Trail of Broken Wings

by Badani, Sejal

  The first night after Gia’s birth, Marin kept her baby with her even when the nurses insisted she would be better off in the nursery. Staying awake, she watched for the first sign of Gia being hungry. Immediately opening her gown, she offered both breasts. Neither filled with milk. Angry, Gia turned to instinct and began to chew the nipple. Marin silenced her cries of pain and watched helplessly as her daughter stayed hungry. After a full day of no milk, the pediatrician gently recommended they supplement with formula. Feeling like a failure, Marin begged anyone who was listening for her body to produce sustenance for her daughter. Her final prayer went unheeded, and within weeks Gia was on formula full time. Back at work, things went as Marin commanded.

  Twenty-four hours have passed since Marin’s meeting with the principal. She has taken the day off from work, called in sick for the first time in her history with the company. She does not tell Raj the real reason, nor has she spoken with Gia about the situation. She is afraid to say anything. In truth, she has no idea how to take the next step. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment. The one where you ask your child who beat her. She considered confiding in Raj, telling him what she had learned, but the decision seemed to make itself. Raj left for an unexpected meeting in Los Angeles that morning. His return date wasn’t set. Which left Marin and Gia alone, together, with no suitable time to broach the subject.

  The clock on the mantel strikes nine p.m. Over the years, Marin became deaf to the sound, but now she seems to hear every second passing. As if time is counting down and she has little left of it. What used to matter to her now seems irrelevant. Her stately mansion with a pristine yard and columns that wrap around the deck. The deadlines, the stock prices, her investment portfolio. The definition of her success feels absent, having lost its urgency.

  The house is dark. Gia is at another study session for a science exam. Marin knows she will get an A on the test. She cannot pinpoint when her expectation of good grades became Gia’s. When Gia accepted that her grades validated her. An A versus a B—one step on the spectrum and yet miles apart in meaning. Exceptional versus satisfactory. Standards set by society that first Marin and now Gia bows to. Marin could not fathom her daughter bringing home anything less than perfection—her name on every honor roll means Gia has flown over the bar and landed on her feet.

  The front door opens and closes, signaling Gia’s arrival home. Marin hears the drop of the backpack in the foyer, the jingling of keys as they are pulled out of the lock. The crack beneath her door reveals that light is flooding the house. Following a habit from childhood, Gia hits every switch as she makes her way through the house. Marin waits for her name to be called, but she is not summoned. She is not the first one her child seeks out. Gia has no desire to share her day, to reminisce about happenings at school. For a second Marin wonders what Gia would say if she did ask. The day was wonderful, but somewhere along the way I was beaten, and I don’t know why.

  Gia is in the kitchen, rummaging for food. Marin can hear the sound of her munching on an apple as she takes the steps up to her room. Taking a deep breath, Marin clasps her hands together in prayer for the fourth time in her life. She doesn’t fall to her knees or lower herself to the ground to show the gods she is beneath them. They say with humility comes supremacy, but Marin has no interest. Today, she will stand side by side with whoever demands a place next to her. She will not ask, but instead command the right steps toward the path she needs to be on. She has learned the hard way that a request can be denied. For all the unanswered prayers of her past, today she will rely on herself, not leaving anything to chance.

  “Gia,” Marin opens her office door and calls out. Her office is dark. The sun set hours ago and the moon rose, but Marin had not moved from her place on the sofa. Now that she has she can feel the stiffness set in. She wonders if it is what rigor mortis feels like. A body with a mind of its own. Having lost any reason to live, it becomes immobile. Like her father. “I need to see you.”

  “Yeah?” Gia, still in her school clothes, makes her way down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

  “Come in, please. We need to talk.” Marin switches on the table lamp. With the room full of light, she watches as Gia takes a seat on the sofa Marin just vacated. “How was school?”

  “Great. But I have a test, so I should probably study.”

  “I thought that’s what you were doing?” Marin asks.

  “Are you OK? You look different.” Marin realizes that Gia has registered how her hair is tangled and that she is wearing the same jeans and T-shirt she had on last night.

  “I’m fine,” Marin lies. She is not fine. She is scared and unsure, but mostly angry. Furious at whoever did this to her daughter. She must tread carefully. If she alienates Gia, she chances losing more than she bargained for. “How was school?”

  Gia lets out a small laugh, filled with incredulity. Stealing a glance at the watch on her wrist, she mutters, “Great, Mom, as always. But seriously, I have to study.” She stands to leave and makes it to the door before Marin stops her.

  “Sit down. I’m not done talking to you.” It is harsher than she wanted, but having never been on this ride before, she is unsure where to hold on to assure their safety. “I will tell you when we are done.”

  “Wow.” Gia rolls her eyes and retakes her seat. “OK. Is Dad home?”

  Her savior, Marin realizes. The one who will protect Gia from Marin. “He left for a meeting this morning, remember?”

  “Right.” Gia does not look happy. “I totally forgot.” She starts to tap her foot before something occurs to her. “Is this about Dada?” She uses the traditional name for grandfather. Brent insisted it was Gia’s first word.

  Gia melts into the sofa, concern covering her. Seeing her, Marin suddenly remembers the little girl she was. She would cry when she scraped her knee and demanded ice for every injury, no matter how small the bruise. Marin lowers her voice, yearning to reach out but unable to do so. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course I am.” Gia’s visible anger dissipates at Marin’s softening. “Mom, please talk to me.” Gia’s lower lip starts to tremble. The unknown frightens her more. “Has Dada taken a turn for the worse?”

  “You love him.” Marin knows her daughter loves her grandfather. Gia has never experienced his violence, never even witnessed it. Since her birth, Brent would spend hours playing with her. After her delivery, he stood staring into the hospital nursery window at his only grandchild. When Gia came home, he would tickle her feet, calling everyone to watch how she laughed in response. He never came over without a toy in hand. Marin would watch them, wondering how different life would be if that was the man she had known growing up.

  “He’s my grandfather.” Gia fiddles with the pleats on her skirt. She has no idea about the history between Marin and Brent. “I don’t want to lose him.”

  Brent was the only grandfather Gia knew. Raj’s parents still lived in India. When he came to the States to study at university, his family stayed behind, hoping their son would return home. When he married instead, they visited yearly. For a while, they considered moving and living with the family, but their advanced age made that impossible.

  “Is he all right?” Gia repeats.

  “The same,” Marin answers. Done with the delays, she says, “Your principal called me into her office yesterday.”

  “What about?” Gia seems furious. “My grades are fine.”

  “I know they are.” Marin chooses her words carefully. Her greatest strength, forging her way to the end zone and winning the game, now has no value. “This is about you.” Marin checks to see that the door is shut. If the housekeeper is nearby, Marin doesn’t want her overhearing. “Take off your shirt.”

  “What?” The shock on her face tells Marin it is the last thing Gia expected. Her mistrust is palpable. “No way!”

  “Now!” Marin snaps, furious to see the chariness in her daughter’s eyes. A distrust Marin never earned accompanies it. In the silence th
at follows, Marin tallies each of their breaths. The showdown continues, leading them toward an end neither of them can predict. But Marin is tired of waiting, of wondering.

  “Are you searching me?” Gia takes a step toward the closed door, her only escape. “What, you think I have drugs on me or something?”

  Marin wishes it were drugs, rather than her daughter beaten. It was possible the principal was wrong. Surely the PE instructor exaggerated what she saw. Most likely she misidentified the student. Because a child of Marin’s could never be hurt that way. Marin has done everything to guarantee the abuse is behind her, not in front. It is the reason she has kept it a secret. Hiding it deep in the closet, without exposure, keeps everyone safe. Gia is meant to reach for the stars, not fall beneath them.

  “Please don’t argue with me,” Marin says.

  “I’m not arguing,” Gia replies. “I’m just not taking off my clothes,” she says with resolve. She reveals a confidence born of having been rewarded with all the best in life. No matter that it was Marin and Raj who provided her with the material comforts she has become used to. The sculpture has been created, and now the sculptor has to face her creation. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Yes, I can.” Any hope of compassion dissipates. They stand facing each other. Mother against daughter. A reflection of each other, yet a world of doubt separating them. Resentment and annoyance creep in. “Now, Gia.”

  “No.” Gia reaches for the doorknob, ready to flee. “You won’t tell me what’s going on, and now you want me to strip? Forget it.”

  She wrenches the door open, but Marin slams it shut. A battle of wills and anger begins. Marin starts to unbutton Gia’s blouse herself. Gia, too shocked at first to stop her, allows one button to get undone before she pushes her mother’s hands away.

  “Don’t touch me,” Gia yells.

  The skin bared so far is untouched. Relief mingles with fury at Gia for fighting her. Marin grabs her by the shoulder to hold her still while attempting to unbutton more. Desperate for this to be over so she can return to work, so she can make up for the hours of production lost. Just as she undoes another button, Gia pushes her, hard. Staggering back, Marin barely keeps from falling.

  Marin will relive the next moment hundreds of times in her head. Rethink each step and imagine it differently. Wonder which options would have been wiser, smarter. Wish that it had occurred to her to stop and think before destroying the only thing that really mattered to her—Gia’s love. But hindsight is a vicious thing. It mocks you with what should have been done. Teases with how things could still be. When left with ashes, you wonder how you could have prevented the fire. But introspection is not Marin’s friend. Instead, blind fury propels her. With one hand holding Gia in place, she pulls back her other, slapping her daughter with all she has.

  The silence that follows drowns out Marin’s regret. Her arms fall to her sides, too weak to hold up. Before she can utter an apology, Gia begins to unbutton her blouse. One at a time, while holding fast to Marin’s gaze. She clearly accepts that she can’t fight Marin any longer, yet her eyes fill with defiance. A need to take back control. Slowly, she spreads apart the lapels of the starched white shirt, the last barrier of innocence against the horror.

  “Is this what you wanted to see?” Gia demands, allowing the shirt to fall down her arms. Bruises, some black and blue, others green, decorate her body. Two on her abdomen, framing her belly button. Gia loved playing peekaboo with her belly button as a toddler. Raj had found a flap book that showed different babies showing their belly buttons. It became Gia’s favorite game for weeks. Her shirt up and then down, laughing in fits when her belly button was exposed.

  Two more bruises on Gia’s back. From her own experience, Marin determines that the ones on the back are older. As a teenager, Marin would wonder what her maximum number would be at one time. Just as the old ones would fade, new ones were created to replace them. Ten was the max. The magic number. Four is apparently Gia’s.

  “Who did this to you?” Marin longs to reach out, to enfold Gia in the security of her arms. But when your mother never offered you comfort, you are unsure how to give it to your daughter. “Who hit you?”

  “You just did.” Gia pulls on her shirt and buttons it, hiding the bruises. Finished, she palms the cheek Marin slapped. “Seconds ago.”

  “Gia.” Marin is adrift with no compass to steer her. She graduated high school at sixteen and college at nineteen. When she was hired in finance at the age of twenty, she swore she would never be lost again. She believed herself free, capable of being her own beacon. “I’m sorry.”

  It is the first time Marin has ever apologized to her daughter. Whether it is for the bruises that mark Gia’s body or for the slap, neither can say for sure. Regardless, it shocks Gia. Her eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away quickly. Tucking her shirt back into her skirt, she meets Marin’s gaze. “I should get to my schoolwork.”

  “Not yet. Please.” Marin reaches for her daughter’s hand, but Gia pulls away. Accepting the gulf she has created, Marin asks her to join her on the sofa. When Gia refuses yet again, Marin pleads, “Were you in some kind of a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Was it . . .” She pauses, struggling to say the name aloud. A desperate reach for all the imaginable ways the bruises might have come about. Raj? The possibility occurs to her only in the darkness that has descended. It would seem impossible on its face. He was the loving father, the gentle giant incapable of hurting his beloved Gia. But the world saw Brent differently too. No one would have ever guessed what he was capable of. The monster he became when no one was watching. “Did your dad do this?”

  “No!” Gia finally drops onto the sofa. Her eyes wide, she pleads silently with her mother to believe her. “Never. It’s not possible.”

  No, Marin knows, it is not possible for Raj to do such a thing. But she just did, she realizes. Gia couldn’t say the same about her. Not anymore.

  Tapping her feet, Gia is clearly anxious to be anywhere else. “I have to go.”

  Her patience worn thin, Marin snaps, “We’re not going to do this anymore.” She will not play twenty questions with her daughter. Not when Gia knows the answer but refuses to tell. “Tell me now.”

  “This is my life.” The sofa no longer a refuge, Gia stands, walking toward Marin’s desk. She picks up a picture of herself when she was five. She had won her first trophy by coming in third at a swim competition. Her parents, bursting with pride, had taken an entire roll worth of film.

  Marin takes the picture from Gia’s hand, glances at it. The picture epitomized what Gia’s life was supposed to be—success at every turn. “Gia.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Without another word she walks out, leaving Marin to stare into the empty space.

  SONYA

  I drive around town, going everywhere but here. Yet, without meaning to, I arrive at the same place. Usually I sit in the parking lot of the hospital, staring at the building that houses my father. Sometimes, when I can’t help it, like today, I go in. I fight the instinct to see him. Part of me refuses to believe that he’s sick, unable to move or speak. My visits assure me he is still paralyzed, unable to attack. It’s jarring to see, to accept. His power was all encompassing, his hold over us complete. If someone had told me that this would be the way we concluded our story, I would have laughed. Said it was impossible. I was destined to always be at the end of a never-ending line for happiness, and he . . . well he was the one who demanded I stand there.

  “Why?” I ask him for the first time in my life. It never occurred to me to ask as a child. I accepted his violence like other children accept love—as an assumed part of their lives. Only when I left for Stanford did I consider not everyone was raised as we were. It seems almost naive to me now, but when beatings are a normal part of your upbringing, you don’t question them. It may have been too much for my psyche to acknowledge before eighteen that I had been put on the path of abuse while others were g
iven the hand of love. That’s still true now. I fear what would happen if he opens his eyes. If he regains the ability to hurt me when I am already ruined. “Why did you take so much away that wasn’t yours?”

  “Good to see you again.”

  I have missed David’s arrival. Suddenly self-conscious, I scoot back, allowing him room to do his checkup. I scan his face to see if he overheard me, but he gives no indication he has. “Do you need me to leave?”

  “You’re fine.” David uses his stethoscope to listen to my father’s heart. I watch him silently, wondering about the results. He checks his pulse, watching the monitors for any sign. Making some notes on his chart, he glances at me. “He’s the same.”

  “Still no idea what could have caused this?” I want a reason. I need to know that he is not going unpunished for everything he did. I want to hear that he is suffering, that as his body began to fail him, my father felt the same fear and agony that we did every day of our lives.

  “We’ll continue to run tests, but right now all we can point to is the diabetes. His insulin levels had dropped dangerously low.”

  “Is that normal?” I ask.

  “He was fairly healthy for his age. No smoking or drinking.” He scans the chart again. “Said he walked for exercise.” He looks up at me, an apology in his gaze. “The longer he stays in the coma, the fewer answers we have.”

  He starts to leave, to tend to other patients that need him. I glance down at my father, suddenly not wanting to be left alone with him. Having kept to myself for so many years, I find I am yearning for conversation. “Were you his regular doctor?” I ask before I can censor myself.

  “No.” He looks puzzled that I wouldn’t know that. “I’m an attending. His regular physician is an internist. We’re staying in touch about his condition.”

  “That’s good.” I feel new to polite conversation. I have never been good at it. I read somewhere that abused children often have social anxiety as adults. Whatever the terminology may be—all I know is that I feel safer away from people than with. “Thanks.”