Trail of Broken Wings by Sejal Badani
To my family—
Without you, I would not be here. For everything I am, thank you. I love you.
SONYA
My mother’s voice echoes in the background, her message blaring from my cell phone’s speaker. With each word come memories, filtered through shards of broken glass. I want to, need to, shut the phone off, but my body refuses to move. Her voice gets louder as she calls to me, the desperation in her voice seeping through the fog that is clouding my mind.
With approximately seven billion people in the world, I wonder how one person’s voice can have such an effect. I imagine I am stronger than I used to be, more resilient. That I am the master of my destiny and everyone is a pawn in my game—not the other way around. Because if I am the poker chip, then I have to wait to see how I’ll be played. The unknown is the hardest. Which might explain why we try so hard to rule our worlds. It is the only hope we have to make sense of our lives.
Noises of the city waft through the open window. My apartment sits on the tenth floor, but the honk of the yellow cabs and the sounds of people moving on the streets below easily make their way up. Though winter has arrived, the only signs within the skyscraper walls of Manhattan are heavy jackets and the smell of salt mixed with remnants of snow on the streets. Otherwise, no one misses a step. A fortitude I have come to admire in the three months since my arrival.
I glance around, staring at the framed pictures that fill this temporary home. Every place I have been, memorialized forever on glossy paper. Through the prism of a camera lens, I have seen the beauty of the world. Monuments created by humans stand in competition with art sculpted by nature. Each image serves as a reminder that a light shines through so many people, and yet, no matter how far I run, I cannot seem to escape my shadow.
“Come home. Please. I need you. We need you. Your father, Brent, he . . .” My mother’s—Ranee’s—voice falters. A woman who rarely spoke during my childhood now says so much: “Sonya, he’s in a coma. I don’t know how long he has.”
As if my father is here, in the sanctuary I have created, I feel his breath on me as my own comes in gasps. I clutch the counter behind me, pressing my fingers against the cool tile. Images of the past fill the room, each one stronger than the last. Shaking my head, I grip the tile harder, my muscles constricting with the effort. Finally, the pain breaks the noose of the past tightening around me and I can breathe again.
Closing my eyes, I try to imagine him lying in a hospital bed, dependent upon machines to keep him alive. It seems impossible to believe. Yet I am sure my mother is not playing a game. Over six years have passed since I left her on the doorstep, watching as I drove away. Not once since then has she asked me to come home. Or begged to see the daughter she bore and raised. Her anguish is not a ploy, but nonetheless I am helpless to ease her pain.
I stare at the evidence of my travels, each photograph proof of my desperate search for a place to call home. Now, the only home I have ever known beckons, demands my return. I am a grown woman, capable of making my own choices, but there is no choice to be made. The secrets my sisters and I hold like a lifeline are drumming within me, a steady, relentless beat. The secrets are demanding to be free, heard by the world. Yet, I am not ready. I fear I never will be.
Because if they are free, then where does that leave me?