Trail of Broken Wings (26 page)

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 out 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.

Her face hard, Marin watches wordlessly as Deborah takes out a small camera and begins taking pictures of the discolorations. “For the file,” Deborah explains, noting the size and shape of each one. There are seven in all. Fresh ones mixed with those almost healed. A mural of pain. Finished, she instructs Gia to put her shirt back on. “Can I see your legs, please?” Gia lowers her head as she pulls up her skirt. Black and purple line her upper thighs. From kicks, Marin knows, her gut churning. When you are lying on the ground and they can’t pummel their fist into your stomach, they resort to kicking, as if breaking an animal. Two more pictures, a few more notes, before Deborah is finished.

“What now?” Marin demands, unable to face her daughter.

“I create a file. Do some investigation.” Facing Gia, she asks, “Is there anything you want to tell me? Now is the time.”

“No.” Gia’s face crumbles. “Please, can’t you just let it go? I’m OK.” To Marin she pleads, “Mom, please.”

“It’s not your mom’s decision. No one is allowed to beat you. It’s against the law.” Deborah stands, her job finished, for now. “I’ll be in touch.”

“What happens?” Gia asks, her voice small. “To the person that did this?”

“That depends,” Deborah replies. “The final decision is up to the courts.”

Marin makes sure Gia spends the rest of the weekend in the house. No hanging out with friends or leaving the house to see Adam. She confiscates Gia’s phone under the pretense that she wants to upgrade it. She’ll have it back in a few days, she assures her daughter. The only landline in the house is in Marin’s office, used mainly for the fax. Left without a means to contact Adam, Gia sulks in the house.

“There were fresh bruises?” Raj demands, pacing back and forth in Marin’s office. Marin has updated him on the visit, leaving out her part in the situation. “What now?”

“We wait. Gia still won’t give names, so I assume there will be an investigation.”

“My god.” Raj drops into the sofa, his head in his hands. “How did this happen?”

“Does it matter?” Marin asks, dismissing the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It’s happened and it needs to be fixed.”

Something in her voice causes Raj to look up. “What are you saying, Marin?”

Marin schools her features. “Only that we have to support Gia and help her through this.”

“I was thinking maybe we should pull her out of the school. Surround her with a new group of friends.”

“No.” Marin’s response is visceral, straight from her gut. She will not allow Gia’s future to be compromised. “We deal with this and move on. The best thing for her is consistency. To be surrounded by what’s familiar. Putting her in a new school would hurt more than help.”

Raj watches his wife carefully before responding. “I’ll agree with your decision for now. But the matter is not closed.”

Soon enough it will be, Marin thinks. Soon enough.

Marin cancels all her appointments for the day. Her secretary, getting used to the unexpected vacation days, says nothing. Marin’s first call after speaking to her secretary is to the private investigator. “I need you to do one more job,” she instructs. After giving him the details, she slips into a suit and meets Deborah at her office.

“Thank you for stopping by Saturday.” Marin gives the woman a grateful smile, one of the few she’s ever shown. “Gia had no idea we had spoken.”

“It’s my job to fully investigate the situation. I must say, you’re playing a risky game.” The social worker leans back in her folding chair, eyeing Marin. Marin knew she had fulfilled her obligations as a social worker. She had opened a full-scale investigation, run down each possibility. Karen had informed Marin that the social worker had stopped by the school, interviewed her and the PE teacher. “But I commend your dedication.”

“She’s my daughter,” Marin says, as if that is enough explanation. “I kept her home all weekend. No contact with anyone besides me and her father.”

“Not with Adam?”

“None. I made sure she had no access to the boy. She’s back at school today.”

“You’re sure she’ll go home with him after?”

“Guaranteed.” Marin could tell from Gia’s anxiousness all weekend that she was desperate to tell Adam what had transpired over the weekend. The visit from the social worker had scared her. “My investigator is ready to take pictures.”

“Pictures of him in the act will prove he’s the one beating her. Bruises are only circumstantial evidence.” The social worker watches Marin carefully.

“Then let’s expect pictures of him in the act.”

Marin thought through each step and came up with the plan in detail. Experience with her father afforded Marin inside knowledge of how Adam’s mind would work. Fear of the social worker’s visit would drive him to desperation. With no other outlet, he would default to his preferred one—hitting Gia. He would convince her that it was her fault. She should have lied better, hidden her bruises more carefully, done anything that would absolve him and put the blame on her. Not only would she expect the beating, she’d convince herself she deserved it.

“He just turned eighteen.” Deborah holds Marin’s gaze. “He’ll be charged as an adult.”

“I’m very aware of that.” Marin is anxious for the next step. “Let’s move this forward.”

It is the longest twenty-four hours Marin can remember. That night, she forces herself to work while waiting for the sound of Gia’s arrival home. Raj, still in the dark, is busy at work. Marin finds herself rereading documents only to forget every word she just read. Giving up, she turns off the computer and sits in her chair, waiting.

The jingle of keys is the first thing that fills the silence. Then the front door opens and shuts. Marin jumps up, ready to bolt out of the room, when she hears the soft crying. Small gasps in an attempt to hide. Marin leans her forehead against the closed door of her office, steeling herself. Only when she is ready does she walk out, prepared to face her daughter.

“Gia.” Marin’s voice betrays none of the emotion she feels. “Are you all right, Beti?”

“Yeah.” Gia quickly wipes at her face, wincing when she lifts her arm. “I’m just tired.” She moves toward the stairs, ready to make her escape. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“You were out late,” Marin says, stopping her. Glancing at her watch, she murmurs, “Almost ten. You were studying?”

“Yes.” Gia doesn’t hesitate. “For a quiz. With friends.”

“Which friends?” Marin asks, sharper than she meant to.

Gia lowers her eyes, taking the stairs quickly. “A study group.”

“Gia.” Marin’s voice leaves no room for argument. Gia slowly turns, facing her mother. “I . . .” The words catch in her throat. From here she can see her daughter’s pain, feel her fear. But she is helpless to heal it, to offer the words of comfort that will ease the tangled snare she’s trapped in. Instead she says the only thing that comes to mind. “Are you ready for the quiz?”