It is not what I expected. None of us saw that coming. Mom disappears into her chair. Trisha, the only one with a response, answers, “Maybe it was meant to be.”
“Spoken from the girl who was never hit,” Marin says with a bite. “How fortunate for you. The rest of us didn’t have that luxury, did we?” She looks to me for support.
I stop myself from speaking aloud the resentment that simmered over the years—the envy toward Trisha. But the relationship we share, all the times we stood together, overshadow any other emotion.
“I guess I was lucky,” Trisha says, barely blinking. She empties her glass. Her reasoning sounds rehearsed, something she has repeated to herself.
“Or maybe no one saved us.” Marin turns her gaze to Mom, betrayal filling the room. “That is a mother’s job, right? To protect her children? Even animals know something that basic. They protect their young, fight to the death if necessary for their safety.”
“Is that what I should have done?” Mom asks. “Given up my life for the sake of yours?” She pauses, considering. Coming to her own conclusion, she nods, “Yes, maybe that is what I should have done.”
As a child I vacillated between anger and gratitude for her inaction. Because even though she failed to stand between him and us, she was at least there to stand beside us. As a child desperate for some semblance of love, I rationalized that as enough. Besides, we were still alive. None of us had died at his hands. That had to count for something.
“Too late now. You never even tried.” Marin throws back. “If you had attempted, maybe . . .”
Twice, Dad put Marin in a dark closet for hours because of her grades. While I sat outside the door, whimpering for the heartache I imagined she was enduring, Marin stayed deathly silent inside. Mom, her mouth clenched shut, continued to prepare dinner. Only her eyes flitting toward the clock on the wall every few minutes, counting the time as it passed, gave any indication of her concern.
“But I didn’t.”
Marin’s question and Mom’s response hang over us like a bomb ready to explode. I read once that we don’t choose our families, or our childhood, but we choose our future. As if that one choice can help ease the heartache of a childhood gone wrong. I wonder if I would choose my sisters as my friends, if I would make the conscious decision to confide in them, spend time together, trust them. Would I be able to accept the responsibility of carrying them when they fell? In truth, can anyone really be counted on to help when all is lost?
“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I ask. They are the only words I have in my arsenal. I have nightmares of Marin in the closet. But in my dreams she is crying, and Mom is desperately trying to save her. “He can’t hit you ever again.”
“No, he can’t.” She glances at her watch, time having stood still for the last hour. She straightens her hair, fixes her shirt. In a matter of a few steps, she returns to the executive she is. Any signs of vulnerability have disappeared, leaving the rest of us to wonder if we imagined it. “Dinner was wonderful, as always,” she says to Trisha. “Can I help clean up?”
“Eloise will do it,” Trisha says.
“Then it’s time I head out.”
She pushes her chair back, only to be halted by Mom’s words. “You never told us what was bothering you.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” We watch, the three of us, as she walks out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.
“Are you all right?” Trisha asks Mom quietly.
“Of course.”
It is difficult to imagine how she could be. Maybe Marin attacked Mom before. In the years that I was gone, there may have been numerous confrontations like the one I just witnessed. Seeing Mom’s reaction however, I doubt it. She is shaken, saddened by the clash. With tired hands, she reaches for her purse and shawl. The beauty that had emanated from her earlier has disappeared. All that is left is an old woman, aged before her time.
“I should go. It is late.” Turning to me, she asks, “I will see you at home?”