Marin doesn’t need any further explanation. It is the secret they have kept for so long, each one of them holding it like a prized possession. “No. There’s no way.” Even now, her voice drops, fearing Raj may overhear. “It’s not possible.”
“She told me.” The step beneath her seems to give way, causing her knees to weaken. She reaches for the mangalsutra around her neck, belatedly remembering she has removed it. “She said it was not a matter of concern, since the boy hit her like your father hit you.”
“No!” Marin’s anger vibrates off her, filling the space between them. “I need you to leave.” Marin glances around, desperate. She walks to the door, flinging it open. “Go.”
“She’s my granddaughter.” Ranee stands her ground. She can see her daughter’s fear beneath the anger, the anguish propelling her. “I won’t leave.”
“You told her.”
Ranee jerks back, as if Marin had slapped her. “Never.” Ranee wraps her arms around her waist instead of reaching out. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“To hurt me.” The statement is final with no room for argument, a verdict handed down from a lifetime of evidence. “There’s no other explanation.”
“You’re my daughter.” Ranee will weep later, in the privacy of her own room, where there is no one to bear witness. “I would first hurt myself before hurting you.”
“Maybe I could believe that if you ever stopped him. If you ever cared that I was hurting.” Marin meets Ranee’s eyes, allowing no further argument. “You didn’t, but I do care for my daughter. There’s nothing more for you to do.”
Ranee nods, accepting the sentence without argument. “If you need me, I am here.” Without anything else to say, she walks out.
For hours, Ranee sits in the dark, staring at the pictures spread out before her. In the shadows, she can barely make out the faces, but there is no need. She memorized them all years ago. There were one or two pictures of her parents, whom she barely saw after she married. They never came to visit her in her new home. With young children still at home, they were grateful to have one less mouth to feed. Ranee only went back home three times. Twice to introduce Marin and Trisha after they were born, and the third time to say good-bye. That time, right as Ranee was leaving their house, her mother brought out an unworn sari, expensive for its time. It had been gifted to her in dowry by her parents, and she offered it to Ranee.
“Something to remember me by.”
“I will see you again,” Ranee had said, insistent. “America is not so far away.”
But her mother was not listening, her attention already on one of the other children. A year after their arrival to America, Ranee received notice that her mother had passed on and her father had married a widow from a neighboring village. Ranee took the sari from her closet and tucked it away in a drawer so she wouldn’t think of the mother she barely knew.
There are pictures of the girls’ childhood birthday parties alongside dozens of Brent. He loved having his picture taken when they traveled. Like a child, he would hand the camera to Ranee and slip in next to the three girls, whether it was standing in front of the Grand Canyon or the monuments in Washington, DC. Marin’s and Sonya’s smiles turned into thin lines as they stood rod still, afraid of doing anything to rile his anger. Only Trisha seemed relaxed, unafraid of his presence.
Ranee roams over the other photographs, realizing there are none of her. She checks again to make sure. But she was always the one behind the camera, instructed by Brent on how to focus and aim for the right shot. Never did he ask to take one of her, her beauty emblazoned forever on paper. The irony was the daughter he hated the most was the only one who shared his passion for photography.
“What are you doing in here?” Sonya flips on the light, squinting to help her eyes adjust. “Mom?”
“I saw Gia.” The wound still open and bleeding, Ranee has no idea how to stop the gushing blood. “She knows.”