Trail of Broken Wings (5 page)

“We don’t have to discuss this now,” Marin snaps, surprised at Raj’s words. The valet attendant has pulled their car up and waits with the door open. “Raj, please drive. I have to return a phone call.”

They settle into their seats. Raj pulls out of the garage and onto the tree-lined Sand Hill Road, the road connecting Palo Alto to their home in Los Altos. As he picks up speed, they pass small buildings housing some of the most powerful venture capitalists in the world. After a few minutes of silence Gia asks, “Daddy, what do you think of UCLA? Or maybe a small liberal arts college in Southern California?”

Tension teases up Marin’s neck like a spider with claws. The hours of work she endures to pay for Gia to have the best of everything scratch at her eyelids, creating shooting pain. A reminder of the sacrifices
she has made so her daughter won’t lack as she did. The memories of her own secondhand clothes still haunting, she has always bought Gia designer clothes. Restricted from participating in any after-school activities so she could care for her sisters, Marin insists Gia be involved in as many as possible. Swim team, tennis, dance, and soccer just some of the commitments. Cost has never been a concern, the money irrelevant in comparison to the benefit to her daughter.

When Gia reached school age, Raj researched the local public elementary, but Marin overrode his decision in favor of a prestigious private collegiate school in San Jose that admitted only the elite members of their community. She was steadfast in her decision. At forty thousand a year in tuition, Marin was sure her daughter would get the best education available. Each choice, each activity guaranteed to Marin that she was not a product of her past. That she had broken the cycle of hurt and disappointment, and that her daughter was the future.

“A small college?” Marin shuts off her phone and turns in her seat to face her daughter in the back. “Gia, that is not an option.”

“Why?” Gia breaks off eye contact to stare out the window. “It could be a good school.”

“Not for you it isn’t. Why would you even mention it?” Marin demands. “I don’t want to hear about it again.”

“It’s not a big deal where I go.” Gia lowers the window. The wind blows her hair and muffles her mother’s voice. “Besides, I want to stay close to my friends.”

“Your friends?”

Gia is very social. From a young age she was comfortable with people in a way that Marin still hasn’t mastered. She would smile and start up conversations without any self-consciousness. For Marin, whose own social interactions are stilted and short, it was a revelation to have a daughter so rehearsed in social etiquette.

“What friends would want you to sacrifice your future for the sake of themselves?”

Recently, many of Gia’s friends had begun to date. When Gia broached the idea with Marin, her immediate reaction was no. It would take away time from her studies. Though Gia kept asking, insisting she should be allowed, Marin refused to change her mind. Marin never dated as a teenager. Their culture demanded a girl be 100 percent pure before marriage. Even one date could taint her reputation and make her an unacceptable candidate for marriage. It was not the cultural concern that made Marin say no; it was this type of situation. Anyone having undue influence over Gia’s life.

“No one.” Gia answers quickly, without hesitation, and scoots lower into her seat. Searching for a song on her phone, she sticks in her earphones. “Never mind. Harvard or Yale are great. They are still my top choices.”

Marin rubs lotion into her chapped hands. Years of typing have formed calluses that refuse to disappear. Her hair, in a tight braid, falls down her back; her silk nightgown reaches to her feet. Their live-in housekeeper retired to bed hours ago, only after meticulously cleaning up the kitchen. Marin had eaten her dinner at her desk, with hours of work that needed to be finished. The emotional day wore on her, and her body was demanding sleep. But the conversation with Gia continued to replay in her head, keeping any hope of rest at bay.

“You were very tense today.” Raj exits the shower into their room, a large towel around his waist. His hair drips droplets of water onto their carpeted floor. Recent years have added pounds to his middle, but his arms and legs have retained their leanness from when they first married. Black hair mixed with silver covers his brown chest, but the hair atop his head has remained its original color. “About Gia.”

“I’m fine.” She prefers not to discuss it. Their conversation in the car made it painfully obvious to Marin that she had failed to fully
explain to her daughter the value of a good college education. She reviewed plans to rectify that immediately. A trip to tour the East Coast and the Ivy Leagues was the obvious first step. Gia would naturally get excited about the campuses and living across the country. Even though she still had a few years, it was time. Marin convinced herself that Gia’s indifference was nerves—fear of living away from home. With a game plan in mind, she felt calmer. “We should get to bed. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Gia’s tennis tournament.” Raj removes his towel and sets it on the hook. Naked, he slips under the covers and watches Marin turn off the lights. “I can take her if you need to work.”

A month has passed since the last time they made love. Raj was the usual initiator, though Marin rarely refused him. The night before her wedding she was taught that sex was a man’s right. No matter how successful a woman became, it was her duty to fulfill her husband’s needs. It was the only place in their relationship that Marin did not feel in complete control. No matter how often she tried to convince herself that the pleasure was both of theirs to have, she always felt empty and alone afterward.

They had an easy pattern when they made love. Two positions, or more often just one. He finished first, quickly. If Marin needed a release she would guide his hand between her legs. Spooning behind her, he would rub until she found her satisfaction. Sometimes it was quick, but if it took more than ten minutes she would pull away. Her body’s failure to respond meant she was not ready. It was a waste of both of their time and of precious sleep to continue trying.

Tonight, however, Marin is not in the mood. She can pinpoint a number of reasons. Work has exhausted her. The hours of reviewing documents, finalizing deals, and instructing her team on projects seemed harder than before. The conversation with Gia. But the scene at the hospital, if she is honest, is the real culprit. The realization that her
father might never emerge from his coma—that the man who defined her life was now losing his—jars her.

“Are you wanting to have sex?” Marin asks. Her voice is sharper than she means it to be. Before he can answer or move toward her, Marin says, “It is probably not a good night.”

“Of course. No, it is fine.”

He is embarrassed. She can hear it in his voice. In all the years they have been married, Marin has turned him away only when she has her period or is ill. Today neither is true. Instead, it is the chains of the past rattling. Trapped in place for so long, they became rusty with age. With Brent in a coma, the lock seems to have loosened, but no matter how hard Marin tries, she cannot free herself of them. She imagines her father’s disappointment in her failure to please her husband. She shakes the thought aside and turns to the man she has shared a bed with for years. “I have a lot on my mind,” she says as an explanation, though he did not ask for one. “The hospital, everyone there.”

“It is not a problem.” He shifts, turning his back to her. “Good-night, Marin.”

Humiliated at the panic that envelops her at the thought of her father’s demise, she remains quiet. But because Raj doesn’t ask, she is spared from forming a response. She keeps to herself that she is scared and alone. That she wants to be held but wouldn’t know what to do if he offered.

She lies down on the farthest side of the bed. With his back to her, there is no one left to face but herself. Pulling the sheet over her body, she yearns for comfort that proves inaccessible. Her mind, begging for sleep only minutes ago, now wanders. Everyone was there for her father, wondering, watching, waiting. For what, she does not know. If he lives, then they return to normal. Of course, their normal is not like everyone else’s. They each have their role and are exceptional at it. Trisha is the glue that connects the family. As the favorite, she deems it her responsibility to plan the family gatherings. As long as they break
bread together, she has her illusion of a perfect family. Trisha organizes the holiday get-togethers; whether it be Diwali or Christmas, she makes sure that no one is left out. When Sonya left, Trisha seemed to take her duties even more seriously. As if she could fill the void left by the sister who decided that life was better without them than with.

Marin performs her own role with precision. She is the victory story, the example of why they came to America. The one they can point to and say, this is the reason we endured all the heartaches. While Trisha plays the role of pampered housewife, Marin continues to exemplify success. And her daughter is the next generation, the one who doesn’t carry the burdens Marin did. She is free to achieve everything—she doesn’t need to get away from any anchors.

Tired of tossing, Marin slips out of bed. She can hear Raj’s quiet snoring; he barely moves with her departure. They have never held one another at night. Both learned soon after their wedding ceremony that they preferred their own space.

With the events of the day barking at her heels, peace eludes her. Gingerly, she finds her way down the steps in the dark. In the light from the moon via the skylight, she pours a cup of milk and heats it. The steaming cup warms her hands as the darkness brings her a bit of calm. She has always preferred it to daylight. Secrets stay better hidden in darkness. Judgments fall to the wayside when there is no light to shine upon them.

The crystal clock on the mantel shows it is past midnight. A new day, but it will be similar to other days in the way that only routine can create. Everyone awake and ready on time. Cooked breakfast grabbed on the way out. Schedules intermingled as everyone heads their own way. It was never how she imagined her life would be. But then, she never imagined anything at all. Her father made all the decisions and she assumed he would determine the pattern of her daily life also.

She was thirteen when he decided her college major. He had researched the various careers and determined that finance would give
the best return on his investment. It was irrelevant whether it fit Marin’s interests. That it did was lucky, though Marin would never have dared to complain. Any protests would have yielded no sympathy and, worse, might have fueled his anger. It wasn’t worth taking the chance. She took her college courses and became an expert in her field. After graduating in two and a half years, she followed up with an MBA. A guarantee for an easy ascension in her career, a career that means everything to her. A livelihood for which she has only her father to thank.

Still not ready for bed, she takes a seat on the sofa. As she curls her legs beneath her, memories from the night before her marriage begin to torment her.

As Marin watches from the hallway in front of the bathroom, Ranee places an invitation to Marin’s wedding in front of a shrine made from pictures of relatives who’ve died. She turns on all the lights in the house and plays a tape of traditional Indian music.

In the bathroom, Sonya nudges Trisha away from the sink. “This is spooky.” She spits out her toothpaste and gargles with the mouthwash. “Are we going to see dead people?”

“Yes. A bunch of dead people are going to come and dance around you. They’re going to get closer until they grab you and you’re gone. Poof,” Trisha teases.

“We’re not going to see dead people.” Marin buttons her pajamas as she enters the bathroom. “It’s tradition. Mummy’s family did it when she got married and now we do it.”

“But why?” Her fear obvious, Sonya inches closer to Marin.

“It’s honoring them. Saying we wish they were here.” Marin turns to Trisha. “You need to be nicer to her.”

“She’s a baby.”