“Brent, you just arrived in America. We have been here since before our children’s births, and yet we are not able to accomplish the success you have in such a short time.” The uncle offered Marin another smile. “You are an example to the rest of the children in our community. How fortunate for us that you are here now. Our children now have someone to look up to and learn from.” He shook Brent’s hand, using his other to motion toward the stain. “This is not a child who would make such a mistake. Tell me, what is your secret?”
“I sit with her every night for her studies,” Brent said, offering a smile to Marin for the uncle’s benefit. “Her success is our validation for coming to America.”
“And she should be applauded for it, my friend.” He motioned for Marin and his daughter to follow. “Come, I will buy you whichever sweet you prefer. You have earned it.”
Marin lays her head against the back of the chair next to Brent’s bed, the memory of that day washing over her. She enjoyed a plateful of delectable Indian sweets that night, thanks to the uncle and Brent both buying them whatever they wanted. But more important than the sweets was the lesson of the night. The one that came with Brent’s apology to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, one of the first and last times Marin would hear the words from him. “The uncle was right. Someone with your accomplishments would never make such a mistake.” Lost in thought, he murmured to himself, “It is all a game, Marin. Life, I mean. You must know how to win it. That’s all that matters.”
The message was clear—as long as she was accomplished and the world knew it, she was safe. No one would dare touch her. She was special because she was successful. That night, she made herself a promise. Never again would she be anything but the best. It was the only way to guarantee complete control over her life, to win the game.
“Here is my success, Daddy,” Marin murmurs now. “Gia wants to live with her father.” Marin hears her daughter’s declaration again and again in her ears. “She doesn’t want me.” Marin catches her breath, each passing second making it more difficult. “I’ve done everything for her. My success was supposed to be her beacon, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. She doesn’t love me.”
Her weight too heavy to bear, Marin slides off the chair and onto the floor. On her knees, she lays her head down on the floor, the tears that have been dry for her entire life now flowing. At first they are slow, but soon enough they turn to sobs. “I don’t know what to do.” Like a dam that has burst, Marin can’t stop the tears. Sure she has lost her daughter, Marin accepts she has nothing left in a life that was destroyed years ago.
TRISHA
I lie in Sonya’s bed, both of us flat on our backs next to one another. Our hands are clasped together as we stare at the ceiling. In the silence, you can hear our breaths, hers steady, mine loud, ragged.
“What did I say? That night,” I finally ask, needing to know.
After Mama told me everything, I collapsed on the floor and sobbed into her arms until the past slowly slipped away and I finally returned to reality. I was no longer fifteen, but I didn’t feel thirty either. I felt older than my years, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder how much of my childhood got frozen in time after the assault. How much I lost living in the shadow of what he did to me. I was his favorite, and only now do I realize the high price I paid for that preference.
“That he had hurt you. When I asked how, you said he had touched you. That he took you.” Sonya squeezes my hand tighter, the memory hurting her. “I didn’t understand until years later what you meant.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
“I did. That night, you fell asleep in my bed. The next morning you woke up and acted like nothing had happened. When I tried to say something, you dismissed me, told me I was stupid.” Sonya turns her face toward mine. “I was confused, not sure if you made it up or just didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I forgot,” I admit, trying desperately to remember that night and the following day in full detail. “Everything. I don’t even remember our conversation.”