“How many are left?” Marin is the first to break the silence. With less than a day left together, she knows neither wants quiet to fill their final minutes.
“Dad’s suit and one sari.” Trisha touches Marin’s shoulder lightly. “Are you excited?” Trisha lays the suit pants on the table. “Everyone here just for you. Being the center of attention?”
“So you wouldn’t mind it?” Marin teases her.
“I don’t know. But it’s not a bad way to end your time here. Right?” Trisha seems to need the answer more for herself than anything.
“I don’t know how it’s supposed to end. Am I happy that I’m free of Daddy? Or do I spend all my time worrying that you guys are still here?” Marin’s gaze is steady on Trisha.
“Don’t worry about us.” Trisha’s voice is sure and strong. “Just be happy. OK?”
The smell of smoke catches them both unaware. In the years to follow, Marin would remember the conversation. The actual piece of clothing would become a distant memory, the burning cheap cotton a vague recollection. But in that moment, when Marin turns to see the charred hole, it freezes them. Their eyes widen in shock, fear tightening their faces. The sudden approach of footsteps leaves them little time to create an excuse. As has been the case so often in their history, there are no alarm bells. No drums or whistles to warn. Rage is random in its frequency. The moments that seem sure to lead to it rarely do. Events to forgive, minor transgressions—those lead to volatility. Unpredictable abuse leaves psychological scars that last long after the physical ones.
Brent’s eyes bulge at the sight of the burn. Though it is small, the pants are ruined. Marin stands straight, facing him. There is no other place to escape until tomorrow. She does not look at his face. Not one of them ever does.
“You are stupid with my suit.” Brent stares at Marin, anger vibrating off him. “Are only your clothes important to you? You think you are special because you are getting married?”
Marin does not answer. Over time, they have learned it is best not to. His own responses seem to impress him more.
“I am married. I still care about others, including your things. I have paid for this entire wedding, have I not? You do not show the same respect to me. Why?”
His thumb and middle finger encircle Marin’s wrist. She stares at his digits. They do not touch. If Marin pulled, one twist of her arm, she would be free. She could step away, say no. This weighs on her, since she has never thought it before.
The first blow lands above Marin’s ear. It is from the palm of his hand. Above the ear is his favorite place, that or the side of the head. For Ranee—on the back and in the stomach. Sonya—always the back of the head. Always first with the palm, then, convinced the perceived wrong is egregious, the fist.
“One,” Trisha begins to count. It is her ritual, her key for survival. The recipient of the beating is irrelevant. She swears that the hits, no matter how many there really are, never go past eight. It is her lucky number. So she continues. He has never stopped her. Maybe because it has never been her jawbone that connects with his fist. Regardless, she is desperate to reach eight. Because then the violence toward her loved ones will end. And she can return to her reality.
Marin’s vision is still intact. After the fourth or fifth one, it will get blurry. Only momentarily. But right then, she can still see. Her head whip-lashed to the side. On her wedding night, when Raj caresses her neck, she will wince. Cringe when he goes to kiss her. She will tell him she slept wrong because it was the night before the wedding. Jitters and stress. Just a kink in her neck, Marin will assure him. She will be better soon.