Trail of Broken Wings (2 page)

TRISHA

I recheck the dining room table to make sure each setting is in its place, and I wipe the glassware. Every wineglass is set exactly five inches from the plate. I have used my best silverware, a gift to myself after my wedding. The smell of simmering chicken drifts in from the kitchen. Eloise, our housekeeper, has been with us for the last two years. Though she is not Indian, she has learned to make my favorite dishes. My mother has spent hours patiently teaching her just the right amount of cumin to mix with ginger and red pepper to enhance the flavor of cooked vegetables. As I get older, I find myself craving almost daily the authentic Indian meals I grew up eating. Eric laughs at me whenever I tell him that. Twelve years older, he insists that at thirty I am still a child.

“Everything looks perfect. As always,” Eric whispers. He wraps his arms around my waist from behind, his fingers sneaking below my shirt to touch my bare stomach. It is flat, thanks to the hours I spend in the gym. “Are you OK?”

I lean my head back, just for a moment, absorbing his strength before stepping out of his arms to face him. His green eyes fill with warmth and kindness. I run my fingers through his blond waves and rest them on his nape. “I want everything to go right for Mama.” I
glance around my immaculate house. She is standing by the window, waiting. Resentment starts to rise in my throat, but I swallow it. This is not the time. “She hasn’t seen Sonya in years.”

“Neither have you.”

I fill the crystal pitcher with water, set it in the middle of the table, and take a moment to admire the display. An elaborate celebration to welcome home the sister who abandoned us years ago. Eric watches me, waiting for an answer that I don’t have. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “She made her choice.” One I have never understood but have had to accept.

“I look forward to meeting her.”

Growing up, Sonya and I shared everything. That she has never met my husband is still difficult for me to believe. I sent her the wedding invitation, called her with the details, but she never showed. Leaving me without a maid of honor. Our oldest sister, Marin, stepped in as I knew she would. And did so without mentioning that she was second choice or that I had waited until minutes before I was set to walk down the aisle to ask her. Marin stood at the altar and later around the fire as I married Eric in two elaborate ceremonies symbolizing both our faiths.

“Mummy is clearly excited,” Marin says, coming in from the living room where she was helping Gia with algebra. Each sister uses her own name for our parents. I refer to them affectionately, Mama and Papa, while Marin has never lost use of the traditional Mummy and Daddy. For the life of me I can’t remember what Sonya calls them, maybe because I rarely heard her call out for them. “She’s been standing by the window for the last hour.”

Marin has wrapped her hair tightly into a bun. She stripped off her suit jacket when she arrived, leaving her in a silk shirt and tailored pants that emphasize her slim body, fit from hours of working and stress. She is older than I am by five years, but no one would ever guess we are sisters. Her golden-brown hair, kissed by the California sun,
has streaks of blond that genetics fails to explain. Mom swears Marin’s deep-green eyes come from a distant great-aunt. Growing up, everyone assumed Sonya and I were the only biological sisters. There were times we were almost identical in looks. Not that Sonya would agree. She swore I was the pretty one. My looks were the reason my parents’ friends called me the princess of the house. The only explanation for the childhood I had.

“Shall I serve dinner?” Eloise pokes her head out of the kitchen. Raised in Mexico, she has no family to call her own in the States.

I glance at the slim gold watch peppered with diamonds that encircles my wrist. A gift from Eric to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. After his recent promotion to CEO of his company, what once were luxuries had suddenly become necessities. “Her flight should have arrived. Let’s wait another fifteen minutes.”

“If she decided to come. We don’t know for sure she is on the flight.” It is Marin’s way to be blunt, to say things as they are. Mama turns her face toward us, a fleeting look of pain before she masks it.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Mama’s voice lacks its normal strength. A pinched smile replaces the full one that graced her face earlier. She pulls her wool cardigan tight around her even though the sun is out and a warm breeze permeates the air. She stopped wearing saris after I got married. Said there was no need to keep up the traditions of the past. If Papa had a problem with the change in her attire, he never mentioned it in front of me. “She called me right before boarding.”

“That doesn’t mean she boarded.” Marin refuses to let the subject drop.

I catch Mama’s eye, offering her silent support without alienating my sister. We learned the steps of this dance years ago, my mother and I tiptoeing around Marin’s words. It was an unspoken agreement we made when Marin moved back to town. Never allow Marin’s way to break the fragile family we have left. Having already lost Sonya because of our past, my mother refused to lose another daughter.

“Well, if nothing else, all of us will have a lovely belated birthday dinner for Marin. Eloise has outdone herself yet again.” I hand a bottle of wine to Eric. “Honey, why don’t you pour us some?”

With an ease born of practice, he uncorks the bottle and pours the red liquid. As I watch the crystal glasses fill, I remember Sonya and me playing make-believe as children. Whether I was the restaurant owner, hostess, or just woman extraordinaire, I always made sure we toasted one another with grape juice.
To us
, I would say. Never finding a reason to disagree, and happy to be playing with me, Sonya forever followed along. Since she had always been, I assumed she always would be there, standing alongside, waiting for whatever game I wanted to start. As adults, she was meant to be my counterpart—the other half that made me whole. Her darkness to my light, her sadness to my happiness.

I watch my mother wait, her lowered head betraying her heavy heart. When Sonya left, emptiness settled over our lives. Mama rarely mentions her, almost believing if we never say her name then she isn’t really gone. I tried to suffocate my loneliness with other sources—Eric, my home, Mama and Papa—but nothing quite filled the void she left.

I learned something important the day Sonya departed: you cannot keep someone who has already left you behind. No matter what I needed or wanted, Sonya put herself first; I was last. For a while, I went through the motions each day. Soon enough, I forgot that there was someone missing. Only now, with the thought of her return, do I recognize anew the cavity left in my being. But I can’t show my excitement. If she fails to show, if she disappoints us by maintaining the status quo, then I am left once again, still waiting.

“She’s here!” Gia comes running in from the den, still holding the math book Marin bought at an education store. She’s a striking replica of Marin, the only difference between the two being the couple of inches in height Gia has over her mother. At fifteen, she looks like a woman. “She’s paying the cab driver.”

I release a sigh I didn’t realize I was holding. Clasping my own hands together, I watch Mama. She turns, having missed seeing Sonya’s arrival because she was distracted with the conversation. A sheen of tears covers her eyes before she quickly blinks them away. She straightens her spine, reaching her full height of just over five feet. Stepping quickly to the door, she pauses before opening it. We gather around her, waiting for her to welcome her lost daughter home.

“Mama?” I reach out, covering her hand on the knob with my own. “She’s waiting.”

“Of course.” A small laugh, filled with disbelief. She opens the door quickly, biting her lip at the sight that greets her. “Sonya.”

Sonya’s hair is longer than I remember, and she is thinner than I have ever seen her. Her jeans and thick sweater seem out of place in comparison to my spring dress. Lines of stress surround her eyes and mouth. At twenty-seven, three years younger than I am, her empty smile is that of someone years older.

“It’s been a long time.” Sonya hesitates, almost unsure how to react to the reception that greets her. She steps toward our mother, on autopilot it seems, pulling her in for a perfunctory hug. Her arms tighten briefly around Mama before she drops them back to her side. “Marin? It’s good to see you.” They embrace lightly, their years of living apart creating a greater distance than a difference in age ever could. “Trisha?” She says it on a laugh, her eyes finally filling with emotion. She walks toward me, her arms outstretched. I grab her hand, my little sister, and pull her in tight. “I’ve missed you.” It is a whisper in my hair, her words so quiet they are almost lost.

My throat convulses, the words refusing to come. She is here, after I have spent so many years wanting and wondering. I start to feel the emptiness recede as her presence fills me. As a child I took her for granted. Now I know I will never do so again. My tears fall onto her shoulder as we hold one another. I wrap the palm of my hand around the back of her head, as a mother would hold a child. I bring her in
closer, sure if I keep her tight enough she will never leave again. Filled with desperation and relief, I whisper back, “Welcome home.”

To anyone watching, we are a normal family. Food passes around and plates fill to overflowing. The family finishes the bottle of wine as Sonya regales us with tales of her extensive travels. From Alaska to Russia, she has lived in every place imaginable. She tells Gia of riding an elephant in Thailand and flying in a propeller plane over glaciers in Alaska.

“Where did you live?” Gia is enthralled. “Moving place to place must have been hard.”

“It was worth it,” Sonya says. She avoids meeting anyone’s searching gaze. Fiddling with her linen napkin, she folds it into a perfect square. “For the pictures.”

“You should have come home.” Mama’s voice is low, but nonetheless it silences the chatter. “Your travels took you very far away.” She immigrated to America from India over twenty-five years ago, but a slight accent remains.

“It was my job,” Sonya answers quietly.

“And when you weren’t doing your job? Where were you then?” Mama wipes her mouth with her napkin.

A palpable tension settles over the table. Sonya glances at me, unsure. Suddenly I see the little girl who cowered in our bedroom, sure the blanket on our bed would protect her. The one who laughed so she wouldn’t cry.

“She’s home now,” I say. “That’s all that matters, right?” Not waiting for an answer, I call out, “Eloise.” She pops her head out. “Please bring out the birthday cake and dessert.” She has made fresh
gulab jambu
, Sonya’s favorite from childhood. Fried wheat balls steeped in sugary syrup. Sonya used to eat at least half a dozen every time Mama made them.

I begin to clear the table. Eric immediately stands to help, as does Raj, Marin’s husband. Raj has remained quiet throughout the meal. He often says very little, choosing to let Marin steer the conversations as she wishes. “As soon as dessert is served, we should start to make plans to visit Papa.” I stack the fine china carefully and hand the plates to Eric to take to the kitchen. “He is only allowed two family members at a time during visiting hours, but I’m sure the doctor will make an exception for a special event.”

“How is he?” Sonya stares at her clasped hands. Both men and Gia are in the kitchen, leaving only us women at the table.

Before I can answer, Marin says, “He’s in a coma.” Her voice is devoid of all emotion. “The doctor says it doesn’t look good.”

I flinch, seeing him lying in the hospital bed, tubes keeping him alive. Every morning I visit him as soon as I awake, each time harder than the last. But as the favored daughter, it is my responsibility to return the gift of his love. I accept my duty graciously.

“Is he expected to come out of it?” Sonya has found her footing. She stares directly at Marin, two equals discussing the situation. Watching them, I notice their similarities are striking. Both highly educated, focused on their careers. Neither makes any apologies for her life choices—regardless of whom they hurt. They are both beautiful but neither bothers to enhance their looks. They are my sisters but often I wondered if I was the only real daughter while they were pretending. Like stepchildren, they were never allowed to forget their place: a few steps outside the circle of the real family.

“I’m surprised you care.” Marin sits back in her chair, assessing the woman Sonya has become.

I find myself doing the same. If I am honest, we are strangers sitting together. Though we lived in the same house, survived similar ordeals, we have each grown to become our own women. With time we have learned to hold our secrets close rather than share. It is our conditioning, what is expected of a good Indian woman. We learned from a
young age not to share our heartbreak, our despairs. It may cause others to view you with a negative eye, think less of you.

“Why is that?” Sonya demands. She straightens in her chair. Refusing to apologize for her escape, she stares without flinching.