Trail of Broken Wings (23 page)

“How was studying?” Marin asks, watching Raj come down the stairs at the sound of the door.

“Good,” Gia says, avoiding her eyes. “I should get to bed.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” Raj asks, his eyes curious.

“We grabbed a bite.” Gia starts to move past Marin toward the stairs.

“Who dropped you off?” Marin asks casually, already turning back toward her office. She makes no mention of Adam or the revelation at school.

“One of the moms.”

Not even a breath to consider the lie or a pause to wonder if telling the truth is better. When Gia was a child, Marin always knew how to tell she was lying—Gia would tap her left foot. First it would be sporadically, but as Gia continued the lie, it would get faster. Unable to control it, she would cover her left foot with the right, hoping to quiet the movement.

Over the years Gia had mastered the urge and almost rid herself of it completely. Marin hadn’t seen the action for quite a while. She assumed it was because Gia had stopped finding reasons to lie. Now she understood Gia had simply learned to be a better liar.

“Good.” Marin stops, turning toward both Raj and Gia at the same time. “I almost forgot,” she says, stopping Gia’s escape. “When I
dropped off your book today, the principal pulled me aside. Mentioned that legally she has to contact child services when a child has been abused.”

“What?” Raj swallows, his mouth forming into a thin line.

“I wasn’t abused,” Gia whispers, her eyes wide. “Did you tell her that?”

“I couldn’t tell her anything, since you won’t tell us what happened,” Marin replies easily, refusing to soften at the sight of her daughter’s distress. “A social worker will be contacting us soon to get more information. Visit the home to understand the situation.”

“What does that mean?” Gia asks, fear in her voice.

“It means if they think your father or I are the reason you have bruises, then they can take you away and put you into a foster home.”

Part of Marin welcomes the look of horror on Gia’s face. Now maybe Gia can understand the hell they have been living through. One thing Gia has always taken for granted, Marin is sure, is the comfort of her life. The thought of anything else is destabilizing.

“But that’s not true.” Gia tenses, withdrawing into herself. She drops her head, hiding from them. Seeming to come to a decision, she wraps her arms around herself. “My friends and I play this game. It’s stupid.” Gia glances at Marin, who is listening intently. “I knew you guys would be mad so I didn’t mention it.”

“What?” Raj looks to Marin first before settling his gaze on Gia. His voice getting louder with anger, he demands, “What the hell kind of game?”

“We hit each other to see how much pain you can endure. The one who cries uncle last wins.”

“Which friends?” Marin demands, watching Gia carefully. She considers Amber then dismisses the thought. An innocence still lingers on her. Something that Gia no longer has.

“Why does it matter?” Gia demands.

“Who came up with the game?” Raj interjects, giving Marin a warning glance. One that implores she tread lightly.

“It’s something kids do. To keep things interesting.” Gia turns toward Marin, begging her. “Can you tell them that? The social worker?”

“Are you telling us the truth?” Marin demands. She had read stories of teenagers hurting themselves—cutting, choking, and now beating one another up. Furious at Gia for participating, her tone is biting. “Or is this another lie?”

“I’m telling the truth,” Gia says. “I promise.”

Night has fallen. The window in Marin’s office reveals the stars in the sky. She lies on the sofa, not having moved since Gia offered her admission hours ago. They have left the cleanup for the housekeeper, and Gia has gone upstairs to finish her homework. Marin said nothing to Raj about Adam. Gia gave her a grateful glance as she said her good-nights.

Marin replays the day’s events and Gia’s admission in her head. Marin knew all of Gia’s old friends. They come from upstanding families. As does Gia, Marin thinks. Going through the list, she tries to imagine which one would play the game. One name after the next she mentally crosses out.

A fleeting image, a whisper in the woods, brings to mind Adam’s hand encased in Gia’s. He had refused to leave Gia’s side at the school, held on tightly to her hand. His look reminded Marin of one she had seen her entire childhood. It was from someone who believed they owned you and could do with you as they wished. The lie Gia so easily spoke about whom she was with. Gia going to his home. Both of them all alone for hours. Their relationship an elaborate secret. Images start to crowd in her head—all of them leading toward the inevitable truth.
Gia isn’t lying to save herself, Marin realizes with a start. She’s lying to save Adam.

Nausea rises up, gagging her. She rushes to the adjoining bathroom just in time. Holding on to the toilet, she retches until her stomach is empty. Sweat lines her brow, and her body shakes from the convulsions. She falls back against the wall, grabbing the edge of the toilet to support her. He has beaten Gia, Marin is sure of it. There is no question in her mind that he has raised his hands to her daughter more than once. Why and how don’t matter anymore. All that’s important is that Marin is going to destroy him. Take him apart for having harmed her little girl. Only then can she assure Gia’s safety in a way she had never been able to guarantee her own.

TRISHA

On the night before Marin’s wedding, the lightbulb flickers as the electricity sizzles; the crickets chatter among themselves. The three sisters stand together, one shoulder against the other. Ranee, a fragile barrier, stands between Brent and the girls.

The night air is cool after the damp summer rain. Brent struggles with the key, cursing in Gujarati when it fails to give. “Did you spray the WD-40 like I told you?” he demands.

“Yes,” Ranee lies. In the midst of finalizing wedding details, she has forgotten.

“It didn’t work.” He yanks the key, slamming his fist against the door.

“The rain always expands the wood. Here, let me try.” She hopes to calm him.

“You think you are stronger than me?” He laughs—the only one. “Stupid.”

The girls continue in silence, watching. He alternates between trying the key and hitting the door. A raindrop falls. Soon, a light shower begins. They use the veils of their saris to cover their heads.

“Got it.” The click of the lock and he throws the door open. He steps quickly in ahead of them all. They are slow to remove their heeled pumps in
the entryway, each still on a high from the hours of dancing and socializing with their friends in the Indian community.

“Girls, change your clothes, fold them, and bring them to me. I will put them back in the suitcase.” Ranee prods them along. The saris are fashioned from silk she received as a wedding gift. Brent had commissioned a tailor weeks later. A lovely surprise from when his heart was still kind.

“I want to wear mine to bed, Mama,” Trisha declares. Fascinated by the vibrant colors, she revels in the way it makes her feel.

“No, Beti,” Ranee cajoles. “These are special. Meant only for wedding celebrations. When it is your time, you will be allowed to choose.”

“Well, I want this one.” Trisha twirls and dances through the foyer. Their home is immaculate on the inside. An engineer with two master’s degrees, Brent is thorough and organized. His home life must follow suit. “I look beautiful in it,” Trisha announces, confident. She’s enthralled by the grace and splendor she perceives in herself. She just turned fifteen, is on the brink of becoming a woman. Her lean thighs have yet to mimic the curves of her breasts, which are bound tight by the form-fitting deep-red blouse. The silk stops below the edge of her bra, leaving bare her flat stomach to below the belly button. The free-flowing skirt ties above the bones of her hips, elegant to the rim of her ankles. The translucent sari wraps around her, meticulously tucked in, then like a beaded shawl thrown carelessly over her shoulder. “Everyone was staring at me.”

“No one was,” Brent snaps. They stop, all of them. Not by thought but reflex. Animals trained to tremble at their owner. “Is this proper? There is a need to be looked at?”

These are not questions. Trisha’s face shows her deliberation. A decision whether to answer or remain silent. She fears either choice, not for herself but for the others. Ranee inspects him from a distance. An immediate survey to gauge the situation.

“Yes, Trisha, you are correct.”

“What?” Brent snaps his gaze toward Ranee.

“An auntie at the
garba
was telling me how beautiful Trisha looked. Her mastery of the steps to the stick dance. She of course takes after your youngest brother, dear.”

The girls wait. They have no other option.

“Marin, Sonya—you are both on my side of the family. But Trisha, you are your father’s daughter.” She takes each step one at a time. With a full belly laugh, she creates a diversion. A smile graces her face. From deep within her, she finds a reason. An illusion for them all.

“My brother named you,” Brent reminisces. Lost in her game, unaware of the play. “He was the first to hold you.”

The girls know the story. It is a tale repeated over the years. Lost in the memories of another time, the only time Brent was happy. “You were in New Delhi, Papa,” Trisha says.

“I was. The monsoon had flooded the streets. The trains could not move.”

“You telegrammed that you had hired a rickshaw. Driving all night you would arrive by morning.” Ranee passes Trisha to move closer to him. “In the middle of labor, and I am calling friends of friends. To keep you from danger.”

“I needed to see my second-born enter this world. Be the first to give her the drink of sugar water.” He reaches Trisha, but she is not afraid. He caresses her hair and pulls her into an embrace.

“Your brother thought of the name you would like best,” Trisha prompts him, sustaining the flow of the story.

“Yes, I listened to your mummy and stayed put. Waiting anxiously for the news.”

“We could not lose you to the floods. What would we do without you?” Ranee asks. “You arrived in Rajkot two weeks later. Your suitcases filled with gifts for Marin and our new child. Trisha, all you cared for was milk from my breast, and your father had spent thousands of rupees on toys for the two of you.”

The memories tease them, reminding them of a different time. Yet, they had left everything behind. Now all that remained was a bastardized mockery of the past.

“They told me.” Brent’s gaze fills with warmth and love. “Your mummy had the servants wire notes daily to the hotel. Your mind—sharp like my father’s. A blessed future
. . .
” His voice trails off. His face is awash in anger. “It is why I made the sacrifice to come to America. A pauper in this country when I was a raja in my own.”

He releases Trisha, his fists tight. “Opportunities for my daughters, I explained to my mother. An education they cannot receive in India. She begged me to stay, her oldest son.” Brent’s face fills with obvious ache. “I did not listen. I left my family and my life to better my children’s.”

“Your sacrifice can never be repaid.” Ranee exhales and then motions her girls toward their room. “Daughters, never forget your father’s gift to each of you.” She caresses his back, a rare initiated touch. “Soon we will celebrate as never imagined. Our first child’s wedding to a maharaja. An engineer of Brahmin caste. The gods are proud of the sacrifice you have made. We have been rewarded with giving our daughter to an upstanding family of class and value.”

“Trisha will be next,” Brent says quietly, staring at his middle daughter. “Soon, she will leave us.”

“Yes, and she will be even more fortunate than her sister,” Ranee agrees. “What more could we want?”

I can count the exact number of days since Eric left. While planning my wedding, I often daydreamed about our marriage. The house we would live in, the cars we would drive. I could feel the kisses we would give one another before heading to work and hear the conversations at dinner discussing our day. My mind laid everything out in exact detail. Everything except the separation. I made no accommodations for that
intrusion. But now that it is real, I am helpless but to accept it. To welcome the loneliness with open arms and find a way to live alongside it, accommodating the stranger in my home.