Trail of Broken Wings (9 page)

It is unfair for me to demand such a thing from her. Maybe saying good-bye to him means she has finally found freedom. Her path is not the same as mine. We both accepted that at a young age. She was the one bruised, whereas it was my job to hold her, comfort her as best I could. It was easier than I imagined. When you stand unharmed, you find the strength to help those fallen at your feet.

I reach out. She is the only one I turned to as a child, the one whose tears I would wipe. Whereas she struggled to find herself, I learned to be who he needed me to be. That meant standing in his shadow, allowing him to protect me from himself.

“I can’t do this without you.” My last appeal, it is all I have left in my arsenal. My eyes shut, sure I will hear the door open and close. Last time she didn’t tell me she was leaving. For years, I was positive that a simple farewell would have lessened the pain. Now I know the truth. The courtesy of her good-bye pierces more. Because now I must accept the reality—I don’t matter enough for her to stay. “Please.”

“Trisha,” she starts, the pain in her voice clear. I can feel her struggle, her desire to be as far away from all of this, including me, as possible. When I don’t answer, when I refuse to give her a reprieve, I hear her take a deep breath. “I’ll stay,” she whispers, the decision sounding torn from her. “Help you however I can.”

Her words flow through me, warming my heart. She is still the girl I remember. The one I counted on, needed. Just because we were born into the same family did not guarantee we would stand together. With her agreement, we are still one. Opening my eyes, I stare into hers.
They are the exact same color as mine. We are sisters, but a bond far greater binds us. On different sides of the road, we walked through the same hell. “Why?” I ask.

“Because you’re my sister,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “And I couldn’t have survived our childhood without you.”

MARIN

Marin is seven, playing with her friends in the dirt. Cows walk freely among them, eating the scraps of food thrown on the ground and leaving their feces in gratitude. The Indian sun makes the air arid, difficult to breathe. But Marin and her friends are used to it, raised as they were under the scorching heat. There are five girls in all. Neighbors since birth, they have become fast friends over the years. Sticks and stones are their toys; with them, they have created a game of hopscotch and Marin is in the lead. It makes no difference who wins. There is no real way to keep score, and the girls often pad their points. But Marin likes knowing she is winning. She welcomes the feeling it gives her, the sense of superiority. The idea that she can do anything.

“Beti,” Ranee calls Marin from the small doorway of their house, modern in comparison to many of the others in the neighborhood. Though their toilet is not connected to running water, they do have a separate space in the house to shower and use as a restroom. Most of her friends still have to walk to an outhouse shared by a number of families. “It is time to prepare dinner.”

Marin has recently begun learning how to cook. It is expected of all the girls; the younger you start, the better. The lessons allow her time with
Ranee without her grandmother watching and scolding. Brent’s mother lives with them, as tradition demanded, and her arthritis has flared up, causing her to be even more judgmental and critical of Marin’s actions. Ranee has told her to ignore the harping, but it is hard.

“Five minutes, Mummy,” Marin says, her focus on the game. Three more jumps and she will be the ultimate victor. Scrunching her face in concentration, she eyes the rock she has to pick up without falling over. With all her effort, she makes the leap, but trips over the branch, falling flat onto the concrete. Her nose grazes the ground and begins to bleed. The girls rush to help her. Ranee, having seen the fall, moves as quickly as her sari allows.

“Are you all right?” Ranee uses the edge of her sari to wipe away the blood. When Marin’s nose continues to bleed, she pinches the top of it and tips her head back. “What happened, Beti?”

“She was too focused on the rock. Didn’t pay attention to the branch,” her smug grandmother says, seated on an old wooden chair nearby. “Foolish girl.”

“I’ll be home at ten,” Gia announces as she grabs a piece of toast. Her backpack overflows with books. Her school uniform, a plaid skirt and pressed white shirt, flatters her slim figure. Two days a week, the students are allowed to wear their own clothes. After a heated discussion about individuality versus conformity at the PTA meeting, the school board compromised. On those two days, Gia often throws on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. To Marin, her choice of clothes screams indifference rather than a personality statement.

“What?” Marin mutes her conference call. Setting down her chai, she stops Gia before she walks out the door. “Ten?”

“There’s a study group for the science test.” Gia taps her foot in a seeming hurry to get in the waiting car. She’s in a carpool, which frees
Marin from the hassle of school pickup and drop-off. “We’ll be at the library.”

“Who is driving you?” Marin doesn’t recall seeing the test on her calendar. She makes a point to sync Gia’s school calendar with her own, and she’s careful to keep the nights before due dates and exams free of dinners or family events so she can spend the time reviewing with Gia.

“One of the moms. I have to go,” Gia insists, trying to shut the door.

“Have a great day,” Marin offers, turning back to her phone. She considers giving Gia a hug, but recently her daughter has started shying away from contact. Not a fan of displays of affection herself, Marin hasn’t pushed it. “Good luck studying.” But her words are swallowed by empty air. Gia has already left the house.

“That is not acceptable,” Marin says, rejoining the conversation on the phone. “Get the reports on my desk within the hour,” she orders a senior manager.

Her day started at four this morning—it is now past nine. As she paces her home office, she glances in the mirror that hangs on the back of her door. She’s still in her pajamas. A quick glance at her calendar reminds her she has a meeting in an hour at the office. Throwing her cooled chai into the sink, she rushes upstairs and turns on the shower to let it warm up. She quickly grabs a pantsuit and accessories to match as her cell phone begins to buzz on the dresser. “Still have thirty minutes until I’m due in the office,” she calls out to no one. Unless it’s her secretary, Marin rarely makes time to talk to anyone not on her schedule. But this caller is insistent. Running naked to the phone, she barely registers the number before answering. “Hello.”

“Marin? It’s Karen, the principal at Gia’s school. We need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”

“We’ve had a report of some disturbing behavior,” Karen explains quietly. The principal is a short woman, tinier than many of the students walking the halls. Her hair is curly, and she wears glasses that were fashionable a decade ago. Having matriculated from the school herself, she often speaks candidly to the parents about her experiences, good and bad.

A large cherry oak desk overwhelms the office, which is filled with pictures of students past and present. Karen’s diploma from the high school hangs on the wall right below her degree from Wellesley in education and her master’s from Princeton.

“Drugs?” Marin’s voice rises in contrast to Karen’s, anger lacing it. Her father’s constant fear when they were growing up. “They are becoming too American,” he would complain to Ranee. He was sure that somehow, even with the strict regime they lived under, they would stray and humiliate him. Whether it was from dating, drinking, or substances, he was convinced they would lose sight of their way. They never did, but that never swayed his belief they would. That same fear now grips Marin. “Has she been found with some?”

“No,” Karen says. She sits back, assessing Marin. Her halo of hair covers the back of the leather chair. “How close are you to Gia?”

“Excuse me?” A shift in energy permeates the room. Karen is suddenly the protector and Marin, unsure what is going on, stands on the outside. “It’s time you told me what this meeting is about.”

Karen nods, accepting Marin’s demand. “During gym class, the PE instructor noticed bruises on Gia’s body. Your daughter thought she was alone in the locker room.” Karen waits before saying the words that will shift Marin’s world on its axis. “They were clear signs of a beating.”

The room begins to spin. Marin grasps the handles of her chair. She glances sideways, trying to focus on something. Her blood pressure drops, leaving her dizzy. Images of Brent invade her thoughts. For just a moment, she wonders if he woke up and is responsible. The fear grips
her until she reminds herself she just saw him in the hospital, immobile and lost to the world.

“How? When?” The words echo in the room but she can’t promise she spoke them. “I don’t understand.”

“We don’t know.” Karen softens, seeming to get the answer she was searching for. “We hoped you could give us some insight.”

“You think
I
did this?”

Marin spent many afternoons in college reading about violence. The propensity to repeat the pattern. All the fancy verbiage to explain a simple rule—when you are beaten, you beat. You repeat what is familiar, what is programmed into your psyche as normal.

“You think I could beat my own daughter?”

“There are no accusations,” Karen says, drawing Marin back. “It is my responsibility to understand what happened.”

“My daughter was beaten. Apparently that’s what happened,” Marin says, trying to find her footing in a changed landscape. “Someone used her as a punching bag. Decided she wasn’t worthy of being treated with care or kindness.” She drops her head, trying to gather strength but finding none.

“Are you all right?” Pouring a glass of water, Karen sets it in front of Marin.

Marin tenses. Pushing her chair back, she stands. In a heartbeat she changes, returns to normal. The principal’s pity is fuel on a fire that has burned from childhood.

“Where is she?” Marin checks her watch. A little before noon. “Her morning classes just ended. She should be at lunch, right?”

Karen glances at the clock on the wall. She fails to mask her surprise that Marin has memorized the schedule. “Um, yes, you’re right. The students will be heading to the cafeteria.” She takes a step closer to Marin, crossing the invisible boundary between them. “Do you want me to check her out of school for you?”

“No.” Marin answers from instinct. She is not ready to face her daughter yet. There would be nothing for her to say. Schooled since birth, she will keep their family secrets within the home. “I’ll wait for her at the house after school.”

“Of course. You understand I have to file a report with child services. It is my legal obligation.”

Karen’s words leave her cold.

“And if the abuse happened here then you can understand I will be filing a lawsuit against the school.” Marin grabs her purse and moves toward the door. “If not, then I would appreciate your support in keeping my daughter safe.”

Marin drops her keys into her purse. She has no recollection of the drive home. Her phone has been buzzing ever since she left the school. A slew of messages from her secretary, frantic to know her whereabouts. She shuts it off before dropping it on the end table. Glancing around, she searches for something, yet nothing offers her a clue on how to move forward.