“She’s not what I expected.”
Eric has seen pictures of Sonya in the album. Most show a young girl staring silently into the camera. She was always more comfortable behind the lens than in front of it. The last picture I have is the night of her college graduation. Summa cum laude from Stanford. The whole family gathered to celebrate her achievement. But it wasn’t enough for Papa. That night he repeated what he had said so many times before: Sonya never should have been born. But that wasn’t what caused Sonya to flee. It was what Mama said later that broke her. Neither of us imagined Sonya would decide to leave us that day. Say good-bye with the plan never to return.
“What did you expect?” I ask.
“Someone damaged.” He says it without hesitation, though he has never before offered an opinion on her. “The way you’ve talked about her all these years—I just assumed she would be . . .” He pauses. “Someone who doesn’t know her way.” He bends down and brushes my lips lightly with his own. “Unlike you.”
“I know my way?”
“That’s what I love about you. You’re amazing.”
I stiffen, though he fails to notice. I am not amazing, the voice within me cries. Look at me carefully—there are scars. Yet, I am ashamed for complaining. My sisters yearned for love while I received it unconditionally. I was special, loved completely.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. He unbuttons my dress. Pulling it off my shoulders, he bares me to the waist. His fingers deftly undo my bra, and he cups one breast in his palm, teasing the nipple. “Tonight could be the night.”
For a baby. Those are the words he doesn’t say. Can’t say because he wants it so much.
“Just a minute,” I say. He watches me, confused, as I step out of his arms and into the bathroom. I slip my arms back into my dress. The vanity mirror reveals a haunted woman, one who can’t see the truth. I ignore her, my hand on my stomach, as I stare at the only truth I know. I take a deep breath and exhale, my decision made years ago.
SONYA
My childhood home holds me like a steel trap. Once inside, I feel the walls close around me, welcoming me like a spider into its web. Mom is busy switching on the lights, having laid her purse down on the cherrywood end table by the front door. A crystal bowl once graced the tabletop. A cherished birthday gift Mom’s brother got her in Switzerland. It was smashed years ago. As Mom and I were on our knees cleaning up the shards, she had murmured her belief that the piece was unbreakable.
I close the French doors behind me and lock them. I am always locking doors. Car doors, bedroom doors, even my bathroom door, though I live alone. A few steps farther and I am in the foyer. The house is exactly as I remember it. Sparse decorations scattered against the stark white paint. My parents bought the home when I was still a child. It was time to arrange Marin’s wedding, and the small two-bedroom home we lived in at the time would not attract reputable suitors. This place showed the world that we were successful, that we were worthy of having a son from a fine family marry Marin. Apparently it worked, because soon after moving in, Marin was betrothed to Raj, a man she had met only once.