What if there was another way to right the wrongs? What if happiness was the trajectory, and not sadness? I see David coming down the hallway, his face looking tight with worry. He sees me just as I start to turn away; our gazes lock. With a simple nod, we acknowledge one another and then both, as if in agreement, turn away, accepting what cannot be. I dismiss my thoughts, accepting the choices I have no option but to make.
MARIN
They are silent on the drive home, everyone still processing the scene in the hospital. Marin sits quietly next to Raj while he drives, a rare departure from her giving him directions at every turn. She yearns to speak to Gia, to ask her about her decision, her vote, but no words feel like the right ones. From the side-view mirror she sees Gia’s earplugs in, imagines music is blasting through them. Stealing a glance at Raj, she sees his face set, his concentration on the road.
They have come a long way from the day they circled the fire seven times to bind them together in marriage. The wedding took place in a church hall her parents rented for the occasion. A makeshift gazebo was built inside, where the Brahmin conducting the ceremony could sit and recite the vows in front of the five hundred members of the Indian community who had come to bear witness. If pushed, Marin can only remember a dozen or so names of the attendees—most of the guests were her parents’ friends, not hers.
“Thank you for today,” Marin says, startling Raj. “I know you had work.” It is the only thing she can say to convey her appreciation.
“I did it for Gia,” Raj explains quietly, glancing at their daughter in the backseat. “I wanted to be there for her.”
“Right.” Marin turns back toward the window, watching the trees fly by on the ride home. On the day they married, Marin assumed it was forever, because the culture dictated it be so. She didn’t factor in love or care for the other person; it was a marriage of equals, brought together to raise a family and offer support through the years. Brilliant, when Marin thought about it. Businesses could learn from the practice.
Two people whose résumés, backgrounds, and accomplishments had to match before even being allowed to meet. After, even more pieces were required to fit. Looks had to match. A dark-skinned individual couldn’t dream of landing a light-skinned partner. A heavy person could only hope for someone equal or heavier to be matched with. Each factor considered with excruciating detail before the match was blessed by both families. But love was never an element mentioned or discussed. It was assumed, because when everything else fits, love should follow.
But it didn’t. Marin can accept that now. She never fell in love with Raj. Never needed him like you should someone you love. Never thought of him above herself or considered his needs more important than hers. She did exactly what was expected of her when the marriage was decided—she merged with him to create a perfect union. A home and life filled with all the luxuries hard work could offer. A daughter molded to perfection, her every step ahead of others. But love’s absence took its toll. Without it to bind, the connection proved too fragile, too susceptible to breakage. They each stood separate, only familiarity and comfort keeping them in the same place.
Gia’s cry to save her grandfather was instinctive, born from a place where love was the inspiration. She faced all of them without fear, saying whatever was necessary to give him another day, another chance to come back to them. She couldn’t lose him, she said. Because she loves him. Marin wanted to scream at her daughter that her grandfather is incapable of love, that he has shown her a version of himself that doesn’t really exist.
A master magician, Brent created a fantasy for Gia to believe in, a trick of the mind to serve his own purpose. Another means for him to feel needed, to feel special. But Gia wasn’t privy to any evidence that would reveal his hand, and that was Marin’s fault. Desperate to create an illusion, for her own sake and for Gia’s, she hid the truth from her only child. And if Ranee was right, that was because Marin didn’t trust that Gia would love her for who she was, past the chimera she had created. Marin didn’t love her true self enough to believe someone else could love her too.
“Gia?” Marin knocks on the door gently, opening it a crack to peek in. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Beti?”
“About school?” Gia asks warily.
“No, nothing to do with school, I promise.” Marin enters completely, shutting the door behind her. She swallows her nervousness, tries to rein in her fear. “There’s something I want to tell you, that I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Sure.” Gia’s confusion is clear, but she doesn’t say anything. “I was just going to change real quick.”
Marin watches silently as Gia throws her top and capris onto the floor before pulling out an oversize T-shirt from her dresser drawer. There are no scars marring her body anymore. Instead, it is smooth, the skin clear and free of the black and blue that decorated it not long ago. Raj retired to the guest room after giving Gia a quick peck on the head and sending a warning glance to Marin. She acknowledged it with a nod, more afraid of Gia’s reaction to her than of any damage she could do to her daughter.
Gia steps into her adjoining bathroom, brushing her teeth with just a few strokes. Marin bites her tongue, choosing wisely not to say anything. She takes a seat on the bed, waiting for Gia to finish up and join her. Exiting the bathroom, Gia walks around to the other side and climbs under the covers, fluffing her pillows, and leaning against them. “What did you want to talk about?”
“A story I wanted to tell you.” Marin takes a deep breath, praying for courage. “I’ve never told you about my childhood. About who I am.”
“Why?” Gia asks. The innocence that once emanated from her is lost.
“I don’t know,” Marin lies, still hiding. She berates herself silently, yearning for a hand to guide. But she has to take these steps on her own and allow everything to fall where it may. “I didn’t want to move to America,” Marin starts, admitting it aloud. “We used to live in a small house, barely two rooms, in India. Most of my friends still cooked their food over coals, but we were fortunate enough to have a stove. That was it for luxuries, though.”
“That’s crazy,” Gia murmurs, listening attentively. “How could you stand it?”
“It was home,” Marin explains. “All I knew, and I loved it. Dada was so good to me when we lived in India. He used to play with me, bought me toys.” When the visas came, he showed her pictures of America from books. From their small village it looked like paradise. A place all their dreams would come true. “He loved me.” Marin can still remember the feeling of being his girl. With no sons in the home, Brent gave all of his attention to her. Once upon a time, Marin considered herself fortunate for that.
“You make it sound past tense.”
“When we moved to America, that’s what it became.” Marin shifts closer to Gia on the bed, bringing her sock-clad feet onto the covers. “How did you know what he did to me? Who told you that?”
“He did,” Gia replies. She tenses, playing with the covers on the bed. “I don’t remember how old I was, but I was young. Maybe nine, ten years old. He asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told him I wanted to be you.”
Marin catches her breath, unable to remember a time when her daughter exalted her so much. How much more had she missed, she wondered. “I never knew that.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly cool to tell your mom you wanted to be like her.”
“And I can’t imagine I made it easy.” Marin never wanted to be like Ranee. She refused to be weak when she needed to be strong. Brent was the easy choice to mimic. “What did he say when you told him?”
“That you were you because of him.” Gia stares at the wall. The silence in the room is deafening. “He said you weren’t very smart or disciplined. That he used to hit you to make you learn. He said he did it because he loved you.”
Marin’s head falls back as she tries desperately to swallow the cry that comes instinctually. How could any father convince himself of
that and then dare to pass the message on to his only grandchild? “The first time he hit me was on the first birthday I celebrated in America,” Marin divulges, hearing Gia’s intake of breath. “I dropped the ice-cream cone he bought me.”
“Mom,” Gia starts, looking pained.
“Then, when I spelled the word ‘whole’ as h-o-l-e on a spelling test and received a ninety-eight percent.”
Marin had been in school for two months. The teacher had put a smiley face and sticker on the paper, so proud of her new student for having mastered the unknown English words. Marin had shown the test first to Ranee, who had hugged her daughter and told her how proud she was. Then she waited anxiously for her father to arrive home. When he did, she ran to him like she used to in India upon his arrival, waiting to be picked up and thrown into the air with joy. But those days were long past, never to be seen again.
“He slapped me twice and told me if I didn’t get one hundred percent next time he would disown me.”
“Mom.” There are tears in Gia’s eyes. The barrier between them starts to crumble, each piece falling slowly away. “Why would he do such a thing?” Gia asks.
“I don’t know,” Marin finally admits. “He never told me.” Marin says the words she has never been able to accept before. “He didn’t love me. He may have before, in India, but somewhere along the way he stopped.”
“How do you stop loving your own child?”
Marin thought about the last few months, how she and Gia ended up on separate sides of the same story. Throughout the hell, not once did she stop loving her daughter. It was impossible. “You don’t,” Marin answers. “You may not agree on everything, but you don’t stop loving them. My father is the example of what a parent should never be. Any lesson I took from him on how to raise you . . .” Marin stops, taking Gia’s hand in her own. She grasps for the right words, ashamed of her actions. “He hit me every opportunity he had. It didn’t matter if I got great grades or was first in my class. Nothing was good enough. He hit me because he could. I wasn’t able stop him,” Marin chokes back a sob. “That’s why I did what I did with Adam.”
“Because you could stop him,” Gia says with understanding.
“Because I couldn’t let you be hurt the way I was hurt. I wasn’t able to fight for myself, but I would do anything to fight for you,” Marin answers. “Because I knew the damage the violence and abuse had done and couldn’t bear to allow that to happen to you. When you were born, I felt like everything that had happened to me was worth it if it meant getting you.”
“Mom,” Gia whispers, tears rolling down. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about your past? About what had happened to you?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t love me,” Marin, her voice catching on her words, is finally able to admit the truth to both of them. “If you knew I had been broken, maybe you wouldn’t love me with flaws.” Marin realizes something she never has before. “Now I know it wasn’t about me. It never was. He beat me because he was broken.” Marin pauses. “But I was so afraid of losing your love.”
“You’re my mom,” Gia answers, laughing between her tears. “I love you no matter what.”
“I hope so,” Marin answers, her eyes shining. “Because there’s a lot I can live without, but not. . .” Marin can’t finish the sentence, the words lost. She holds her arms out for Gia, who crawls into them. They hold one another, both quiet. “Why did you let him hit you?” Marin finally asks. “Why do you love him so much?”
“Because I didn’t have to be perfect with him,” Gia says after some thought. “Because I didn’t have to always be in control.”
“The way I wanted you to be,” Marin accepts.
“I think so.”
“And when he hit you?” Marin finally asks the question that has tortured her since she learned the truth. “How did you feel?”
“It’s weird, but numb when he hit me and alive after.” Gia lays her head on her knees. “He told me he needed me, just the way I was. I was the only thing that kept him happy. The only one he trusted.” Gia looks up, staring at her mother. “Afterward he always cried, told me how sorry he was.” Gia shakes her head. “But I don’t think he was.”
Marin wonders how much heartbreak one lifetime can contain. Hearing her daughter admit the truth, accepting her own culpability in the situation, is overwhelming. “I wanted you to have the perfect life,” Marin explains quietly, finally understanding how all the pieces came together. “I believed being in complete control would make that happen.”
“I miss him. When I see him, I feel safe,” Gia explains.
“I know.” Marin thinks about her visit to the hospital, her need for her father’s love even after everything he did to her. Her rationalization of his behavior when he had no excuses. All of it because she was sure she needed his love more than he needed her. Because she was sure no one could love her, not even herself. “Can I help you?” Marin dares to ask. “On your terms?”
“I’m scared,” Gia replies, curling up. “I don’t understand why I feel like I do. Why I need him.”
“I don’t either,” Marin admits. “But what if we make a deal to take it one step at a time?”
Marin thinks about the steps she needs to take, her own recovery. It may take her a lifetime, and she may not ever fully heal, but she needs to go on the journey, if for no other reason than to hold out her hand to her daughter and help her along the way. To model the right behavior. “I won’t push you or criticize. I’ll just be right here, beside you, always.” Marin bites her lip, her eyes filling with tears. “And I’ll love you, now and forever, no matter what.” And maybe, somehow, she thinks, she’ll even learn to love herself.
“What about you and Dad?” Gia asks, looking like a young child instead of someone on the brink of womanhood. “What are you going to do?”
“Help you, together.” For now it is all Marin can offer. But it’s enough. Their priority is being there for Gia. Marin finally understands the only way is standing side by side with Raj, creating a wall against any harm that can befall their daughter. In time, things will fall into place. No matter what, Marin will always be grateful to him for giving her the greatest joy of her life—their daughter. “And every single day, tell you how much we need you, and that we will do whatever it takes to help you.”
“OK,” Gia says, holding Marin tightly. Together, they watch through the window as the sun disappears behind the horizon, and the moon rises to take its place in the sky, offering light and guidance to those searching for their way.
TRISHA
I arrive at Eric’s in the evening and know he’s home when I see his car parked outside. He sent me his address after he left, in case I needed anything. I needed him to come home, but I didn’t say that, never went to him to make the request.
He answers on the first ring. Shocked to see me, he stares before seeming to remember his manners and inviting me in. A frozen pizza sits on the counter, cut in half, an open bottle of beer next to it. He’s dressed in torn jeans and a battered T-shirt, an outfit I have seen him in hundreds of times before. I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs, nervous and afraid.
I took almost two hours to get dressed this afternoon. First, I slipped on a dress, then decided it was too much. Afterward, I tried a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. That didn’t work either. I finally settled on a skirt and summer shirt, feeling parts of my femininity return with the outfit. Thinking of Papa, I hesitate to show skin, feel shame in doing so. I started to ask myself if I led him on, encouraged him. Memories washed over me; I obsessed about how much affection I showered him with, how I loved him blindly. I stopped myself. I’d done enough research to understand all of my emotions were normal. Including fearing I was the instigator instead of the victim. I told myself, over and over, that I was never at fault; in time I hope I can believe that.
“Trisha,” Eric says, showing a level of calm I don’t feel. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I hope it’s no
t a bad time?” Maybe he has someone here, I realize. Glancing around quickly, I look for telltale signs of a woman’s belongings. A purse or lipstick on a glass. The only thing I see is a sofa, a chair, and a desk. Stacks of papers hug the sofa, and his computer bag lies on top of the desk, with his laptop open and booted. “I should have called first.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I just wasn’t expecting you.” He is clearly uncomfortable, unsure.
Married for so many years, yet we are strangers trying to find our way. Hating the feeling, I surge forward, not stopping to consider my words. “I wanted to give you an answer to your question.”
“Question?”
“Why I didn’t want a child,” I blurt out. I had rehearsed a number of scenarios in my head, different ways I would introduce the topic, the level of detail I would go into. I had every word I would say down, but the only part I couldn’t script was his reaction. No matter how many times I tried, I always came up blank.
“You asked me that a number of times, and I didn’t have an answer for you. Now I do.”
“Trisha,” he says, warily. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”
“I know,” I say, remembering the envelope with divorce papers inside. “But I just learned the answer recently, and I thought you should know.” I lower my voice. “You deserve to know.”
Sighing, he motions me toward the sofa. I sit down, pushing some of his work papers to the side. He takes the chair across from me. I cross one leg over the other and then decide they are better flat on the floor. My palms on the leather couch, I raise my eyes to meet his. Where I once saw unconditional love and acceptance, I now see distrust and suspicion.
“I started having these memories,” I forge ahead. “They didn’t make sense to me. A young girl walking down a hall, screaming silently for help.” I swallow, trying to get the words past my closed throat. “The more we talked about a child, the faster the images came. This girl had been hurt, terribly.”
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