“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 constant 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.