This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 by Sejal Badani
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477822081
ISBN-10: 1477822089
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014950441
To my family—
Without you, I would not be here. For everything I am, thank you. I love you.
CONTENTS
SONYA
MARIN
TRISHA
SONYA
MARIN
RANEE
SONYA
TRISHA
MARIN
RANEE
SONYA
TRISHA
MARIN
SONYA
TRISHA
MARIN
RANEE
SONYA
MARIN
TRISHA
SONYA
MARIN
SONYA
RANEE
TRISHA
SONYA
MARIN
SONYA
RANEE
MARIN
RANEE
TRISHA
RANEE
SONYA
MARIN
TRISHA
SONYA
MARIN
TRISHA
MARIN
TRISHA
RANEE
SONYA
MARIN
TRISHA
SONYA
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SONYA
My mother’s voice echoes in the background, her message blaring from my cell phone’s speaker. With each word come memories, filtered through shards of broken glass. I want to, need to, shut the phone off, but my body refuses to move. Her voice gets louder as she calls to me, the desperation in her voice seeping through the fog that is clouding my mind.
With approximately seven billion people in the world, I wonder how one person’s voice can have such an effect. I imagine I am stronger than I used to be, more resilient. That I am the master of my destiny and everyone is a pawn in my game—not the other way around. Because if I am the poker chip, then I have to wait to see how I’ll be played. The unknown is the hardest. Which might explain why we try so hard to rule our worlds. It is the only hope we have to make sense of our lives.
Noises of the city waft through the open window. My apartment sits on the tenth floor, but the honk of the yellow cabs and the sounds of people moving on the streets below easily make their way up. Though winter has arrived, the only signs within the skyscraper walls of Manhattan are heavy jackets and the smell of salt mixed with remnants of snow on the streets. Otherwise, no one misses a step. A fortitude I have come to admire in the three months since my arrival.
I glance around, staring at the framed pictures that fill this temporary home. Every place I have been, memorialized forever on glossy paper. Through the prism of a camera lens, I have seen the beauty of the world. Monuments created by humans stand in competition with art sculpted by nature. Each image serves as a reminder that a light shines through so many people, and yet, no matter how far I run, I cannot seem to escape my shadow.
“Come home. Please. I need you. We need you. Your father, Brent, he . . .” My mother’s—Ranee’s—voice falters. A woman who rarely spoke during my childhood now says so much: “Sonya, he’s in a coma. I don’t know how long he has.”
As if my father is here, in the sanctuary I have created, I feel his breath on me as my own comes in gasps. I clutch the counter behind me, pressing my fingers against the cool tile. Images of the past fill the room, each one stronger than the last. Shaking my head, I grip the tile harder, my muscles constricting with the effort. Finally, the pain breaks the noose of the past tightening around me and I can breathe again.
Closing my eyes, I try to imagine him lying in a hospital bed, dependent upon machines to keep him alive. It seems impossible to believe. Yet I am sure my mother is not playing a game. Over six years have passed since I left her on the doorstep, watching as I drove away. Not once since then has she asked me to come home. Or begged to see the daughter she bore and raised. Her anguish is not a ploy, but nonetheless I am helpless to ease her pain.
I stare at the evidence of my travels, each photograph proof of my desperate search for a place to call home. Now, the only home I have ever known beckons, demands my return. I am a grown woman, capable of making my own choices, but there is no choice to be made. The secrets my sisters and I hold like a lifeline are drumming within me, a steady, relentless beat. The secrets are demanding to be free, heard by the world. Yet, I am not ready. I fear I never will be.
Because if they are free, then where does that leave me?
MARIN
She sits with him because she has no place else to go. As the oldest of the three sisters, she has been with him the longest. For some that status would be cause for celebration, the child who had her parents first. For Marin, it is simply more proof that good fortune has to be made—it is not given. She was the first in line for everything—the first disappointment, the first heartbreak. Her sisters, Trisha and Sonya, watched her, learning from her example. When she refused to cry, she told herself it was for them. To show them that strength was the better option. Now, as an adult, when her face remains dry, void of tears, she accepts that the cause is her inability to feel.
Marin crosses one pantsuit leg over the other. She glances at her watch—seven in the morning. Earlier, Raj assured Marin he would have Gia ready and off to school on time. Marin’s not worried. At fifteen, Gia sets her own schedule and follows it in exacting detail. Never a minute off. Marin is incredibly proud of her daughter’s self-imposed structure, which will serve her well in her career. She applauds herself for her daughter’s trait. Since she’s always been the same way, it’s normal her daughter would follow.
Having climbed the ranks in her finance company to CFO quickly and efficiently, Marin understands there were those who viewed her with contempt. Names whispered behind her back as she chaired meetings and led the company through mergers and acquisitions, one success following another. She worked hard for her place in the world. Others’ jealousies or opinions are not her problem, and she will not allow them to constrain her. She knows plenty of women whose self-esteem is based on the estimations of others. They choose the clothes that are in fashion, even if they don’t suit their taste. They let their colleagues define the boundaries of their careers. Live their lives according to strangers’ rules. Marin congratulates herself for being above the rest. For standing in a place of her own making, for earning her success and creating her perfect life.
Marin took her mother’s call about Brent the morning before, while sitting in her office’s leather chair. After a few minutes listening to the details, she explained she was late for a meeting. She assured Ranee she would try to stop by the hospital that night, but it had taken her a full day before she finally made it to his bedside.
“Happy birthday to me, Daddy,” Marin says. She smooths the hospital sheet over his body. Though he is in his early sixties, his face shows few signs of age.
It’s funny,
I don’t feel older. She pulls her hair back, a nervous gesture from childhood. She’s noticed Gia doing the same recently, and makes a mental note to speak to her daughter about it. Nervous habits are a sign of weakness, of vulnerability. Gia can’t afford such displays during college interviews. Regardless that they are two years away. As a sophomore, Gia arguably still has time to prepare for soul-searching questions by the interviewers who will determine her future. The time is now to plant the seeds to enjoy the fruits of the tree.
Marin had not told Raj she was coming to the hospital this morning. He assumed she had an early meeting, and she said nothing to correct his assumption. Not a lie, but a truth left unspoken. One of hundreds over the course of their marriage. In an arranged wedding, they came together as strangers, and they went on to build a life with each other. Their daughter was the result.
“Do you remember my first birthday in America?” Marin asks aloud, watching Brent for a sign that he can hear her. None comes; it is the first time she can remember him silent. Unable to afford a party, Brent had taken Marin to the local ice-cream store for a birthday cone. They left Trisha at home with Ranee—Sonya wasn’t born yet. Marin’s birthday was her special day. Brent told her she could have a double scoop, so she perused all the options carefully. The smell of cream and sugar saturated the air, making her mouth water.
“Hurry,” Brent said. He was still in his work clothes. He hadn’t found a job as an engineer, so his uniform was soiled with the oil from the gas station where he worked. “Choose.”
Marin nodded, but, caught up in the excitement, she failed to notice her father’s growing agitation. “May I try this one?” she asked the teenager behind the counter.
“Sure.” Bored, he took a tiny pink spoon and scooped out a small amount. Marin savored the melting milk on her tongue. In India, sherbet was the closest thing they had to ice cream. It paled in comparison. Marin had never had anything so delectable before.
“It is wonderful,” she said in perfect English. “Thank you. May I try another?”
The boy shrugged, unmoved by her excitement. “Yeah. Which one?”
Marin tried three more before finally deciding on one scoop of vanilla and one of chocolate. “Thank you, Sir,” she said to the boy while her father paid. They walked out of the store and started back toward their apartment, Marin licking each side carefully to make sure not even one drop would fall. Daring to take a full bite, she closed her eyes at the taste of the two flavors combined.
“It is so wonderful, Daddy. You must taste it.” Marin held her thin arm up, carefully balancing the cone for him to taste. Just as Brent bent down to take a lick, Marin’s arm wobbled and the melting ice cream scoops fell out of the cone, splattering on the ground below. Tears filled her eyes, but before they spilled out, she felt the slap across her face. Shocked, Marin glanced at her father in confusion. It was the first time he had raised his hand to her.
“Look what you did,” Brent barked. Stepping over the puddle, he continued walking, leaving Marin to stare after him. “What a waste. I never should have bought it for you.”
It was an important lesson to Marin, one she didn’t forget: never depend on another person for your happiness. If someone had the authority to give, then he or she had the authority to take away.
TRISHA
I recheck the dining room table to make sure each setting is in its place, and I wipe the glassware. Every wineglass is set exactly five inches from the plate. I have used my best silverware, a gift to myself after my wedding. The smell of simmering chicken drifts in from the kitchen. Eloise, our housekeeper, has been with us for the last two years. Though she is not Indian, she has learned to make my favorite dishes. My mother has spent hours patiently teaching her just the right amount of cumin to mix with ginger and red pepper to enhance the flavor of cooked vegetables. As I get older, I find myself craving almost daily the authentic Indian meals I grew up eating. Eric laughs at me whenever I tell him that. Twelve years older, he insists that at thirty I am still a child.
“Everything looks perfect. As always,” Eric whispers. He wraps his arms around my waist from behind, his fingers sneaking below my shirt to touch my bare stomach. It is flat, thanks to the hours I spend in the gym. “Are you OK?”
I lean my head back, just for a moment, absorbing his strength before stepping out of his arms to face him. His green eyes fill with warmth and kindness. I run my fingers through his blond waves and rest them on his nape. “I want everything to go right for Mama.” I glance around my immaculate house. She is standing by the window, waiting. Resentment starts to rise in my throat, but I swallow it. This is not the time. “She hasn’t seen Sonya in years.”
“Neither have you.”
I fill the crystal pitcher with water, set it in the middle of the table, and take a moment to admire the display. An elaborate celebration to welcome home the sister who abandoned us years ago. Eric watches me, waiting for an answer that I don’t have. “It doesn’t matter,” I finally say. “She made her choice.” One I have never understood but have had to accept.
“I look forward to meeting her.”
Growing up, Sonya and I shared everything. That she has never met my husband is still difficult for me to believe. I sent her the wedding invitation, called her with the details, but she never showed. Leaving me without a maid of honor. Our oldest sister, Marin, stepped in as I knew she would. And did so without mentioning that she was second choice or that I had waited until minutes before I was set to walk down the aisle to ask her. Marin stood at the altar and later around the fire as I married Eric in two elaborate ceremonies symbolizing both our faiths.
“Mummy is clearly excited,” Marin says, coming in from the living room where she was helping Gia with algebra. Each sister uses her own name for our parents. I refer to them affectionately, Mama and Papa, while Marin has never lost use of the traditional Mummy and Daddy. For the life of me I can’t remember what Sonya calls them, maybe because I rarely heard her call out for them. “She’s been standing by the window for the last hour.”
Marin has wrapped her hair tightly into a bun. She stripped off her suit jacket when she arrived, leaving her in a silk shirt and tailored pants that emphasize her slim body, fit from hours of working and stress. She is older than I am by five years, but no one would ever guess we are sisters. Her golden-brown hair, kissed by the California sun, has streaks of blond that genetics fails to explain. Mom swears Marin’s deep-green eyes come from a distant great-aunt. Growing up, everyone assumed Sonya and I were the only biological sisters. There were times we were almost identical in looks. Not that Sonya would agree. She swore I was the pretty one. My looks were the reason my parents’ friends called me the princess of the house. The only explanation for the childhood I had.
“Shall I serve dinner?” Eloise pokes her head out of the kitchen. Raised in Mexico, she has no family to call her own in the States.
I glance at the slim gold watch peppered with diamonds that encircles my wrist. A gift from Eric to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. After his recent promotion to CEO of his company, what once were luxuries had suddenly become necessities. “Her flight should have arrived. Let’s wait another fifteen minutes.”
“If she decided to come. We don’t know for sure she is on the flight.” It is Marin’s way to be blunt, to say things as they are. Mama turns her face toward us, a fleeting look of pain before she masks it.
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Mama’s voice lacks its normal strength. A pinched smile replaces the full one that graced her face earlier. She pulls her wool cardigan tight around her even though the sun is out and a warm breeze permeates the air. She stopped wearing saris after I got married. Said there was no need to keep up the traditions of the past. If Papa had a problem with the change in her attire, he never mentioned it in front of me. “She called me right before boarding.”
“That doesn’t mean she boarded.” Marin refuses to let the subject drop.
I catch Mam
a’s eye, offering her silent support without alienating my sister. We learned the steps of this dance years ago, my mother and I tiptoeing around Marin’s words. It was an unspoken agreement we made when Marin moved back to town. Never allow Marin’s way to break the fragile family we have left. Having already lost Sonya because of our past, my mother refused to lose another daughter.
“Well, if nothing else, all of us will have a lovely belated birthday dinner for Marin. Eloise has outdone herself yet again.” I hand a bottle of wine to Eric. “Honey, why don’t you pour us some?”
With an ease born of practice, he uncorks the bottle and pours the red liquid. As I watch the crystal glasses fill, I remember Sonya and me playing make-believe as children. Whether I was the restaurant owner, hostess, or just woman extraordinaire, I always made sure we toasted one another with grape juice. To us, I would say. Never finding a reason to disagree, and happy to be playing with me, Sonya forever followed along. Since she had always been, I assumed she always would be there, standing alongside, waiting for whatever game I wanted to start. As adults, she was meant to be my counterpart—the other half that made me whole. Her darkness to my light, her sadness to my happiness.
I watch my mother wait, her lowered head betraying her heavy heart. When Sonya left, emptiness settled over our lives. Mama rarely mentions her, almost believing if we never say her name then she isn’t really gone. I tried to suffocate my loneliness with other sources—Eric, my home, Mama and Papa—but nothing quite filled the void she left.
I learned something important the day Sonya departed: you cannot keep someone who has already left you behind. No matter what I needed or wanted, Sonya put herself first; I was last. For a while, I went through the motions each day. Soon enough, I forgot that there was someone missing. Only now, with the thought of her return, do I recognize anew the cavity left in my being. But I can’t show my excitement. If she fails to show, if she disappoints us by maintaining the status quo, then I am left once again, still waiting.
“She’s here!” Gia comes running in from the den, still holding the math book Marin bought at an education store. She’s a striking replica of Marin, the only difference between the two being the couple of inches in height Gia has over her mother. At fifteen, she looks like a woman. “She’s paying the cab driver.”
Trail of Broken Wings Page 1