Trail of Broken Wings (39 page)

“I sit with her every night for her studies,” Brent said, offering a smile to Marin for the uncle’s benefit. “Her success is our validation for coming to America.”

“And she should be applauded for it, my friend.” He motioned for Marin and his daughter to follow. “Come, I will buy you whichever sweet you prefer. You have earned it.”

Marin lays her head against the back of the chair next to Brent’s bed, the memory of that day washing over her. She enjoyed a plateful of delectable Indian sweets that night, thanks to the uncle and Brent both buying them whatever they wanted. But more important than the sweets was the lesson of the night. The one that came with Brent’s apology to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, one of the first and last times Marin would hear the words from him. “The uncle was right. Someone with your accomplishments would never make such a mistake.” Lost in thought, he murmured to himself, “It is all a game, Marin. Life, I mean. You must know how to win it. That’s all that matters.”

The message was clear—as long as she was accomplished and the world knew it, she was safe. No one would dare touch her. She was special because she was successful. That night, she made herself a promise. Never again would she be anything but the best. It was the only way to guarantee complete control over her life, to win the game.

“Here is my success, Daddy,” Marin murmurs now. “Gia wants to live with her father.” Marin hears her daughter’s declaration again and again in her ears. “She doesn’t want me.” Marin catches her breath, each passing second making it more difficult. “I’ve done everything for her. My success was supposed to be her beacon, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. She doesn’t love me.”

Her weight too heavy to bear, Marin slides off the chair and onto the floor. On her knees, she lays her head down on the floor, the tears that have been dry for her entire life now flowing. At first they are slow, but soon enough they turn to sobs. “I don’t know what to do.” Like a dam that has burst, Marin can’t stop the tears. Sure she has lost her daughter, Marin accepts she has nothing left in a life that was destroyed years ago.

TRISHA

I lie in Sonya’s bed, both of us flat on our backs next to one another. Our hands are clasped together as we stare at the ceiling. In the silence, you can hear our breaths, hers steady, mine loud, ragged.

“What did I say? That night,” I finally ask, needing to know.

After Mama told me everything, I collapsed on the floor and sobbed into her arms until the past slowly slipped away and I finally returned to reality. I was no longer fifteen, but I didn’t feel thirty either. I felt older than my years, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder how much of my childhood got frozen in time after the assault. How much I lost living in the shadow of what he did to me. I was his favorite, and only now do I realize the high price I paid for that preference.

“That he had hurt you. When I asked how, you said he had touched you. That he took you.” Sonya squeezes my hand tighter, the memory hurting her. “I didn’t understand until years later what you meant.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.

“I did. That night, you fell asleep in my bed. The next morning you woke up and acted like nothing had happened. When I tried to say something, you dismissed me, told me I was stupid.” Sonya turns her
face toward mine. “I was confused, not sure if you made it up or just didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I forgot,” I admit, trying desperately to remember that night and the following day in full detail. “Everything. I don’t even remember our conversation.”

“Can you blame yourself for that?” she asks. “You were his princess.”

“He’s a monster, isn’t he?” I say, the words sounding foreign to my ears. “All of you knew that, but I didn’t see it. Refused to see it.” I feel like a fool. “I was his girl, the special one.” Glimpses of that night filter through my memory like dandelion seeds floating through the air. Just as I hold on to one, another floats by, grabbing my attention but causing me to lose sight of the one I just saw.

“When I was little, I was so scared of monsters under my bed,” Sonya says. “But when friends started describing the monsters they thought lived under their beds, I realized my description was of Dad. He was the monster I feared,” she reveals. She lets go of my hand and rises up on her elbow, leaning her head on her palm. Her hair flows around her. She had come back home late and was surprised to see me and Mama sitting in the hallway, our faces drawn from grief and shock. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. In a matter of weeks, my entire life has changed from what it was, what I knew. I’m drained, exhausted, and helpless to find an answer. “I still don’t remember everything,” I admit, almost ashamed. I wonder how far I’ve gone to protect myself from pain.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Sonya muses, lying back down. “The mind is very powerful. It knows what we can’t handle, what we can’t process.” She twines her fingers with mine again. “What he did to you, Trisha, why would you want to remember?”

“You know what’s crazy?” I hesitate to say the words, to say out loud what I feel. “I still love him. I can’t relate the father I remember
with the glimpses of memory of that night. It feels like a movie reel, like it’s not really me it’s happening to.”

“You disassociated,” Sonya says. “It’s pretty common in cases of abuse.” She speaks slowly, hesitantly. “You separate from the incident or situation; convince yourself it’s not you. It’s a protective measure. A survival instinct.”

“Is that what you did?” I ask, for the first time wondering how she survived a lifetime of horror when I barely survived one night of it. “Disassociated?”

“Sometimes I wish I had,” Sonya says after a long pause. “Maybe it would have made it easier, I don’t know.” She gets off the bed, taking a sip of water from the glass she brought in for me. “I stayed in the moment, absorbing everything he did, making it mine.”

“How do you know so much?” I ask, wondering again what she did with her time when she was away from us. “When did you become so brilliant?”

“I’m not,” Sonya says, showing me a glimpse of vulnerability. “I just did some research, learned a few fancy words.” She offers me the glass of water. I take a healthy swallow before setting it down on the end table next to the bed.

“You must hate me,” I say, my throat feeling like sandpaper. “When we were growing up. Everything all of you had to face”—I pause—“while I stood by, untouched.”

“Sometimes I thought I did,” Sonya admits, her words not surprising. “But you weren’t doing the hitting, were you?” She stares at the ceiling, fighting tears. “You were always in the same boat as us, just standing on the other side.”

“I blamed you,” I admit, shame coursing through me. She turns to me in shock. “All of you. Maybe if you were just more of what he needed . . .” I admit. “Am I a monster? Like him?” The fear rears up from deep within me. It’s what drove me to create my perfect life. To hide from Eric all my truths. The reason I refused to have children.
“Maybe that’s why I was his favorite. Why he loved”—I nearly choke on the word and his definition of it—“me. Because I’m just like him.”

“Is that what you think?” Sonya asks quietly. Sitting down next to me, she takes my hand in hers. “You think if you had a child, you would hurt him or her like he hurt us?”

“Who says I wouldn’t?”

“You do,” Sonya says it with such definitiveness it takes me off guard. “You make that choice, just like he did.”

“You honestly believe that it’s that easy?” I shake my head, unable to accept what she’s saying. “We walked through darkness. How do you find the light?”

“Wherever you can.” Sonya plucks at the bedspread, avoiding my eyes. There’s something she’s not telling me. I wonder how far our web of secrets has been woven and whether we will ever be able to fully untangle ourselves from it.

“Are you afraid?” I think of her travels, her love of photography. It dawns on me that my sister is talking from experience. She found her light the only place she knew—as far away from us as possible, trusting the world through the lens of her camera more than through her own eyes.

“Every minute of my life,” she admits. Stepping away from me, she lets me know the discussion is over. “What are you going to do?” she repeats.

“I don’t know,” I admit, still not having an answer. “I honestly have no idea.”

When I am not sleeping, I lose myself in the garden. Mama has an array of flowers in the back that the gardener tends to every week. There were tulips a few weeks ago, and now there are roses among the fruit trees and green foliage. There’s a small waterfall to the side, an
addition Mama sanctioned after Papa fell into the coma. The water flows over the rocks, the noise drowning out the sound of my own thoughts. I sit and stare at the presentation, the beauty available for anyone wishing to bask in it.

Each stem of the rosebush intertwines with the others, a medley of splendor. Like life, it is exquisiteness intermixed with thorns. A prick if you touch without caution. People often make the mistake of believing the rose’s magnificence is just in the flower, failing to see the whole picture. But the thorn is there to protect, to keep the rose safe.

Once upon a time, I too would have clipped the barbs before arranging a bouquet. Now I see that every flower needs the good and bad to bloom; it must stand strong, its face toward the sun, absorbing the rays it needs to stay alive when darkness falls.

I loved interior designing. First, you have to learn about the people, understand them before creating their home or work space. Everyone’s needs are unique; one client’s vision of perfection can be another’s idea of catastrophe. I would spend hours listening to clients’ needs, their ideas about what their abodes should look like. Retreating to the privacy of my own space, I would go through color schemes, matching one with another, careful not to stray too far from the boundaries they left unspoken.

The real joy was in the shopping. Bringing an array of pieces together, fitting them to make a whole set. From one place, I would buy a modern piece of art, and from another an antique lamp, using colors and the other pieces to connect the two. Every time, without fail, I made it work. My clients were astounded with the results, gushing that they never would have thought to do the same. My response was always the same: “It’s hard to believe until you try.”

Now I am the empty house, and I’m trying to put together all the pieces—the memories and experiences of my life—to make me whole. How do you connect the tragedy with the joy, the heartbreak with the serenity? Who am I when I can’t even remember the night that
defined my life? How do you characterize a person if they are undefined, a façade still waiting to be exposed? Maybe when one door shuts, another one doesn’t really open. Maybe, instead, it’s just a sign that you are locked in forever.

Reaching out, I prick my finger on the thorn, watching the blood drip out, slowly, then each drop faster than the last. Laying my head on my knees, I wrap my arms around my legs, listening to the water, the only sound that makes sense.

SONYA

Mom and I don’t talk about Trisha’s revelation. That she knew what he had done and continued to live with him makes me furious. I don’t understand, but I fear if I demand an explanation it will fall short, and I will finally have the excuse to hate her. I wonder if I haven’t been searching for one forever.

Trisha continues to stay with us, sleeping in my bed with me as if we are once again children. She barely comes out of the bedroom, preferring the security of the blankets and the bed to returning to real life. Mom brings her food in the room, leaving the plate on the table next to where she is sleeping. It is the only way Mom knows how to offer comfort—feed away the sadness.

Mom and I limit our conversations to Trisha’s well-being. She asks me how Trisha slept; when I return home from work, I ask her how Trisha’s day went. We play this back and forth for an entire week, neither demanding any further answers from the other. I know when Trisha finally showers—there’s a wet towel neatly hung in the bathroom. When I check the room hoping to find my sister awake, she is curled yet again under the covers. I try to talk to her, but she simply shakes her head no. Not yet, she seems to say. Not yet.

I return to the hospital, finding the place I have used as an excuse to remain in the area has become a haven. I work with the patients, spending hours teaching them how I escape my world so they can escape theirs. When I find them getting lost in the beauty they can create, I see through their eyes how photography became my flight, and once again I am thankful that my vocation found me.

I have successfully avoided seeing David since our last encounter. I don’t work the long hours I used to, choosing instead to leave at my designated time so there’s little chance of us running into each other in the halls during the evening hours. Once I am out of the hospital, I drive around the city, using my camera as a guide. The other day I arrived at an outdoor wedding. Keeping my distance, I shot over a hundred pictures of guests and the happy couple. I suddenly found odd comfort in the gathering. Afterward, I gifted the couple the memory card containing their pictures, telling them I was just an amateur photographer.