Trail of Broken Wings (21 page)

Seeing my family now, I wonder if we are any different. Each one of us portraying only what we allow. Like statues inside a snow globe, we are frozen, emotionless to anyone watching. No matter what happens, we will not visibly break, even if we are shattered on the inside. But when did we decide to keep our secrets from one another? When did our circle shrink to one, leaving the chain that connected us broken irretrievably? But each one of us was the weak link. The chain was bound to break.

“We’re trying to help,” I interject because the bridge we are walking on is about to collapse. Mom turns toward me, watching me with interest. “Let us.”

“You’re trying to help?” Marin laughs, a cruel sound filled with emptiness. “All these years, you disappear and now you think you can come in and save the day?”

“No, I don’t.” I say, fully aware of my own limitations. “I’m asking you to let us in, to help you shoulder whatever is going on.” I offer the only reason I have. “You did the same for us, when we were kids.”

She collapses back into her chair, defeated. Almost to herself she asks, “Why did I let him hit me? Why would anyone allow herself to be hit?”

It is not what I expected. None of us saw that coming. Mom disappears into her chair. Trisha, the only one with a response, answers, “Maybe it was meant to be.”

“Spoken from the girl who was never hit,” Marin says with a bite. “How fortunate for you. The rest of us didn’t have that luxury, did we?” She looks to me for support.

I stop myself from speaking aloud the resentment that simmered over the years—the envy toward Trisha. But the relationship we share, all the times we stood together, overshadow any other emotion.

“I guess I was lucky,” Trisha says, barely blinking. She empties her glass. Her reasoning sounds rehearsed, something she has repeated to herself.

“Or maybe no one saved us.” Marin turns her gaze to Mom, betrayal filling the room. “That is a mother’s job, right? To protect her children? Even animals know something that basic. They protect their young, fight to the death if necessary for their safety.”

“Is that what I should have done?” Mom asks. “Given up my life for the sake of yours?” She pauses, considering. Coming to her own conclusion, she nods, “Yes, maybe that is what I should have done.”

As a child I vacillated between anger and gratitude for her inaction. Because even though she failed to stand between him and us, she was at least there to stand beside us. As a child desperate for some semblance of love, I rationalized that as enough. Besides, we were still alive. None of us had died at his hands. That had to count for something.

“Too late now. You never even tried.” Marin throws back. “If you had attempted, maybe . . .”

Twice, Dad put Marin in a dark closet for hours because of her grades. While I sat outside the door, whimpering for the heartache I imagined she was enduring, Marin stayed deathly silent inside. Mom, her mouth clenched shut, continued to prepare dinner. Only her eyes flitting toward the clock on the wall every few minutes, counting the time as it passed, gave any indication of her concern.

“But I didn’t.”

Marin’s question and Mom’s response hang over us like a bomb ready to explode. I read once that we don’t choose our families, or our childhood, but we choose our future. As if that one choice can help ease the heartache of a childhood gone wrong. I wonder if I would choose my sisters as my friends, if I would make the conscious decision
to confide in them, spend time together, trust them. Would I be able to accept the responsibility of carrying them when they fell? In truth, can anyone really be counted on to help when all is lost?

“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I ask. They are the only words I have in my arsenal. I have nightmares of Marin in the closet. But in my dreams she is crying, and Mom is desperately trying to save her. “He can’t hit you ever again.”

“No, he can’t.” She glances at her watch, time having stood still for the last hour. She straightens her hair, fixes her shirt. In a matter of a few steps, she returns to the executive she is. Any signs of vulnerability have disappeared, leaving the rest of us to wonder if we imagined it. “Dinner was wonderful, as always,” she says to Trisha. “Can I help clean up?”

“Eloise will do it,” Trisha says.

“Then it’s time I head out.”

She pushes her chair back, only to be halted by Mom’s words. “You never told us what was bothering you.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” We watch, the three of us, as she walks out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.

“Are you all right?” Trisha asks Mom quietly.

“Of course.”

It is difficult to imagine how she could be. Maybe Marin attacked Mom before. In the years that I was gone, there may have been numerous confrontations like the one I just witnessed. Seeing Mom’s reaction however, I doubt it. She is shaken, saddened by the clash. With tired hands, she reaches for her purse and shawl. The beauty that had emanated from her earlier has disappeared. All that is left is an old woman, aged before her time.

“I should go. It is late.” Turning to me, she asks, “I will see you at home?”

“Yes, I’ll see you there.”

Trisha and I watch her walk out the same door Marin left through only moments ago. We are both silent, the only two left in the room. She starts to clear the table. I help her, both of us quietly working. It is not like Trisha; normally she is the one who fills the silence. After one of Dad’s episodes, it was her job to change the conversation. To return all of us to the time right before the violence. She became an expert at it. With a smile, she would seamlessly restart the interrupted conversation. While Mom comforted Dad, or left to deal with her own cuts, Trisha would nurse us with an alternate reality.

“You’ll have to get on Eric’s case,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I fill the sink with the dishes. “A dinner without wine is unacceptable.”

“You’re right.” Trisha wipes her hands on the dish towel. “Let’s make up for it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on.” She grabs her purse and keys off the end table and walks out the front door. When I don’t move, she sticks her head back in, crooking her arm for me to follow her. “Let’s go!”

University Avenue is Stanford students’ main thoroughfare for bars and off-campus dining. It also hosts the elite venture capitalist crowd of Palo Alto when they want to unwind. The combination of money and brilliance offers a distinctive crowd in every establishment. Trisha routes us to one off the main street. It is small but that doesn’t stop people from crowding the corners and spilling into the courtyard in the back. Men and women dressed in casual business clothes drink alongside students sporting Stanford gear, carrying backpacks. I follow Trisha to the counter, where we find two empty stools.

“What can I get you?” The bartender looks barely old enough to be serving us. As he waits for our orders, he waves to some friends who’ve just entered.

“Two glasses of your most expensive red.” Trisha pulls out her credit card and slides it toward him. “Start us a tab, please.”

“Are we planning on getting drunk?” I ask.

“Why not?”

I watch her as we wait for our drinks. When they are finally served, Trisha toasts me with her full glass. Without waiting for me, she takes a deep swallow. She winces, the wine burning her throat.

“Because you don’t do that.” I take a sip of mine. It’s a dry Cabernet. I prefer a Pinot but don’t say anything. “You never touch your drink at home.”

Drinking to oblivion was not something any of us sisters chose to do. When you have no control as a child, there is no reason to cede it as an adult. Trisha is worse than I am. She avoids alcohol completely. She swears the smell nauseates her.

When we were kids, Dad would sometimes leave the house when he was truly angry. He would return hours later with a brown bag, supposedly with a bottle of liquor inside. The irony was that he never drank, so the threat was meant to scare us more than anything. As if to say he could get more violent with alcohol in him than without. I always believed it was the memory of those nights that turned Trisha off drinking.

“Then let tonight be the night that changes.” She finishes the glass while mine remains full. She motions to the bartender for another. Glancing around, she sees everyone, as if for the first time. “Busy night.” Trisha lingers on a couple holding one another. The man’s arm is around the woman’s waist. He bends low to hear what she says over the roar of the crowd, offering her a smile in response. Trisha turns back toward the bar, facing the rows of bottles and the mirror on the wall. Her reflection stares back at us, offering no revelations. She fingers her wedding ring, the large solitaire glittering under the glare of the overhead lights.

“Should you let Eric know we’re out?” When he wasn’t at the dinner, I assumed he was still working. When Trisha continues to stare at her ring, I ask softly, “Trisha, where’s Eric?”

“Gone.” Trisha nods her thanks when the bartender refills her glass.

“On a business trip?” I shake my head no when he tries to refill mine.

“Moved out.” She avoids my eyes while relaying the news. She empties half of her second glass. “A few days ago.”

I stare at her, sure she is joking. “Trisha?” When she doesn’t answer, I grip her upper arm and turn her toward me. She rotates her face away, staring at the bottles that line the shelves behind the bar. Her deep swallows are the only indication I have she is telling me the truth. “Why?” I ask, sadness settling deep within me. She was the one who was supposed to be okay. The one whose compass was set, her way guided.

“No reason.”

A well-dressed man in his midforties interrupts us. He takes the stool right next to Trisha’s. Already nursing a mixed drink, he is clearly not at the bar for another. I roll my eyes when he swivels toward us, his gaze roaming over Trisha’s left hand before landing on mine.

“I’m Zach.”

“We’re busy,” I reply, as rudely as I can.

“Not nice,” Trisha scolds me. She thrusts out her hand to shake his. “I’m Trisha. And you are?”

“Zach,” I remind her.

“Can I buy you ladies a drink?” Zach asks, keeping his gaze on Trisha. Apparently, he has decided the less sober one is the best chance he has tonight. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” Trisha decides. “Bartender?” She tries to snap her fingers, succeeding in making no sound at all.

My sister is not only drunk but rude as well. I lean past her just as our friend Zach gets the bartender’s attention and orders us a round
of drinks. “Listen, Zach, I really appreciate the drinks, but this is not a good night.”

“You’ll have to excuse my sister.” Trisha pushes me back onto my stool and runs her hand through her hair. Her feeble attempt at flirting would be hilarious if it weren’t so sad. “She just got back from a far, far away place. Worlds away. She isn’t quite herself yet.”

“Really?” Zach inquires, feigning interest. “Where did you travel?”

“New York.” I try to reach for the drink before Trisha. She proves faster than me and downs it in two gulps. Her eyes bulge as it burns going down her throat. A small part of me is glad for her pain. Maybe it will stop her shenanigans and she will tell me what is going on. “Great city. It’s like a whole other world.” If Zach has caught on to my sarcasm he doesn’t let on.

“I travel there for work quite a bit. I’m in sales.”

I want to point out that I didn’t ask, but that would mean continuing the conversation with him, and no purpose would be served. Instead I take out my wallet and pay for the two drinks he just bought us. I slide my untouched one toward him. “On me. Enjoy.” Grabbing Trisha’s hand, I pull on her hand. “I’d better get my sister home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Trisha moans, the alcohol taking effect. “Eric . . .”

“Eric?” Zach asks.

Zach has started to become an annoyance, and my sister a liability. “Eric is her husband. Hence the ring you saw on her finger when you sat down. He apparently just left her, which is why she’s drinking herself into oblivion. That information may not matter to you, but this will: Neither my sister nor I will be sleeping with you tonight. She won’t because she’s three sheets to the wind and will most likely spend the night vomiting. I won’t because I have absolutely no interest in you. No offense.”

Zach gets the message, thank goodness, and turns his stool toward the person on his other side. Not without taking the drink I slid his
way, however. Sighing, I hold on to Trisha’s hand tight. She is surprisingly strong. Gathering all of our stuff, I somehow get us both into the car and head toward her house.

“He’s not coming back, you know.” Trisha lolls her head toward me. There’s a sheen of water over her pupils. “Packed all of his stuff.”

“Why did he leave?” I take the highway toward the hills of Saratoga where Trisha lives. “You guys seemed like you had it together.” When she doesn’t answer me right away, I take my eyes off the road to glance at her. She’s staring through the front windshield at nothing. “Hey.” I reach for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“Do you want children?” she asks.