Trail of Broken Wings (30 page)

“I’m sorry,” a friend whispers, covering my hand with her own. “We never knew.”

Caught off guard by her sympathy, I lower my head in shame for where I come from, where I’m standing, and for not knowing where I’m going. With nothing left to lose, I return to my empty car and continue to drive aimlessly.

It is a formal conference room. Upon entering, I immediately notice the drapes and fabric of the chairs. The table is expensive, cut from cherrywood. Eric is already seated with a woman dressed in a suit. She is a partner at the firm, I’m sure. He wouldn’t settle for any less. Power demands power—the rules of the game are set.

“Where is your lawyer?” Eric demands, the first words he’s spoken to me since he left our house weeks ago.

“I don’t have one.” I am not trying to be obtuse or difficult. It just seems superfluous to me when we haven’t decided what the next step is. “I thought we could talk.”

“I’m not paying five hundred dollars an hour to my attorney for us to talk,” Eric bites out.

I try to gather my senses. This is not the man I knew, the one I married. The man whose smell still permeates every room of our house and reminds me of a time when I was happy. “Then why are we here?”

“To discuss the settlements of the divorce.” His attorney takes over, talking to me as if I’m a wayward child, needing to be spoken to slowly and with explanation.

“You want a divorce?” I ignore her, staring at my husband instead. “That’s it? We’re over?”

“I think it’s best if we keep the conversation to details about finances and division of property,” the woman says, ice in every word. “Eric is prepared to be very generous with alimony. I understand you have no means of income.”

She sees me as a kept woman, one who is easily bought and dismissed. Whereas she is someone used to taking over, to being in charge. But I am not in the mood to be taken charge of. “We’re over?” I ask again, ignoring her, facing Eric. “Because of a child?”

“Because you lied to me,” Eric answers, no longer able to stay silent. “Because I trusted you.”

You lied to me
, I want to yell, fighting back tears. “You told me you would love me no matter what,” I say, throwing his words back at him. I ache to tell him that his belief that a family makes everything perfect is flawed. But I stay silent, remaining the holder of our secret. He can never learn that every scar, even those invisible to the naked eye, was once an open wound. “I guess we both lied.”

“If that’s how you see it,” he says. “There’s nothing left to say.”

We have reached an impasse. There is no turning back, no retreat that will make this right. The game is set, the final hand ready to be played. My father’s voice whispers in my ear, a memory from long ago that I had forgotten. I was playing with neighborhood children, each of us riding our bikes. I had yet to fully grasp the basics and kept falling off, fear driving me to be cautious. Enough teasing and I couldn’t help the tears that flowed. Escaping into the house, I ran right into my father’s arms. With a gentleness saved only for me, he wiped them away and said, “You are so special. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.”

“You’re right,” I say, returning to the present. Turning away from him and facing her, I show her who I really am. “There’s no need for alimony. I’ll be moved out of his house by month’s end.” I push my chair back, ready for it to be over. Walking toward the door, I look back to see Eric staring at me silently. I want to say good-bye, but I don’t.

I end up where I have never left—beside my father. I sit next to his bed, his chest rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the respirator. I take his hand in mine, his cold seeping into my warmth, chilling me. I had hoped for the opposite—he had been the shelter from the storm, the one safe place I could rely on. When your anchor becomes unmoored, you are left to the whims of the vast ocean, unsure where it may lead you but forced to hold on nonetheless. “I have no one left,” I say to him. “I’m all alone.”

I wait and wait, watching for anything to give me hope. A sign that will lead the way, guide me to an answer for a question that remains unasked. But my road remains unpaved, with no marker to give me direction. But then history has proven that the events that uproot your life, the ones that remain so deep in the recesses of your mind that you can’t even imagine them, let alone fear them, are the ones that come
without warning. No compass can lead you away from them, no alarm can caution you. They happen, and when they do you must make a choice—allow the wave to wash over you until there is nothing left but blessed blackness or fight with everything, even if in the process of struggling to survive you fill your lungs with salt water.

“I thought that’s why I stayed,” Sonya says quietly, arriving just as I spoke aloud.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, standing quickly, uncomfortable she heard me.

“I work here,” she reminds me.

“No,” I motion around the room. “Here. In Papa’s room.” Her uneasiness clearly matches mine, both of us wary. She glances around, as if avoiding my question. But I don’t let her evade the question. “You’re here to visit him,” I say, realizing.

“Yes.”

Saying anything else would be a lie, I can tell. She doesn’t bother, since I have known from childhood all of her telltale signs of lying. I used to catch her when we were children and hold it over her like an ax ready to fall unless she did my bidding. Fearing repercussions from my father, she always danced to the tune I played. Now I wonder if I too wasn’t a puppet, like all of them, the strings visible to everyone but me.

“How did it feel?” I say, softening as shame fills me. I think of the luncheon, charities set up to protect families like mine. “When he hit you?”

She takes a step back, ready to run. It’s a question I never asked, didn’t dare to. Hearing the truth would have changed Papa in my eyes into a man I couldn’t conceive. Even as I saw him beat them, I convinced myself that wasn’t really him. It was a mirage fueled by anger or disappointment and maybe, maybe it was just as much their fault as it was his. If only they could be more of what he wanted, needed, then they too would be safe.

“Like there was nothing left of me but the imprint of his hand,” she says, her voice a mere whisper above the roar in my ears. “He owned me. I was a vessel for his rage.”

“Then how are you surviving without him?” I ask, instinct driving the question. I know Marin and Sonya’s legs were cut from beneath them. They learned to walk with prosthetics, the true part of them taken away by force.

Something flitters across her eyes, a story untold. A secret she won’t tell. “By trying to forget.”

The young girl is walking down the hallway, her hands limp by her sides. Her throat is raw, her screams having gone unheard. The darkness is now welcome to hide the sins of her soul. There is only empty air all around her but she still can’t catch her breath. Gasping, she tries to remember her name, but even something as simple as that escapes her. She tries a door and finds it open. Finally, since every other one has been shut to her, refusing her refuge. She enters the pristine bathroom but the light has gone out.

Blackness causes her to stumble, hitting her head. Feeling wetness on her face, she touches her forehead. Even in the night, she can see the blood marking her hands. She hits the light switch, then she turns on the water, washing it off. Taking a hand towel, she wipes her temple, removing any residual proof of her wound. After, she throws the towel in the sink, watching with detached fascination as the blood seeps from it and swirls around the drain until disappearing from view. Once the water runs clear, she splashes some on her face, until she can recognize the face in the mirror.

I let go of Papa’s hand, a shiver running up my spine. Wrapping my arms around me, I ward off a chill. I have lost my footing. Thoughts of Eric, Papa, Gia—ghosts of the still-living—circle. Feeling my grip on sanity start to slip, my body begins to shiver.

“Hey,” Sonya says gently, her hand slowly covering my own. “You’re OK.” Cradling my hands in hers, she pulls me close with her other arm. And then, for the first time in our lives, we reverse our roles.
Now she is the one holding me tightly, our clasped hands still between us, a bridge vulnerable to collapse. “Trisha, you’re going to be fine.”

Sonya is the sister I have loved because I had to. She arrived after me and followed me around like a puppy dog. Looked up to me, no matter what I did. All the childish cruelty that only children can create never swayed her reverence. She was in awe, and in her eyes, I could do no wrong. How many times, I wonder, did I take advantage of that? I’ve lost count of the times I accepted her worship as my right. Now, I realize that, for all the times I convinced myself she was fortunate to have me in her life, maybe I too was lucky.

“You don’t know that,” I whisper, sure she is wrong. I lay my head on her shoulder, the little strength I have acquired over the years seeping out of me. My father, my pillar, lay dying, but the one holding me up is the little girl I believed had never learned to stand.

“Yes, I do,” she says, insistence lacing every word. “Because you’re the strongest person I know.”

“You’re wrong,” I tell her, wanting to pull off her rose-colored glasses. They no longer provide me with the reflection I have become used to seeing. Of someone perfect. “See me. See
me
.” My tears soak her shoulder. “I have nothing left.”

“You have you.” Her words allow no room for argument. “You are the girl who kept us playing, no matter how bad it got. You are the woman who became the glue for a family torn apart.” She pulls inches away from me, holding my gaze. Her eyes are wet with tears. “You are the sister who made me believe it was worth living, no matter how many times I wanted to die.”

Letting go of her hand, I slip mine around her waist, more grateful than words can convey. We both stand there, holding one another, two pieces of a puzzle that has never been put together. But for the first time I see what I never had before; my little sister has a well of strength. With it she offers me a light to escape the nightmare I cannot seem to wake from.

SONYA

I change into running clothes and slip my earphones into my ears. It’s past six in the evening. After my conversation with Trisha, I need to escape, to get as far away as possible. Since I can’t run away like I used to, I have found this is the best alternative.

Throwing my things into a locker, I stretch before making my way through the halls of the hospital toward the exit. Once outside, I breathe in the fresh air. Choosing a path around the hospital and toward the familiar Stanford campus, I start off slow to let my muscles warm up. The sun is starting to set, taking with it the warm blanket that had settled over the region.

I make a loop around the campus before taking a route through it. The buildings I once took classes in, along with the well-known walkways, beckon me in a way I never believed possible. The familiarity that was once stifling now feels welcoming. I shake it off, refusing the emotion any influence. Turning my music louder to drown out any thoughts, I continue the run for another half hour before my body begs me for a reprieve. Sweat pouring down my face and dampening my shirt, I finish the final stretch of the run at a slow jog, arriving back at the hospital nearly two hours after I left.

Heading straight for the showers, I let the warm water cascade over my body, relaxing my tight muscles. The events of the last few days, Gia, my conversations with David and then Trisha, replay in my mind. Leaning my head against the cool tiles, I yearn for the pain to dissipate, to disappear like the steam enveloping me. But it is a childish wish, a hope that can never reach fruition. Accepting reality, I turn off the water and get dressed in the empty locker room, pulling my wet hair back as I walk out.

“Did you have a good run?”

I start at the sound of David’s voice. Glancing up, I see him standing in the large break area past the men’s and women’s locker rooms. His white coat off, he’s rolled his shirtsleeves to below his elbows. His eyes are tired, his face drawn with worry.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, seeing my reaction. “I saw you leave earlier for your run. I was hoping to catch you when you got back.”