Trail of Broken Wings (3 page)

“Because you haven’t for so many years.”

Every instinct demands I call a truce. As if it is my duty to assure both of them that there is no wrongdoing, no matter what anyone believes. Before I can speak, Sonya does. With her words, I shut my eyes, feeling the fragile ties of my family begin to unravel further.

“I could say the same about you,” she bites. Her bitterness has become more powerful with time. “I don’t remember you looking over your shoulder when you left us behind at twenty-one.”

“I got married,” Marin argues. “And I came back.”

“So did I.” Sonya, finished with the battle, turns toward me. “Do they know why he fell into a coma?”

“It does not matter,” Mama says, answering before I can. She glances at both Marin and Sonya, relaying a silent message—
enough
. She moves on to me, rewarding me with a smile for always being the stable one. The daughter who never makes unnecessary waves. “It is as it is. We must focus on the future.” She stands, finished with their antics and leaving no room for more. “If he does not come out of it, then we must prepare for the cremation, the spreading of his ashes.”

“And if he does?” I have to ask the question. I have not given up hope, though I understand why she has. “What then?”

“Then we go back to the way things were.”

I check the lock on the front door and set the security system. Under the illumination of the red blinking light, I walk around my darkened home, straightening sofa pillows and pushing in the dining-room chairs. Eloise cleaned up and left hours ago. Everyone followed her out
soon after. Sonya went home with Mama, and Marin and Raj left with Gia. We promised to meet at the hospital tomorrow.

“It went well.” Eric sneaks up on me. His tie is undone and his hair disheveled from the unexpected conference call he just finished. “Even under the circumstances.” He kisses my neck, pushing my hair out of the way for better access. I moan as he kneads my shoulders, his fingers slowly traveling down my back. His hands settle on my hips and he brings me in tighter. “Are you ovulating?”

For four years, Eric has wanted a child. Twice he was sure I was pregnant, only for me to watch him grieve when my period arrived. Having been raised in an orphanage, Eric is anxious to have a large family. He fell in love with our five-bedroom house and bought it specifically to raise children in. It took us three months to perfect the room down the hall from ours as a nursery. It sits empty, waiting for the cries of a child.

“Yes,” I say, though he already has the answer. He has my schedule memorized better than I do. My ovulation cycle and then my period, in their respective orders. My mind wanders back to my family. “Mama and Sonya—do you think they’re OK?”

He sighs as his hands drop away. When I turn to face him, his eyes soften. He cradles my cheek in his palm. “Your mom called her. Asked her to come home. They’ll figure their way out.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You still haven’t answered my question from before. Are you OK?”

“She’s changed,” I say. “Looks older, more tired.”
But she’s home and for that I’m grateful
, I think.

“She’s not what I expected.”

Eric has seen pictures of Sonya in the album. Most show a young girl staring silently into the camera. She was always more comfortable behind the lens than in front of it. The last picture I have is the night of her college graduation. Summa cum laude from Stanford. The whole family gathered to celebrate her achievement. But it wasn’t enough for
Papa. That night he repeated what he had said so many times before: Sonya never should have been born. But that wasn’t what caused Sonya to flee. It was what Mama said later that broke her. Neither of us imagined Sonya would decide to leave us that day. Say good-bye with the plan never to return.

“What did you expect?” I ask.

“Someone damaged.” He says it without hesitation, though he has never before offered an opinion on her. “The way you’ve talked about her all these years—I just assumed she would be . . .” He pauses. “Someone who doesn’t know her way.” He bends down and brushes my lips lightly with his own. “Unlike you.”

“I know my way?”

“That’s what I love about you. You’re amazing.”

I stiffen, though he fails to notice.
I am not amazing
, the voice within me cries.
Look at me carefully—there are scars.
Yet, I am ashamed for complaining. My sisters yearned for love while I received it unconditionally. I was special, loved completely.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. He unbuttons my dress. Pulling it off my shoulders, he bares me to the waist. His fingers deftly undo my bra, and he cups one breast in his palm, teasing the nipple. “Tonight could be the night.”

For a baby.
Those are the words he doesn’t say. Can’t say because he wants it so much.

“Just a minute,” I say. He watches me, confused, as I step out of his arms and into the bathroom. I slip my arms back into my dress. The vanity mirror reveals a haunted woman, one who can’t see the truth. I ignore her, my hand on my stomach, as I stare at the only truth I know. I take a deep breath and exhale, my decision made years ago.

SONYA

My childhood home holds me like a steel trap. Once inside, I feel the walls close around me, welcoming me like a spider into its web. Mom is busy switching on the lights, having laid her purse down on the cherrywood end table by the front door. A crystal bowl once graced the tabletop. A cherished birthday gift Mom’s brother got her in Switzerland. It was smashed years ago. As Mom and I were on our knees cleaning up the shards, she had murmured her belief that the piece was unbreakable.

I close the French doors behind me and lock them. I am always locking doors. Car doors, bedroom doors, even my bathroom door, though I live alone. A few steps farther and I am in the foyer. The house is exactly as I remember it. Sparse decorations scattered against the stark white paint. My parents bought the home when I was still a child. It was time to arrange Marin’s wedding, and the small two-bedroom home we lived in at the time would not attract reputable suitors. This place showed the world that we were successful, that we were worthy of having a son from a fine family marry Marin. Apparently it worked, because soon after moving in, Marin was betrothed to Raj, a man she had met only once.

“Your bedroom is the same,” Mom says, coming in from the kitchen. She hands me a cup of chai from a pot that is always simmering. “I left it, in case you . . .” She stops, catching herself. She motions for me to follow her back into the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator. “There is juice, milk, fruit.” Pointing to a door down the hall, she says, “The bathroom is there. The shower is fully stocked with shampoo, gel, anything you may need.” She points to another door. “Linens, towels in there.”

“Mom.” I set the chai cup down on the marble island that sits in the middle of the immaculate room. Memories fill the air, of us sitting there, legs swinging, as we ate breakfast. Trisha and I fighting over the Sunday comics as Mom tried to keep us quiet. Dad liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings, and we knew better than to wake him up. “I know where everything is. I used to live here.”

She brings her hands together, clasping them in front of her still body. She closes her eyes and nods once. “Of course.” She is smaller than I remember her. Her hair is dyed pitch-black from a mix of henna and coloring. Her face, once drawn and tired, seems more alive, refreshed. She looks younger without reason to. “I just thought—because it has been a very long time.”

The question hangs in the air between us. It is what I dreaded the most when I packed my bags in New York. I could remind her of the words she spoke to me the night of the graduation. The truth I had always suspected, but never wanted to believe. But that would mean bringing up a past that demands to remain buried. The only acceptable answer is an apology for choosing to walk alone rather than among them. I rehearse the words that tell her it was my only means of survival. My way of living with the memories and still forging ahead. However, the explanation sounds hollow to my own ears. Because my escape only meant her burden became more weighted.

Thinking it safest to say nothing about that, I change the topic. “How have you been doing? In the house without him?”

“It is quiet,” she says. “I have never known such silence.” She plays with the hem of her cardigan, wrinkles on her fingers that formed since I last saw her. “I play music now. All the time.” She gives me a small smile, the first one I have seen since my arrival home. “Music from India. Songs that were in films from my childhood. They sell them now, on CDs labeled
Old is Gold
. Amazing.”

I laugh without meaning to. He never liked music. Said it gave him a headache. But this small taste of freedom has brought her a rare happiness. Taken aback at first, she offers another wavering smile before laughing with me. Soon we are both laughing hard, in a way that was always disallowed. Filled with relief and hope. He’s not here, and though memories of him permeate the air, we are still able to breathe freely.

“I would love to hear some of the songs.” In leaving California and my family, I also left my heritage. No more trips to the temple on Sunday. No Indian clothes for Diwali or Holi. When Bollywood films were offered in the mainstream theaters, I chose another option.

“Yes,” she says, excited. “Tomorrow morning, as you have breakfast, I will play them.” She takes a step toward me, one of the few times she has ever done so. Without thinking, I cringe. Seeing my reaction, she stops and immediately turns toward the bedrooms. The moment is lost. “You must sleep. Long flight. And tomorrow we have to . . .”

“Go to the hospital.”

“Yes. We must go see your father.”

My room is the same as when I left it. The books that offered me my only escape still line the shelves. Grabbing a worn one, I thumb through it. A story of a young man who overcomes great loss to find happiness. It was a favorite of mine. I read it often as a teenager, hoping for clues from his survival to help navigate my own. Running my
hands over the spines of others, I realize each one is a survival story. All the characters face insurmountable odds in their quests to find themselves. My legs begin to buckle under me. Whether from the long flight or the weight of the day is difficult to determine.

Settling down on the edge of my bed, I stare at the emptiness around me. How many times did I crave to be away from here, this room, this home, this life? The nights I covered my face with a pillow, hoping to muffle my tears as sounds echoed through the house. I would crawl out of bed and lock the bedroom door, both guilt and fear warring within me.

“Do you have everything?” Mom opens the door, shocking me out of my reverie. Her weathered fingers clutch the doorknob. She doesn’t cross the threshold between the hallway and my room, choosing instead to maintain the false distance the line helps to create.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you.” She never checked on me before. Maybe she was too afraid of what she would find. “Good-night.”

She waits and for just a moment we stare at one another, both quiet. Nodding, she returns, “Good-night.”

I lock the door after she leaves. Taking the desk chair, I nudge it against the doorknob. It is the only way I can sleep at night. It is the only way I know how to stay safe. That and to keep running. Because as long as you keep running, they can never catch you.
Never get caught. Never, ever get caught.
I repeat the words to myself as I lie down on the bed, searching for the peace that sleep will bring, finding none.

MARIN

Marin watches, her eyelids lowered to slits. The Indian community members mill about, painting her feet with traditional henna for her upcoming wedding. Intricate designs with no significance but patterned to exact detail. Aunts and uncles are gathered, their excitement palpable in the evening air, as younger cousins, with years before their turn to marry, study the scene. They try to understand the joy now and the grief tomorrow. The tears will flow from Mummy; Trisha and Sonya will cling, wishing that it was them instead. And if not, why was she leaving them behind?