“Because there was nothing I had to give you.” She glances at the wall, biting her lip. “To give anyone.” Her eyes cloud over. “I couldn’t watch him give you away. Smile as he played the loving father.” She stands quickly, knocking the stacked pillows to the ground. She avoids my eyes, but I still catch an unreadable mystery in their depths. “And you letting him.” She waits, turning toward me to see how her words affect me.
Something tugs at my brain, a memory. A girl whimpering, searching through the darkness. In the halls of our childhood home, I hear a scream. Terrifying in its intensity, but no one comes to her rescue. She is all alone. I struggle to make out a face, but it is blurred. I shudder, sure it is Sonya I can’t see. Shaking away the image, I focus on who she is now, dismissing the past. Now, I fight to hold on to the sister I have lost. “Then help me watch him die. Tell me how to say good-bye.”
It is unfair for me to demand such a thing from her. Maybe saying good-bye to him means she has finally found freedom. Her path is not the same as mine. We both accepted that at a young age. She was the one bruised, whereas it was my job to hold her, comfort her as best I could. It was easier than I imagined. When you stand unharmed, you find the strength to help those fallen at your feet.
I reach out. She is the only one I turned to as a child, the one whose tears I would wipe. Whereas she struggled to find herself, I learned to be who he needed me to be. That meant standing in his shadow, allowing him to protect me from himself.
“I can’t do this without you.” My last appeal, it is all I have left in my arsenal. My eyes shut, sure I will hear the door open and close. Last time she didn’t tell me she was leaving. For years, I was positive that a simple farewell would have lessened the pain. Now I know the truth. The courtesy of her good-bye pierces more. Because now I must accept the reality—I don’t matter enough for her to stay. “Please.”
“Trisha,” she starts, the pain in her voice clear. I can feel her struggle, her desire to be as far away from all of this, including me, as possible. When I don’t answer, when I refuse to give her a reprieve, I hear her take a deep breath. “I’ll stay,” she whispers, the decision sounding torn from her. “Help you however I can.”
Her words flow through me, warming my heart. She is still the girl I remember. The one I counted on, needed. Just because we were born into the same family did not guarantee we would stand together. With her agreement, we are still one. Opening my eyes, I stare into hers. They are the exact same color as mine. We are sisters, but a bond far greater binds us. On different sides of the road, we walked through the same hell. “Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re my sister,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “And I couldn’t have survived our childhood without you.”
MARIN
Marin is seven, playing with her friends in the dirt. Cows walk freely among them, eating the scraps of food thrown on the ground and leaving their feces in gratitude. The Indian sun makes the air arid, difficult to breathe. But Marin and her friends are used to it, raised as they were under the scorching heat. There are five girls in all. Neighbors since birth, they have become fast friends over the years. Sticks and stones are their toys; with them, they have created a game of hopscotch and Marin is in the lead. It makes no difference who wins. There is no real way to keep score, and the girls often pad their points. But Marin likes knowing she is winning. She welcomes the feeling it gives her, the sense of superiority. The idea that she can do anything.