Trail of Broken Wings by Sejal Badani Page B

them.
    “Of course.” Taking his camera, I motion for them to stand closer together to fit in the frame. “A little bit more,” I say, glancing into theLCD panel. Behind them, the hills of Sausalito rise up, creating the perfect backdrop for their memento. I begin to snap the picture when a young girl, I would guess her to be eleven, starts to step away from the group. Only now I notice tears have streaked her face, and her lower lip is trembling. I lower the camera to motion her back in, but before I can say anything her mother wraps her arm around the young girl’s shoulder. Lowering her head, she speaks softly into the girl’s ear. In seconds, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a smile and laughter fill the girl’s face. Nestling into her mother’s arms, she lights up for the camera, all her sadness gone with just a few words from the one she loves.

    I arrive home after dinner. Since our argument, I have rarely been home, choosing to drive around for hours, taking pictures wherever I can. I have visited Dad a handful of times. Each time I enter the room, I expect to see him walking around, prepare myself for his reaction upon seeing me. But every time he still lies there, silent, and I leave, waiting until the next time.
    “Sonya?” Mom calls out, though there is no one else she is expecting.
    “Yes?” I drop my camera bag by the front door. Mom and I have reached an equilibrium. She does not demand to know my comings or goings or what time I will arrive home. For giving me the freedom of my own time, something I am used to, I offer her the security of my presence. They say there is a sixth sense a mother has regarding her children. If Mom has such intuition, she has never used it before. Now, however, it almost feels like she knew I was planning on leaving. Since I decided to stay, she seems happier, relieved.
    “The hospital called . . .”
    I flinch. Before she can say more, I whisper, my throat convulsing with the words, “Is he awake?”
    “No.” She is matter of fact, devoid of any emotion. “You left your cell phone in the hospital room. The nurse called me to let me know.”
    I glance back at my purse. It must have fallen out when I gathered my things. “Thanks. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” I start to walk away, toward my room, when she stops me.
    “I didn’t realize you visited him,” she says softly.
    I hear the question but don’t know how to answer. If anyone had told me I would choose to spend time with him, I would have laughed, assuring them they had no idea who I was. Now I wonder if I know who I really am. “That’s why you called me home, right? For me to be with him in his final days?”
    “Is that what you thought?” She seems surprised. “I asked you to come home because it had been long enough.”
    “Not for me it wasn’t,” I admit quietly, shuttering my eyes when I see her recoil. “I’m sorry.”
    “Then why did you come?” she asks, begging me for something she may not want to hear.
    I pause, trying to find the words to explain to her why I made the decision. How do I tell her I almost didn’t come home? That I had ignored the message, even gone so far as to call Linda to set up an overseas assignment. But at the last minute I decided against it and booked a flight home. “To say good-bye,” I admit.
    I start to leave the room when she asks me, barely a whisper, “To whom?”
    I walk away without giving her an answer, leaving her to find her own.

    When Linda calls me back, she does not sound happy. “I came up with three jobs. Three. None of them paying anything near what you are used to.”
    “It’s a short-term thing Linda,” I assure her. “I just need something to stay busy while I’m here.”
    “One is in San Francisco. The local zoo wants to do some damage control after one of their animals got loose and attacked a patron. Pictures of the pretty animals as they are being fed, bathed, etcetera. For a media campaign.” Linda is not a fan of