I release a sigh I didn’t realize I was holding. Clasping my own hands together, I watch Mama. She turns, having missed seeing Sonya’s arrival because she was distracted with the conversation. A sheen of tears covers her eyes before she quickly blinks them away. She straightens her spine, reaching her full height of just over five feet. Stepping quickly to the door, she pauses before opening it. We gather around her, waiting for her to welcome her lost daughter home.
“Mama?” I reach out, covering her hand on the knob with my own. “She’s waiting.”
“Of course.” A small laugh, filled with disbelief. She opens the door quickly, biting her lip at the sight that greets her. “Sonya.”
Sonya’s hair is longer than I remember, and she is thinner than I have ever seen her. Her jeans and thick sweater seem out of place in comparison to my spring dress. Lines of stress surround her eyes and mouth. At twenty-seven, three years younger than I am, her empty smile is that of someone years older.
“It’s been a long time.” Sonya hesitates, almost unsure how to react to the reception that greets her. She steps toward our mother, on autopilot it seems, pulling her in for a perfunctory hug. Her arms tighten briefly around Mama before she drops them back to her side. “Marin? It’s good to see you.” They embrace lightly, their years of living apart creating a greater distance than a difference in age ever could. “Trisha?” She says it on a laugh, her eyes finally filling with emotion. She walks toward me, her arms outstretched. I grab her hand, my little sister, and pull her in tight. “I’ve missed you.” It is a whisper in my hair, her words so quiet they are almost lost.
My throat convulses, the words refusing to come. She is here, after I have spent so many years wanting and wondering. I start to feel the emptiness recede as her presence fills me. As a child I took her for granted. Now I know I will never do so again. My tears fall onto her shoulder as we hold one another. I wrap the palm of my hand around the back of her head, as a mother would hold a child. I bring her in closer, sure if I keep her tight enough she will never leave again. Filled with desperation and relief, I whisper back, “Welcome home.”
To anyone watching, we are a normal family. Food passes around and plates fill to overflowing. The family finishes the bottle of wine as Sonya regales us with tales of her extensive travels. From Alaska to Russia, she has lived in every place imaginable. She tells Gia of riding an elephant in Thailand and flying in a propeller plane over glaciers in Alaska.
“Where did you live?” Gia is enthralled. “Moving place to place must have been hard.”
“It was worth it,” Sonya says. She avoids meeting anyone’s searching gaze. Fiddling with her linen napkin, she folds it into a perfect square. “For the pictures.”
“You should have come home.” Mama’s voice is low, but nonetheless it silences the chatter. “Your travels took you very far away.” She immigrated to America from India over twenty-five years ago, but a slight accent remains.
“It was my job,” Sonya answers quietly.
“And when you weren’t doing your job? Where were you then?” Mama wipes her mouth with her napkin.
A palpable tension settles over the table. Sonya glances at me, unsure. Suddenly I see the little girl who cowered in our bedroom, sure the blanket on our bed would protect her. The one who laughed so she wouldn’t cry.
“She’s home now,” I say. “That’s all that matters, right?” Not waiting for an answer, I call out, “Eloise.” She pops her head out. “Please bring out the birthday cake and dessert.” She has made fresh gulab jambu, Sonya’s favorite from childhood. Fried wheat balls steeped in sugary syrup. Sonya used to eat at least half a dozen every time Mama made them.
I begin to clear the table. Eric immediately stands to help, as does Raj, Marin’s husband. Raj has remained quiet throughout the meal. He often says very little, choosing to let Marin steer the conversations as she wishes. “As soon as dessert is served, we should start to make plans to visit Papa.” I stack the fine china carefully and hand the plates to Eric to take to the kitchen. “He is only allowed two family members at a time during visiting hours, but I’m sure the doctor will make an exception for a special event.”
“How is he?” Sonya stares at her clasped hands. Both men and Gia are in the kitchen, leaving only us women at the table.
Before I can answer, Marin says, “He’s in a coma.” Her voice is devoid of all emotion. “The doctor says it doesn’t look good.”
I flinch, seeing him lying in the hospital bed, tubes keeping him alive. Every morning I visit him as soon as I awake, each time harder than the last. But as the favored daughter, it is my responsibility to return the gift of his love. I accept my duty graciously.
“Is he expected to come out of it?” Sonya has found her footing. She stares directly at Marin, two equals discussing the situation. Watching them, I notice their similarities are striking. Both highly educated, focused on their careers. Neither makes any apologies for her life choices—regardless of whom they hurt. They are both beautiful but neither bothers to enhance their looks. They are my sisters but often I wondered if I was the only real daughter while they were pretending. Like stepchildren, they were never allowed to forget their place: a few steps outside the circle of the real family.
“I’m surprised you care.” Marin sits back in her chair, assessing the woman Sonya has become.
I find myself doing the same. If I am honest, we are strangers sitting together. Though we lived in the same house, survived similar ordeals, we have each grown to become our own women. With time we have learned to hold our secrets close rather than share. It is our conditioning, what is expected of a good Indian woman. We learned from a young age not to share our heartbreak, our despairs. It may cause others to view you with a negative eye, think less of you.
“Why is that?” Sonya demands. She straightens in her chair. Refusing to apologize for her escape, she stares without flinching.
“Because you haven’t for so many years.”
Every instinct demands I call a truce. As if it is my duty to assure both of them that there is no wrongdoing, no matter what anyone believes. Before I can speak, Sonya does. With her words, I shut my eyes, feeling the fragile ties of my family begin to unravel further.
“I could say the same about you,” she bites. Her bitterness has become more powerful with time. “I don’t remember you looking over your shoulder when you left us behind at twenty-one.”
“I got married,” Marin argues. “And I came back.”
“So did I.” Sonya, finished with the battle, turns toward me. “Do they know why he fell into a coma?”
“It does not matter,” Mama says, answering before I can. She glances at both Marin and Sonya, relaying a silent message—enough. She moves on to me, rewarding me with a smile for always being the stable one. The daughter who never makes unnecessary waves. “It is as it is. We must focus on the future.” She stands, finished with their antics and leaving no room for more. “If he does not come out of it, then we must prepare for the cremation, the spreading of his ashes.”
“And if he does?” I have to ask the question. I have not given up hope, though I understand why she has. “What then?”
“Then we go back to the way things were.”
I check the lock on the front door and set the security system. Under the illumination of the red blinking light, I walk around my darkened home, straightening sofa pillows and pushing in the dining-room chairs. Eloise cleaned up and left hours ago. Everyone followed her out soon after. Sonya went home with Mama, and Marin and Raj left with Gia. We promised to meet at the hospital tomorrow.
“It went well.” Eric sneaks up on me. His tie is undone and his hair disheveled from the unexpected conference call he just finished. “Even under the circumstances.” He kisses my neck, pushing my hair out of the way for better access. I moan as he kneads my shoulders, his fingers slowly traveling down my back. His hands settle on my hips and he brings me in tighter. “Are you ovulating?”
<
br /> For four years, Eric has wanted a child. Twice he was sure I was pregnant, only for me to watch him grieve when my period arrived. Having been raised in an orphanage, Eric is anxious to have a large family. He fell in love with our five-bedroom house and bought it specifically to raise children in. It took us three months to perfect the room down the hall from ours as a nursery. It sits empty, waiting for the cries of a child.
“Yes,” I say, though he already has the answer. He has my schedule memorized better than I do. My ovulation cycle and then my period, in their respective orders. My mind wanders back to my family. “Mama and Sonya—do you think they’re OK?”
He sighs as his hands drop away. When I turn to face him, his eyes soften. He cradles my cheek in his palm. “Your mom called her. Asked her to come home. They’ll figure their way out.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You still haven’t answered my question from before. Are you OK?”
“She’s changed,” I say. “Looks older, more tired.” But she’s home and for that I’m grateful, I think.
“She’s not what I expected.”
Eric has seen pictures of Sonya in the album. Most show a young girl staring silently into the camera. She was always more comfortable behind the lens than in front of it. The last picture I have is the night of her college graduation. Summa cum laude from Stanford. The whole family gathered to celebrate her achievement. But it wasn’t enough for Papa. That night he repeated what he had said so many times before: Sonya never should have been born. But that wasn’t what caused Sonya to flee. It was what Mama said later that broke her. Neither of us imagined Sonya would decide to leave us that day. Say good-bye with the plan never to return.
“What did you expect?” I ask.
“Someone damaged.” He says it without hesitation, though he has never before offered an opinion on her. “The way you’ve talked about her all these years—I just assumed she would be . . .” He pauses. “Someone who doesn’t know her way.” He bends down and brushes my lips lightly with his own. “Unlike you.”
“I know my way?”
“That’s what I love about you. You’re amazing.”
I stiffen, though he fails to notice. I am not amazing, the voice within me cries. Look at me carefully—there are scars. Yet, I am ashamed for complaining. My sisters yearned for love while I received it unconditionally. I was special, loved completely.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. He unbuttons my dress. Pulling it off my shoulders, he bares me to the waist. His fingers deftly undo my bra, and he cups one breast in his palm, teasing the nipple. “Tonight could be the night.”
For a baby. Those are the words he doesn’t say. Can’t say because he wants it so much.
“Just a minute,” I say. He watches me, confused, as I step out of his arms and into the bathroom. I slip my arms back into my dress. The vanity mirror reveals a haunted woman, one who can’t see the truth. I ignore her, my hand on my stomach, as I stare at the only truth I know. I take a deep breath and exhale, my decision made years ago.
SONYA
My childhood home holds me like a steel trap. Once inside, I feel the walls close around me, welcoming me like a spider into its web. Mom is busy switching on the lights, having laid her purse down on the cherrywood end table by the front door. A crystal bowl once graced the tabletop. A cherished birthday gift Mom’s brother got her in Switzerland. It was smashed years ago. As Mom and I were on our knees cleaning up the shards, she had murmured her belief that the piece was unbreakable.
I close the French doors behind me and lock them. I am always locking doors. Car doors, bedroom doors, even my bathroom door, though I live alone. A few steps farther and I am in the foyer. The house is exactly as I remember it. Sparse decorations scattered against the stark white paint. My parents bought the home when I was still a child. It was time to arrange Marin’s wedding, and the small two-bedroom home we lived in at the time would not attract reputable suitors. This place showed the world that we were successful, that we were worthy of having a son from a fine family marry Marin. Apparently it worked, because soon after moving in, Marin was betrothed to Raj, a man she had met only once.
“Your bedroom is the same,” Mom says, coming in from the kitchen. She hands me a cup of chai from a pot that is always simmering. “I left it, in case you . . .” She stops, catching herself. She motions for me to follow her back into the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator. “There is juice, milk, fruit.” Pointing to a door down the hall, she says, “The bathroom is there. The shower is fully stocked with shampoo, gel, anything you may need.” She points to another door. “Linens, towels in there.”
“Mom.” I set the chai cup down on the marble island that sits in the middle of the immaculate room. Memories fill the air, of us sitting there, legs swinging, as we ate breakfast. Trisha and I fighting over the Sunday comics as Mom tried to keep us quiet. Dad liked to sleep in on Sunday mornings, and we knew better than to wake him up. “I know where everything is. I used to live here.”
She brings her hands together, clasping them in front of her still body. She closes her eyes and nods once. “Of course.” She is smaller than I remember her. Her hair is dyed pitch-black from a mix of henna and coloring. Her face, once drawn and tired, seems more alive, refreshed. She looks younger without reason to. “I just thought—because it has been a very long time.”
The question hangs in the air between us. It is what I dreaded the most when I packed my bags in New York. I could remind her of the words she spoke to me the night of the graduation. The truth I had always suspected, but never wanted to believe. But that would mean bringing up a past that demands to remain buried. The only acceptable answer is an apology for choosing to walk alone rather than among them. I rehearse the words that tell her it was my only means of survival. My way of living with the memories and still forging ahead. However, the explanation sounds hollow to my own ears. Because my escape only meant her burden became more weighted.
Thinking it safest to say nothing about that, I change the topic. “How have you been doing? In the house without him?”
“It is quiet,” she says. “I have never known such silence.” She plays with the hem of her cardigan, wrinkles on her fingers that formed since I last saw her. “I play music now. All the time.” She gives me a small smile, the first one I have seen since my arrival home. “Music from India. Songs that were in films from my childhood. They sell them now, on CDs labeled Old is Gold. Amazing.”
I laugh without meaning to. He never liked music. Said it gave him a headache. But this small taste of freedom has brought her a rare happiness. Taken aback at first, she offers another wavering smile before laughing with me. Soon we are both laughing hard, in a way that was always disallowed. Filled with relief and hope. He’s not here, and though memories of him permeate the air, we are still able to breathe freely.
“I would love to hear some of the songs.” In leaving California and my family, I also left my heritage. No more trips to the temple on Sunday. No Indian clothes for Diwali or Holi. When Bollywood films were offered in the mainstream theaters, I chose another option.
“Yes,” she says, excited. “Tomorrow morning, as you have breakfast, I will play them.” She takes a step toward me, one of the few times she has ever done so. Without thinking, I cringe. Seeing my reaction, she stops and immediately turns toward the bedrooms. The moment is lost. “You must sleep. Long flight. And tomorrow we have to . . .”
“Go to the hospital.”
“Yes. We must go see your father.”
My room is the same as when I left it. The books that offered me my only escape still line the shelves. Grabbing a worn one, I thumb through it. A story of a young man who overcomes great loss to find happiness. It was a favorite of mine. I read it often as a teenager, hoping for clues from his survival to help navigate my own. Running my hands over the spines of others, I realize each one is a survival story. All the characters face insurmountable odds in their quests to find themse
lves. My legs begin to buckle under me. Whether from the long flight or the weight of the day is difficult to determine.
Settling down on the edge of my bed, I stare at the emptiness around me. How many times did I crave to be away from here, this room, this home, this life? The nights I covered my face with a pillow, hoping to muffle my tears as sounds echoed through the house. I would crawl out of bed and lock the bedroom door, both guilt and fear warring within me.
“Do you have everything?” Mom opens the door, shocking me out of my reverie. Her weathered fingers clutch the doorknob. She doesn’t cross the threshold between the hallway and my room, choosing instead to maintain the false distance the line helps to create.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you.” She never checked on me before. Maybe she was too afraid of what she would find. “Good-night.”
She waits and for just a moment we stare at one another, both quiet. Nodding, she returns, “Good-night.”
I lock the door after she leaves. Taking the desk chair, I nudge it against the doorknob. It is the only way I can sleep at night. It is the only way I know how to stay safe. That and to keep running. Because as long as you keep running, they can never catch you. Never get caught. Never, ever get caught. I repeat the words to myself as I lie down on the bed, searching for the peace that sleep will bring, finding none.
MARIN
Marin watches, her eyelids lowered to slits. The Indian community members mill about, painting her feet with traditional henna for her upcoming wedding. Intricate designs with no significance but patterned to exact detail. Aunts and uncles are gathered, their excitement palpable in the evening air, as younger cousins, with years before their turn to marry, study the scene. They try to understand the joy now and the grief tomorrow. The tears will flow from Mummy; Trisha and Sonya will cling, wishing that it was them instead. And if not, why was she leaving them behind?
Trail of Broken Wings Page 2