“Two,” Trisha continues.
Marin runs through the options in her mind. For the first time, she can stop her father. Take her hand out of his. Explain that she does not belong to him. That tomorrow she will belong to another. But for one day, this day, she belongs to herself. Regardless of their culture and beliefs, having been born to him did not make her his. Stamp his name on hers. But she is not his property. She had not chosen this and does not want it. For once, her wants should matter.
“Six, seven.”
Her thoughts ultimately hold no weight. His thumb and finger tighten and come together. He uses her body to balance his. Sonya will joke about it alone in the room and mimic the contortions of his face in the quiet of the night. His lower lip between his teeth and his eyes wide. Like a clown. She will walk around, her arms flailing and feet wide apart. Trisha and Marin will let out small, nervous laughs.
Marin does not feel the final blow. It does not matter anyway. She will never speak about the physical pain. That will subside in time. It is that she could have walked away. She had a choice, and she chose to stay.
“Eight.”
It is a lucky day.
RANEE
The first time Brent hit her was three weeks after he started work in the States. An engineer by trade, the only job he could find in America was changing tires at the local gas station. A customer had berated him in front of everyone. Called him a brownie and told him to go back to whatever island he had come from. Brent had nodded, unable to say anything for fear of losing his job. When the man threw a dollar bill at him as a tip, Brent had slowly bent down and picked it up. That dollar would buy them a pint of milk.
When Brent arrived at their cramped apartment later that night, Ranee had been late in starting dinner. He had complained but muttered he would shower first to wash the grime off. When he returned and Ranee was slow to serve the food, Brent had pulled his hand back and hit her across the face. Ranee staggered, reaching back for balance, to regain her footing. Her left hand landed on the still-hot stove. The scar that resulted from her burnt skin was still visible on her palm today. Her other hand had automatically gone to her stomach; she had just learned of her pregnancy. Marin and Trisha stood near the kitchen staring in horror.
Ranee puts the final touches on the salad while the chicken strips cook. She tosses the dried cranberries with the homemade dressing just as she hears the front door open. A quick glance at the watch that circles her petite wrist tells her it’s just before five. Since moving home, Sonya has made a habit of leaving first thing in the morning and returning right before dinner.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Ranee calls out when she hears Sonya’s footsteps falter in the foyer.
“Something smells good,” Sonya says, dropping her camera bag on the kitchen island. Glancing at the salad, she asks, “Can I help?”
“If you could just set the table.” They’ve fallen into a pattern over the last few weeks. Every morning they sit and have breakfast, and in the evenings they cook dinner together. Even if it is just sandwiches, they silently move within the kitchen as if they’ve been coordinating for years. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” Sonya’s answers are quick, details often left out. “Yours?”
They are two strangers with a history that serves as the only connection between them. “I picked out new bedding for your room.” Sonya is staying. They have not spoken about it, though Ranee is sure that earlier she had made plans to leave. Something changed and for that Ranee is grateful. “The bedding in your room is over ten years old.”