Trail of Broken Wings (24 page)

I think of Mama and her feelings about living alone. Funny, I never thought about it before. Never wondered how she adjusted to her own empty house or if she could swear someone was calling her name but then be met with silence. I walked into Eric’s empty closet the other day. He left a few things behind: a sock with no match, shirts he hasn’t worn in years, and a pair of running shoes. The shoes fascinated me the most. I sat down in the middle of the walk-in and stared at them. I could see him lacing them up as he prepared for a run. Returning after a long one and then jumping into the shower to wash up. Back then, I knew when he left that he was coming back.

It’s the daily occurrences that I miss the most. The events that failed to register once they became normal parts of coexisting. Emptying his pockets of extra change, setting his wallet on the bureau, or throwing his clothes into the hamper only to miss and have everything land on the bathroom floor instead. I accepted him in my life as if he had always been there. Now, I wonder how I will ever live without him.

Sleeping together was the easiest. Almost as if a bed were meant for two rather than one. When Eric would awake early for a meeting, I’d feel his absence within seconds. The emptiness made sleep impossible. I was used to another body in the bed, always had been. A childhood filled with Sonya curling into bed with me made it easier to share space. With my husband, there were no fights for the blanket, no side that was his or mine.

“I want to make love to you,” he would whisper in my ear. No matter where we were, in the den paying bills, or warming up hot cocoa, he would slip his arms around my waist and pull me in tight. Never able to resist him, I would turn into his arms, always ready, always wanting. We rarely fought but when we did, I was always first to acquiesce, to give in. It felt easiest. After watching a lifetime of fighting, I did not
want friction. Peace became my motivation, and I did everything to maintain it.

Eric’s clout in business rarely spilled over into our life together. He had no reason to show his power with me. I took to being an executive’s wife as if I had been preparing for it forever. The clothes, the money, the social circle—all of it felt normal, right to me. Born to be a wife. My stomach tightens now at the thought. When did his vocation supersede mine? I easily accepted our traditional roles though no one demanded I do so.
But
, a voice reminds,
I never allowed the one role that would have solidified my place—that of a parent.

Needing to escape the confines of my home, I grab my keys, race to my car, and start driving. Without planning to, I end up at the only place that has always been safe, that has always been mine. I pull into my parents’ driveway and kill the engine. Even now, I still think of it as their home, versus hers alone. Though Papa may never step into the house again, it will always be the home where he gave me everything.

Out of habit, I use my own key to open the door. Before Sonya came home, I was the only one of the three daughters who still had one. Even when Papa updated the locks, he made sure to make me a copy. Said it was important I have one in case of an emergency. When the true emergency arose, my key was useless. There was nothing I could do to keep Papa safe.

“Trisha!” Mama says, surprised. She is on her way downstairs. She is still dressed in her pajamas, and her hair is flowing around her. “What are you doing here, Beti?” She takes the few extra steps to embrace me. I hold her close, tighter than I ever have before.

“I thought we could have lunch,” I say, finding an excuse.

“At ten in the morning?” She takes my hand, enclosing it in hers. It is warm and though my hand is larger than hers now, I hold on firmly, welcoming the security. “Let’s sit.”

She leads us to the living room, where framed pictures of the three daughters and Gia line the shelf above the fireplace. All the pictures
of Papa are gone. I remove my hand from hers, glancing around the room, suddenly seeing it as if for the first time. Every trace of him has vanished. The basket he kept his newspapers in. The case for his reading glasses. His slippers that were always tucked beneath the sofa he favored. All of it gone. I turn toward her, fury filling me. “Everything, Mama? You didn’t leave one trace for us to remember him by?”

Before she can answer, I start opening the writing-desk drawers. Unable to sleep, I would come downstairs at night for water and he would be sitting here, reminiscing over pictures from India. I would climb onto his lap and he would tell me stories of his childhood, of his home when he was happy. Each opened drawer reveals what I already suspected—all of his childhood pictures are gone. “Where are they?” I demand, turning on her. “All of his photos?”

“Why?” she asks, gently. “What need do you have for them?”

“He’s my father!” I scream at her, the first time in my life. “You may believe he’s never coming back, but I don’t.” I want to hit her, to hurt her like I saw Papa do so many times. I want to see her afraid so she can understand the fear gripping me. “He’s not dead.”

“No.” She is calm in a way I have never seen her. “But I hope he does die.”

My knees buckle; my legs weaken. I sink into the sofa, my head in my hands. “What? Why?” The question is ridiculous, I know. But I ask nonetheless. I am sure the physical abuse stopped after we all left the house. With no children left to rile his anger, I assumed he had no reason to lash out. “He stopped hitting you, right?”

“Yes.” She answers me matter-of-factly, as if we are in a courtroom and her answers are rehearsed. “The last time was the day Sonya left.”

Shocked, I raise my eyes to her. The day still haunts, reminds each of us how easy it was to walk away. None of us had ever considered it before, so when Sonya did it, it was a revelation. “Why?” It made no sense. Sonya was never his favorite, not the one he needed. Why would her leaving affect him?

“Because that was the day I told him I wanted a divorce.”

Looking at my mother now, feeling dread and shock, and trying to process what she just said, I respond, “You asked him for a divorce?” I stare at her. “What happened?”

“He beat me, worse than all the other times,” she admits conversationally, as if we are talking about the weather. “Then he cried and told me that he had spent his entire life supporting me, providing for me, for you girls. He said he had made mistakes, lots of them, but he was sorry.” She pauses, a faraway look. “It was the first time he said those words to me. He told me he didn’t know how to love, that he was learning.”

“Then why?” I plead, moving past her admission as I used to move past the physical violence. I am an expert at it, storing the occurrence in a small box in my brain where it can’t hurt me. “There’s no reason to rid the house of him.” I am begging for myself. With my own home in shambles, this one is the only stability I have left, the house and the memories of my time here.

“He lied, Trisha,” Mama says. “He wasn’t sorry. He never was.” She sits down next to me, wrapping her frail arm around my shoulder. “You know that.”

Her words cause me to flinch. Unable to understand why, I push away from her. Standing, I pace the small room. Music filters down the stairs. Old Hindi songs. A small
diya
burns in the makeshift temple on the edge of the kitchen. Homemade ghee fuels the flame. Inside the steel shrine sit pictures of all the gods we pray to. Out of deference to Eric’s faith, Mama added a small statue of Jesus when we got married. My childhood home, the one where I grew into the woman I am today, starts to close in on me. My mother’s words feel like a sword, though I have no idea what she is talking about.

“Then why did you stay?” I demand. I see my reflection in the mirror on the side wall. Instead of the perfectly kept woman I am used to seeing, I gaze at a child in distress. A girl is screaming. Her hair in
disarray, her face stained with tears. Her eyes are closed, refusing to see. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image, but when I reopen my eyes, I see she has opened hers. She stares at me. I turn away, unable to look at her anymore.

“Because I believed him,” she answers. “Just like you did.”

I have to get out. My sanctuary has become a prison. I grab my purse and am ready to bolt when she asks, “Why did Eric leave?”

Of course Sonya would have told her. Though we knew to keep our secrets from the outside world, sometimes we forgot to keep them from one another. They served as a reminder that no matter how much time has passed, we can never truly escape the darkness we shared. “Because I wasn’t enough,” I say.

She grabs my hand as I am about to leave. Holds tight. “Why didn’t you want children?”

Sonya is not home, I am sure of it. That night when she stayed with me, held my hair back as I vomited, and then curled into the bed with me while we slept, I had never been so grateful to have my sister back. But now, if she were home, I would turn on her, furious that she revealed too much. “Since Sonya has all the answers, why don’t you ask her?”

“Your sister loves you.” Mama pauses, accepting her next words as truth. “You are the only one I am sure she loves.” She takes both my hands in hers, faces me. “Please, Beti,” she whispers, “tell me. Why didn’t you want children?”

“Maybe I’m just like Papa,” I tell her, wondering if the reason is real. “Maybe I don’t know how to love.”

SONYA

“Can you take a picture of me?” The little girl, Tessa, bounces on her hospital bed. She is the fifth patient I’ve worked with today, and so far the youngest. The others were almost teens. Most stared at me, bored, until they had the camera in their hands. Then, like magic, they began to photograph whatever they could find. Soon, they were chasing down laughing nurses, begging for just one more shot.

“How about you take some by yourself?” I open her tight palm and gently lay the camera atop her cold fingers. I still feel like a stranger in this hospital. My official badge hangs off my suit pants. After wearing jeans and T-shirts the first few days, I used some saved money on more grown-up wear. Splurging on fitted work dresses and pantsuits, I updated my closet for the first time in years. As promised by Human Resources and David, I was supplied with a number of high-end digital cameras and a photo printer for each floor. “You can do it.”

“What if I break it?” Tessa stares at the camera in her hand, her desire warring with her fear.

“You can’t break it,” I assure her. “But if you really don’t want to . . .” When I try to take the camera back, her fingers reflexively curl around it. I suppress a knowing smile. “How about you give it a try?”

She takes a picture of her toe, giggling all the while. Then follows it up with one of her knee and a thumb. Two elbows and her shoulder later she is almost finished. Right before she hands the camera back she takes one of her IV. “All the parts of me,” Tessa says. “Did I do it right?”

“Perfect.” I envision her final picture and wonder about how easily she accepts a needle in her arm as an extension of her. A necessity forced on her by those trying to save her. “How about I print these out and we can make a picture book for you? Title it
ME
.” With a tired nod, she agrees. As I gather my materials, Tessa climbs slowly back under the covers. Flipping through the channels like a seasoned pro, she settles on some cartoons. Wanting to say more but unsure of what, I leave without a word.

“There you are.” David catches me in the hall. “How’s it going?”

After accepting the position, I sought him out to let him know. He was thrilled. Since I started, we run into each other a few times a day. He stops me every time, making an excuse to talk. He’ll ask to see the pictures the children have taken or want to know what they had to say. As I repeat their adventures, many of them concocted in the young patients’ imaginations after hours of lying in hospital beds, he watches me. His eyes soften and he leans closer to hear me carefully. I have come to look forward to these moments; there is safety in our interactions. In the halls, among the hospital staff and patients, I am sheltered. In that haven, I am free to appreciate him. To admire the respect the staff has for him, the gratitude from his patients and their families. He accepts it all with humility, never basking in the credit bestowed on him.

David rarely asks me about my father—how I feel about him. I appreciate that. There’s really nothing I can say beyond that we are waiting. Just waiting. It is impossible to imagine my own father acting anything like David. My father’s desperate need for control, for respect, was proof of his weakness. An adult bully who made his children into his victims. A man like David could never build a rapport with a man
like that. They are from two different worlds, and if my father wasn’t lying in a coma upstairs, I am certain their paths would never have crossed.

Today David has on a suit and a tie with a picture of Elmo stealing cookies. He is always impeccably dressed, his suits cut to fit his lean form perfectly. “Nice tie.”

“Thanks.” He pulls it forward to give me a better view. “Present from my daughter.” He relieves me of a few of the cameras I’m juggling to hold. “Are you free for lunch?”

“I was heading upstairs to print out the pictures.”

“Have you already eaten? My treat.”

The rumbling of my stomach gives me away. I roll my eyes at his knowing smile. “Fine, but my treat. You did get me a job, after all.”

We put the cameras safely behind the nurses’ desk and head toward the cafeteria. “Everyone is raving about your work. I’m the star of the hospital for having convinced you.”

“Everyone?” I tease. “This must be a small hospital.”

“Word gets around fast.” He holds open the door, allowing me to enter first. “And as a thank you for finally getting me my long overdue sense of importance, I offer you wrapped sandwiches.” The cafeteria has a number of sandwiches, fries, salads.

“Wow, you really know how to treat a woman right,” I return, picking from the salad bar. As promised, I pay, though he argues and promises the next meal is on him. We eye the full cafeteria—not a free seat in sight. “Looks like everyone is hungry.”

“Come on. Let’s eat in my office.”