“I’m going to accept a position at the hospital. As a photographer,” I announce. It feels odd to me to confide my plans to anyone. But after leaving the hospital, I drove around, considering my options. Since it was the only one I had, the choice was made for me.
“For how long?” Trisha asks, her joy clear.
“As long as I’m needed,” I say, leaving open to interpretation who needs me. From Trisha’s glance, she knows I’m speaking about her. She nods to me once, her face filled with gratitude.
“Your father’s condition is unchanged.” Mom wipes her mouth with her napkin. She makes no comment about my announcement. The curry leaves an orange stain on the pristine white linen. “I don’t know how long the insurance company will pay for his care.”
“He will come out of it soon,” Trisha says. She pushes her plate away, most of the food untouched. “I was with him the other day. There was improvement.”
“What?” Marin, who has remained aloof most of the meal, lowers her fork to stare at Trisha. “What did you see?”
On the spot, Trisha clasps her hands together. The air-conditioning kicks on, causing the chandelier above us to sway slightly. “There was nothing to see. I just know.”
“Of course,” Marin mocks. “You just know.”
“What does that mean?”
Trisha and Marin’s relationship vacillated between combative and impersonal growing up. Marin resented the love and attention showered on Trisha when she was the one who brought home the top grades and succeeded beyond everyone’s expectation. But her battle to replace Trisha was a losing one. Our parents would never see Marin or me the way they viewed Trisha. Marin must have accepted that at some point. Decided the battle was no longer worth fighting. It was why I was shocked when she made the decision to return to California soon after she married.
“Just that it must be nice to know everything, that’s all,” Marin says.
Her face is drawn tight. Her usual control replaced with worry, anxiety. Lost in Trisha’s discomfort, I failed to notice Marin’s. I see now what I missed before. Dark circles color the skin beneath her eyes. There are lines of age that weren’t there just a week ago. She is holding herself together, but barely.
As children, we were each lost in our own hell. That became our excuse not to ask the other what had happened when she was crying or quiet. The question was moot anyway. Most likely we had seen the hit or the insult. Witnessed the altercation that resulted in a one-way beating. We knew never to interrupt—to stand up for our loved one. It could only lead to a more severe beating—or worse, he could turn on us. Somehow, we convinced ourselves that one person beaten was better than two.
Now there is no reason to remain quiet. It is easy to forget that I am allowed to ask why she is sad. This is new territory for me. With trepidation, I turn toward Marin, assuming that whatever is bothering Trisha will right itself because it has to.
“Marin? Is something wrong?” I realize neither Gia nor Raj have joined us for dinner. “Gia and Raj? They couldn’t make dinner?”
She flinches. Dropping her spoon, she shakes her head no. “Gia had to study.” At the same time, her mouth draws into a tight line and her hands fist atop the table. “Everything’s fine.”
“You are lying.”
We all turn toward Mom, shocked to hear her argue. She was always the first one to accept our insistence that we were fine. Even as our faces would begin to swell with dead blood, we would assure her that we had moved past the incident. His sobs from the bedroom—because he always cried after hitting us—were more important than what he had done. She welcomed our strength, used it to buoy her when she had none of her own. Then she would leave us to comfort him, because it was what he expected her to do.