Trail of Broken Wings (4 page)

Marin had no choice. It had been decided by the date of her birth and the family to whom she was born. She had perused suitors’ résumés here and there. Once, she had voiced her opinion. Tossing a résumé down in disgust, she said under no condition would she spend her life with that person. The picture was of a man who she was sure had yet to complete the evolutionary cycle. But it was not an issue. He did not have siblings with graduate degrees. He was not a viable candidate.

“Give me your hand,
Beti
,” Marin’s aunt cajoles, calling Marin her own daughter. Lines of age cover her face. “Your feet are finished.”

“What?” Marin does not hear. When her aunt fails to answer, Marin questions, “
Masi
?”

“Beti.” Her fingers encircle Marin’s forearm, resting inches above a deep indentation. Dead blood rings Marin’s tan wrist. Pity spills from her aunt’s eyes. “What happened to you, child?” The wedding paste simmers, forgotten, in a pot beside her.

Marin wrenches her hand away, shaking her head. Speaking the story will make it real.

He lies there, multiple tubes keeping him alive. Marin counts five in all. One in his nose, another down his throat, yet another in his arm. A machine tells her that his heart is still working, sixty beats per minute. She watches the lines on the monitor, the rhythm indicating all is as it should be. Each piece of the whole working together to keep a human being alive. The engineer in Brent would be impressed at the systematic functioning.

There are no flowers in the room. None of them thought to bring any. Cards from well-wishers fill the room. The majority of the Indian community reveres him. They adore him, see him as an example of the true American dream. Having come to this country with nothing, he raised three daughters to have everything. All while teaching them how to be proper, respectable women. They owed him their lives.

“Thank you for allowing all of us to be here,” Trisha says. She is, as always, unfailingly polite. The doctor, who just arrived, nods while reviewing the chart. He is one of the best, the nurses assured them upon Brent’s admittance. They gush about his skills. Yet, thus far he has failed to give them a reason that their father is in a coma. “Our youngest sister just arrived last night,” Trisha says. The self-appointed family spokesperson, she does her job seamlessly. “Sonya, this is Dr. David Ford. Dr. Ford, our sister Sonya.”

“A pleasure to meet you. Everyone, please call me David.” He holds out his hand to Sonya. His gaze lingers on her. She has brushed
out her hair, allowing it to fall around her shoulders. A long-sleeved black cotton top rests atop a pair of slim jeans. Her face is free of all makeup, and the boots she wears are better suited for the New York weather she was living in. Marin’s little sister has grown up to be a beautiful woman.

“Doctor.” She releases David’s hand quickly. “What is the prognosis?”

Though her retreat is obvious, David fails to react. “On the Glasgow Coma Scale, he’s registering at a three. In English, that means he’s in a deep unconscious state. There is no definitive answer as to when he will come out of it.”

“But he will?” Sonya pushes for more.

Marin hears the fear in her sister’s voice. Unlike Trisha, Marin understands Sonya’s plea. She is asking the doctor to give them hope.

“Not for sure—I’m sorry,” he says, misunderstanding.

He looks around, gathering the whole family in his gaze. He is quiet, offering the calm before the impending storm. The battle of life versus death, both respectable warriors depending upon the perspective. But little does he know the war has already been fought.

“Some patients never come out and then the family has to decide to . . .” He pauses, his unspoken words an offer, should they wish to take it.

“Pull the plug.” Sonya says it matter-of-factly, without any emotion. She has masked the fear that was obvious to Marin only seconds ago. “And without the machines?”

“Though he is technically in a coma, essentially a deep sleep, his body is reliant upon the respirator and fluids.” David slips his hands into his pockets, his white coat pushed back. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. Marin assumes he is younger than she is, but recently she has begun to believe everyone is. “When he was admitted, he was in respiratory failure. The respirator helps his body to breathe.” He pauses, trying to prepare them for the news that no family could bear
to hear. With a deep sigh and sympathy mixed with apology, he says, “Without the respirator, he wouldn’t get enough oxygen.”

Sonya listens carefully, analyzing every word. “And without oxygen he would die.”

Marin watches her, still smarting from their encounter the night before. Sonya was born after their arrival in America. Their parents had made plans to abort her—she was an accident, after all. A broken condom brought her to life. Cheap latex bought from a discount store in India and stuffed into the suitcase set for the States. Marin heard the story often growing up. In front of Sonya, Brent would repeat the tale, each time laughing louder than before. An elaborate joke no one understood.

The cost of another child was too high, and an abortion was the obvious choice. But Brent was desperate for a son. Using a low-cost ultrasound machine, the community clinic doctor made an educated guess and told them it was a boy. Overjoyed, Brent made the decision for Ranee to continue with the pregnancy, taking extra shifts to cover the cost of the medical care. At the birth, fury filled Brent’s face when the doctor announced he had another daughter.

Once born, Sonya became Marin’s responsibility while their mother worked in the local factory making children’s underwear. Marin changed Sonya’s diaper, fed her milk from a bottle, and bathed her when she spit up. Before hitting puberty, Marin was already a mother.

“How long will it take him to die? If they pull the plug?” Gia asks. She’s been sitting quietly next to Raj. Still in her tennis uniform from her lesson that morning, she crosses one slim leg over the other. Tendrils from her ponytail fall onto her face, giving the false illusion that she is younger than her years.

“Gia,” Marin says, raising her voice to grab her attention. At that specific pitch, her voice sounds exactly like Brent’s. “This is not the place for you to speak. Dr. Ford is very busy.”

“It’s fine.” David smiles to ease the sting of Marin’s rebuke. “Your question is very important.” He is kind to Gia though he does not have to be. “As doctors, we need to know exactly how long the body will survive. It will help us minimize the amount of suffering.”

“He will be in pain?” Ranee steps forward, demanding David’s attention. She has stayed primarily in the background, listening rather than speaking.

It has always been their mother’s way to observe instead of lead. They say a child chooses one parent as a model to replicate. Marin made the decision as a young girl that it would not be Ranee. It wasn’t conscious or a process she gave much thought to. In fact, if asked now she would struggle to pinpoint the exact moment. But it was very simple really. Given the choice between strong and weak, it seemed obvious to her to choose strength, no matter what form it came in.

“He will feel the hunger, the loss of breath?” Ranee asks.

“We would do everything in our power to make sure he doesn’t. I promise you that.” David takes her hand and squeezes it once. Marin catches the interplay.

Ranee nods, turning to Brent’s still body in the hospital bed. After his arrival at the hospital via ambulance, they dressed him in a gown—one he would surely hate. Always meticulous with his clothes—every shirt pressed and his pants crease free—he demanded his children be the same.

“He does not like to suffer.” Ranee wraps her arms around her small frame.

No,
Marin agrees,
he does not like to suffer.

Marin’s breaths become shallow, suddenly harder to draw than moments before. The memories from childhood swim together, as her fingers begin to tingle, each one starting to go numb. Everyone’s voices are far away, though they stand right next to her. She shakes her head, trying to clear the cobwebs that suddenly fill it. Closing her eyes, she counts to ten quietly, hoping the exercise will lead her back
to normality. When she reopens them, she sees no one has noticed her distress. They’re still talking among themselves, their attention on Brent. Lowering her head, she stares at her shoes. The ground beneath her begins to rotate. It is a panic attack, she knows. Though it’s been years since her last one, they are always the same. Her heart rate accelerates as her body shuts down. But she refuses it. She will not succumb to its power.

She pulls out her phone, focusing on the only lifeline she knows. Fifty new messages fill her mailbox. Work demanding her attention is her only reprieve from the father who lies dying. She is grateful for the distraction. “Mummy,” she says. Her breath begins to even out, but her heart still beats as if she ran a marathon. Almost an hour has passed since she entered the hospital room. Three conference calls have been scheduled since her arrival. Additional homework she created for Gia waits in the car. Math problems guaranteed to keep her in honors next year. “We need to leave. It is late.” She motions for Gia and Raj to follow her out.

“We have just arrived.” Ranee grasps Gia’s hand, pulling her in close. “Let us all stay a bit longer.”

“Marin, it is still early.” Raj has not risen from his seat. He assures Ranee with a smile. “We will sit a while longer, Mummy.”

“No, we will not.” Marin swallows a yell. Everyone starts to stare at her but their faces are unclear. Anger at their defiance mixes with the past and creeps into her being. “Raj, I envy your free time, but I don’t have the same luxury. I have a lot of work to do and Gia has math problems waiting.”

“It’s Saturday,” Gia says. She looks to Ranee for support. “Sonya masi just came,” she says, giving Sonya the traditional name for a mother’s sister. “I want to hear more stories.”

“You heard plenty of stories last night.” Marin cautions herself to slow down, but there is no stopping.

David shifts uncomfortably, caught in the middle of the family drama Marin is creating. A voice whispers inside her head to stop, to let it be. A few more minutes will not hurt. But there is another voice—this one much louder—demanding that her authority not be questioned. Her control will not be compromised. They believe her weak but she is not. She never will be. “Raj, get up now. Gia, let’s go.”

She walks out, unable to face what she created. Her heels snap against the hospital floor as she rushes down the hall toward the elevators. Pushing the down button three times, she watches impatiently as the numbers slowly light up with the elevator’s descent. The steel doors finally open, revealing an empty car. Stepping in, she waits for them to shut. Only then does she lay her head against the mirrored wall, taking deep breaths. A caricature of herself stares back, watching her breakdown with dispassion.

“I am fine,” she whispers. Rubbing her hands over her face, she expects to wipe away tears. But her face is dry. There have not been tears since she was young. Straightening her spine, she pulls her hair back. As she gathers the loose tendrils, she puts her emotions in check. Within minutes she is back to how she feels safest. In complete control.

Smoothing the creases in her shirt, she catches her eye in the mirrored doors, and nods once to herself in approval. Pulling out her cell phone, she flips through the messages. Work started for her at five a.m. and usually ended after midnight. When she became pregnant with Gia, she worried how her career would be impacted. In hindsight there was no real need for concern. She worked right up to her labor. A driver chauffeured her straight to the hospital after a board meeting. Five days later, Marin was back at work.

She hands her valet ticket to the small man at the counter, waiting impatiently while he searches for her keys. “It’s those, right there,” Marin says, pointing to her set among the dozens. He checks her ticket stub against the tag on the key chain. To keep from snapping at him
to hurry, she starts to dial her assistant when Raj and Gia come up behind her.

“Were you planning on waiting for us?” Raj asks.

“I told you I have work.” Marin takes in Gia and her demeanor relaxes. She runs her hand down her daughter’s hair. “You have a test on Monday, Beti. It is important you study, right?” She is about to pull Gia in for a hug when her phone buzzes. Glancing down to see the caller, Marin murmurs, “We have very little time before college applications.”

“Yes.” Gia steps closer to her father. He slips his arm around her shoulders. “I have to get into a good college.”

Marin stiffens at their easy affection, wishing she had the same camaraderie. “Not just a good college,” Marin says, texting her assistant to prepare a file. Marin repeats the list of their top choices from memory. “Harvard or Yale will open many doors for you. Brown, Princeton, Chicago, and Pennsylvania are also acceptable, but only if Harvard or Yale fall through.”

“Berkeley would be brilliant also,” Raj says. His arm still around her, he smiles down at their only child. “I don’t know if I can send my little girl across the country for school.”