“I’m surprised you care.” Marin sits back in her chair, assessing the woman Sonya has become.
I find myself doing the same. If I am honest, we are strangers sitting together. Though we lived in the same house, survived similar ordeals, we have each grown to become our own women. With time we have learned to hold our secrets close rather than share. It is our conditioning, what is expected of a good Indian woman. We learned from a young age not to share our heartbreak, our despairs. It may cause others to view you with a negative eye, think less of you.
“Why is that?” Sonya demands. She straightens in her chair. Refusing to apologize for her escape, she stares without flinching.
“Because you haven’t for so many years.”
Every instinct demands I call a truce. As if it is my duty to assure both of them that there is no wrongdoing, no matter what anyone believes. Before I can speak, Sonya does. With her words, I shut my eyes, feeling the fragile ties of my family begin to unravel further.
“I could say the same about you,” she bites. Her bitterness has become more powerful with time. “I don’t remember you looking over your shoulder when you left us behind at twenty-one.”
“I got married,” Marin argues. “And I came back.”
“So did I.” Sonya, finished with the battle, turns toward me. “Do they know why he fell into a coma?”
“It does not matter,” Mama says, answering before I can. She glances at both Marin and Sonya, relaying a silent message—enough. She moves on to me, rewarding me with a smile for always being the stable one. The daughter who never makes unnecessary waves. “It is as it is. We must focus on the future.” She stands, finished with their antics and leaving no room for more. “If he does not come out of it, then we must prepare for the cremation, the spreading of his ashes.”
“And if he does?” I have to ask the question. I have not given up hope, though I understand why she has. “What then?”
“Then we go back to the way things were.”
I check the lock on the front door and set the security system. Under the illumination of the red blinking light, I walk around my darkened home, straightening sofa pillows and pushing in the dining-room chairs. Eloise cleaned up and left hours ago. Everyone followed her out soon after. Sonya went home with Mama, and Marin and Raj left with Gia. We promised to meet at the hospital tomorrow.
“It went well.” Eric sneaks up on me. His tie is undone and his hair disheveled from the unexpected conference call he just finished. “Even under the circumstances.” He kisses my neck, pushing my hair out of the way for better access. I moan as he kneads my shoulders, his fingers slowly traveling down my back. His hands settle on my hips and he brings me in tighter. “Are you ovulating?”
For four years, Eric has wanted a child. Twice he was sure I was pregnant, only for me to watch him grieve when my period arrived. Having been raised in an orphanage, Eric is anxious to have a large family. He fell in love with our five-bedroom house and bought it specifically to raise children in. It took us three months to perfect the room down the hall from ours as a nursery. It sits empty, waiting for the cries of a child.
“Yes,” I say, though he already has the answer. He has my schedule memorized better than I do. My ovulation cycle and then my period, in their respective orders. My mind wanders back to my family. “Mama and Sonya—do you think they’re OK?”
He sighs as his hands drop away. When I turn to face him, his eyes soften. He cradles my cheek in his palm. “Your mom called her. Asked her to come home. They’ll figure their way out.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You still haven’t answered my question from before. Are you OK?”
“She’s changed,” I say. “Looks older, more tired.” But she’s home and for that I’m grateful, I think.