He starts to leave again but seems to reconsider his actions. Stopping, he watches me. “Your mom mentioned your dad’s condition would bring you home from your travels. She asked if he would be better by the time you arrived. I’m sorry we weren’t able to make that happen.”
“She said I would come home?” I stop him, stand in his way. I am shocked she would say anything about me. “When?”
“A few days after his admission.” He glances at me, trying to understand my reaction. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”
“No.” I step back, out of his way. “I’m just surprised.” I cross my arms around myself, hoping to ward off the chill that is in the air. “What else did she say?” It feels odd to ask a stranger for insight into my mother’s thoughts.
“Mentioned you traveled all over the world,” he says gently. “She was clearly very proud.”
He misunderstood. Mom has always hated my travel. My travel meant that I was lost to her. That she had one less daughter to mother, and for her, the role was all she had left in a life that ceased to make sense the first day my father hit her. “Not as much as you would think. It’s for work.”
“Photography?”
“Yes.” I think about all the places I’ve been, but more than that, all the places I have never been. “For pictures.”
“Where have you traveled?”
I can’t tell if he’s asking to be courteous or if he’s genuinely interested. “I know you’re busy. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No worries.” He glances at his watch. “I’m actually ahead of schedule today. Shocking, just so you know. I make a habit of being late.” He smiles and I can’t help but return it.
“Europe, Asia, all over the US,” I say it without pride or thought. My travels mean little to me. The places blend together, faces of people I have met lost in a sea of those I have left behind. Where I am matters little, only that I am no longer where I was. I haven’t decided where I will go next. Not back to New York, where I received the call about Dad. Find somewhere that had no memories to haunt. “What about you?” I ask, trying to be polite. “Do you travel often?”
“Not as much as I used to. I have to be here, for my patients.” Though he stands still, his eyes wander, taking on a faraway look. “I used to write for Let’s Go. That was the last time I traveled like I would want to.”
“You went to Harvard?” I had used Let’s Go guidebooks dozens of times when I arrived at new destinations. Written by Harvard students, they became my go-to for how to travel on a budget. “For undergraduate or medical?”
“Both.” He motions around him. “But California is home. The Bay Area’s pull proved too strong to resist when it came time to decide my residency. What about you?”
“Stanford.” Speaking of mundane things such as travel and life is a novelty I cannot take for granted. When you leave as many places as I have, you have little in common with those who remain. “You went to high school here?” I imagine we are near the same age.
“The Monroe School. Down the road actually.”
The school tells me a lot about him. A man born into success, offered the very best from a young age. The parents of the children who attend often talk about their private jets and front-row seats at world events. That he mentions it without boast or pride says what kind of man he is.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Gunn High School.” Consistently ranked as one of the top high schools in the country, the campus often felt like a natural precursor to Stanford. “In Palo Alto.”
“Great school. I have a lot of friends who graduated from there.”
We don’t compare names of those we knew. It is useless to do so. I lived in my own world in high school, cut off from the community because I had to be. I could never bring friends home. My father’s behavior was too unpredictable to trust. If anyone witnessed his loss of temper, the reputation I had carefully cultivated would have been tarnished. He was always on his best behavior with the Indian community and his coworkers. He relished his image as a powerful man, benevolent to his children, doing everything for them. Our school friends were of no significance to him, so he cared little if he was cruel or demeaning in front of them.
“Then on to Stanford.” He is clearly impressed. “What hall did you live in?”
Excited about the full experience of college, most Stanford students choose to live on campus, and those who do pick one of ten dormitory houses. After the first year, a student decides to continue living in the same hall or to move on to an upper-class residence. Your hall is a critical part of your experience as a freshman. One that I almost missed out on. “Roble Hall. I moved in a few months late,” I admit before I remember to censor myself. “Dad wouldn’t allow me to live on campus before then.”
“Why?” David fails to hide his shock.
Unwilling to give up control over me, Dad refused to allow me to move into my assigned room. “I don’t know,” I lie, not able to explain. I had begged my father to allow me to live in a hall, but he repeatedly refused me. Finally, I went to the dean of the school and explained my situation. A firm letter was sent to my house stating that unless I abided by the rules of the school, my admission would be reviewed. Unwilling to chance such a humiliation in front of his friends, he relented.
“Maybe he wasn’t ready to let his little girl go.” Grabbing his wallet from his back pocket, he opens it to reveal a photo of a young girl, maybe six years old. “As the father of one, I can imagine how hard it would be.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“I give my ex-wife credit for that.” He holds my gaze. “And you? Do you have any children?”
“No. I’ve never been married.” His question reminds me who I am. Who I will always be. “Not even a boyfriend.”
He tries to mask his disbelief, does not ask why. Likely the best conclusion he can come to is that my travels are to blame. I am a mistress to my photography. My viable excuse to every man who gets too close, who demands more. The darkness that is my companion leaves little room for the light of love.
“How old is she?” I ask, changing the subject.
He lights up. It was my childhood envy—watching fathers love their daughters.
“Five.” He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck. “Her name is Alexis. My ex and I have joint custody.”
“You’re very lucky.” The words aren’t perfunctory. The picture showed a beautiful girl with a smile that warms the heart. Children are my favorite to photograph. There is a beauty in childhood innocence.
“Where are you traveling to next?” he asks, tucking the wallet back into his pocket.
“I haven’t decided.” At his confusion, I attempt to explain, “I pick a place I’ve never been, and hope I find what I’m looking for.”
“Which is?”
Not answering his question immediately, I attempt to explain. “Two years ago, I spent time at a monastery in China. Lived with the monks, watched their daily life. Every day they woke at the same time, ate the same meal.” There was an odd comfort in the repetition. “Sitting side by side, they would meditate for hours.” Their faces held a contentment I rarely saw again. “But they were completely removed from the world.”
“Solitude?” He guesses, seeming surprised at the thought.
“They seemed happy,” I say, a note of defense in my voice. The square footage of the room starts to shrink. I have revealed too much, making myself vulnerable. I consider walking into the bathroom to my right and locking the door. A viselike grip encircles my throat. My father’s body lies still under the pristine white sheet. I had forgotten about him, but like a dark shadow he looms above me, always there, always watching. “I should let you get back to your patients.” Not waiting for him to leave, I do, knowing I will be back, because I have no choice.
I meet Trisha at a secluded park in the hills of Saratoga. It was a narrow drive on a one-lane road that circled the mountain before climbing toward the peak. There, o
verlooking the town and its neighbors, we find a patch of grass and settle in. Because it is the middle of the day, there are only a few hikers and some ambitious mothers with their toddlers in tow. Otherwise, we have the area to ourselves.
Welcoming the shade from a large tree, I lean against the trunk watching as Trisha unpacks a light lunch, laying it out on the plaid tablecloth as if we are readying to eat a five-course meal.
Hiding my smile, I compliment her on the spread and take a bite out of some still-warm French bread. “This is delicious,” I admit. She sets out a bowl of fruit and a container filled with what looks like crushed olives. “Is this an olive spread?” I ask, reaching for a butter knife.
“Tapenade,” Trisha corrects before realizing how she sounds. Giving me a sheepish grin, she says, “Sorry.”
“Tapenade it is,” I say, assuring her no harm done. Taking another bite, I savor the olives mixed with peppers and garlic. “Thanks for this lunch. I was expecting Danish and coffee.”
“You remember?” Trisha asks, surprised. When Trisha was fourteen, she watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. Deciding Audrey Hepburn was her idol, she insisted on eating Danishes and drinking decaf coffee for a full year.
“I can still taste it. You made me eat that stuff with you,” I say, shuddering. “To this day I cringe at the sight of a Danish.”
“Sorry,” she says, though I have the feeling she doesn’t mean it. We eat in silence, listening to the leaves rustling in the breeze. When we were young, it was rare for us to be in each other’s company without talking. To do so now makes me realize that we have both grown up but still find comfort in spending time together. “What was your favorite place to live?” Trisha asks quietly, surprising me. The few times we spoke over the years she never asked me where I was.
“Seychelles,” I answer without hesitation. “A small island in the Indian Ocean. Has a population of about ninety thousand.” I remember sleeping in a tent on the beach, waking every morning to the sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore.
“Were you lonely?” she asks, looking horrified.
I want to explain to her that loneliness isn’t remedied by people around me, that my loneliness is an integral part of me. But by admitting that to her, I would be welcoming questions I don’t have answers to. “Yes, I was.”
“I can imagine.” Taking some grapes from the bowl, she munches on them. She offers me some, and I take a handful. After setting the bowl back down, she stares into the forest. “There’s a mother looking for parents for her newborn,” she shares. “Eric wants to adopt the child,” she murmurs.
“That’s wonderful news?” I ask, assuming it would be.
“Maybe,” she says softly, but her face says otherwise. As I start to prod her for more, to ask why she doesn’t have children when that was all she ever wanted, she points behind me to a bird walking nearby. We both watch as it comes closer to us. “I think it is hurt,” Trisha exclaims. Jumping up, she walks slowly toward it, bending to scoop it up in her palm. “It’s the wing.”
On closer look, we see a small cut on the side of the wing. I spent over three months on an African safari for endangered animals doing a photo shoot for National Geographic. There I learned that an injured wing will heal in time, but the bird’s greatest threat was the danger in the wild in the meantime. “It needs food,” I say, starting to crumble the bread.
“Let’s build it a nest,” Trisha decides. Cradling the bird in one palm, she frantically starts to gather materials for a makeshift nest. I watch her curiously before she motions me to help. “Come on!”
For the next fifteen minutes we put together twigs, leaves, and grass and build the best nest we can. In between laughing, we argue about how to make the nest into the most luxurious bedding possible. Finally satisfied, we situate the new home in a circle of trees, protected from any prying eyes. After filling the nest with food, Trisha gently lays the bird down, but not before it gives Trisha a few hard pecks in gratitude. Rubbing her broken skin, she asks me, “You think it’ll work?”
“Yes,” I say with a surety I suddenly feel. “She’s going to be fine.”
“It’s a she?” Trisha teases me.
“He’s going to be fine.” When she gives me a look, I throw up my hands in mock surrender. “It’s going to be fine.”
Laughing, Trisha and I watch the bird settle in. As we start to walk away, she nudges me with her shoulder. “We should do this again.”
“Definitely,” I say, already looking forward to it.
TRISHA
In India, a woman’s marriage means she is moving from one man’s house to another’s. Both men chosen for her, one by an act of God, and the other by the father. As dictated by Indians’ belief system, the men, the father and the husband, were two sides of the same coin. Both owned you and could do with you what they wished. But what happens when the woman wants her freedom?
Twice as a child, Sonya called an ambulance to our house. The first time, playing hooky from school, she waited for Mama to get up. When Mama stayed in bed, Sonya, eight years old, climbed in with her. Finding her unresponsive, she called 911. After running a number of tests, the doctors concluded Mama had simply blacked out. No one thought to mention the hit to the head the night before.
The second time was when Mama started vomiting and didn’t stop. Sonya, eleven, had again feigned illness and stayed home from school. The ambulance sped Sonya and Mama to the nearest hospital. The doctors made Sonya wait in the reception area with an angel helper who gave her crayons and paper, assuming coloring would alleviate her gut-wrenching fear.
Inside, unbeknownst to Sonya, they were pumping our mother’s stomach. She had swallowed a full bottle of sleeping pills that morning. Afterward, when the social worker asked her why, she replied, “I was tired.” That was the last time Sonya stayed home from school. Connecting the dots, she decided it was safer for her to be away from home, where at least there were no lives she had to save.
The lights are off in the house when I arrive home. Eloise will have already cleaned up, leaving me a plate of food in the oven. I have started spending more time at the hospital, with Papa. After my visit today, I drove for hours.
“You’re home.” Surprised, I see Eric standing in the dark, his eyes unreadable. “Where were you?”
“You’re home,” I say. When he stays silent, waiting for an answer, I tell him, “I was driving around.” I search for the light switch. Once I find it, I hit it, but the light only flickers, casting us in an eerie glow.
“It’s not working,” Eric says, coming closer. His voice is hard. “Driving around for six hours?”
“Of course not.”
I am not afraid of my husband. I know women who are. After giving up work, they may decide that the breadwinner makes the decisions in the home, their autonomy lost in favor of security. Others simply give up the ordinary fight. Believe themselves safer that way than fighting battles they might lose. Friends tell me I am lucky. They say I married an extraordinary man, one who gives me the lifestyle others dream of while allowing me complete control. He cedes to my every wish, my every want. In return, I offer him myself.
“Then where were you?” he demands, his words like ice.
“I was with my father.” Reaching a table lamp, I hit the switch, flooding the room with light. Eric’s hair is disheveled, his tie undone. He’s wary, a hawk circling the field. Closing the distance between us, I reach out but he steps back. “Eric, what’s going on?”
“How is he?”
“The same.” My footing, already unsteady, is shakier with Eric’s demeanor. “He just lies there,” I tell Eric. “No matter what I say to him, he doesn’t answer.”
“That must be hard.” Eric watches me, his stance unflinching. “To be in the dark.” From the end table, he grabs a sheaf of papers. He tries to hand them to me but I refuse. “The adoption forms. I filled them out.”
He flips through the pages until he reaches the last one. “
Everything is set. It just needs your signature here and here”—he points to two flagged spaces—“and I’ll get my attorney to start the process.”
A process. In India, children are born for many reasons. In the villages, it is for labor. Boys outweigh girls in importance. Boys are able to help in the family’s business, whether it is farming or shop keeping. No one judges the family when the boys begin working at a young age. Girls, however, present a liability. Dowries must be saved for each daughter born. A payment to the boy’s family for accepting their daughter in marriage.
“A child is not a process.” Sweat starts to trickle down my spine. “Not a decision to be made lightly.” Images of my father holding me beckon. His love unconditional, constant. “We have to discuss this, think about it.”
“I agree.” He throws the papers down on the table. A deep swallow. A sheen of wetness covers his eyes. “I thought that’s what we had been doing. All these years, when we talked about having a baby. Decorating the nursery. Believing you when you told me the fertility specialist said it would happen.”
“It will. There’s just a lot of stress right now.” Something is wrong. I rack my brain for the answer, search for the words he wants to hear. “With my father, Sonya coming home.” I reach for him but he steps back. “I just need time.”
“Is that why you’re on birth control?” From the table drawer, where the adoption papers are, he pulls out a sheet of paper. My heart starts to race. I scan it quickly when he hands it to me. A letter from my doctor. I am past the date to replace my IUD. The coil I had inserted years ago to prevent a pregnancy. Since the day I vowed to love and honor Eric till death do us part. “For time?”
Some moments in your life you wish never happened; you would do anything to take them back. They make you realize you are not all-powerful. That there is a force stronger than you at work. In those moments, you fall to your knees and abdicate all sense of power. Offer your hand and ask for help. If you are lucky, you will feel the touch of something or someone to help you rise. If not, you stay kneeling, left all alone.
Trail of Broken Wings Page 11