Trail of Broken Wings

by Badani, Sejal

  “Who are you?” Raj demands, staring at Marin with horror. “Do you really think this is about credit? About who gets the prize?” He sighs, a sound filled with emptiness. “I am talking about our daughter trusting us. Believing in us. She was hurting and you just hurt her more.”

  Marin, tired of the conversation, accepts they stand on separate ends of an abyss with no means to reach the other side. She grabs her robe and slips it on. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

  “That’s your answer?” Raj meets her at the bedroom door, blocking her.

  “Get out of my way.” Marin cautions herself to take it slow, to breathe deeply. In all the years of her marriage, she never once feared Raj. Never believed him capable of behaving like her father. But right now, in the heat of their argument, she feels a twinge of fear and hates herself for it. “Now.”

  “Not until we finish this discussion.” Oblivious to the fear gripping her, to the reasons behind it, Raj stays where he is. “You owe me an explanation.”

  “No, I don’t. I owe you nothing.” Marin grasps the doorknob, ready to hurl the door open and into him if necessary. “I need to get some sleep so I can think. For too long I have left my work unattended while I dealt with our daughter. If you want to help, be involved; make sure tomorrow she finishes up any homework she missed during her week off.” Opening the door, she forces him to either step back or chance her hitting him with it. He steps to the side, finally, watching her leave.

  SONYA

  I continue to work, arriving each day on time, and staying for hours after my shift is over. The patients have started to get to know me. The young ones, who after chemo treatments are desperate for a distraction, ask for me by name. I spend the longest time with them, explaining in detail the intricacies of photography, offering the only means I have for them to escape.

  Since our charged encounter, David and I pass one another in the halls, not stopping like we did to talk or grab a bite to eat. It’s what I expected and what I wanted, yet it hurts more than I imagined. I hold my head up high, refusing to cower when we run into each other. Now, as I am talking to a nurse about a pediatric patient, he walks by, both of us aware of the other, even in this crowded hall.

  “Doctor?” The nurse stops him. “Can I bother you for a minute?”

  “Of course,” he answers smoothly, dropping a patient’s chart at the nurses’ desk before approaching us.

  We nod to one another before she asks him a series of questions regarding a patient. All the while, I can feel his eyes on me, watching silently as he answers her. Oblivious to the tension, she thanks him for his time.

  “Sonya, if you have a minute? There are some new board initiatives I wanted to discuss with you,” David says, surprising me.

  He is lying; I am sure. But if I refuse, it will seem odd. “Of course.”

  He glances at his watch. “I have one more patient to see. Why don’t we meet in my office in fifteen?” He offers the nurse a warm smile. “That will give the two of you a chance to finish up your conversation I so rudely interrupted.”

  “I called you over,” she says, buying what he is selling. I want to roll my eyes, but keep the childish gesture to myself. “Thanks again, Doctor.”

  “So fifteen minutes, Sonya?” he asks, leaving me no room for argument.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I arrive before he does. When I knock, there is no answer, so I wait outside, pacing the hall. I remind myself that he has no hold over me, no control, no matter what I revealed to him.

  “You’re likely to wear out the floor.” He watches me as he walks down the corridor. “How are you?” he asks, reaching me.

  “Great. What did you want to discuss?” I’m angry for having been manipulated into the meeting. I almost didn’t show, but I knew it was useless. At some point we would have to talk. Better now than later.

  “It’ll be better in the office.” He unlocks the door and motions me in.

  “Tell me,” I demand, refusing to go in. I lower my voice when I hear a door down the hall opening.

  “Do you really want to do this here?” he asks, his gaze searching mine. “Where anyone can hear?”

  “Fine.” I walk in, my arms crossed—my only show of self-protection. “What did you want to discuss?”

  “How are you?” he asks again, shutting the door behind him.

  “Like I said, great.” Anger pushes me to be impolite. “The discussion?”

  “I’d like to ask you out to dinner,” he says, taking me in.

  Of all the things, I never expected this. Disgust, maybe even pity, but nothing other than that. “You’re asking me out on a date?”

  “Yes.”

  I want to laugh, but I fear the sentiment may not go over well. “No.”

  “No, I’m not asking you out on a date or no, you won’t go out with me?” he asks, his eyebrows lifted in curiosity.

  “Both. You were there when I told you to leave this alone? When I asked you to let my father die, right?” I shrug my shoulders. “I could have sworn it was you.”

  “It was me. Unless there are other doctors from the hospital you’re spending time on the roof with.”

  He’s teasing me. If the situation weren’t so ridiculous, I would smile. “Then what are you doing?” I tell myself I don’t want the answer, I don’t need the answer, yet I wait for it.

  He gets a faraway look. “I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re always on my mind.” He grimaces. “I’ve missed you. Not great for patient care. But I know you need time.” He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture he makes when he’s under stress. “With everything you have going . . . Gia, your . . .” He catches himself. “How is she doing?”

  “Hiding.” That was the update I received from Mom this morning. She called Marin at least three times a day and had stopped over repeatedly to check on her granddaughter. “From herself, the world, I guess. They are moving forward with charges.”

  “Good.”

  The fight goes out of me. I drop my hands and lean back against his desk. “It doesn’t bother you that I want my father dead?”

  “I’m trying to understand.” He takes a step toward me. “Tell me why. Tell me about yourself. About why you and your family visit the man you hate every single day.”

  “Over spaghetti and garlic bread?” I mock.

  “Talk to me.” He reaches for me, leaving only a few inches between us. His palm cradles my head, allowing me a second to refuse. He waits for an answer, his eyes holding mine. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. I shake my head, but his lips are already on mine. They are gentle and kind and everything I can’t have. I lift my hand, ready to push him away, but he grasps my fingers in his, holding them between us like a precious child. When he deepens the kiss, I can’t help the moan. I return the kiss, tired of fighting him and my feelings. My other hand sneaks around his back, bunching his white coat into my fingers.

  He trails kisses down my cheek and over my throat. Pulling me in tighter than I have ever been before, his hands caress my back, lingering over my hip. My head falls to the side, his touch holding me close. I fist one hand into his hair when he gently pulls the tail of my shirt out of my pants and touches my bare skin. His hand slowly crawls up my back, beneath my bra strap, his thumb caressing the side of my breast.

  “David,” I murmur, the sound so low I wonder if I said the word aloud.

  “Give us a chance,” he says, whispering in my ear. His lips find mine again, more gently, both of us holding on as tightly as we can.

  His words are the reminder I need. Pushing him away, I straighten my clothes, avoiding his eyes. “I can’t,” I try, pleading with him to understand.

  “Why?” He reaches for me again but I sidestep him, moving to the other side of his office.

  “You don’t know me.” I will myself to end this now. Because in the last few weeks I have come to look forward to the time we spend together and I can’t afford that vulnerability. “We could never wor
k.” That’s a lie and we both know it. Whenever we grabbed dinner together at the hospital, time flew by. Any silence between us was comfortable.

  “I know you are an incredibly talented photographer,” he says, dismissing my argument easily. “I know that you can make sick kids laugh even as they are lost in their illnesses.” He takes a step toward me, reaching out to brush my hair. I step back, out of reach. We play a chess game without a king. “I know your mom told me you would never come home, but I’m damn glad you did.”

  Some instances in life create a bread trail to a moment that alters everything. It is impossible to imagine the crumbs or pay much notice to them. Only in retrospect do you stop and wonder how you missed the obvious signs. When I met David, our eyes mirrored the mutual attraction. Spending time with him, that has only deepened. Yet it can’t be more than a passing entanglement. Another loss from never having learned how to win.

  “When you have a patient come in with symptoms of cancer, what do you do?” I ask, desperate to get through. “Run tests?”

  His confusion is clear at the change of topic, but nonetheless he answers the question. “Of course. Conduct a full physical history, take blood, order further tests if necessary.”

  “And once the diagnosis comes in?” I need him to understand. It is the first time it has mattered to me. “You determine the stage of cancer?”

  “Yes.” His gaze holds mine, unwavering. “We hope it’s the first stage so they have a fighting chance, but obviously patients can be in the later stages.”

  “Can you heal them?” I have attempted to recover. Taken whatever steps necessary—read the books, visited a therapist. But like a landslide, the memories bury me, diminishing any hopes of survival. “Those in advanced stages?”

  “We try and hope, but no, not always.” He is patient, waiting for an explanation.

  “What do you tell them then?” I had a therapist once describe me as broken. Said the solution was to put myself back together. I asked her how that was possible when there were pieces of me my father had taken and never returned.

  “To live their life out as comfortably as they can.”

  That option is tempting. To accept that nothing will be as you imagined. That control was never yours, no matter how much you convinced yourself otherwise. “If you and I went out, we would have dinner a few times, catch a movie. I would laugh at your jokes and you would listen as I told you about my experiences traveling.”

  “Sounds normal, appealing even.” He takes a deep breath, his frustration clear. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “We may start to care about one another.” Like a daydream, I see us holding one another. Sharing each other’s lives and passions. Trusting the other one to always be there. “I may fall in love with you.”

  He stays silent, watching me. “And I may fall in love with you.”

  Tears well up but refuse to fall over. They stopped years ago. My hands begin to shake and suddenly I am very cold. “That would be a mistake. Because like your patients with advanced stages of cancer—I have no hope. I have no future, not one that you would want to be a part of.”

  “Why don’t you let me decide that?”

  “Because I’m broken and I can’t be fixed.” I see Trisha, sitting on her sofa. Reaching out to me. Lost in a sea where a storm is always brewing. “And if I go out to dinner with you it would end with me having to run. And I can’t do that. Not right now. Not until my father dies.”

  “So that’s it. You’ve decided we can’t take the first step because there has to be a last one?” He slams his hand against his desk. “That sounds like a cop-out to me. Bullshit.” He takes my hand, holds it even as I try to pull away. “I’m not a romantic. It’s probably not allowed in my profession.” He rubs his thumb against my palm. “But the first time I met you . . .” He drops my hand, running his hand through his hair.

  “What?” It is self-flagellation, me asking him to elaborate. To finish the sentence when the decision is made. I am sure of what he wants to say. He felt something when we shook hands, that we both fantasized about more. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you meet a stranger who holds the piece of you that has been missing. “You felt something?”

  “No.” He holds my eyes. “I saw more.” He glances at the shut door. “When I first went to medical school, I gorged on the science. Every action had a reaction. The blood had to follow a certain path in the body, the brain so powerful, any modern computer should fall to its knees in awe. I was sure every question had an answer—a scientific answer.” He stops, his eyes shifting as if remembering.

  “What happened?”

  “I started seeing patients. Real people with real problems. And suddenly A didn’t have a straight path to B. Two plus two never equaled four. Bodies weren’t always a science experiment.” He takes a deep breath. “I had to see past the disease to the person. Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Not many doctors would bother,” I tell him, his words drawing me to him.

  “I wasn’t so impressive.” He shakes off any admiration. “I screwed up more times than I want to admit.” He smiles, as if begging me to understand him. “But I learned you have to know the patients. Understand what they’re telling you past the illness.”

  “How?”

  “Their mannerisms, physical appearance. The people they have around them. All of it, put together, you see whether they will survive the disease. Or not.” His voice takes on an edge. “There are those who come in and you know nothing will beat them. Those are the ones to admire. To learn from. The illness is a side note. They can and will fight anything. And win.”

  “So when we met?”

  “I saw a winner.”

  My father labeled us when we were born. Marin was dohd-dai, overachiever in Indian. Trisha was mathajee, a goddess on Earth, and I was bewakoof, the stupid one. After enough years of hearing the label, you assume it is true. Believe that when someone says something with enough confidence, they know what they are talking about. Especially when it’s the person God entrusted you to.

  “You’re wrong,” I say. David shakes his head, seeming confident he is right. “I’m not a winner. I can never be.” I move toward the door, wrenching it open.

  “Why?”

  “Because to be a winner, you have to have something you’re fighting for.” Like a snake disturbed, my father’s words rear up, echoing through my head, filling my empty soul. “I have nothing.”

  I leave work immediately and drive for hours. From Palo Alto, I go down to Los Altos, passing Marin’s house and then driving by Trisha’s. I don’t stop at either, just need a reminder of who lives behind the walls and the memories that bind us together, no matter what physical barriers separate us. From there, I drive past my high school, my route taking me in circles around the Bay Area. My hometown has never felt like mine, but then nothing else has either. The only thing I can truly hold on to, that will never leave me, are the invisible scars from the abuse.

  The memories start to fill the space in the car and in my head. I can feel the tingling in my stomach, the yearning in my soul. Shaking my head, I hit the radio, blasting it loud enough to drown out the recollections, but it’s not strong enough. Nothing ever has been. David’s face appears before me, a vision calling for me, but I can’t see him. I won’t. He cannot be my savior. He is too pure, too good for someone like me.

  Seeing the exit for 280, I cross two lanes to take it. Ignoring the sounds of horns blasting at me, I speed up, desperate to escape the demons that accompany me. My heart rate accelerates, fast enough that I fear it may beat out of my chest. I zip past the evergreens, oblivious to the beauty that led this to be labeled the most gorgeous highway in the country. I can still feel David’s kiss on my lips, the warmth of his arms around me. My heartbeat seemed to match his, and when he called me a winner, I yearned to believe him, to accept his label as the truth and my father’s as a lie. But the past refuses me such an allowance. Who I really am is my const
ant reminder of what I can never be.

  Heading into San Francisco, I drive past the bay and down Van Ness Avenue. I enter the famous Pacific Heights neighborhood. As students at Stanford, my friends and I would spend afternoons walking around on a constant quest to find the best Thai restaurant in a city with a competition among hundreds. Without fail, we would always end up in the prestigious locale, admiring the block of Victorian mansions and the views of the Golden Gate and the bay. We would argue which one of us was most likely to end up buying there once we had our own careers. I always remained quiet, a sixth sense telling me I was likely the last one to buy or settle down anywhere.

  Now I continue past without stopping to admire the architecture or historic buildings. I keep driving until the area changes from luxurious homes to boarded windows and graffiti-covered structures. Finding what I am looking for, I pull into an empty parking space, turning the wheels toward the curb and putting on the parking brake to keep the car from rolling down the hill. I walk into the dive bar, the darkness and smell of cheap beer enveloping me, cleansing away any reminders of David and his touch.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asks when I slip into a stool at the bar. He has a front tooth missing and a sheen of dirt beneath his nails.

  “Shots of whiskey and keep them coming,” I say, pulling out my credit card and sliding it toward him. I glance around, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. Cheap window covers allow only a sliver of the daytime sun to peek in. It is a rare sunny day in San Francisco, the fog that normally blankets the city having burned off hours ago.

  The bartender sets down a full glass in front of me and leaves the bottle. I take the shot down in one gulp, welcoming the bitter liquid as it burns my throat. I pour myself another, the knot in my stomach finally loosening. My hand tingles, the one David held as he kissed me. I scrub at it, trying to erase his mark on me.