Brent whispered his secret not to make it better, or to seek justice for his deeds. No, he confessed to unburden his own soul. For all the sins he had committed, this was the one he did not want to take with him to the other side. He hadn’t been feeling well, knew something was off. Wondered aloud if his time was near. When Ranee agreed it might be, he had dropped his head, gripped the armrests of the chair he was seated on, and admitted a wrong Ranee had never conceived. When he was done, when he laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, Ranee walked out and didn’t return home until hours later.
Since then, she’d rehearsed the words, created the perfect scenario to tell Trisha the secret no one knew. But no setting seemed right; no combination of words fit together to make sense. Maybe now, Ranee thinks, the time has arrived. Without planning, without preparation, maybe the moment has finally come to admit the occurrence that Trisha needs to hear. Has the right to know.
Heroes are not born or created. They become so in the passing moments of life. When something or someone demands you be more than you have been, when you must put aside your own needs and what is best for you to fight for another, no matter the cost. The past, the day-to-day living becomes irrelevant. All that matters is that instant when the ticking of the clock is louder than an ocean’s wave hitting the rocks, when time does not stand still, but slows, every second longer than the last one. This is when the decision becomes the only thing you can hear and see. When the choice falls out of your hand and fate intervenes. When your life is no longer yours but conjoined with another’s, each dependent upon the other to survive and thrive.
Ranee stands and walks toward the stairs, prepared to take each one, but her courage fails her. Today is not the day. Ranee was not born to be a hero or a savior. She is not ready and wonders if she ever will be. Knowing that Trisha has mapped out her own life, fully aware that she holds the pen to help Trisha redraw the lines, Ranee is nonetheless too afraid to tell the truth. Instead, she walks to the front door, following the same path her other two daughters did before her, leaving Trisha all alone.
MARIN
Brent insisted Marin take Home Economics in high school. Along with Calculus and Biology, he was sure the class would fully round out her résumé. Marin didn’t mind. They scrambled eggs, a food Marin never had before, and ate it with toast and jelly. She was used to roti and pickled turmeric root every morning; the American breakfast staple was a novelty. Marin devoured the meal, savoring the unique tastes. Afterward, as they were cleaning up, the students started playing a game.
“If you could be any kind of fruit, what would you be?” one of the girls asked aloud to no one specifically.
“An apple, because everyone loves them,” one girl replied.
“A tomato,” one of the guys said, “because it’s a stupid question.”
“Well, technically, a tomato could be considered a fruit, so thank you,” the girl who asked the question returned.
They went around the room, Marin murmuring “Grapes,” but offering no reason when it was her turn. But when another girl said pineapple, Marin paid attention, curious about the choice. “Because it’s prickly on the outside and impossible to cut through. But once you get to the fruit, it’s worth the trouble,” the girl explained. “So don’t always believe what you see.”
Marin eats alone at her desk. She and Raj have barely spoken to one another since Gia returned to school. The prosecutor assigned to Adam’s case keeps them abreast of any updates, but the backlog means things move slowly. Marin tries to temper her need for the process to speed up, wishing she could control it like she does her work. She’s refocused her energy on her job, grateful that their family life has returned to some semblance of what it used to be. The only difference now is that Raj and Marin take turns picking up Gia from school every afternoon, having lost trust she’ll be honest regarding her whereabouts.