Trail of Broken Wings (29 page)

When Marin was first born, she would cry when she needed something, like all babies do. If she was hungry, or if she had soiled her cloth diaper, she would begin with a whimper and if Ranee did not respond immediately, it would turn to a full cry. As she got older, Marin always
used her tears to get what she wanted. Until Brent started to hit her. Then Ranee never saw another tear fall.

“And when he hit you?” Ranee asks.

Gia drops Ranee’s hand immediately, shuttering herself off. “He’s new at school. His parents expect a lot out of him. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. He loves me.” Gia pauses, waiting to deliver the blow that Ranee could never have expected. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, Dada used to hit Mom, right?”

With Gia’s revelation, Ranee falls silent. She stares at her granddaughter, wondering how and when she learned the truth. She tries to ask, but the words never make it past her throat. Each syllable sticks, blocking any noise. She pats Gia, as if she were a wayward child, and makes her way to the door and out. She goes down the stairs slowly, each step a descent into hell. Her hand grips the banister in her fear she might miss a step and tumble down.

She stands on the bottom step, trying to remember the last few minutes when Marin walks out of her office. “Mummy?” Marin rushes to her side. “What’s wrong?”

“She knows,” Ranee whispers, unable to meet Marin’s eyes. “She knows.”

Marin doesn’t need any further explanation. It is the secret they have kept for so long, each one of them holding it like a prized possession. “No. There’s no way.” Even now, her voice drops, fearing Raj may overhear. “It’s not possible.”

“She told me.” The step beneath her seems to give way, causing her knees to weaken. She reaches for the mangalsutra around her neck, belatedly remembering she has removed it. “She said it was not a matter of concern, since the boy hit her like your father hit you.”

“No!” Marin’s anger vibrates off her, filling the space between them. “I need you to leave.” Marin glances around, desperate. She walks to the door, flinging it open. “Go.”

“She’s my granddaughter.” Ranee stands her ground. She can see her daughter’s fear beneath the anger, the anguish propelling her. “I won’t leave.”

“You told her.”

Ranee jerks back, as if Marin had slapped her. “Never.” Ranee wraps her arms around her waist instead of reaching out. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“To hurt me.” The statement is final with no room for argument, a verdict handed down from a lifetime of evidence. “There’s no other explanation.”

“You’re my daughter.” Ranee will weep later, in the privacy of her own room, where there is no one to bear witness. “I would first hurt myself before hurting you.”

“Maybe I could believe that if you ever stopped him. If you ever cared that I was hurting.” Marin meets Ranee’s eyes, allowing no further argument. “You didn’t, but I do care for my daughter. There’s nothing more for you to do.”

Ranee nods, accepting the sentence without argument. “If you need me, I am here.” Without anything else to say, she walks out.

For hours, Ranee sits in the dark, staring at the pictures spread out before her. In the shadows, she can barely make out the faces, but there is no need. She memorized them all years ago. There were one or two pictures of her parents, whom she barely saw after she married. They never came to visit her in her new home. With young children still at home, they were grateful to have one less mouth to feed. Ranee only went back home three times. Twice to introduce Marin and Trisha after they were born, and the third time to say good-bye. That time, right as Ranee was leaving their house, her mother brought out an unworn sari,
expensive for its time. It had been gifted to her in dowry by her parents, and she offered it to Ranee.

“Something to remember me by.”

“I will see you again,” Ranee had said, insistent. “America is not so far away.”

But her mother was not listening, her attention already on one of the other children. A year after their arrival to America, Ranee received notice that her mother had passed on and her father had married a widow from a neighboring village. Ranee took the sari from her closet and tucked it away in a drawer so she wouldn’t think of the mother she barely knew.

There are pictures of the girls’ childhood birthday parties alongside dozens of Brent. He loved having his picture taken when they traveled. Like a child, he would hand the camera to Ranee and slip in next to the three girls, whether it was standing in front of the Grand Canyon or the monuments in Washington, DC. Marin’s and Sonya’s smiles turned into thin lines as they stood rod still, afraid of doing anything to rile his anger. Only Trisha seemed relaxed, unafraid of his presence.

Ranee roams over the other photographs, realizing there are none of her. She checks again to make sure. But she was always the one behind the camera, instructed by Brent on how to focus and aim for the right shot. Never did he ask to take one of her, her beauty emblazoned forever on paper. The irony was the daughter he hated the most was the only one who shared his passion for photography.

“What are you doing in here?” Sonya flips on the light, squinting to help her eyes adjust. “Mom?”

“I saw Gia.” The wound still open and bleeding, Ranee has no idea how to stop the gushing blood. “She knows.”

“How?” Without further explanation, Sonya understands.

“I don’t know.” Ranee takes the pair of scissors she had sat down with and begins to cut. With precise strokes, from every picture, she begins to remove all traces of Brent. “Marin thinks I told her.”

“You didn’t.”

Ranee looks up, nipping her finger with the scissors as a result. “Is that a question?”

Sonya glances at the mutilated pictures, taking her time. “You have no reason to tell her.”

“Yes.” Ranee starts to gather up all the images of Brent. “Gia had permission to be beaten.” Ranee drops the pictures into the trash, a lifetime of memories torn to shreds. “I gave it to her.”

Sonya glances toward the door, making clear her yearning to be elsewhere. “Maybe she just needed an excuse.” She kneels down and begins rifling through the pictures, the faces staring back at her a collage of heartbreak. “I used to hate the birthday parties.”

Ranee is genuinely shocked. “Why?”

“I had to pretend to be happy.”

Suddenly Ranee needs to know the answer to a question she has always wanted to ask but never dared to. “Do you wish we had aborted you?”

Sonya doesn’t look up, doesn’t show any shock at the question. “Yes,” she says simply, “I do.”

“I’m sorry.” Ranee drops her head down, lost in her own home, the revelations of the day too much to handle. “I’m so sorry.”

TRISHA

When I was in second grade, there was a girl, Melinda, who used to torment me daily. Whether it was about my hand-me-down clothes, my braided hair, or the cheap bag Mama said I had to use as a backpack, she was relentless in her teasing. I wasn’t the only one she picked on, however. Nobody unfortunate enough to come to her notice was left unscathed. Melinda was one of the popular girls. With that status, she enjoyed the support of a loyal and large entourage. Her friends were quick to attack whomever Melinda chose that day. If you were the victim, you had no choice but to listen to their taunts. The others didn’t come to your aid out of fear they would be next.

I was so grateful when, in the middle of the year, a teacher overheard Melinda making fun of the roti and sakh I had brought for lunch. The teacher warned Melinda never to say such things again or she would be sent to the principal’s office. The reprieve was my blessing, and I continued happily through second grade, safe in the protection of the teacher’s warning. But it was not to last. Melinda’s mother fell ill and died a few months later. Suddenly, Melinda could do no wrong. A victim of circumstance, she now had a halo over her head.

We were warned to be extra kind to her, to show her empathy, to be good friends. Letters went home telling our parents about the situation. Playdates with Melinda were encouraged, dinners dropped off at their home welcomed. I expected Melinda to become a new person, to be humbled by her loss. But if cheetahs don’t change their spots, then cruelty within humans has no chance. Melinda returned to her evil ways and for two years made my life hell. Only when her father moved them out of town did I get my freedom. But I learned an important lesson I have never forgotten—with weakness comes great power.

As soon as I heard about Gia, I considered texting Eric. He always had a soft spot for her and would want to know she had been hurt. In the end, I refused to use the excuse to reach out, no matter how much I yearned to. At a loss about how to help Gia, I went shopping. Hours I spent perusing aisles of knickknacks, trying to find just the right things that would brighten Gia’s day. A few stuffed animals, tons of chocolate, some newly released CDs of her favorite artists that I recalled her talking about, and a diary, among other things.

I drop by without calling. My mistake, since no one except the housekeeper is home. I leave the basket with a note for Marin to call me, knowing she won’t. If it wasn’t for Mama, I never would have known what happened.

As I’m settling back into my car, my phone buzzes. I’m expecting Mama, and my heart rate accelerates when I see it’s Eric.

Do you have time to talk?

Yes, I do. Absolutely.
Like a schoolgirl, I text back in seconds.

With our lawyers.

The phone drops onto the leather seat. Sweat lines my hand, dampening it. He wants to make the separation permanent, no going back. Unable to text back, I drive. Aimlessly at first, then to run irrelevant
errands. I pick up dry cleaning and then groceries for one. Arriving home, I see a forgotten embossed invitation to a charity luncheon on the counter. Glancing down at my outfit, I decide my slacks and summer blouse will do. Leaving the milk and eggs on the counter, I head out, anxious to make it on time.

“Trisha,” they exclaim on my arrival, “we weren’t expecting you!”

No, I imagine they weren’t. Bad news spreads faster than good as a rule. Everyone knew that Eric had left the house, but no one knew why. They would have made guesses, finding proof in their own minds to support their theories. No one could have imagined the truth. “I wouldn’t have missed it,” I say, faking a smile.

I sit with my friends around a table, laughing at whatever they say. We talk about mundane things, the weather, local fashion, and Hollywood gossip, as if those lives affected ours. A few catty comments about locals, but nothing too abrasive for fear it may be repeated and credit given. Checks are made out for a local charity, the flavor of the month. I take out my checkbook, ready to donate as I always do, and ask the name of the charity.

“It’s the shelter in San Francisco for women and children victims of domestic violence,” a friend from years past tells me, signing her own check with a flourish, her manicured nails perfectly done. “God, I can’t imagine what those people go through. Can you?”

No, I want to say, keeping up the illusion I have created, but I can’t. Instead, I start to write but my hand begins to shake. My father is lying in a coma. Eric wants me gone from his life forever. My niece—our future, beaten. No straw breaks the camel’s back. Instead it is an avalanche. I stare at the wine goblet and wonder what it would feel like to throw it against the wall. Disturb the perfect setting I have lost myself in. Glass doesn’t break cleanly. It shatters into a million pieces, making it impossible to put back together. Leaving the glass untouched, I stand, the check unwritten.

“Yes, I can imagine,” I say to the group, shocking them into silence. My friends for years, but not one of them knows as I was sure there wasn’t anything to tell. “I know what they go through because I watched it my entire childhood.” A tree that falls in a forest doesn’t make a sound because no one is there to hear it. Believing that, I hid my past, sure it didn’t exist if I didn’t speak of it.

“Trisha, what are you talking about?” another friend asks, staring at me like I’m a stranger. “That’s impossible.”

I had tried so hard to make it seem as if it were, but I was fatigued by the act. The façade was harder to maintain than I realized. I had convinced myself that if I mastered the part, if I was queen of the stage, then I would become the person I was playing. But the mask has started to slip and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to keep it in place. Accepting the past that belongs to me I murmur, “I wish it were.” Meeting their shocked gazes, I stare at the friends I called my own. “My father beat my sisters and mom our entire childhood.” Sure I can feel their disgust, I turn away, wondering if this is how Sonya and Marin feel every day of their lives.