Trail of Broken Wings (33 page)

“What happened?”

“I started seeing patients. Real people with real problems. And suddenly A didn’t have a straight path to B. Two plus two never equaled four. Bodies weren’t always a science experiment.” He takes a deep breath. “I had to see past the disease to the person. Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Not many doctors would bother,” I tell him, his words drawing me to him.

“I wasn’t so impressive.” He shakes off any admiration. “I screwed up more times than I want to admit.” He smiles, as if begging me to understand him. “But I learned you have to know the patients. Understand what they’re telling you past the illness.”

“How?”

“Their mannerisms, physical appearance. The people they have around them. All of it, put together, you see whether they will survive the disease. Or not.” His voice takes on an edge. “There are those who come in and you know nothing will beat them. Those are the ones to admire. To learn from. The illness is a side note. They can and will fight anything. And win.”

“So when we met?”

“I saw a winner.”

My father labeled us when we were born. Marin was
dohd-dai
, overachiever in Indian. Trisha was
mathajee
, a goddess on Earth, and I was bewakoof, the stupid one. After enough years of hearing the label,
you assume it is true. Believe that when someone says something with enough confidence, they know what they are talking about. Especially when it’s the person God entrusted you to.

“You’re wrong,” I say. David shakes his head, seeming confident he is right. “I’m not a winner. I can never be.” I move toward the door, wrenching it open.

“Why?”

“Because to be a winner, you have to have something you’re fighting for.” Like a snake disturbed, my father’s words rear up, echoing through my head, filling my empty soul. “I have nothing.”

I leave work immediately and drive for hours. From Palo Alto, I go down to Los Altos, passing Marin’s house and then driving by Trisha’s. I don’t stop at either, just need a reminder of who lives behind the walls and the memories that bind us together, no matter what physical barriers separate us. From there, I drive past my high school, my route taking me in circles around the Bay Area. My hometown has never felt like mine, but then nothing else has either. The only thing I can truly hold on to, that will never leave me, are the invisible scars from the abuse.

The memories start to fill the space in the car and in my head. I can feel the tingling in my stomach, the yearning in my soul. Shaking my head, I hit the radio, blasting it loud enough to drown out the recollections, but it’s not strong enough. Nothing ever has been. David’s face appears before me, a vision calling for me, but I can’t see him. I won’t. He cannot be my savior. He is too pure, too good for someone like me.

Seeing the exit for 280, I cross two lanes to take it. Ignoring the sounds of horns blasting at me, I speed up, desperate to escape the demons that accompany me. My heart rate accelerates, fast enough that I fear it may beat out of my chest. I zip past the evergreens, oblivious to the beauty that led this to be labeled the most gorgeous highway in the country. I can still feel David’s kiss on my lips, the warmth of his arms around me. My heartbeat seemed to match his, and when he called me a winner, I yearned to believe him, to accept his label as the
truth and my father’s as a lie. But the past refuses me such an allowance. Who I really am is my constant reminder of what I can never be.

Heading into San Francisco, I drive past the bay and down Van Ness Avenue. I enter the famous Pacific Heights neighborhood. As students at Stanford, my friends and I would spend afternoons walking around on a constant quest to find the best Thai restaurant in a city with a competition among hundreds. Without fail, we would always end up in the prestigious locale, admiring the block of Victorian mansions and the views of the Golden Gate and the bay. We would argue which one of us was most likely to end up buying there once we had our own careers. I always remained quiet, a sixth sense telling me I was likely the last one to buy or settle down anywhere.

Now I continue past without stopping to admire the architecture or historic buildings. I keep driving until the area changes from luxurious homes to boarded windows and graffiti-covered structures. Finding what I am looking for, I pull into an empty parking space, turning the wheels toward the curb and putting on the parking brake to keep the car from rolling down the hill. I walk into the dive bar, the darkness and smell of cheap beer enveloping me, cleansing away any reminders of David and his touch.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks when I slip into a stool at the bar. He has a front tooth missing and a sheen of dirt beneath his nails.

“Shots of whiskey and keep them coming,” I say, pulling out my credit card and sliding it toward him. I glance around, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. Cheap window covers allow only a sliver of the daytime sun to peek in. It is a rare sunny day in San Francisco, the fog that normally blankets the city having burned off hours ago.

The bartender sets down a full glass in front of me and leaves the bottle. I take the shot down in one gulp, welcoming the bitter liquid as it burns my throat. I pour myself another, the knot in my stomach
finally loosening. My hand tingles, the one David held as he kissed me. I scrub at it, trying to erase his mark on me.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” a man to my left says.

My first instinct is to do what I always do, tell the guy I’m not interested. That there’s no way in hell we’ll be sleeping together. But my reflexes are off, rubbed raw from my moment with David. “First time.”

“I’m Chris.” He takes the seat next to me. In the dim lighting, I guess him to be a construction worker. “I’ll have what she’s having,” he tells the bartender. “You are?”

“Nobody,” I answer, downing another.

“Nice to meet you, Nobody.” He swallows his shot. “Are you from around here?”

“No.” I close my eyes, hearing David’s words in my ear, his touch on me. It is the first time another man’s presence has crowded out my father’s. “How about you?”

“Live down the street. Just finished up a job.” He points to his hard hat on the stool next to him. So he’s in construction. “Little early to be drinking that much, isn’t it?” he asks, pointing to my bottle. “Something happen?”

“Are we going to share sad stories?” I ask, meeting his gaze.

“Don’t have to,” he answers, his gaze holding mine. “Just making conversation.”

“I’m not the best conversationalist,” I say, remembering the hours David and I spent talking to one another. Thoughts of him flood me and I hate myself for what I want, what I can never have. The tingling at the base of my spine begins again, crawling up my back like razors ready to draw blood. Nausea hits me as the alcohol saturates my empty stomach. I forgot to eat lunch again, I belatedly realize. I glance around, searching for something but I have no idea what.

“Are you OK?” Chris asks, interrupting my train of thought.

“Do you have porn?” I ask, the alcohol buzzing in my ears. I close my eyes, trying to recall the last few stories I read.

“Is that a trick question?”

“The kind where . . .” I trail off, unable to say the words out loud. I swallow, scared, so completely scared, but left with nowhere to hide. “Where they hurt women?”

“No.” He stares at me, and I see what I always saw in my father’s eyes—disgust. “I don’t.”

“That’s OK.” I stumble out of the bar and into my car. Curling up in the backseat like a child, I allow the tears to finally flow, the sobs wracking my body until all that is left is the vision of my father.

RANEE

With all that is happening in their lives, they are rarely able to come together as a family these days. To do so now makes Ranee want to celebrate; she cannot, as it is not a joyous occasion that gathers them. Trisha has organized the house into separate sections and assigned each of them tasks. She has planned for one full day of packing and will schedule her movers for later.

“The boxes are there,” Trisha says, pointing to a stack, “and the tape there.” She is dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail. To Ranee, she looks like a teenager trying to pass as an adult. “Let’s go, people,” she says, clapping her hands together.

“What do you want us to pack?” Sonya asks, dressed similarly to her sister. Hands on her hips, she glances around. “How will we know what belongs to you versus Eric?”

“It’s labeled,” Marin announces, pulling out a stack of books from the shelf. Each one has a sticky note with Trisha’s name. “Every single thing.”

“No point making the job harder than it has to be,” Trisha seems to defend against any unspoken judgment. “Besides, I would hate to take anything of Eric’s.” At her own mention of his name, her lips thin out
and her face tightens. Only Ranee notices the subtle shift and catches the sadness that crosses her daughter’s face before she masks it. “The sooner we’re done, the better.”

Trisha called Ranee a few days back to tell her the news that they were moving forward with a divorce. Shocked, Ranee demanded answers, but Trisha’s terse reply was that it was for the best. She asked if her mother would help her pack her few belongings. Not only did Ranee agree, but she immediately contacted Marin and Sonya to enlist them.

“There’s not a lot of stuff that’s labeled yours,” Sonya says, going through the music and only finding a few CDs with Trisha’s name on them. “He bought all the rest?” She indicates the shelf still filled.

“I bought them, but after we got married,” Trisha explains vaguely, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Since they were with his money, they’re his.”

Everyone falls silent, staring at her. Marin finally breaks it, stepping closer to Trisha. “Are you telling me that anything bought after marriage Eric says belongs to him?” Marin shakes her head. In seconds, she transforms into the executive that she is, assessing the situation, unhappy with the results. “I’m going to call around, find you a better divorce lawyer.”

“That was my decision, not his.” Trisha finally faces her sister. “He wanted to be generous with alimony, split everything in half. I refused.”

Ranee closes her eyes, praying for guidance. “Why, Trisha?” She wrings her hands together. “What will you live on?”

“I’ll be fine.” Trisha insists. Finished filling a box with her shoes, she tapes it closed. “I’m going to look for a job.”

No one says a word, each one fully aware that Trisha hasn’t worked in years. Silently, they return to their packing. It is easier than they initially imagined, since so many of the household possessions were bought after Eric and Trisha took their vows. Ranee watches her three daughters carefully, seeing them for the women they are, and also the
women they could be. She imagines a trapeze artist walking a tightrope across a large gulf, desperate to reach the other side but unsure if she’ll survive to make it.

“He wanted the divorce?” Ranee asks, taking a seat on the sofa for a minute of rest. Time has passed quickly as each one worked diligently on the task at hand. She pours them all glasses of iced tea, choosing the cool drink over her preferred chai. “Because of children?”

Trisha whips around, her glare warning Ranee to let the subject drop. “It just didn’t work out,” she says mildly, her voice rising, a hopeless attempt to protect the truth. “Marriages end every day.”

“Without a reason?” Marin demands, joining the conversation. She finishes labeling a box “Dishes and Plates.” The china from the marriage is left untouched in the cabinet. “You two always seemed so in sync.”

Ranee hadn’t confided in Marin the information Sonya had given her about the real reason for Eric and Trisha’s separation. With Gia’s situation, Ranee was sure Marin had enough to deal with. But it was hard to keep the truth from her oldest. To Ranee, another secret felt like yet another skeleton.

“We wanted different things,” Trisha answers coolly. A few beats later, she asks, “How is Gia?” The change of topic is abrupt, clearly not fooling anyone. “She’s back at school?”

A week has passed since Gia returned to school. Ranee stopped by the morning of her first day back and stood by while Marin and Raj awkwardly went through the rituals of early morning preparation. Ranee listened as Raj chatted about the weather, ignoring Marin as she silently rechecked Gia’s backpack to make sure all her finished homework was in the appropriate folders. Gia gave Ranee a hug good-bye before slipping into the car for Raj to drive her to school. Marin immediately returned to work, leaving Ranee to see herself out. She called that afternoon to check how Gia’s first day went, but Marin coldly replied that it was fine and she was in her room studying.

“Yes,” Marin answers, now the one to avoid everyone’s eyes. “She appreciated your gift basket.”

“You gave her a gift basket?” Sonya asks, a smile hovering. “Really?”

“It seemed appropriate,” Trisha says, defending herself with a shrug.

“What was in it?” Sonya asks, dropping the tape roll and scissors on the box she was packing.

“CDs, some books, I think,” Trisha pauses. “Maybe hot chocolate, body wash.”

“Just what she needs,” Sonya says. “Some yummy-smelling soap.” Sonya starts to laugh, fueled by the ludicrousness of the situation.

Ranee opens her mouth to scold Sonya, to tell her that the thought is what counts, but before she can utter a word, Trisha starts to laugh. At first it is small, almost as if in embarrassment, but soon she is doubled over with it. Marin watches in shock, but soon enough she joins in, the laughter contagious.

For just a moment they are young again, all three of them, laughing like they did in their room late at night, bonding over the pain that no one else could understand. A decision to laugh instead of cry, to survive instead of let go. There was no past and no future, just now. As Ranee watches them, she wishes she could hold them in this place forever. Where they remember how to laugh with one another, to find joy even when sadness is the dominant emotion. But it is not meant to last. Just as Ranee begins to hope that they are once again tied together, that maybe there was a right after all the wrongs, Trisha’s laughter turns ugly, bitter. As if remembering the surety of her life is shattered, she stops abruptly, shaking her head in obvious disgust.