Trail of Broken Wings (10 page)

The clock on the mantel indicates it is past one. Her stomach growls; she considers making herself a sandwich or grabbing a piece of fruit, but she would choke on her first bite. Retreating to the sanctuary of her office, she closes the door behind her. Her computer, always on, beckons. She powers it off without saving the document she had spent the night working through. With nothing left to do, she collapses into the sofa. Clutching a pillow to her chest, she curls her legs against herself. Laying her head down atop her knees, she yearns to weep, but the conditioning is too deep. Instead, memories circle around her, tearing her to shreds without the benefit of tears to ease the pain.

The room is dark. The sun is still shining on the other side of the world. On India. Marin sits up in bed, pulling the sheet tight around herself.

“It is time to prepare.” Ranee maneuvers through the bedroom the three girls insist on sharing in the weeks leading up to the wedding. Ranee offers Marin a smile as she shakes Trisha and Sonya from their slumber. She silently waves Marin out of the bed. “Come, Beti. All the clothes need ironing. The family will be here soon.”

“What about the food?” Marin asks.

“After you girls went to bed last night, I prepared the meal.”

“You have not slept?”

“I will sleep after the wedding.” Ranee smiles.

“How are we supposed to iron this?” Trisha asks. Two neatly folded stacks—one of Indian dresses for the girls and the other of Brent’s clothes. Atop it lies his favorite suit. A thin gray jacket with matching pants. He bought it for thirteen dollars at a garage sale where it was tagged as new. He had haggled and paid two dollars less than the asking price. Proud of his bargain, he wore it to every occasion since.

“Quickly.” Marin unfolds the first dress. “After we finish, we can help Mummy.”

“I’m not going to.” Trisha makes a face. “I hate cooking.”

“It doesn’t matter if you hate it or not. You have to learn.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” Trisha insists.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Marin argues, suddenly angry with Trisha. “You need to grow up.”

“Says who? Besides, it’s my life.” Trisha exudes a confidence Marin envies. “I make my own decisions.”

“You think I chose this?” Marin drops her head, afraid to admit the truth to herself. “I don’t even know him, and now I have to spend the rest of my life with him.”

Trisha stares at her sister, Marin’s admission silencing her. They busy themselves. Five years in age separates them, but a generation of confusion divides them. Trisha unfolds each piece, methodically shaking it out. She
lays it on the board for Marin to iron. The completed pieces she hangs in the plastic garment holder.

“How many are left?” Marin is the first to break the silence. With less than a day left together, she knows neither wants quiet to fill their final minutes.

“Dad’s suit and one sari.” Trisha touches Marin’s shoulder lightly. “Are you excited?” Trisha lays the suit pants on the table. “Everyone here just for you. Being the center of attention?”

“So you wouldn’t mind it?” Marin teases her.

“I don’t know. But it’s not a bad way to end your time here. Right?” Trisha seems to need the answer more for herself than anything.

“I don’t know how it’s supposed to end. Am I happy that I’m free of Daddy? Or do I spend all my time worrying that you guys are still here?” Marin’s gaze is steady on Trisha.

“Don’t worry about us.” Trisha’s voice is sure and strong. “Just be happy. OK?”

The smell of smoke catches them both unaware. In the years to follow, Marin would remember the conversation. The actual piece of clothing would become a distant memory, the burning cheap cotton a vague recollection. But in that moment, when Marin turns to see the charred hole, it freezes them. Their eyes widen in shock, fear tightening their faces. The sudden approach of footsteps leaves them little time to create an excuse. As has been the case so often in their history, there are no alarm bells. No drums or whistles to warn. Rage is random in its frequency. The moments that seem sure to lead to it rarely do. Events to forgive, minor transgressions—those lead to volatility. Unpredictable abuse leaves psychological scars that last long after the physical ones.

Brent’s eyes bulge at the sight of the burn. Though it is small, the pants are ruined. Marin stands straight, facing him. There is no other place to escape until tomorrow. She does not look at his face. Not one of them ever does.

“You are stupid with my suit.” Brent stares at Marin, anger vibrating off him. “Are only your clothes important to you? You think you are special because you are getting married?”

Marin does not answer. Over time, they have learned it is best not to. His own responses seem to impress him more.

“I am married. I still care about others, including your things. I have paid for this entire wedding, have I not? You do not show the same respect to me. Why?”

His thumb and middle finger encircle Marin’s wrist. She stares at his digits. They do not touch. If Marin pulled, one twist of her arm, she would be free. She could step away, say no. This weighs on her, since she has never thought it before.

The first blow lands above Marin’s ear. It is from the palm of his hand. Above the ear is his favorite place, that or the side of the head. For Ranee—on the back and in the stomach. Sonya—always the back of the head. Always first with the palm, then, convinced the perceived wrong is egregious, the fist.

“One,” Trisha begins to count. It is her ritual, her key for survival. The recipient of the beating is irrelevant. She swears that the hits, no matter how many there really are, never go past eight. It is her lucky number. So she continues. He has never stopped her. Maybe because it has never been her jawbone that connects with his fist. Regardless, she is desperate to reach eight. Because then the violence toward her loved ones will end. And she can return to her reality.

Marin’s vision is still intact. After the fourth or fifth one, it will get blurry. Only momentarily. But right then, she can still see. Her head whip-lashed to the side. On her wedding night, when Raj caresses her neck, she will wince. Cringe when he goes to kiss her. She will tell him she slept wrong because it was the night before the wedding. Jitters and stress. Just a kink in her neck, Marin will assure him. She will be better soon.

“Two,” Trisha continues.

Marin runs through the options in her mind. For the first time, she can stop her father. Take her hand out of his. Explain that she does not belong to him. That tomorrow she will belong to another. But for one day, this day, she belongs to herself. Regardless of their culture and beliefs, having been born to him did not make her his. Stamp his name on hers. But she is not his property. She had not chosen this and does not want it. For once, her wants should matter.

“Six, seven.”

Her thoughts ultimately hold no weight. His thumb and finger tighten and come together. He uses her body to balance his. Sonya will joke about it alone in the room and mimic the contortions of his face in the quiet of the night. His lower lip between his teeth and his eyes wide. Like a clown. She will walk around, her arms flailing and feet wide apart. Trisha and Marin will let out small, nervous laughs.

Marin does not feel the final blow. It does not matter anyway. She will never speak about the physical pain. That will subside in time. It is that she could have walked away. She had a choice, and she chose to stay.

“Eight.”

It is a lucky day.

RANEE

The first time Brent hit her was three weeks after he started work in the States. An engineer by trade, the only job he could find in America was changing tires at the local gas station. A customer had berated him in front of everyone. Called him a brownie and told him to go back to whatever island he had come from. Brent had nodded, unable to say anything for fear of losing his job. When the man threw a dollar bill at him as a tip, Brent had slowly bent down and picked it up. That dollar would buy them a pint of milk.

When Brent arrived at their cramped apartment later that night, Ranee had been late in starting dinner. He had complained but muttered he would shower first to wash the grime off. When he returned and Ranee was slow to serve the food, Brent had pulled his hand back and hit her across the face. Ranee staggered, reaching back for balance, to regain her footing. Her left hand landed on the still-hot stove. The scar that resulted from her burnt skin was still visible on her palm today. Her other hand had automatically gone to her stomach; she had just learned of her pregnancy. Marin and Trisha stood near the kitchen staring in horror.

Ranee puts the final touches on the salad while the chicken strips cook. She tosses the dried cranberries with the homemade dressing just as she hears the front door open. A quick glance at the watch that circles her petite wrist tells her it’s just before five. Since moving home, Sonya has made a habit of leaving first thing in the morning and returning right before dinner.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Ranee calls out when she hears Sonya’s footsteps falter in the foyer.

“Something smells good,” Sonya says, dropping her camera bag on the kitchen island. Glancing at the salad, she asks, “Can I help?”

“If you could just set the table.” They’ve fallen into a pattern over the last few weeks. Every morning they sit and have breakfast, and in the evenings they cook dinner together. Even if it is just sandwiches, they silently move within the kitchen as if they’ve been coordinating for years. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Sonya’s answers are quick, details often left out. “Yours?”

They are two strangers with a history that serves as the only connection between them. “I picked out new bedding for your room.” Sonya is staying. They have not spoken about it, though Ranee is sure that earlier she had made plans to leave. Something changed and for that Ranee is grateful. “The bedding in your room is over ten years old.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t change it into a guest room,” Sonya says softly, grabbing two plates and silverware. “Or Dad didn’t convert it into a storage place.”

“I would never do that.” Avoiding commenting directly, Ranee searches a drawer in the kitchen until she finds what she’s looking for. Pulling out a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, Ranee drops it in Sonya’s palm. “I found this in my bureau last night. I thought you might want it.”

It was the necklace Ranee gave to Sonya for her sixteenth birthday. When Sonya packed her things to move out on the night of her graduation, she had left the necklace dangling on top of her chest of drawers.

Staring at the necklace, Sonya closes her fist around it before slipping it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

“When you left, I thought you would only be gone for a short while, so I left it in your room. I never imagined it would be so many years,” Ranee admits, fussing over the food. “After the third, maybe fourth year, I took it to my room for safekeeping.”

“I left because I had no choice,” Sonya says bitingly, taking the bait Ranee subconsciously threw out. “What was said that day—it made everything clear.” Sonya shakes her head, anger reverberating off her. After so many years, she can’t even pinpoint when it started or where it led, only that it was her constant companion.

They face one another, both clearly wondering how they arrived at this point. Ranee tries to defend herself without destroying the fragile connection she has built with her daughter. “I was scared.”

“Of?”

“Of having made the wrong decision.”

“You did, Mom.” Sonya says, oblivious to the truth Ranee keeps from her. She runs her hands through her hair. “It’s the wrong decision to tell your daughter she doesn’t matter.” The tears choke her. “To tell her she is a burden.”

“Sonya.” The lit coal in her voice burns her throat. When Sonya was born, her umbilical cord proved difficult to cut. The doctors in the small hospital joked that this one would never leave Ranee’s side. “You were never a burden.” But Ranee knows it is too little, too late. Sonya’s face shows no reaction.