Trail of Broken Wings (47 page)

“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.”

“You never mentioned anything.”

“I thought it was about someone else. Not me,” I try to explain. “But the girl was walking in my childhood house.”

“Who would it be about?” he demands, exuding impatience.

I take a deep breath, steady myself, and search for courage. I kept so many secrets from this man, from myself, that I don’t know quite how or where to begin. He loved a woman I had created for the world to see, not the one who lay deep within me. He might hate the woman I am, the scars I bear, the wound that was open for so long I became oblivious to it and yet—yet it dictated every day of my life. “Papa wasn’t the man you knew. I was his favorite.” I stand up, start to pace in his small apartment, hoping it will make this easier. “But Sonya, Marin, and Mama weren’t. He beat them, constantly.”

“Trisha,” Eric says, his voice sounding torn. I can’t look at him, not yet. Not when I have barely touched the surface of the truth. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I was ashamed. I changed what happened to fit my version of reality. Convinced myself it wasn’t as bad as it was, maybe. I don’t know,” I say. “But he never hit me.” I want to laugh now at my stupidity. My desperate need to believe anything other than what really happened. “So even as they hated him, even as Sonya ran to escape the memories, I stood by his side, loving him, needing him. Believing in him.”

“He was a good father to you,” Eric says quietly, watching me. “I saw that in all your interactions.”

“He loved me,” I acknowledge, trying to make sense of Papa’s definition of the word. “During our childhood, he would get angry. He used to bring home liquor when he wanted to scare everyone. It was always a threat, a scare tactic that he might lose even more control if he drank. But the bottle always remained unopened.”

“I never saw Brent take a sip of liquor. I assumed that’s why you didn’t drink,” Eric says.

“That’s what I thought too,” I murmur, sure I was the good daughter for following his example. I finally face Eric, needing to see his reaction when I tell him the truth. “The night of Marin’s wedding”—I pause, gathering courage—“I was fifteen. Papa did drink the bottle he brought home,” I whisper. “Mama was asleep, tired after the festivities. I was now the oldest child at home.” I can feel the tears start to gather but I wipe them away, needing my strength to admit the truth. “I was sleeping in my bed . . .” I stop, exhale. “Sonya was asleep in her room.”

“Trisha?” I can hear his pain, sure he is already imagining the worst.

“I didn’t remember,” I say, still unable to say the words. “I escaped to Sonya’s room afterward and told her, but the next morning all of it was gone. Like it had never happened,” I cry, wishing that was the truth.

“He raped you?” Eric’s throat rips out the words.

“Yes,” I whisper, seeing his shock and despair.

“Jesus.” He rubs his hands over his face.

“But these images wouldn’t let up. Just fragments of memory, never revealing the face. I was sure it was Sonya I was seeing. The night you came over to the house, the last time we saw one another.” I run my hands down my skirt, feeling exposed. “I remembered most of it. I had a breakdown at my mother’s house; the memories flooded me and Mama told me . . .”

“She knew?” I can hear the fury in his voice, the confusion.

“Papa admitted it to her before he fell into a coma.” With the revelation out, I feel a burden lift off of my shoulders. “I never understood
why I feared having a child. Now I do.” He becomes still, staring at me. “I was sure that no matter how much I loved my child, like Papa loved me, I would end up hurting them. I just didn’t know why I believed that.” My head drops, so many things now clear. “Regardless, I couldn’t do that, ever.” I reach for my purse, ready to leave. I glance at him, sure it will be the last time I see him. “I never meant to lie to you. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry I did.”

“Trisha,” he calls out, just as I reach the door. I turn, prepared to say good-bye. “Are you seeing someone for this? A therapist? Someone who can help you?”

I nod. “I’m planning to. I’ll look for someone who deals specifically with childhood rape.” I shrug. “All of it has been a bit overwhelming.”

“I imagine that’s an understatement,” he says kindly.

“Yes.” I try for a smile, finding it easier than I believed. “Thank you for listening to me.” I laugh self-consciously. “Thank you for our life together. You meant everything . . .” I pause, holding back the sob that threatens. “I’ll sign the papers, send them back immediately.”

“Trisha,” he repeats, this time closer than before. Standing right in front of me, he asks, “I wonder if I could attend a few sessions with you? To try and understand what you’re going through?”

“Eric?” I am blown away, never expecting such an offer. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because we were husband and wife, but I don’t know if we were ever friends,” he says simply. “Maybe now is the time.”

As a child, I was fascinated by falling stars. I would watch for them in the night sky, sure that each one meant a child somewhere had his or her wish granted. I always made the same wish every time I saw one—that I would live happily ever after. It was how every story I read ended, making the whole book a prologue and the happily ever after the real story. I was sure my life would have a storybook ending, though yet unwritten. Growing up, those childhood dreams segued to reality and the realization that not every ending is fair or happy. That often people
get hurt, and there’s no real reason for it. No silver lining in the event. But I kept my hope alive, if only to hold on to that part of childhood where everything felt possible.

“Yes,” I answer him.

I imagine another falling star, but this time I don’t make a wish. Instead I smile, understanding that even though not every story ends with a happy ending or begins with tragedy, along the way there are moments of both. And those moments don’t define you or even break you—they are simply parts of the whole.

I have a lifetime to try to understand what my father did to me and, in contrast, the love he surrounded me with. I may never find a reason or know why I chose to forget his actions. But what I do know, and what I will never forget, is that I still have me and the right to make my own choices. That is what I will hold on to, that and the people whom I love.

I vow to find myself, to learn who I am, never again to be the daughter my father needed or the wife I convinced myself I should be. For as long as the journey takes, I will walk alone, fearless, discovering the woman that I can be. I never meant to hurt Eric, never believed I was betraying him more than I was saving me. With his words, I know how fortunate I am. Maybe, if we are lucky, one day Eric and I will rediscover our love and find a path to healing; but I promise to never forget the past as I redefine my future.

SONYA

I am home alone. Trisha is back at her house and Mom is at the temple, praying. She told me not to wait up, that she would be late. She gave me no reason why and I did not ask for one, both of us most comfortable respecting the invisible boundaries we have erected. Needing something to do, I start a fire in the living room, warming my hands against the roaring flames.

The sound of the doorbell shatters the silence. I start, not expecting anyone. Mom’s friends used to visit, only staying for a short while—to either drop off food or pay their respects for our father’s condition. Now those visits have started to spread farther apart, with fewer people bothering to stop by. It’s as if they have accepted what we refuse to—that life goes on.

“Who is it?” I ask, squinting my eye through the peephole. When I see David’s face staring back, I unlock the door and open it fully. “What are you doing here?”

When I filled out the requisite application forms for the position, David noticed my home address and we talked about the neighborhood. He knew it well, had friends who had bought a house down the street to raise their children in.

“I wanted to speak with you if you have a minute.” He looks wary, and his face seems drawn with concern.

I consider closing the door, stopping this before it begins. But I can’t. Seeing him here, in the home that used to be my prison, helps me in a way I didn’t know I needed. “Come in.” I lead him into the den, where the fire is now roaring, sending sparks flying.

“Is your mother home?” he asks, glancing around.

“No,” I admit, “she’s out for the evening.” I absorb his features, having missed what is not mine. “Are you here to talk about the other day? The decision to stop support for my father?”

“No,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet. “That’s your family’s business, your decision.”

“Then why?” I ask, worried. “Has something happened to him?” When he shakes his head no, refusing to break my gaze, I plead, “Then what?”

“After your family left your father’s room the other day, your mom and I started talking,” he says slowly, as if gauging each word. “She asked me how I felt about you.”

“David,” I say, feeling the familiar fear start to creep up my spine. “Please.”

“Without me saying a word, she knew the answer. But I told her there was no chance for us. That you couldn’t be with me.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, wanting to more than anything I’ve wanted in my life. But fear is a terrible thing. It paralyzes you with the expectation of the worst happening, never allowing room for something better, something that gives rather than takes away.

“She said she knew why,” he says, shocking me into silence. “She said it was because you never knew she loved you, that she wanted you. Needed you.”

“No,” I insist, the words thundering in my ear. Every cell in my body rejected the notion, refused it an audience. I knew the truth, deep
in my heart, and nothing would convince me otherwise. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“She said she knew she failed you,” he continues, refusing me a reprieve. “That’s why she let you go, to save you.”

I collapse into the sofa, envying the logs as they disintegrate into ashes. It is a funny thing when you have believed the worst about yourself your entire life. No matter what anyone says, you are the strongest voice of opposition, insisting to anyone who will listen that they are wrong, that you really are worthless.

“But she was tired of missing you, needing you.” He takes out a piece of paper and hands it to me.

I read through it, trying to understand. It’s a blood test, with one blood count. The name on the top is my father’s. I look up at David, “What is tetrahydrozoline?”

“Your mother’s gift to you,” he answers. “The test proved what your mother told me. She slowly poisoned him with tetrahydrozoline, the main ingredient in Visine.” He starts to recite facts, his stance that of a professional. “Over time it can cause difficulty breathing, nausea, headaches. For those with weakened immune systems, such as from diabetes—a coma.”

My stomach seizes and I drop the sheet, watching as it flutters to the floor. It finds its place at my feet, like a dog resting by its owner, prepared to do its bidding. “She tried to kill him?” I whisper, the answer already spoken. “Why?”

There were so many reasons to want him dead. Each of us had our own, even Trisha. But not one of us dared to take the necessary step to end his life, ever imagined doing so. Of all of us, Mom was the one who had the most to lose. She remembered him when he was kind, when he knew how to love. Those memories would have served as a buffer between her and any desire to seek freedom.

“To bring you home,” David says. “Because she loves you.”

It is too much, a dam waiting a lifetime to burst. I start to shake, unable to accept the lengths to which my mother went. I stare numbly at the ground, the colors of the rug starting to mix together, swirling like a whirlpool. “Who else knows?” I demand, fearing for her future.

“No one,” David says, causing me to jerk my head up and stare at him. “I ran the test privately and deleted the results from the computer.”

“Why?” I demand. Finding my footing, I come to stand before him.

“I took a vow to save human lives, no matter who it is.” He holds me without touching me, his words refusing to give me any room. “But if your father wasn’t lying in a coma already, knowing what he did to you, how he hurt you, I can’t promise I wouldn’t want to put him there myself.” He cups my cheek in his palm, his warmth seeping into every part of my body and soul. “Those results are yours to do with whatever you want. I can’t begin to claim I understand what you went through as a child.”

I visited a country where every crime was punished under the rule of an eye for an eye, the sentence handed down accordingly. If you stole something, the hand with which you stole could be cut off. An act of adultery could lead to a public stoning or being forcibly assaulted by other members of the village. A death could only be made right by the death of the assailant. A draconian ruling system that left no room for excuse or explanation, sentences handed down without the benefit of a jury to weigh fault or circumstance.

But I cannot stand as judge and jury against my own mother. I will not allow her to face the consequences of the only act left available to her. No matter her reason, I had the benefit of escape when she was forced to stay behind. I have never viewed it from that perspective before, never seen past my pain to envision hers. Now, knowing her act of desperation, I am ashamed to know I never bothered.