Trail of Broken Wings
Page 18
“They didn’t choose this fight,” he says, “so they try to remember what it was like when they weren’t losing.”
That makes sense. How many times did I yearn for normality in my childhood, only to have the expectation shattered when faced with my father? My needs became secondary to his, so much so that in time I forgot what I ever wanted. “What made you want to be a doctor?”
“Both my parents were,” he shares. “I grew up in hospitals, around their friends—all of whom were doctors, by the way.” He smiles easily. “I never knew anything else.”
It’s hard for me to imagine being so confident about your life at such a young age. To know that you belong. “You’re lucky,” I say sincerely. “Not everyone has such a clear vision.”
“You didn’t.” It’s not a question.
“No.” I struggle not to reveal too much. “Growing up—there were more questions than answers.”
“You were supposed to go to law school.”
I tense, forgetting I had told him that. I start to shake my head, to tell him that, no, there was no conflict, no scars to hide, but he interrupts me before I can say anything.
“The world is very lucky you chose photography instead. You have a true gift.”
“I think it chose me.” I never imagined the joy I would get from taking pictures. From memorializing events and places with a snap of a camera. When I see the pictures I’ve taken, I stare at them in wonder, amazed at the beauty that has been captured forever. “I had no choice but to say yes.” Seeing the numerous awards David has won and the honors bestowed on him, I walk over, running my hands over the crystal accolades. “But I don’t save lives. Make people whole again. That’s the real gift.”
When I take a picture, it’s a multiple-step process. First, I view the scene with my naked eye. Assess the surroundings, the light, the scene to make sure everything is perfect. In a professional shoot I have the benefit of added light, but out in the field, I am dependent upon nature or circumstance. Once I have finalized the details, made sure my focus is clear, I look through the lens and start snapping. With digital, I have no worries about film or the cost. I can take hundreds of pictures, quickly, capturing every second of movement. Once I have as many as I need, I upload them onto my computer, analyzing each one to find perfection.
On rare occasions, something hidden finds its way into the picture. A person passing by, or an animal in flight. A child playing or a look between friends. Something I missed, because I was so focused on the vision in my head, reveals itself in the picture. With the unexpected addition, I am mesmerized. The picture has a new life, one I would never have foreseen. It changes the story; what I had hoped to say becomes altogether different. The new story is superior, told in a way I couldn’t fathom. Those are the moments when I especially love what I do. When the picture becomes the storyteller and I am the recipient of the story it tells.
“A matter of perspective,” David says, bringing me out of my thoughts. He comes to stand next to me, his warmth filling the empty space. He pauses, watching me carefully, gauging my reaction before he says, “Your dad’s condition is unchanged.”
I am between the wall and him, with no place to run. “Yes,” I agree quickly. “But we appreciate everything you’re doing.”
“Checking his vitals every day?” He leans against the wall, effectively trapping me in. “Don’t mention it.” He stares at a space above me. Trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give your family more answers.”
The truth lies unspoken between us. My father’s death would not change my life, but his living would. I wonder what further damage he can inflict if he lives. I am already torn, and he can’t tear apart much more. But his death would leave me as I already am—irretrievably broken.
“Maybe there aren’t any,” I say, treading water. I have no place to hide, to flee to, without going past him. “Sometimes that’s life.”
It is how I soothe my soul—my explanation for why tragedy was mine when others lived a life filled with tranquility. When I was young, I would watch nature channels, fascinated by videos of a cheetah or tiger crouched, waiting. When the time came, it would run toward a herd of animals, increasing its speed until it had joined those running for their lives. In a heartbeat, it would attack, choosing one while sparing the rest. The others kept running, the instinct to survive strong. Was there any way for the lost one to live another day or was death simply its destiny?
“Do you believe that?” he asks.
“I have to,” I say, brushing past him to find my own space. I look around, envisioning the room expanding, a hole that I can slip through and disappear into forever opening up in the middle of the floor. “Otherwise, how do you find the will to keep going?”
It’s past time for me to return to what I know best—hiding behind the camera so I control the vision the world offers me. But David’s next question stops me. “You all love him so much,” he says, oblivious. “What did he do that was so right?”
I spent an entire night watching Trisha drink herself into oblivion because she refused to have her happily ever after. I listened to her call out for Eric in her sleep, her heart broken because her mind knew what her soul refused to believe—that he was gone. I coexist with my mother in a home that houses so many secrets the walls are filled with them, and yet it is the only shelter she trusts, the one she returns to night after night. And Marin, my own flesh and blood, has evolved into a woman I barely recognize.
“He made our life his own,” I say, the only answer I have.
“In my day, we didn’t have such fancy things.” William turns the camera over in his hand, inspecting it from every angle.
At seventy-two, he is my oldest patient. Having just finished dialysis, he’s cranky. I helped him into the chair next to his bed and handed him the camera. He refused it at first, saying he had no time for such things. I thought about leaving him, trying another day, but the way he turned toward the window, staring at nothing, made me try one more time. With a grunt to let me know he was doing me a favor and not the other way around, he held out his hand.
“It’s a digital camera,” I explain. “No film needed.”
“Really?” He glances at me, the first hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ve got kidney failure, not Alzheimer’s,” he says. “I know what digital is.”
“Right,” I say, amused at having been thoroughly put in my place. “You have one at home?”
“No.” He hands the camera back to me, his voice dropping. “Can’t afford it.” He reaches for the wheelchair nearby.
“They’re easy to use.” I roll the chair over, holding out a hand to him. Refusing my help, he struggles to rise from the sofa. “Just focus, click, and you have your picture.”
“What would I want to take pictures for?” He barely stands before starting to stumble. Again, I reach out to help him, and again he refuses my overtures. It’s a dance with no definitive steps. “Nothing I need to see again.” He finally settles himself into the chair.
“How about those flowers?” A bouquet of fresh carnations sits in a glass vase next to the plastic water pitcher. A “Get Well Soon” card has fallen to the floor. “That would make a nice picture.”
“Why? So I can remember them after they’re dead?”
I suppress a sigh, a deep one. This was the part of the job I wasn’t prepared for. I fear people. Having never understood what made my father tick, what made him react as he did, I am wary of others.
“No,” I try, “so you can enjoy them forever.”
“Haven’t you heard?” He points to his IV. “I haven’t got forever.”
“None of us do,” I say without thinking.
His gaze sharp now, he turns it toward me. “You make it sound like a good thing.”
I look through the lens and focus the camera before handing it to him. “No, just inevitable.” When he resists my efforts, I lay it gently in his lap. “But why not make the best of it while we can?
”
He takes the camera and looks through the lens. From the other side I can see his worn eye blinking rapidly, trying to adjust. “You’re too close,” he says, bringing the camera down. “Move back so I don’t get your whole face in it.”
When he still struggles, I say, “Here, try this.” I reach around him and show him how to adjust the lens. “Better?”
“I guess.” He starts snapping pictures, one after the other. First he takes a few of me and then, bored, moves on to the water pitcher, the bed, and some of the outside through the window. Finished, he hands the camera back to me. “Congratulations, I’m healed.”
Suppressing a smile, I point to the flowers. “You missed those.”
“No, I didn’t,” he says, adjusting his tubes like an expert.
I reach over, rearranging the stems and petals. “You’re missing a wonderful opportunity.” Glancing through the lens, I bring the flowers into focus and adjust the center so they fill the screen. Once the picture is taken and printed, the flowers will have a whole new power—the ability to brighten any room. I snap a few photos and then glance at the LCD panel to review them. One especially is breathtaking. I try to show it to William, but he waves me away.
“I’m all finished for the day,” he says, turning his face.
“OK,” I murmur. “I’ll print them out for you and make a book.”
I’m about to gather my things when he barks, “Don’t bother with the flower pictures.”
“You don’t like them?” I ask, surprised.
“Not much to like,” he murmurs. With only a few options available in the small room, he climbs back into his bed.
“Let me help you.” I quickly move back to his side, but he rejects my offer again. The flowers have the hospital’s gift store sticker on them. “I can take the flowers downstairs. See if they have another arrangement.”
“My daughter bought them. Won’t be happy if she sees that.”
He turns on the television, trying to ignore me. Unperturbed, I bend down to smell them, inhaling their fragrance, a contrast to the sterile smell of the room. “Nice of her. They’re quite beautiful,” I say, aware he’s watching me. “Your daughter doesn’t know you hate carnations?”
“They were her mother’s favorite.” He drops the remote. “Guess she thinks it’ll help me to remember my wife.”
“Your wife . . . ?” I leave the question hanging, wondering.
“Died a year ago.” He is angry, at me, at everything, from what I can gather.
“I’m sorry.” This is my cue to leave, to drop the subject. Nothing is gained from getting too close to people. From sharing secrets, dreams, and hopes. When you give a piece of yourself to someone, count on them to hold it safe, you become vulnerable. You depend on them, but they may not be the person you expected, the one you were sure could carry you. Then the disappointment becomes a burden to bear. It is better to keep yourself at a distance, never getting too close. I retrace my steps toward the door, ready to leave.
“Never thought I’d find love like that,” he says, challenging me. “When you do, you don’t ever want to lose it.” He turns off the television and turns away from me. “Thanks for the pictures.”
I shut the door quietly behind me. Nurses and doctors fill the hallway as they move in and out of patients’ rooms. Families come and go, some with balloons in hand, while others, weary from months of visiting, simply come as they are. I watch them, wondering about the love that binds. In the name of love, people do extraordinary things. Sacrifice their time, money, even themselves for another. Parents dedicate their lives to raising children, work endless hours to provide; siblings love their sister or brother as if they were one instead of two. Here in the hospital, I see love displayed every day. Family members offering whatever they have in the hopes it is enough to heal.
I always wonder how one gets lucky enough to find unconditional love. Perhaps I drew the short straw and came to my father so he had someone on whom to inflict damage. Or maybe, given the secret I hold deep within me, I am no different than he is. My soul must be as dark, if not darker, to be who I am. A woman who, though no longer beaten, needs the memory of the beatings to survive.
MARIN
She plans and then executes. It’s what she does best and the only means to maintain control. She has not shared her revelation with Raj or Gia. If she needed help, maybe she’d run the options by Raj, but she’s confident enough in herself not to bother. She fears he would slow her down, question each decision. Gia’s life is at stake, and for Marin that is enough reason to follow through.
Her first step was to hire a private investigator. She couldn’t take the chance of Gia spotting her or learning of her intentions. The investigator was easily able to take the pictures Marin needed for proof. Almost daily, Gia went to Adam’s house after school. When it was time for her to come home, he’d drop her off a few houses down, guaranteeing they avoided discovery. The game Gia professed they were playing wasn’t happening. None of her friends were hitting her for fun. Gia was being abused, and worse, she was going back for more.
The PI performed a background check. The information he garnered was what put the next step of Marin’s plan in motion. “He was charged as a juvenile for assault,” he said when they met.
“On whom?” Marin had set up the meeting at a coffee shop in San Francisco, away from any prying eyes.
“A former girlfriend.” The investigator slid a sheet of paper toward Marin. “The victim’s name has been redacted, but all relevant information is there. Your boy likes to punch girls.”
Marin read through the information as quickly as possible. “How did you get this?” she demanded, glancing up. “Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed.”
“You hired me because I’m the best. You’re getting what your money pays for.” The investigator took a swallow of his coffee. “He was sixteen when he was charged. Got a slap on the wrist and some community service.”
“Bastard.” Marin glanced at the pictures he had printed out. Gia’s hand in Adam’s. His arm around her shoulders, holding her possessively. Most of them in front of his house, a few at school. “They don’t go out much.”
“No. In my experience, abusers like to do their work at home. Keeps it from getting messy.”
Marin started to agree before catching herself. She knew well the benefits of hiding the hitting from the prying eyes of the world. The fewer people who knew, the safer the abuser was. “Anything else?”
“Like I said, he was sixteen when he was charged.” The investigator leaned back in his chair, assessing her. “You don’t get the same kiddie treatment as an adult.”
“I don’t understand.”
The investigator reached over and pointed to a line on the sheet. Adam’s date of birth. “His birthday is in a week.”
He would turn eighteen. He could be tried as an adult. The wheels in Marin’s head turned and soon everything fell into place. Thanking him for his service, she returned home and took the steps she was sure would destroy Adam. She called child services and set up an appointment. At that meeting, she offered them the necessary proof and her thoughts. Together they laid out the details and follow-up plan. The social worker agreed to arrive at their home at a scheduled time to start the process.
“Gia, Beti, the doorbell is ringing. Can you get it?” Marin calls out now. It’s two in the afternoon on Saturday. Marin cleared her schedule and Gia’s to make sure they’d be home. “Who is it, honey?” Marin calls from her office, waiting for the answer she already knows.
“Mom!” Gia’s voice holds the fear Marin expected. “Come out here.”
Marin takes her time, refusing to show her hand. She leisurely glances in the mirror in the bathroom before heading out. “What is it?”
“Mom, this is a social worker.” Gia’s hands are clasped in front of her, the fear obvious on her face. “I thought I told you . . .”
“Gia,” Marin gives her a warning glance before stretching ou
t her hand to the woman she’s already met a few days before. “I’m Marin, Gia’s mother. How may I help you?”
“Deborah. I’m from child services. We received a report from the school of potential abuse.” She runs her eyes over Gia, an initial assessment of the situation. “I tried calling but didn’t receive an answer, so I took a chance and stopped by.”
“I see.” Marin shows practiced surprise, but Gia is too scared to notice. “Why don’t we speak in the living room?” Marin leads the way. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she does a quick calculation. She has about an hour before Raj is due home from his tennis game. “I explained to the school that my daughter was participating in a game.” She waves a hand toward Gia, who nods in agreement. “Not a very wise one, but you know kids these days.”
“If that’s the case, then I won’t have to be here long.” Deborah pulls out a notepad and pen. Turning toward Gia, she says, “I’ll just need the first and last names of the friends you’ve been playing this game with.”
“Why?” Gia asks, her voice low.
“To verify the story. Names?”
Gia glances at Marin, her face begging her mother to intercede. To save her. That’s what I’m doing. “Give her the names, sweetheart.”
“I can’t.” Gia swallows visibly. “I don’t want them to get into trouble.”
“I see.” Deborah shuts the notebook. Her gaze intent on Gia, she seems to have come to a decision. “I need to see the bruises.”
“What?” Gia flinches, as if she’s been scalded. “No.”
“We can do it here or I can get us an appointment at the local trauma center. But I need to see the bruises.” Deborah meets Marin’s eyes; a silent message passes between the two.
“She can’t do this, Mom. Right?”
“I’m afraid she can, Beti,” Marin says. “Let her see the bruises. You don’t want to go to a hospital, do you?”
As a child, Gia used to love the cartoons with a cat chasing a mouse but always failing to catch it. It was hilarious to her that a measly rodent could so easily outsmart a creature known for its conniving ability. Now, Gia seems oblivious to her role in the game. Her face shows her worry that she is running out of options; the match is over. She slowly pulls off her T-shirt, revealing a plain white bra. There are two fresh bruises, Marin notes.