“Gia’s tennis tournament.” Raj removes his towel and sets it on the hook. Naked, he slips under the covers and watches Marin turn off the lights. “I can take her if you need to work.”
A month has passed since the last time they made love. Raj was the usual initiator, though Marin rarely refused him. The night before her wedding she was taught that sex was a man’s right. No matter how successful a woman became, it was her duty to fulfill her husband’s needs. It was the only place in their relationship that Marin did not feel in complete control. No matter how often she tried to convince herself that the pleasure was both of theirs to have, she always felt empty and alone afterward.
They had an easy pattern when they made love. Two positions, or more often just one. He finished first, quickly. If Marin needed a release she would guide his hand between her legs. Spooning behind her, he would rub until she found her satisfaction. Sometimes it was quick, but if it took more than ten minutes she would pull away. Her body’s failure to respond meant she was not ready. It was a waste of both of their time and of precious sleep to continue trying.
Tonight, however, Marin is not in the mood. She can pinpoint a number of reasons. Work has exhausted her. The hours of reviewing documents, finalizing deals, and instructing her team on projects seemed harder than before. The conversation with Gia. But the scene at the hospital, if she is honest, is the real culprit. The realization that her father might never emerge from his coma—that the man who defined her life was now losing his—jars her.
“Are you wanting to have sex?” Marin asks. Her voice is sharper than she means it to be. Before he can answer or move toward her, Marin says, “It is probably not a good night.”
“Of course. No, it is fine.”
He is embarrassed. She can hear it in his voice. In all the years they have been married, Marin has turned him away only when she has her period or is ill. Today neither is true. Instead, it is the chains of the past rattling. Trapped in place for so long, they became rusty with age. With Brent in a coma, the lock seems to have loosened, but no matter how hard Marin tries, she cannot free herself of them. She imagines her father’s disappointment in her failure to please her husband. She shakes the thought aside and turns to the man she has shared a bed with for years. “I have a lot on my mind,” she says as an explanation, though he did not ask for one. “The hospital, everyone there.”
“It is not a problem.” He shifts, turning his back to her. “Good-night, Marin.”
Humiliated at the panic that envelops her at the thought of her father’s demise, she remains quiet. But because Raj doesn’t ask, she is spared from forming a response. She keeps to herself that she is scared and alone. That she wants to be held but wouldn’t know what to do if he offered.
She lies down on the farthest side of the bed. With his back to her, there is no one left to face but herself. Pulling the sheet over her body, she yearns for comfort that proves inaccessible. Her mind, begging for sleep only minutes ago, now wanders. Everyone was there for her father, wondering, watching, waiting. For what, she does not know. If he lives, then they return to normal. Of course, their normal is not like everyone else’s. They each have their role and are exceptional at it. Trisha is the glue that connects the family. As the favorite, she deems it her responsibility to plan the family gatherings. As long as they break bread together, she has her illusion of a perfect family. Trisha organizes the holiday get-togethers; whether it be Diwali or Christmas, she makes sure that no one is left out. When Sonya left, Trisha seemed to take her duties even more seriously. As if she could fill the void left by the sister who decided that life was better without them than with.
Marin performs her own role with precision. She is the victory story, the example of why they came to America. The one they can point to and say, this is the reason we endured all the heartaches. While Trisha plays the role of pampered housewife, Marin continues to exemplify success. And her daughter is the next generation, the one who doesn’t carry the burdens Marin did. She is free to achieve everything—she doesn’t need to get away from any anchors.
Tired of tossing, Marin slips out of bed. She can hear Raj’s quiet snoring; he barely moves with her departure. They have never held one another at night. Both learned soon after their wedding ceremony that they preferred their own space.
With the events of the day barking at her heels, peace eludes her. Gingerly, she finds her way down the steps in the dark. In the light from the moon via the skylight, she pours a cup of milk and heats it. The steaming cup warms her hands as the darkness brings her a bit of calm. She has always preferred it to daylight. Secrets stay better hidden in darkness. Judgments fall to the wayside when there is no light to shine upon them.
The crystal clock on the mantel shows it is past midnight. A new day, but it will be similar to other days in the way that only routine can create. Everyone awake and ready on time. Cooked breakfast grabbed on the way out. Schedules intermingled as everyone heads their own way. It was never how she imagined her life would be. But then, she never imagined anything at all. Her father made all the decisions and she assumed he would determine the pattern of her daily life also.
She was thirteen when he decided her college major. He had researched the various careers and determined that finance would give the best return on his investment. It was irrelevant whether it fit Marin’s interests. That it did was lucky, though Marin would never have dared to complain. Any protests would have yielded no sympathy and, worse, might have fueled his anger. It wasn’t worth taking the chance. She took her college courses and became an expert in her field. After graduating in two and a half years, she followed up with an MBA. A guarantee for an easy ascension in her career, a career that means everything to her. A livelihood for which she has only her father to thank.
Still not ready for bed, she takes a seat on the sofa. As she curls her legs beneath her, memories from the night before her marriage begin to torment her.
As Marin watches from the hallway in front of the bathroom, Ranee places an invitation to Marin’s wedding in front of a shrine made from pictures of relatives who’ve died. She turns on all the lights in the house and plays a tape of traditional Indian music.
In the bathroom, Sonya nudges Trisha away from the sink. “This is spooky.” She spits out her toothpaste and gargles with the mouthwash. “Are we going to see dead people?”
“Yes. A bunch of dead people are going to come and dance around you. They’re going to get closer until they grab you and you’re gone. Poof,” Trisha teases.
“We’re not going to see dead people.” Marin buttons her pajamas as she enters the bathroom. “It’s tradition. Mummy’s family did it when she got married and now we do it.”
“But why?” Her fear obvious, Sonya inches closer to Marin.
“It’s honoring them. Saying we wish they were here.” Marin turns to Trisha. “You need to be nicer to her.”
“She’s a baby.”
“Yeah, our baby sister. You have to take care of her after I’m gone, OK?” A desperate plea for even an insincere acquiescence. Whenever Sonya was ill, Marin had been pulled from her junior-high classes. The nursery school would call to say Sonya had vomited again. Marin would wait in the principal’s office, her arms resting on a stack of her assignments for the rest of the day. Her father would summon her with a honk from the parking lot, the used, pea-green station wagon coughing as it waited. The office secretary offered a small wave each time, a smile to conceal her sympathy.
“Whatever. Anyway, you’re coming back all the time. Right?” The first vulnerability Trisha has shown, Marin thinks. “Things won’t change?”
“It’s a little far for that. It’ll be hard to come all the time.”
“Why do you have to go live with him? Why can’t he live here?” Sonya demands. Their bravado gone, they stare at Marin.
“Those are the rules.”
“Whose rules?”
“I don’t know,” Marin snaps. “Daddy found someone
for me to marry, and I’m marrying him.”
“You don’t even know him,” Trisha reminds her.
“I met him when we got engaged.”
“He could have the cooties,” Sonya interjects.
“Sonya, you’re too old to think cooties are real.”
“He could have AIDS.” Trisha starts to brush out her hair. “In science, we just learned that India has the fastest-spreading rate of it. He’s from there. He could have it.”
“Trisha, we’re from there too. And we don’t have it, do we?”
“I’m just saying. You should ask him.”
“I’ll ask him after the wedding.”
“That’ll be too late. You get it from sex.”
“Gross.” Sonya’s eyes widen. “I know about sex. It’s this.” She makes a circle with one hand and uses her finger to go in and out.
Marin smacks her hand gently. “Don’t do that again.”
“Why don’t you call and ask him?” Trisha admires herself in the mirror. “If he has it, then you don’t have to marry him.”
“I’m not allowed to call him.” Marin looks away.
“I don’t want you to go,” both Sonya and Trisha say at the same time.
Marin’s eyes shut as she pulls both sisters in tight, her childlike arms around their young bodies. “I know.”
RANEE
She wakes at the first sign of light, which slips through the curtains, teasing her like a gentle feather. Though only a sliver, it brightens the room. A reminder that no matter how much she welcomes the quiet of the night, the day will always follow. Today feels different. She lies still in bed, listening for the reason why. Yet again, she reminds herself that he is not in the house, waiting for her. Her mornings always started with dread. Sure that no matter what time she awoke it was still too late. He always seemed to be up a few minutes before her, angry that his breakfast was not ready.
Once she stayed up all night, counting the minutes until it was proper for her to slip downstairs and begin making chai the way he liked it. At four in the morning, her heavy lids had demanded just a few minutes of closure. She had acquiesced, promising herself only ten minutes of sleep, and woke with a start three hours later when he grabbed her leg.
Ranee knew fear gripped Brent back then. He was afraid of this new world that even after decades still felt foreign to him. Working every day among strangers and colleagues who asked why he smelled like garlic and onion, staples of Indian cooking. Demanded to know why his lips held a sheen of yellow around their rim. When he explained he started his morning with turmeric milk, they laughed and said milk was for kids. This was America and here a man took his coffee black. They brought him a cup and insisted he down the bitter liquid. Every morning after, he filled a mug with it and let it sit on his desk to appease anyone watching.
Brent yearned for the familiarity of India, of living among those who looked like he did and spoke the same language. He tried once to bring a tape player to work and listen to Indian songs with headphones. When the jack accidentally fell out, the songs blared through the office. Teased for hours afterward, he slipped the tape player into his desk drawer and never brought it out again. Brent had lost his life in hopes of making it better. It was a gamble he regretted always.
Ranee shakes the memories away. Those days are behind her. She allows the thought to sweep over her. As it does, she remembers the reason why today feels different. Her daughter is home. Asleep down the hall, in her childhood bed. A prickle of tears as a smile tugs at her lips. Her family finally together again. She wonders at the road Sonya has traveled. Ranee surrendered her own love of adventure when she was married off at the age of eighteen. Her father was sure he had found a good man for her. It did not occur to him to ask if she thought the same.
As she sits up in bed, the covers slip down to her waist. Her hair falls to her shoulders. Peppered with gray, it frames her petite face. Her long eyelashes cover her eyes as she closes them in quick prayer. It’s been her habit to start every morning the same way. A few seconds to ask God to protect her children, as she was unable to. The first time was two months after Marin was born. Brent had taken Marin from her arms when she cried for milk. He insisted she was better off with his mother, who lived with them. She knew how to discipline children, he said. Years later, Ranee wanted to ask if his mother had been the one who taught him.
Finishing her prayer, she slips carefully out of bed, her legs covered with the bright orange flannel nightgown she still wears. She bought it years ago at a discount store in hopes it would dissuade him from demanding sex every night. It hadn’t worked, but did help to keep the chill at bay afterward. Making her way gingerly to the bathroom, nothing rushes her faster than she wants to go. Once there, she stares at the woman she is now. Older, bruised in places that no one can ever see, but wiser. One piece of knowledge had always eluded her, that life is not what happens to you, but what you make happen. It seems so simple to her now. Yet for years she fell to the floor in tears when she heard her daughters’ cries, begging to find that very answer.
She reminds herself again that the past is just that. No matter that every room still holds his scent, the echo of his voice. He is not there. But the walls house his ghost, forcing Ranee to look over her shoulder when she is alone. She dresses quickly, suddenly wanting the company of her youngest more than she wants to savor the freedom of her time.
She mixes the Bengal gram flour, adding fresh garlic, mint leaves, and chopped spinach. The oil starts to boil on the stove. Scooping two fingers full, Ranee drops the mixture slowly into the heated oil so as not to burn herself. She repeats the process again until all the batter is gone, leaving the bowl empty. Once cooked, she gingerly removes the pakoras individually and lays them on a paper towel to help soak up the grease. Removing the frozen mint chutney from the freezer, she runs it under hot water to thaw it. From the pantry she pulls out a tin can full of ghatiya—chickpea flour fried into twists. She adds a dollop of mango chutney to the plate before cutting strips of green pepper and washing the seeds out.
The chai starts to boil over on the stove. She lowers the flame under the soy milk mixed with fresh ginger and cumin. From the refrigerator she removes two methi na thepla, one of her favorite childhood foods from her home state of Gujarat. Whole-wheat flour combined with fenugreek leaves and other fragrant spices. When the girls were young, she would add minced garlic and bell peppers to get some greens into their diet. As they got older, they began to love the flatbread as much as Ranee did. It became Sonya’s favorite; she begged for it every weekend.
Ranee methodically sets the table perfectly for one. Just as she hears Sonya making her way to the kitchen, she pours the chai into a cup. “Good you’re up. I have breakfast ready. Your favorite,” she says, presenting the plate with a flourish. “Methi na thepla.”
“I don’t like thepla,” Sonya says, looking confused. She glances at the elaborate meal. “That was Marin’s favorite. I always liked roti best.”
Ranee searches her memory, as a vague picture comes into focus. A young Sonya at the table. She’s right; it was Marin’s favorite. Sonya would always push the thepla away, asking instead for cereal. If Ranee insisted she eat Indian, then Sonya demanded a plain wheat flour roti, which she could roll up and pretend was a pancake. Now Ranee glances around the kitchen, suddenly unsure. She tries to understand how she could have forgotten such an important detail. “I’ll make you something else.”
“No, it’s fine. This is wonderful. Thank you.” To emphasize her point, Sonya dips a piece of the thepla into the chutney and takes a bite. She wipes the mango jelly off her lip before taking a sip of the chai. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Of course I did. You are home,” Ranee says, as if that explains everything. Returning to what makes sense—what comes naturally to her—she starts to clean. With a dry sponge, she wipes the table clear of crumbs that have yet to fall. She pushes in chairs that have not been touched and rearranges the placem
ats. It is a table for eight. Ranee bought it the day after Brent fell into the coma. He rarely allowed her to entertain the whole family at once. Now, Ranee will have the freedom to do as she wishes. “I thought we could go visit some aunties. They have been asking about you.”
In the Indian community, aunties are women friends of the family. No blood connection required. Over the years, the practice offered Ranee some sense of comfort. With little to no family in the States to call her own, she appreciated the semblance the moniker afforded.
“All these years, they say to me, ‘Ranee, where is Sonya? She is always on the move, that one.’ ” Ranee laughs, an insider on the joke. “I tell them, ‘One day, you will see, she will come home. Where else can she go?’ ”
“There’s a whole world out there, Mom.” Sonya pushes away from the table, her food barely touched. “I imagine there’s someplace that would want me.”
“But this is your home.” Ranee glances around, seeing the home as if it were brand new. In a way it is. The past, no matter how definite, does not have the power to determine the future. The proof is standing right in front of her. How many days had she walked the halls, passed Sonya’s room, wondering if it would ever shelter her daughter again? Now, Sonya is here, eating the breakfast she has made. There is no flinching at the sound of his footsteps or cringing before he speaks. There is no fear, and that in itself is proof that they are free of him.
Ranee ignores the sound of laughter that reverberates in her head. It mocks her for believing she has escaped. A fugitive is never free. Though he lies unconscious in a coma, miles away, his memory still smothers the air she breathes. Part of her knows it always will.
“This has always been your home,” Ranee argues.
Trail of Broken Wings Page 4