no one was watching. “Did your dad do this?”

“No!” Gia finally drops onto the sofa. Her eyes wide, she pleads silently with her mother to believe her. “Never. It’s not possible.”

No, Marin knows, it is not possible for Raj to do such a thing. But she just did, she realizes. Gia couldn’t say the same about her. Not anymore.

Tapping her feet, Gia is clearly anxious to be anywhere else. “I have to go.”

Her patience worn thin, Marin snaps, “We’re not going to do this anymore.” She will not play twenty questions with her daughter. Not when Gia knows the answer but refuses to tell. “Tell me now.”

“This is my life.” The sofa no longer a refuge, Gia stands, walking toward Marin’s desk. She picks up a picture of herself when she was five. She had won her first trophy by coming in third at a swim competition. Her parents, bursting with pride, had taken an entire roll worth of film.

Marin takes the picture from Gia’s hand, glances at it. The picture epitomized what Gia’s life was supposed to be—success at every turn. “Gia.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Without another word she walks out, leaving Marin to stare into the empty space.

SONYA

I drive around town, going everywhere but here. Yet, without meaning to, I arrive at the same place. Usually I sit in the parking lot of the hospital, staring at the building that houses my father. Sometimes, when I can’t help it, like today, I go in. I fight the instinct to see him. Part of me refuses to believe that he’s sick, unable to move or speak. My visits assure me he is still paralyzed, unable to attack. It’s jarring to see, to accept. His power was all encompassing, his hold over us complete. If someone had told me that this would be the way we concluded our story, I would have laughed. Said it was impossible. I was destined to always be at the end of a never-ending line for happiness, and he . . . well he was the one who demanded I stand there.

“Why?” I ask him for the first time in my life. It never occurred to me to ask as a child. I accepted his violence like other children accept love—as an assumed part of their lives. Only when I left for Stanford did I consider not everyone was raised as we were. It seems almost naive to me now, but when beatings are a normal part of your upbringing, you don’t question them. It may have been too much for my psyche to acknowledge before eighteen that I had been put on the path of abuse while others were given the hand of love. That’s still true now. I fear
what would happen if he opens his eyes. If he regains the ability to hurt me when I am already ruined. “Why did you take so much away that wasn’t yours?”

“Good to see you again.”

I have missed David’s arrival. Suddenly self-conscious, I scoot back, allowing him room to do his checkup. I scan his face to see if he overheard me, but he gives no indication he has. “Do you need me to leave?”

“You’re fine.” David uses his stethoscope to listen to my father’s heart. I watch him silently, wondering about the results. He checks his pulse, watching the monitors for any sign. Making some notes on his chart, he glances at me. “He’s the same.”

“Still no idea what could have caused this?” I want a reason. I need to know that he is not going unpunished for everything he did. I want to hear that he is suffering, that as his body began to fail him, my father felt the same fear and agony that we did every day of our lives.

“We’ll continue to run tests, but right now all we can point to is the diabetes. His insulin levels had dropped dangerously low.”

“Is that normal?” I ask.

“He was fairly healthy for his age. No smoking or drinking.” He scans the chart again. “Said he walked for exercise.” He looks up at me, an apology in his gaze. “The longer he stays in the coma, the fewer answers we have.”

He starts to leave, to tend to other patients that need him. I glance down at my father, suddenly not wanting to be left alone with him. Having kept to myself for so many years, I find I am yearning for conversation. “Were you his regular doctor?” I ask before I can censor myself.

“No.” He looks puzzled that I wouldn’t know that. “I’m an attending. His regular physician is an internist. We’re staying in touch about his condition.”

“That’s good.” I feel new to polite conversation. I have never been good at it. I read somewhere that abused children often have social anxiety as adults. Whatever the terminology may be—all I know is that I feel safer away from people than with. “Thanks.”

He starts to leave again but seems to reconsider his actions. Stopping, he watches me. “Your mom mentioned your dad’s condition would bring you home from your travels. She asked if he would be better by the time you arrived. I’m sorry we weren’t able to make that happen.”

“She said I would come home?” I stop him, stand in his way. I am shocked she would say anything about me. “When?”

“A few days after his admission.” He glances at me, trying to understand my reaction. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”

“No.” I step back, out of his way. “I’m just surprised.” I cross my arms around myself, hoping to ward off the chill that is in the air. “What else did she say?” It feels odd to ask a stranger for insight into my mother’s thoughts.

“Mentioned you traveled all over the world,” he says gently. “She was clearly very proud.”

He misunderstood. Mom has always hated my travel. My travel meant that I was lost to her. That she had one less daughter to mother, and for her, the role was all she had left in a life that ceased to make sense the first day my father hit her. “Not as much as you would think. It’s for work.”

“Photography?”

“Yes.” I think about all the places I’ve been, but more than that, all the places I have never been. “For pictures.”

“Where have you traveled?”

I can’t tell if he’s asking to be courteous or if he’s genuinely interested. “I know you’re busy. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“No worries.” He glances at his watch. “I’m actually ahead of schedule today. Shocking, just so you know. I make a habit of being late.” He smiles and I can’t help but return it.

“Europe, Asia, all over the US,” I say it without pride or thought. My travels mean little to me. The places blend together, faces of people I have met lost in a sea of those I have left behind. Where I am matters little, only that I am no longer where I was. I haven’t decided where I will go next. Not back to New York, where I received the call about Dad. Find somewhere that had no memories to haunt. “What about you?” I ask, trying to be polite. “Do you travel often?”

“Not as much as I used to. I have to be here, for my patients.” Though he stands still, his eyes wander, taking on a faraway look. “I used to write for
Let’s Go
. That was the last time I traveled like I would want to.”

“You went to Harvard?” I had used
Let’s Go
guidebooks dozens of times when I arrived at new destinations. Written by Harvard students, they became my go-to for how to travel on a budget. “For undergraduate or medical?”

“Both.” He motions around him. “But California is home. The Bay Area’s pull proved too strong to resist when it came time to decide my residency. What about you?”

“Stanford.” Speaking of mundane things such as travel and life is a novelty I cannot take for granted. When you leave as many places as I have, you have little in common with those who remain. “You went to high school here?” I imagine we are near the same age.

“The Monroe School. Down the road actually.”

The school tells me a lot about him. A man born into success, offered the very best from a young age. The parents of the children who attend often talk about their private jets and front-row seats at world events. That he mentions it without boast or pride says what kind of man he is.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Gunn High School.” Consistently ranked as one of the top high schools in the country, the campus often felt like a natural precursor to Stanford. “In Palo Alto.”

“Great school. I have a lot of friends who graduated from there.”

We don’t compare names of those we knew. It is useless to do so. I lived in my own world in high school, cut off from the community because I had to be. I could never bring friends home. My father’s behavior was too unpredictable to trust. If anyone witnessed his loss of temper, the reputation I had carefully cultivated would have been tarnished. He was always on his best behavior with the Indian community and his coworkers. He relished his image as a powerful man, benevolent to his children, doing everything for them. Our school friends were of no significance to him, so he cared little if he was cruel or demeaning in front of them.

“Then on to Stanford.” He is clearly impressed. “What hall did you live in?”

Excited about the full experience of college, most Stanford students choose to live on campus, and those who do pick one of ten dormitory houses. After the first year, a student decides to continue living in the same hall or to move on to an upper-class residence. Your hall is a critical part of your experience as a freshman. One that I almost missed out on. “Roble Hall. I moved in a few months late,” I admit before I remember to censor myself. “Dad wouldn’t allow me to live on campus before then.”

“Why?” David fails to hide his shock.

Unwilling to give up control over me, Dad refused to allow me to move into my assigned room. “I don’t know,” I lie, not able to explain. I had begged my father to allow me to live in a hall, but he repeatedly refused me. Finally, I went to the dean of the school and explained my situation. A firm letter was sent to my house stating that unless I abided by the rules of the school, my admission would be reviewed. Unwilling to chance such a humiliation in front of his friends, he relented.

“Maybe he wasn’t ready to let his little girl go.” Grabbing his wallet from his back pocket, he opens it to reveal a photo of a young girl, maybe six years old. “As the father of one, I can imagine how hard it would be.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“I give my ex-wife credit for that.” He holds my gaze. “And you? Do you have any children?”

“No. I’ve never been married.” His question reminds me who I am. Who I will always be. “Not even a boyfriend.”

He tries to mask his disbelief, does not ask why. Likely the best conclusion he can come to is that my travels are to blame. I am a mistress to my photography. My viable excuse to every man who gets too close, who demands more. The darkness that is my companion leaves little room for the light of love.

“How old is she?” I ask, changing the subject.

He lights up. It was my childhood envy—watching fathers love their daughters.

“Five.” He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck. “Her name is Alexis. My ex and I have joint custody.”

“You’re very lucky.” The words aren’t perfunctory. The picture showed a beautiful girl with a smile that warms the heart. Children are my favorite to photograph. There is a beauty in childhood innocence.

“Where are you traveling to next?” he asks, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.

“I haven’t decided.” At his confusion, I attempt to explain, “I pick a place I’ve never been, and hope I find what I’m looking for.”

“Which is?”

Not answering his question immediately, I attempt to explain. “Two years ago, I spent time at a monastery in China. Lived with the monks, watched their daily life. Every day they woke at the same time, ate the same meal.” There was an odd comfort in the repetition. “Sitting side by side, they would meditate for hours.” Their faces held
a contentment I rarely saw again. “But they were completely removed from the world.”

“Solitude?” He guesses, seeming surprised at the thought.

“They seemed happy,” I say, a note of defense in my voice. The square footage of the room starts to shrink. I have revealed too much, making myself vulnerable. I consider walking into the bathroom to my right and locking the door. A viselike grip encircles my throat. My father’s body lies still under the pristine white sheet. I had forgotten about him, but like a dark shadow he looms above me, always there, always watching. “I should let you get back to your patients.” Not waiting for him to leave, I do, knowing I will be back, because I have no choice.