“And if I am?” Marin stands, dropping her napkin over the remainder of her food. “What business is it of yours?”
She needs someone to attack. Her fighting stance, the venom in her words, makes it clear. Mom is the easiest and most vulnerable. We watched her beaten so many times, it seems natural to watch it in play again. I have no instinct to come to her defense. I turn toward Trisha, assuming she will end this war before Mom loses the battle, but she remains quiet. A glaze covers her eyes, protecting her from what is about to happen.
“I am your mother. If not mine, whose business is it?”
She is not backing down.
“No one’s,” Marin answers.
So, something is wrong. Marin has just admitted as much. We are at a crossroads. As children, we were forced to share our lives by default. Dad made sure all of us were pieces in his game. No one was allowed to opt out, to choose not to play. There were no teams, so our only role was to comfort the loser of the day.
As adults, we each took our own path. Even living in the same town, it is obvious that Marin and Trisha never take the same road. Their lives never intersect. If not for the forced family functions, their worlds would remain separate and apart. The only bond that binds them now is the blood that courses through their veins. That, and being two of the only five people in the world who know about the life we lived.
“Maybe it is our business.” Trisha comes back from wherever she had gone. She reaches out, covering the top of Marin’s hand with her own. Only for a second, but enough time to have everyone staring at their joined fingers. She echoes Mom. “Who else’s would it be?”
“You don’t want to know.” Marin slips her hand out from beneath Trisha’s. She starts to stack our dishes, irrelevant whether we are finished eating. “It would ruin the perfection you work so hard to preserve.”
“Don’t you mean it would ruin the image you so desperately try to maintain?” Trisha shrugs, indifferent to Marin’s intake of breath. “Honestly, Marin, you shouldn’t bother. Everyone stopped caring years ago.”
After an assignment for the New York Times, I spent time in their stacks, going through old photographs. The ones that were too fragile to preserve had been scanned and copied. The originals were kept for historical purposes. Like a scattering of light snow, pieces of print fell into my hands. Images taken in a moment offered the only window into another generation’s life. I stared at their faces, their poses revealing little of their struggles, their hopes, and disappointments. They stared into the camera, allowing only what they wanted to be exposed.
Seeing my family now, I wonder if we are any different. Each one of us portraying only what we allow. Like statues inside a snow globe, we are frozen, emotionless to anyone watching. No matter what happens, we will not visibly break, even if we are shattered on the inside. But when did we decide to keep our secrets from one another? When did our circle shrink to one, leaving the chain that connected us broken irretrievably? But each one of us was the weak link. The chain was bound to break.
“We’re trying to help,” I interject because the bridge we are walking on is about to collapse. Mom turns toward me, watching me with interest. “Let us.”
“You’re trying to help?” Marin laughs, a cruel sound filled with emptiness. “All these years, you disappear and now you think you can come in and save the day?”
“No, I don’t.” I say, fully aware of my own limitations. “I’m asking you to let us in, to help you shoulder whatever is going on.” I offer the only reason I have. “You did the same for us, when we were kids.”
She collapses back into her chair, defeated. Almost to herself she asks, “Why did I let him hit me? Why would anyone allow herself to be hit?”