Sonya opens her mouth but no words come. She stares down at her food and fiddles with what’s left. “It was never my home,” she says quietly. Glancing around at everything familiar, she asks, her voice rising with anger, “Did you convince yourself it was yours?”
Her comment—and her anger—cause Ranee to stagger back, her left arm reaching for the counter for support. Images of India and her homes there dance in front of her eyes. “In my first home,” she starts quietly, “I would run along a water bank as the servants washed our clothes in the mouth of the river.”
Never having heard any stories from Ranee’s childhood, Sonya stops drinking her chai to listen. “What was it like?”
Ranee pauses, thinking back to that time. “Free.” She would throw pebbles into the water, earning her a scolding from the servants who watched her. “My mother had five children before me and four after. I was raised by servants who earned a few cents a day.”
“I never knew that,” Sonya murmurs.
No, she wouldn’t have, Ranee thought, never having shared any of her childhood with her daughters. “Do you know my first memory of life?” When Sonya shakes her head no, Ranee begins her tale. “I was three, maybe four. I was running after a bird but it refused to be caught.” They share a quick smile with one another. “I stepped on a nail. It pierced my foot, went right through the arch.”
“Mom,” Sonya’s voice fills with pain at the image. “What happened?”
“I cried.” Blood had dripped everywhere. Dropping her face into her hands, she had sobbed, sure that the sound would carry and bring someone to her aid. But she had ventured too far. Only trees and the sway of the wind kept her company. “In the distance I was sure I saw my mother stop and stare at me. It was the last thing I remembered before I fell unconscious.”
“Was she there?” Sonya asks.
“I never asked. A servant found me and took me home.” Ranee takes a deep breath. “This home is the only one I have.”
“You could sell it.” Sonya starts to clean up. She scrapes all the food into the garbage can before rinsing the plate in the sink. “It’s very large for one person.”
“You assume your father is never coming home.”
“Don’t you?” Sonya begins to rinse the sinkful of plates as if she had never stopped. As if she had never walked out of this house and their life seemingly for forever. “Maybe his mind finally understood it was time to turn on himself instead of others.”
Ranee hears her daughter’s anger. She wants to reach out, to find a way to soothe her pain. But a long time ago she accepted there was nothing she could do. It was their journey to take. Every person had his or her path. Given the chance again, Ranee imagines changing their destiny. Saying no when the green cards came in from America. She could have spoken up and said the land of dreams and opportunity might hold neither for them. That their small village in India was all the happiness they would ever find.
“We do not always understand why people do things,” Ranee said, dismissing that memory among millions of others. “But it is not our place to judge.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Ranee knew it before the sentence was complete. However, like with so many things in life, there was no turning back. Ranee knew she and Sonya would never be close. Maybe it was the fact that she was the youngest, or that when she was born Ranee was just too tired. Or it could be what Sonya always knew—that they did not want her.
“You certainly never did,” Sonya says. “I guess I’m not as forgiving as you.”
“You think I have forgiven him?” Ranee always heard that the power of the word was stronger than anything. She wants to ask the person who said that if he or she had ever felt the power of the hand. “I think it is up to God to absolve us. In doing so, he must take into account all that we have done. Not just one act.”
“It wasn’t one act,” Sonya protests. “It was a lifetime of hurt.”
“You were not with him his entire lifetime,” Ranee says, fighting because she can.
The chants of the gurus from the open-air temples in India start to ring in her head. She can smell the burning incense and hear the bells ring overhead as if she were there. She would watch them from her seat with the other girls on the marble floor of the temple and listen as the gurus taught them about life. Obey your parents, feed the hungry, do good every day, otherwise Lord Shiva may open his third eye and the world will burn. Lessons learned by fear.
“He was not always cruel,” Ranee says, hoping to justify her choice to stay with him. “In India, there was a time when he was kind.”
“I’m glad you have memories of that,” Sonya says, her voice clipped with fury. “But I don’t. So I guess I just have to live with what I know.”
Ranee watches Sonya walk out of the kitchen without another word. Collapsing into the chair, her mind drifts to the past.
Ranee’s father had decided her engagement after a chance meeting with Brent’s father. The two men met at a business dinner in rural India. Of the same caste, they learned each was looking for a mate for his child. After discussing formalities, they shook hands on the union. Ranee’s father came home and told his wife about the engagement, but Ranee didn’t learn about it until a week later, when a servant mentioned it.
The first time she met Brent, three servants accompanied her to the town square. They sat at a table nearby while Ranee and Brent sat opposite one another at an old picnic table. They were shy, glancing everywhere but at one another.
“Ranee is a very pretty name,” Brent said in broken English. “It means ‘queen,’ yes?”
“Yes,” Ranee nods. “And to be reborn.” They fell quiet again, the noise from the public keeping them company. “Your name, Brent, it is rare.”
“Yes,” Brent agrees. “My father named me after a friend from overseas. ‘A good man,’ my father said.” He stares at the people around them. “I am happy to have heard the news of our engagement,” Brent said. “It was an auspicious occasion for my family.”
“As for mine,” Ranee lied. In fact, her mother, busy with all the children, had only recently bought sweets to celebrate the occasion. “My siblings look forward to the wedding.”
Brent nodded. Staring at his feet, he bent slowly down and ran his hands over the ground. Finding what he was searching for, he picked up a small rock, no larger than a pebble. Laying it between them on the tabletop, he pushed it toward her without touching her. “For you,” he said.
Ranee glanced at it in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I hope to give you the world,” Brent explained. “This rock is a small piece of it. One day I will present you with more.”
Every year after that, until he fell into his coma, Brent would present her with a rock on their anniversary. Each larger than the original one. A few he ordered from faraway places. One from the caves of Brazil, another from the shores of Australia. Ranee never knew how he found them, but each year he would present it to her with a grand display and say, “I’m going to give you the world, Ranee.” She always wanted to say, “If you could stop hitting us, that would be enough.”
But she never did, and he never stopped.
SONYA
The day of my graduation from Stanford, the sun was shining and there was a slight breeze. Enough wind to cause the tassel on my graduation cap to flutter against my cheek. A distinguished member of the community just told us in his speech that we too could be successful. Life was ours to own. We must forge our path. With Stanford attached to our names, we had the guarantee to blaze a trail with a fire that shone brighter than others did. Now that we had been proven worthy, the future was waiting.
Shockingly inspired by the words, I made the unthinkable decision to declare photography as my vocation. It was always my passion, my escape, but I never dared to dream of doing it full time. I sat in my chair, surrounded by my classmates, and decided to make the once-inconceivable decision for myself. To tell Dad that the law, the profession he chose for me, was not my choice. Nev
er before had I dared speak my mind out of concern for the consequences. I feared his anger, but more so who would feel his wrath.
Later we stood on the grounds of the main quad. I glanced around at my family, who had gathered into a circle. Marin was in her standard suit while Trisha chose a sophisticated summer dress. Mom had on a sari, the tight fit limiting her range of movement. Gia sat atop Raj’s shoulders, pulling on his hair and pretending he was a horse.
At first my voice was quiet, gaining strength only as the words flowed from a place deep in my heart. “I’ve decided to defer my admission to law school,” I announced, avoiding Dad’s eyes. Clutching my diploma, I struggled for courage. “I’m going to pursue photography.”
“No,” Dad said, without a second thought. “You will attend law school in the fall, like we decided.”
I nearly acquiesced, used to bending to his will. But the sight of Gia atop Raj’s shoulders, laughing at the control she was sure she held, trigged something within me. A quick glance at Trisha, who was watching me with concern but not disappointment, strengthened my resolve. “It is my decision to make. I will let the law-school committee know immediately.”
He began to laugh, shocking all of us. The sound was not of joy, but instead disgust. I flinched when I saw him narrow his eyes in my direction. Mom closed her eyes, her head dropping in dejection. “You are stupid,” he yelled. Unconcerned about having an audience, his face tightened with rage. “I always knew it.” A few friends were lingering nearby with their families. At the sound of his raised voice, they turned toward us, watching with curiosity. I felt the familiar shame creep over me, the strong instinct to disappear.
“Please,” I pleaded, losing my courage. “I’ll defer, just for a year.”
“Defer,” he mocked. Shaking his head, he announced to all of us, “We should have aborted her when we had the chance.”
His words didn’t surprise me. Whether he was telling the joke that life played on him when he believed me to be a boy or talking about the additional cost of another child that he resented, I had heard the sentiment enough times over the years to be numb to it. But when he turned toward Mom, who had always stayed silent during his tirades, my heart lurched.
“It was what your mother wanted,” Dad revealed to me, letting me know he was not an army of one. “She begged me, but I refused. I should have listened.”
Whipping my head toward her, I silently implored her to deny his statement. To tell me she loved me, that I was wanted. No matter that she never protected us, that she stood by and allowed him to hit us. I forgave her, believing her to be a victim right alongside us. But her next words made me realize she was also a perpetrator.
“Right, Ranee?” Dad demanded.
“Yes,” Mom answered, her face downcast, refusing to meet my gaze. Her admission, the truth, seared me. “It would have been best for everyone.”
It was a mistake coming back. There’s no place for me here. I hoped things had changed. That with him in a coma, I could finally find home. But there is no home to be had. Just memories of a heartache that won’t heal. The argument with Mom at the house still stings. She has not changed and may never. She’s settled into her way of life, and acceptance has followed. I used to watch her when he hit us. Her head lowered, her hands wringing. I believed I hated her for not loving me. Now I realize, more than anything, I hated her for not trying to stop him. At least if she had attempted to do something, I would have known that the sight of us being hit hurt her more than us. That as our mother, she would rather bear any pain than watch ours.
I stare at my father, his breathing steady, stable. It is time to say good-bye. His hands rest on top of the hospital sheet; his fingernails are trimmed, though his hair falls over his forehead. I clutch my camera. A physical extension of me, it is what I trust the most. Like a security blanket, I take it everywhere I go. When I look through the lens, I am sure I will see beauty. No shades of gray to cast a shadow over the image. In that one moment when I shoot the scene, it will be perfect.
Over the years, I learned that it doesn’t matter what I photograph. The beauty of a falling snowflake is as powerful as the smile of a young child. I capture what demands immortalization. Like the words from a writer, each photo is its own being, with its own life. I am simply the conduit, the one chosen to take the picture. If not me, then another will pass by and honor the request. It is my fortune to be a part of it, to preserve it.
Raising my camera slowly, I glance through the lens, staring at him. The image blurry, I wait for the automatic focus to correct it. Through my trusted lens I see him, his body frail, and his mind blank. Weakened from age and illness, his face is drawn. The man I believed all-powerful now lies in bed, powerless. Shocked, I lower my camera and stare, watching, waiting for him to rise out of the bed and prove me wrong.
“He’s a very lucky man.”
I turn, surprised to see David standing at the foot of the bed. Jerking away from the bed, I fear having revealed any secrets. He watches me, his eyes curious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, not at all.” I grab the camera as it starts to slip off my lap and onto the tile floor. He had said something before, when he walked in. “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch what you said.”
“Just that your father is very fortunate.” David scans the machines that have become Dad’s constant companions. He jots some notes down on the chart. “At least one member of your family is here to visit him every day.”
“Other patients? They don’t . . .” I leave the question hanging, unspoken.
“Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a loving family,” David says, seeming to understand me. “Your father must have done something very right to inspire such loyalty.”
I swallow my denial. There is no reason to tell this doctor the truth. For him it is irrelevant that his patient inspired neither loyalty nor love. David’s job is to save my father’s life. Regardless of whether we want him to live. “How is he doing?”
“No change. I’m sorry.” He motions to the camera I am clutching. “You’re a photographer.”
My camera is top of the line. Having saved for months to buy this particular model, I was thrilled when I could finally afford it. But even with the tools of a professional, I am hesitant to call myself one. My photographs in national magazines make no difference. I am still fighting for approval, though I am no longer sure whose. “I like to take pictures.” In hopes of ending the conversation, I try to stuff the camera into my bag, but it proves difficult.
“What kind of pictures do you take?”
There must be patients he needs to see. Something should be more important than wasting time talking to me. My hesitancy in answering must have revealed my thoughts because he says, “I’m giving myself a much-needed break. When you work in a hospital, talking about something other than medicine is the only option for entertainment.”
“Oh.” The camera finally squeezes into the bag. Sitting while he stands makes me feel like a child. When I rise, I realize he is taller than I thought. I still have to look up at him. “Of anything. People, things, places. Whatever wants to be taken a picture of.” When he smiles at my response, the beauty of it takes me aback. I smile back without meaning to.
“Things tell you they want to be photographed?”
It sounds silly put that way, I know. Never have I bothered to explain why I take the pictures I do. It’s possible no one has ever asked before. “There’s an energy around the piece.” I glance out the window that forms one wall. The nurses opened the shades earlier in the day. Searching for words that make sense, I motion him closer to the window. “See that tree. The one in the middle, among the larger ones?” As we stand side by side, our arms touch. “It’s the smallest one.” The Stanford hospital is set among acres of trees. “The others are blowing in the wind, but the smaller one is protected. It’s standing perfectly still, a haven for all the animals whose homes on the larger trees may be destroy
ed by nature’s hand.”
“But it doesn’t see itself that way,” David says.
“No,” I say, surprised he follows my thoughts. “It believes itself weak because it is smaller. Less powerful. Maybe nature doesn’t trust it to stand up against its wrath and therefore demands others protect it.”
“But your picture shows the truth.”
I nod. The picture shows what the tree itself cannot see. “Its role as a shelter makes it the most powerful tree of all.”
Suddenly, I am embarrassed, though I have no reason to be. But some sense of shame stays with me always. An article I read once said abused children always feel it was a mistake for them to have been born. I don’t think the feeling is limited only to those who have been abused. In South Africa I was contracted to do a series of pictures for a news magazine. When I started to take photographs of a man in the town square, he asked me not to. I offered him payment for the photograph, but he still refused. Curious about the reason, I asked him. He answered his skin was too dark. It would shame him to see what he looked like.
“But I was supposed to be a lawyer,” I tell David. I glance at my father, who lies interminably still.
“Really?” When the IV machine begins to beep, David pushes a few buttons to silence it. Coolness invades the space where he stood. “Just a warning that the fluid bag needs to be changed soon. The nurses will be in shortly.” He is assuring me that my father is receiving the best care possible. I wonder what he would say if I asked him not to change the bag. “Lawyer and photographer—those are two very different professions.”
“A lawyer is smarter,” I say, my father’s voice echoing in my ear.
“I would think the opposite, actually.” David leans into the wall. A strand of his hair falls into his eyes. He moves it back mindlessly. “I don’t know if a lawyer would be able to see the trees through the forest.” He grins like a child.
Maybe it is the lame joke or his silly grin as he makes it, but I laugh aloud. We stare at one another, a heartbeat longer than either one of us should. I look away first. I have to.
Trail of Broken Wings Page 5