“He lied, Trisha,” Mama says. “He wasn’t sorry. He never was.” She sits down next to me, wrapping her frail arm around my shoulder. “You know that.”
Her words cause me to flinch. Unable to understand why, I push away from her. Standing, I pace the small room. Music filters down the stairs. Old Hindi songs. A small diya burns in the makeshift temple on the edge of the kitchen. Homemade ghee fuels the flame. Inside the steel shrine sit pictures of all the gods we pray to. Out of deference to Eric’s faith, Mama added a small statue of Jesus when we got married. My childhood home, the one where I grew into the woman I am today, starts to close in on me. My mother’s words feel like a sword, though I have no idea what she is talking about.
“Then why did you stay?” I demand. I see my reflection in the mirror on the side wall. Instead of the perfectly kept woman I am used to seeing, I gaze at a child in distress. A girl is screaming. Her hair in disarray, her face stained with tears. Her eyes are closed, refusing to see. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image, but when I reopen my eyes, I see she has opened hers. She stares at me. I turn away, unable to look at her anymore.
“Because I believed him,” she answers. “Just like you did.”
I have to get out. My sanctuary has become a prison. I grab my purse and am ready to bolt when she asks, “Why did Eric leave?”
Of course Sonya would have told her. Though we knew to keep our secrets from the outside world, sometimes we forgot to keep them from one another. They served as a reminder that no matter how much time has passed, we can never truly escape the darkness we shared. “Because I wasn’t enough,” I say.
She grabs my hand as I am about to leave. Holds tight. “Why didn’t you want children?”
Sonya is not home, I am sure of it. That night when she stayed with me, held my hair back as I vomited, and then curled into the bed with me while we slept, I had never been so grateful to have my sister back. But now, if she were home, I would turn on her, furious that she revealed too much. “Since Sonya has all the answers, why don’t you ask her?”
“Your sister loves you.” Mama pauses, accepting her next words as truth. “You are the only one I am sure she loves.” She takes both my hands in hers, faces me. “Please, Beti,” she whispers, “tell me. Why didn’t you want children?”
“Maybe I’m just like Papa,” I tell her, wondering if the reason is real. “Maybe I don’t know how to love.”
SONYA
“Can you take a picture of me?” The little girl, Tessa, bounces on her hospital bed. She is the fifth patient I’ve worked with today, and so far the youngest. The others were almost teens. Most stared at me, bored, until they had the camera in their hands. Then, like magic, they began to photograph whatever they could find. Soon, they were chasing down laughing nurses, begging for just one more shot.
“How about you take some by yourself?” I open her tight palm and gently lay the camera atop her cold fingers. I still feel like a stranger in this hospital. My official badge hangs off my suit pants. After wearing jeans and T-shirts the first few days, I used some saved money on more grown-up wear. Splurging on fitted work dresses and pantsuits, I updated my closet for the first time in years. As promised by Human Resources and David, I was supplied with a number of high-end digital cameras and a photo printer for each floor. “You can do it.”
“What if I break it?” Tessa stares at the camera in her hand, her desire warring with her fear.
“You can’t break it,” I assure her. “But if you really don’t want to . . .” When I try to take the camera back, her fingers reflexively curl around it. I suppress a knowing smile. “How about you give it a try?”