I had forgotten her way of speaking. Always to the point—never hiding behind walls of make-believe. When we were young, she was the one who spoke about the beatings. Questioned why, and whether Papa had the right. Marin accepted them, said it was just his way. I would never comment. It seemed inappropriate somehow, since I had no experience to speak of. “He understood.”
“That I couldn’t make it?” She seems surprised.
“Yes,” I lie. He never told me he understood. Never questioned why she failed to show. He simply held me and told me how much he loved me. Promised he would always be there for me. I hold up the plate of sweets, offering her all of them. “Try some. You’ll really like them.”
“No, thank you.” She barely glances at them. “I gave up sweets a few years ago.”
“What?” There is no hiding my shock. Though the change is minor, it disappoints me that I was unaware. “Why?”
“I was in Ethiopia for a photo shoot.” She says it offhandedly. “I had packed a box of real milk chocolates from London—the type you can’t find in the States.” Her face shows her yearning for them. “I had maybe fifty or so in my knapsack. When I was on location, a child came up to me. Three or four years old. Held out her hand for a piece of the chocolate. I gave her some and soon I was surrounded.” Clearly lost in her memory, she continues, “Some of the kids had tears in their eyes as they ate. Over a piece of chocolate.”
“Seems an odd reason for you to give it up.” She’s never offered me details of the places she’s traveled. In the few conversations we had over the years, I never thought to ask. It’s funny how I forgot that while she was gone she was living her own life. My focus remained on those she left behind and our everyday happenings. On our parents, Marin, and Gia—the only family I had left.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Every time I tried eating sweets afterward, I thought of those kids. I lost my taste for it.” She runs her hand through her hair before settling into the sofa. She tries to get comfortable among the ruffled pillows. Out of frustration, she takes three of them and moves them to another sofa before settling into the cushions.
“They’re for decoration,” I explain. Her lack of appreciation for them stings. There is no way for her to know the hours I spent finding the exact match for the sofa. I am distracted by the casual stack she makes of them. Handmade woven silk pillows thrown together carelessly. Clasping my hands together, I tuck them between my jean-clad knees to keep from reaching out and rearranging them. “A contrast against the solid fabric of the sofa.”
Sonya considers my words. She glances at the pillows, running her fingers over the raised stripes interwoven with flowers. Her gaze strays to the sofa, the plain beige fabric that was special-ordered from Italy. The right shade to go with the faux painting and silk curtains in the room. “OK.”
Laughter bubbles in me before spilling out. We’re choosing to discuss chocolates and pillows after so many years apart. Pillows that she would be surprised to know cost what our parents paid for an entire year of rent for our apartment. She has no clue why they are so important. Even if I tell her that I am forced to maintain an image, an appearance for the society I live in, I am sure she won’t care. Just as I cannot relate to her life, she could never commiserate about mine. I wonder if there is anything left between us besides the past. My hands cover my face because the laughter is changing, and I refuse to let her see my tears. I quickly wipe them away, but they flow between my fingers and over my manicured nails.
“Please,” she says. “Don’t do this.”