“There’s a whole world out there, Mom.” Sonya pushes away from the table, her food barely touched. “I imagine there’s someplace that would want me.”
“But this is your home.” Ranee glances around, seeing the home as if it were brand new. In a way it is. The past, no matter how definite, does not have the power to determine the future. The proof is standing right in front of her. How many days had she walked the halls, passed Sonya’s room, wondering if it would ever shelter her daughter again? Now, Sonya is here, eating the breakfast she has made. There is no flinching at the sound of his footsteps or cringing before he speaks. There is no fear, and that in itself is proof that they are free of him.
Ranee ignores the sound of laughter that reverberates in her head. It mocks her for believing she has escaped. A fugitive is never free. Though he lies unconscious in a coma, miles away, his memory still smothers the air she breathes. Part of her knows it always will.
“This has always been your home,” Ranee argues.
Sonya opens her mouth but no words come. She stares down at her food and fiddles with what’s left. “It was never my home,” she says quietly. Glancing around at everything familiar, she asks, her voice rising with anger, “Did you convince yourself it was yours?”
Her comment—and her anger—cause Ranee to stagger back, her left arm reaching for the counter for support. Images of India and her homes there dance in front of her eyes. “In my first home,” she starts quietly, “I would run along a water bank as the servants washed our clothes in the mouth of the river.”
Never having heard any stories from Ranee’s childhood, Sonya stops drinking her chai to listen. “What was it like?”
Ranee pauses, thinking back to that time. “Free.” She would throw pebbles into the water, earning her a scolding from the servants who watched her. “My mother had five children before me and four after. I was raised by servants who earned a few cents a day.”
“I never knew that,” Sonya murmurs.
No, she wouldn’t have, Ranee thought, never having shared any of her childhood with her daughters. “Do you know my first memory of life?” When Sonya shakes her head no, Ranee begins her tale. “I was three, maybe four. I was running after a bird but it refused to be caught.” They share a quick smile with one another. “I stepped on a nail. It pierced my foot, went right through the arch.”
“Mom,” Sonya’s voice fills with pain at the image. “What happened?”
“I cried.” Blood had dripped everywhere. Dropping her face into her hands, she had sobbed, sure that the sound would carry and bring someone to her aid. But she had ventured too far. Only trees and the sway of the wind kept her company. “In the distance I was sure I saw my mother stop and stare at me. It was the last thing I remembered before I fell unconscious.”
“Was she there?” Sonya asks.
“I never asked. A servant found me and took me home.” Ranee takes a deep breath. “This home is the only one I have.”
“You could sell it.” Sonya starts to clean up. She scrapes all the food into the garbage can before rinsing the plate in the sink. “It’s very large for one person.”
“You assume your father is never coming home.”
“Don’t you?” Sonya begins to rinse the sinkful of plates as if she had never stopped. As if she had never walked out of this house and their life seemingly for forever. “Maybe his mind finally understood it was time to turn on himself instead of others.”