Trail of Broken Wings (12 page)

Linda falls silent, as I expected she might. A question remains unspoken. I wait to see if she will ask it, but in the end I know her decision. Even if it were to save her life, she will not pry into yours. I imagine she has secrets of her own that she holds dear, and she therefore understands others’ need to keep their own counsel. Whatever her reasoning, I appreciate her restraint. “Let me see what I find.”

Days have passed since I called Linda. Needing an escape, I drive toward the city and park, deciding to walk along the Golden Gate Bridge. A low fog hangs over the bay, with the sun barely peeking out from behind the clouds. The water is clear but choppy, crashing against the rocks as sea lions cavort nearby. I cup my palms together and blow into them, trying to ward off the chill. Tourists with cameras hanging off their necks bustle past me, pointing and snapping pictures of Alcatraz Island, situated in the middle of the frigid water. Raising my camera, I glance through the lens to see the prison as they do—a fortress that held some of the most notorious criminals of its time. Without taking a picture, I lower it and see it for what I believe it to be—a building that sits empty, with too many ghosts to tell the full tale of the lives that inhabited it.

“Excuse us,” a small Chinese man says in stilted English. “Would you mind taking our picture?” he asks, pointing to the large group standing behind him. A mix of young and old, clearly a family that has traveled together. The children are pushing one another while the men and women watch me expectantly, hoping I will capture this moment for them.

“Of course.” Taking his camera, I motion for them to stand closer together to fit in the frame. “A little bit more,” I say, glancing into the
LCD panel. Behind them, the hills of Sausalito rise up, creating the perfect backdrop for their memento. I begin to snap the picture when a young girl, I would guess her to be eleven, starts to step away from the group. Only now I notice tears have streaked her face, and her lower lip is trembling. I lower the camera to motion her back in, but before I can say anything her mother wraps her arm around the young girl’s shoulder. Lowering her head, she speaks softly into the girl’s ear. In seconds, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a smile and laughter fill the girl’s face. Nestling into her mother’s arms, she lights up for the camera, all her sadness gone with just a few words from the one she loves.

I arrive home after dinner. Since our argument, I have rarely been home, choosing to drive around for hours, taking pictures wherever I can. I have visited Dad a handful of times. Each time I enter the room, I expect to see him walking around, prepare myself for his reaction upon seeing me. But every time he still lies there, silent, and I leave, waiting until the next time.

“Sonya?” Mom calls out, though there is no one else she is expecting.

“Yes?” I drop my camera bag by the front door. Mom and I have reached an equilibrium. She does not demand to know my comings or goings or what time I will arrive home. For giving me the freedom of my own time, something I am used to, I offer her the security of my presence. They say there is a sixth sense a mother has regarding her children. If Mom has such intuition, she has never used it before. Now, however, it almost feels like she knew I was planning on leaving. Since I decided to stay, she seems happier, relieved.

“The hospital called . . .”

I flinch. Before she can say more, I whisper, my throat convulsing with the words, “Is he awake?”

“No.” She is matter of fact, devoid of any emotion. “You left your cell phone in the hospital room. The nurse called me to let me know.”

I glance back at my purse. It must have fallen out when I gathered my things. “Thanks. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” I start to walk away, toward my room, when she stops me.

“I didn’t realize you visited him,” she says softly.

I hear the question but don’t know how to answer. If anyone had told me I would choose to spend time with him, I would have laughed, assuring them they had no idea who I was. Now I wonder if I know who I really am. “That’s why you called me home, right? For me to be with him in his final days?”

“Is that what you thought?” She seems surprised. “I asked you to come home because it had been long enough.”

“Not for me it wasn’t,” I admit quietly, shuttering my eyes when I see her recoil. “I’m sorry.”

“Then why did you come?” she asks, begging me for something she may not want to hear.

I pause, trying to find the words to explain to her why I made the decision. How do I tell her I almost didn’t come home? That I had ignored the message, even gone so far as to call Linda to set up an overseas assignment. But at the last minute I decided against it and booked a flight home. “To say good-bye,” I admit.

I start to leave the room when she asks me, barely a whisper, “To whom?”

I walk away without giving her an answer, leaving her to find her own.

When Linda calls me back, she does not sound happy. “I came up with three jobs. Three. None of them paying anything near what you are used to.”

“It’s a short-term thing Linda,” I assure her. “I just need something to stay busy while I’m here.”

“One is in San Francisco. The local zoo wants to do some damage control after one of their animals got loose and attacked a patron. Pictures of the pretty animals as they are being fed, bathed, etcetera. For a media campaign.” Linda is not a fan of zoos, flies, bugs, or anything related. I can hear the disgust in her voice and cannot help my smile.

“Sounds tempting.”

“Really?” She sighs. “The next one is in the vineyards north of you. Napa, Sonoma, etcetera. Another media campaign.”

“I’m surprised the wineries don’t have their own photographers.”

“It’s from the city councils. For a brochure to attract more tourists during the off season. Again, the pay is not so impressive.” I am sure her mind is already calculating the lost commission over the next few months and does not like the numbers. “The last one is at the local hospital. Stanford. They are looking for a photographer for a therapy-type project. Working with patients—sick ones.” An edge I have never heard before from her enters her voice. “When I put some feelers out through my contacts they responded immediately, but I told them you would not be interested. Last thing you need is to deal with other people’s tragedies when you have your own to handle.”

It is early evening. I can hear the crickets that are always chirping. The Stanford campus is still alive with students attending late classes. I wander near the library, dipping my feet into the fountain in front. Students are seated on the low concrete steps, earphones blaring with music while they study in the warm breeze.

Watching them, I envy their hopes and dreams. Their belief that anything is possible. That the future is theirs to determine, to create.
They are invincible; they are sure. I don’t remember feeling like that ever. Even when I had hopes for the future, I knew my past would always walk alongside. My companion for a lifetime.

After letting the hours tick by, I finally drive back home under the guidance of the moon’s light. The house is quiet; I assume Mom went to bed hours ago. Feeling restless, I down a glass of warm milk and flip through the TV channels in my room but nothing catches my interest. Lying down, I toss in my bed, uncomfortable with the familiar surroundings. My thoughts wander to the discussion between Mom and me. To all the times I’ve visited him as he lies dying.

Kicking the covers off, I stretch, hoping to relieve some of the discomfort from the days of doing nothing. Out of habit, I listen for footsteps, for a scream or cry. But Mom is safely encased behind her bedroom door. I think about Trisha and her request. Her need for me to stay to help her say good-bye. I used to wonder how she was doing with our parents. Imagined her catering to them while I was away. She would have done her job perfectly, as only she could.

Shaking off the malaise and the memories, I climb out of bed and switch on my computer. I surf for a few minutes, hoping to distract myself with pictures I have recently taken. When the discontentment lingers, I move on to travel sites, imagining the next place I will end up. I have been all over Europe and to most of Asia.
But never back to India
, a voice reminds me. Rejecting my culture felt like the natural next step when I left home. An announcement to no one listening that I was free of all the chains of my childhood. Having no definition of myself, I refuse to give significance to a place whose only meaning in my life is that it bred my father. That my mother and sisters were born there also holds little weight in comparison.

A tingling begins at the base of my spine. The need that arises when I have gone too long without relief. I struggle against it, hating myself before I begin. But like oxygen, it is my lifeline. My definition of love. Clicking on a few sites, I read until my eyes are weary. When
finished, I return to my bed and find the release that eluded me. Soon I feel myself falling into a deep sleep, one guaranteed to be plagued with nightmares from my childhood.

TRISHA

From conception to birth takes approximately nine months. Thousands of sperm search for that one egg. The lucky sperm gets to fertilize it, and if all goes well, an embryo is created. That is just the beginning. Three months of nausea, three months of excitement, and then the final three months of expecting the unknown. Throughout pregnancy, there is both fear and anticipation. You pray for a healthy child without a real concept of what that means. Ten fingers and ten toes offer initial calmness. The first cry assures everyone the baby is alive. After the months of being solely responsible for its well-being, the mother can rest assured she did not make a misstep that took its life.

But the real job—raising them—begins after they come home from the hospital. If done correctly, maybe they grow up to become happy, healthy adults. If not, then all you have is a wish to return to those nine months of obliviousness, when everything seemed possible.

I had one Barbie and one Ken doll growing up; they were my prized possessions. It mattered little to me that she had blond hair and blue eyes, but Marin thought they looked strange. Her dolls from India, cut from wood, had brown bodies. Their hair, black from dye, was braided down their backs. I cared little for her dolls. Though they
were a reflection of us, I was secure in the knowledge that mine were truly beautiful.