Trail of Broken Wings (20 page)

“Yes.” He seems pleased by my knowledge of it. “We are searching for additional ideas to help patients heal or at least get on the path.”

“You believe photography is the answer?” Photography was the only answer I found. Spending hours looking through the lens saved me from turning my eye inward and focusing on my own life and loss.

“Art in any form is powerful. The children have plenty of crayons and paper for their artistic endeavors. But we have never offered photography. I would be fascinated to see what effect it has.” He points out a little girl whose new growth of hair barely covers her head. She walks slowly so as not to topple the attached IV stand. “She loves looking at picture books. Imagine if she could take some of her own.”

“Teach a class?”

“That might work better for the adults. With the children, maybe gather a few at a time and show them the basics. The hospital will of course provide the cameras and supplies.”

“A printer. They would love to see their pictures right after they take them.” Ideas start to crowd in my head. “They could create a book of their photographs. Something to take home with them.” Those who survive to see their homes again.

“Is that a yes?” He rubs his hands together, a mixture of excitement and relief. “We’ll deal with some human resource formalities and then you can start immediately.”

“Wait,” I say, trying to slow the train down. “Don’t you want to see my portfolio?”

“When Sean told us your agent called, the board researched your work,” he admits. “The pictures are brilliant.” He motions toward the children. “We would be very lucky to have you.”

“Thank you.” A child, maybe five, catches my eye. He has stacked his Lego bricks into a tall building. After showing everyone his feat, he pulls one arm back and with a swift chop tumbles them all to the ground. A human instinct, I muse. Destroy that which we have built.

“I had no idea who you were or the quality of your work when we last spoke.” He looks contrite. “I feel foolish.”

“Please.” His admiration sends a slow tingle down my spine, where it intermingles with fear, a hellish symbiosis. I can’t be sure if it’s knowing my father is in his room below us lying near death or having enjoyed the last few minutes of conversation with David, but the feelings overwhelm me. Remind me of what I can never have. Never be. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“So what do you think?” He holds on to his stethoscope, pulling it tight around his neck. He glances down at his feet before meeting my gaze. “It’s great work if you’re interested.”

Turning away from the children, I step out of their line of sight. It makes no difference to them, but it keeps me from seeing their suffering. That is the most difficult part. Children, blameless from birth, harmed for no reason. Whether their pain comes from the hands of a parent, a stranger, or God, it is impossible for me to accept. Innocents, never schooled on how to fight, still just learning how to live, have to be strong and wise just to survive. Maybe that is my undoing. I have never learned. How could I when I am still running? “Let me think about it.” I start to walk away, dread settling inside me like a lost friend. As I pass the window, I see the young boy raise his hand in celebration, all the Lego bricks lying at his feet.

“We should sit down for dinner soon,” Trisha says, setting out her daily dishware. It’s just the four of us—the three sisters and Mom. It’s Saturday night and the first time we are all having dinner together in a while. We are cautious with one another, as if we are afraid of disturbing the balance we have created.

“Eloise made your favorite, Mama. Of course, it’s not as good as yours, but she used your recipe.” Trisha brings out the
baingan bharta
dish and sets it in the middle. She ushers us toward the table, insisting we take our seats.

“You’re wearing saris again?” Trisha stops, staring.

I take in Mom’s outfit. Today she chose to wear a green sari. It is not one I recognize, but from the simple design along the edge, I can tell it is old. The newer ones have strips of gold or silver thread, and the colors seeping together are vibrant, alive, as if to keep pace with the Bollywood films that have saturated the market. The green dye of Mom’s sari is worn, faded from too many washes. There is no sparkle in the color, no decorations to enhance its appearance. It is simple, and yet Mom looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back and held with a gold clasp. Gold hoop earrings and a simple gold chain are the only jewelry she wears. I can’t help but notice her mangalsutra is missing from her neck.

“You stopped?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes,” Mom answers quickly.

“Why?” Everyone stares at her, waiting for an answer.

“After you left and Trisha got married, it didn’t seem important to keep up appearances anymore,” Mom says quietly.

“Appearances of what?” Marin asks.

Mom says nothing. When the silence lingers, Trisha speaks up. “Who wants wine? Marin? Sonya?”

She has an odd, frenetic energy. Her makeup is flawless and her outfit pressed perfectly. The house is clean and welcoming, but something is amiss. She avoided my eyes when opening the front door and has avoided me since. When I tried to help her with the meal, she ushered me out of the kitchen.

“Red, please,” I say.

“Right. Of course.” She hunts through her cabinet for the wine opener. Opening each drawer, she fails to find it. “Where does he keep it?”

Her hands are shaking, and she is flustered. Lost, like a child, she searches obsessively. I have never seen her this way before. The sight of it unnerves me, makes me realize that her stability is my foundation. Even when I was traveling, knowing that Trisha was back home, living a normal life, gave me the hope I needed to keep going. At least one of us was doing more than surviving.

“What’s going on?” My words cause Mom and Marin to look up, to watch Trisha with new eyes. When Trisha fails to respond, I join her, standing side by side. I can feel her nervousness, her fear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” she whispers. Her eyes close, her long lashes veiling the truth. “Everything is fine.” She pushes past me, rejecting my help. She starts to pour water in everyone’s wineglasses. “Let’s eat.”

We do as we are told. When Marin got married, Trisha assumed the role of matriarch. Since Mom never owned the position, it was open and Trisha was the obvious choice. We followed her rule, her decisions, like chicks to a hen. Mom fell in line like the rest of us, relieved that someone other than my father had some semblance of control.

We eat our meal in silence. The fresh garlic naan is warm. We use it to scoop up the baingan bharta—eggplant
sakh
mixed with fresh tomatoes and onions. I take a sip of my lentil soup, the lemony aftertaste lingering on my tongue. The meal is delicious, as I expected. Trisha rarely does anything wrong. It’s comforting to know that someone in my life knows what they are doing.

“I’m going to accept a position at the hospital. As a photographer,” I announce. It feels odd to me to confide my plans to anyone. But after leaving the hospital, I drove around, considering my options. Since it was the only one I had, the choice was made for me.

“For how long?” Trisha asks, her joy clear.

“As long as I’m needed,” I say, leaving open to interpretation who needs me. From Trisha’s glance, she knows I’m speaking about her. She nods to me once, her face filled with gratitude.

“Your father’s condition is unchanged.” Mom wipes her mouth with her napkin. She makes no comment about my announcement. The curry leaves an orange stain on the pristine white linen. “I don’t know how long the insurance company will pay for his care.”

“He will come out of it soon,” Trisha says. She pushes her plate away, most of the food untouched. “I was with him the other day. There was improvement.”

“What?” Marin, who has remained aloof most of the meal, lowers her fork to stare at Trisha. “What did you see?”

On the spot, Trisha clasps her hands together. The air-conditioning kicks on, causing the chandelier above us to sway slightly. “There was nothing to see. I just know.”

“Of course,” Marin mocks. “You just know.”

“What does that mean?”

Trisha and Marin’s relationship vacillated between combative and impersonal growing up. Marin resented the love and attention showered on Trisha when she was the one who brought home the top grades and succeeded beyond everyone’s expectation. But her battle to replace Trisha was a losing one. Our parents would never see Marin or me the way they viewed Trisha. Marin must have accepted that at some point. Decided the battle was no longer worth fighting. It was why I was shocked when she made the decision to return to California soon after she married.

“Just that it must be nice to know everything, that’s all,” Marin says.

Her face is drawn tight. Her usual control replaced with worry, anxiety. Lost in Trisha’s discomfort, I failed to notice Marin’s. I see now what I missed before. Dark circles color the skin beneath her eyes. There are lines of age that weren’t there just a week ago. She is holding herself together, but barely.

As children, we were each lost in our own hell. That became our excuse not to ask the other what had happened when she was crying
or quiet. The question was moot anyway. Most likely we had seen the hit or the insult. Witnessed the altercation that resulted in a one-way beating. We knew never to interrupt—to stand up for our loved one. It could only lead to a more severe beating—or worse, he could turn on us. Somehow, we convinced ourselves that one person beaten was better than two.

Now there is no reason to remain quiet. It is easy to forget that I am allowed to ask why she is sad. This is new territory for me. With trepidation, I turn toward Marin, assuming that whatever is bothering Trisha will right itself because it has to.

“Marin? Is something wrong?” I realize neither Gia nor Raj have joined us for dinner. “Gia and Raj? They couldn’t make dinner?”

She flinches. Dropping her spoon, she shakes her head no. “Gia had to study.” At the same time, her mouth draws into a tight line and her hands fist atop the table. “Everything’s fine.”

“You are lying.”

We all turn toward Mom, shocked to hear her argue. She was always the first one to accept our insistence that we were fine. Even as our faces would begin to swell with dead blood, we would assure her that we had moved past the incident. His sobs from the bedroom—because he always cried after hitting us—were more important than what he had done. She welcomed our strength, used it to buoy her when she had none of her own. Then she would leave us to comfort him, because it was what he expected her to do.

“And if I am?” Marin stands, dropping her napkin over the remainder of her food. “What business is it of yours?”

She needs someone to attack. Her fighting stance, the venom in her words, makes it clear. Mom is the easiest and most vulnerable. We watched her beaten so many times, it seems natural to watch it in play again. I have no instinct to come to her defense. I turn toward Trisha, assuming she will end this war before Mom loses the battle, but she
remains quiet. A glaze covers her eyes, protecting her from what is about to happen.

“I am your mother. If not mine, whose business is it?”

She is not backing down.

“No one’s,” Marin answers.

So, something is wrong. Marin has just admitted as much. We are at a crossroads. As children, we were forced to share our lives by default. Dad made sure all of us were pieces in his game. No one was allowed to opt out, to choose not to play. There were no teams, so our only role was to comfort the loser of the day.

As adults, we each took our own path. Even living in the same town, it is obvious that Marin and Trisha never take the same road. Their lives never intersect. If not for the forced family functions, their worlds would remain separate and apart. The only bond that binds them now is the blood that courses through their veins. That, and being two of the only five people in the world who know about the life we lived.

“Maybe it is our business.” Trisha comes back from wherever she had gone. She reaches out, covering the top of Marin’s hand with her own. Only for a second, but enough time to have everyone staring at their joined fingers. She echoes Mom. “Who else’s would it be?”

“You don’t want to know.” Marin slips her hand out from beneath Trisha’s. She starts to stack our dishes, irrelevant whether we are finished eating. “It would ruin the perfection you work so hard to preserve.”

“Don’t you mean it would ruin the image you so desperately try to maintain?” Trisha shrugs, indifferent to Marin’s intake of breath. “Honestly, Marin, you shouldn’t bother. Everyone stopped caring years ago.”

After an assignment for the
New York Times
, I spent time in their stacks, going through old photographs. The ones that were too fragile to preserve had been scanned and copied. The originals were kept for historical purposes. Like a scattering of light snow, pieces of print fell
into my hands. Images taken in a moment offered the only window into another generation’s life. I stared at their faces, their poses revealing little of their struggles, their hopes, and disappointments. They stared into the camera, allowing only what they wanted to be exposed.