Images of the men I have slept with swarm before me, each one oblivious to what was happening in my head. “When I am making love,” I pause, my eyes shutting with shame, “the only way I can have an orgasm is by imagining a woman being broken.”
I will not cry. Not now. He has to see the malevolence, all the shades of black that I am. “It’s my definition of love.” My chest is heaving with dry sobs. “But if a man ever dared to touch me that way, if a man ever actually raised a hand to me, I know I would kill him where he stood.”
I don’t remember the first time my father hit me. They say you form your first memory when you are four. If that’s the case, then I imagine he started hitting me long before my brain knew to make an imprint. The recollection I do have is when I was barely six. Like a stream searching for a river to belong to, I was sure if I became beautiful like Trisha, I too would become favored, loved by the father who barely gave me any attention. I sneaked on one of my mother’s saris and wrapped it around myself as best I could. I powdered my face with talcum and used her red lipstick to highlight my mouth. A quick perusal in the mirror told me what my young brain needed—I had succeeded in becoming a swan.
I found him in the living room. “Look, Daddy,” I announced, twirling in all my glory. The sari proved too much for me to navigate; I tripped and fell onto him, sending his chai flying. He hit me over the head and then threw me across the room, the sari coming undone and floating over me like a sheet over a corpse. I lay there silent, in disbelief that I hadn’t succeeded when I was so sure I would.
“So, you see,” I start, watching David watch me. It is time to say good-bye. “There is nothing for you to get to know. Nothing for you to miss. I’m not good enough, and I never will be.”
MARIN
The memory of her father’s words came to Marin while she was sleeping. “It is all a game,” he had said. Marin hadn’t understood until now how important those words were. How critical the lesson was. The game wasn’t over; it hadn’t even begun. The last play she had lost. Gia and Raj had made their move, and they stood as the victors. But Marin would not lose her daughter, not now, not ever. She sat in her office, contemplating the next step with more thought than she had ever given to any of her business dealings. The answer came to her just as she feared there might not be one. It was simple, really, but she realized most things were. It was emotions that made things difficult. As long as you kept those in check, everything else would fall into place.
“Raj?” Marin says, knocking softly on his office door. He glances up, his face shuttered from revealing too much. He has been working more from home, wanting to be near Gia in case she needs anything. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” He motions her in but stays in his seat behind his desk. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk about us.” Marin begins, not breaking eye contact.
“I was under the impression there wasn’t an us.”
He is not going to make it easy on her, but that is fine. She has fought larger battles and won. “Things have been difficult; we have gone through a lot with Gia.” Marin pauses, trying to find the right words. “We’ve been married a long time. I’m not ready to give up on that yet.”
Raj falls silent, watching her carefully. Marin sees the distrust but also the hurt, and she is surprised at the emotion. “What do you propose?”
“We try again. Go slow, but with the intention that our family remains intact.”
Raj finally stands, coming around to face her. After so many years of marriage, of having and raising a daughter together, they stand as strangers. “Why?”
“What do you mean?” Marin demands.