The Missing Piece

by Jessica Baxter

  “Emily, I —” he walks towards me slowly like he's uncertain if I'll make a run for it. He runs his hand through his hair. “I'm such an arse. Please, forgive me?”

  I nod.

  The silence that follows seems warm and inviting; like anything could happen in the moments that follow. I take a deep breath.

  I can do this.

  He looks at me. I look at him. I avert my eyes.

  Why can't I tell him how I feel?

  A few seconds pass, I glance at him. He's biting his pinkie nail.

  I take two tentative steps forward, wrap my arms around him and give him the Most Awkward Hug Known to Mankind. He's stiff as my arms close around him and then he loosens up. He moves his head and I can smell his shampoo. Why does he always smell so good?

  “Have a Merry Christmas,” I say, as we pull apart.

  He nudges my shoulder. “It's Happy Christmas, weirdo.”

  Things are still broken and we can't take back the hurtful things we've said, but this feels like a start.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  My phone buzzes angrily at me as I switch it off airplane mode. A text from Ian flashes across the screen: this flight would be 100% better if you were here with me. I break out into a ridiculously huge grin as I send him a text back. He probably won't see it right away and that's okay; I just want him to know I'm thinking of him.

  I grab my carry on out of the overhead bin and follow the throng of passengers off of the plane. I turn the corner and my heart soars.

  Mom.

  My mom is here.

  Her hair is starting to grow back—it looks fuzzy and soft like a newborn baby's, but she is smiling. She looks happy and healthy. It doesn't look like she'll be running marathons anytime soon, but she looks immensely better than the frail, broken picture I painted in my head.

  Sammy is standing next to her holding a giant white poster board with “Welcome home, Emmy!” scrawled in big, black letters. I can tell he put the sign together himself because the handwriting is jagged and the e's look like 3's. Underneath the words, Sammy has drawn a family portrait. I can't help but notice my dad is off to the side, while my mom, Sammy and I are close together.

  I drop my bags and race the last few steps towards them. The security guard gives me a quizzical look as I pass him, and I'm suddenly worried he's going to tackle me, but as soon as I fling my arms around my mom his face softens.

  “You're here,” I say, slightly out of breath.

  My mom smiles at me and then runs her hand over my hair. “Of course, I'm here.”

  “But—“

  “Emmy!” Sammy jumps up and down, excitedly beside me. I scoop him up and swing him around the way my dad used to when I was younger. He squeals and laughs, which makes me laugh, too. I'm acting completely undignified, but I don't care because I'm finally home.

  “Did you meet Batman?” Sammy asks as he climbs into the car. He's so excited his eyes are bugging out. He almost looks like Sebastian from Disney's The Little Mermaid when he discovers Ariel on land singing her heart out to Prince Eric.

  I climb into the front seat and then turn around to face him. “No, but I walked through the Batcave.”

  “No way!” He yells as my mom pays the woman at the airport parking booth.

  “Sammy,” my mom chides. “Inside voice, please.”

  “But, mom,” he protests. “Emmy went to the Batcave.

  She laughs. “I heard, but that doesn't mean you need to yell.”

  “Fine.” He crosses his arms and then turns to face me.”'Did you see any bats?”

  “No.” I pull my phone out and hand it to him.” Look at the pictures.”

  He quickly scrolls through my phone and then drops it back into my hand, disgust on his face. “That is not the Batcave.”

  “It is.” I insist, showing him the placard outside of the Batcave. “See, it was used during the 60's TV show.”

  “Where does Batman stick his gadgets?” He asks. “And, where is his mansion? How does he quickly change between Batman and Bruce Wayne? If this was the Batcave, then everyone would know he was Batman. It wouldn't work.”

  Oh, the logic of a seven-year-old.

  He pulls his battered Batman figurine off of the seat and starts having him battle Joker. I smile to myself, Sammy loves that toy so much the paint has started to chip—Batman's face is barely recognizable. He's going to love my Christmas gift for him this year.

  I reach across the console and squeeze my mom's hand. “I'm so glad you're doing better.”

  She squeezes my hand back. “Me, too. I haven't regained all of my strength and I still have days where I just need to sleep—thank goodness for Madison, she's been such a—“

  My face falls and her voice trails off. “Is everything okay?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Mads and I aren't really on speaking terms at the moment. “

  “What happened?” My mom asks, switching lanes so a guy in a red pickup truck—who is totally not doing the speed limit—can overtake her.

  I run my thumb over the small hole in my hoodie sleeve.

  “She liked Mason, but it doesn't even matter anymore—Mason and I . . .” My voice trails off, a shudder runs down my spine. My mom adjusts the heat in the car and turns on the back warmer in my seat. “Is she still babysitting for you?”

  “Yes,” my mom says, her voice is soft. “Sammy adores her, but I can find someone else. I didn't—I don't want you to be unhappy while you're here.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She sighs.

  “Your father said you were having too much fun in Los Angeles and didn't want to come home for Thanksgiving . . . I just want you to enjoy your break with us.”

  What the hell?

  Her words freeze my heart, sending small chills through my body. I pull my hand away and stare out the window, unable to look at her. Sammy is snoring softly in the back of the car. I slowly count his breathing and try to gather my thoughts.

  My voice comes out softer than intended and it's a little squeaky. “He told you I didn't want to come home?”

  “It's okay, sweetie,” My mom, says reaching for my hand again, but I cross my arms tightly to my chest. “I'm not upset; I understand you wanted to spend time with your friends, but I don't want you to push us away.”

  “How have I been pushing you away?” My voice rises. “I've tried calling you every day, but he . . .”

  I run my fingers through my hair—something I picked up from Ian. “H-he wouldn't let me talk to you, mom. He must have blocked your number or something. I don't know what he did, but my calls wouldn't go through . . . I even tried using Ian's phone, but nothing worked.” I laugh incredulously. “And, then he told you I didn't want to come home?”

  “He wouldn't let you come home?” My mom asks, her face a mask of bewilderment. “Emily, he was beside himself that you weren't here.”

  How can he lie to her like this? How can she have no clue what he's doing? How does she not know he's tearing our family apart? I shake my head. “It was all an act. He wouldn't let me come home because I—“ my voice falters.

  Is this really the best time to be having this conversation with my mom? I peek over my shoulder and make sure Sammy is still fast asleep. His chest slowly rises up and down, his face is nestled up against his Batman toy and his face is smooth and peaceful like he doesn't have a care in the world.

  I sigh. The time will probably never be right, so I just need to suck up enough courage and do it.

  Before I can second guess myself or let a seed of doubt grow I quickly blurt. “He's cheating on you.”

  My mom’s face ashens.

  Her grip on the steering wheel tightens and her knuckles turn white. She shakes her head . . . “No, that’s ridiculous . . . he wouldn’t do that.”

  Mason tricked me into living a delusion; he made me think our relationship was something spectacular when it wasn't even close. I don't want my mom to force herself to l
ive with my father's lies—the way I did with Mason. My mom deserves so much more than what my father is offering her and I want to help her see that.

  “He's just been under a lot of stress recently,” she says, staring straight ahead. “That's all. You have nothing to worry about sweetie.”

  She rubs her face with her hands. “H-how are things with Mason and you? Did you figure out what you're going to do?”

  “Mom, don't change the subject.” My chin trembles. “You said Mason was toxic, that he wasn't any good for me. How can you not see this is the same exact thing?”

  She flinches at my words. “I can't take your father from you.”

  I trace a path with my finger on the steamed-up window. “You don't have to be strong for us. We'll be strong for each other.” I reach for her hand and she clasps onto me like I'm a lifeline thrown into the sea. “We'll get through this together.”

  She nods, a sad smile on her lips. “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I wait until Sammy, my mom and I finish dinner before messaging Mads and asking her to meet me at Jack's diner. She replies within seconds and that gives me hope that maybe things will work out between us.

  The night is quiet as I walk to the diner, soft snow crunches under my feet. My mom promised she’d stop by and see my dad first thing in the morning and tell him she knows everything, but I don’t want to take any chances; as anyone from a small town knows news travels fast and I can't stand having worried glances thrown my way or have the townsfolk blatantly talk behind my back.

  Even though my parents haven’t separated or divorced yet, I’m worried the people of Cedar Heights will somehow sense a change . . . that they’ll be able to tell something is amiss between my mom and dad. And, the last thing I want is pity, so I stick to the back roads and alleyways, avoiding the main street through town.

  I could have taken the car, but I’m hoping the fresh air will help me clear my thoughts. I pull out my phone and call Ian, but my call doesn’t even ring through instead it goes straight to voicemail. It looks like his flight hasn't landed yet.

  Jack's diner is on the corner of Main and Peach, and it's usually a 5-minute walk from my house, but avoiding the main road makes the walk a bit longer. I don’t know why the town founders, felt the need to name all of the streets after fruits, but they did. I have my earbuds in and I'm listening to my favorite Disney playlist, but that doesn't stop the shadows from dancing in front of me or ease the paranoia that I'm being followed.

  I glance behind me before crossing the street just to be sure, but no one is there. I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down. The streets are empty and I'm certain I'm just edgy because of everything that’s been going on recently with Mason showing up and my dad cheating on my mom.

  A long, dark and menacing alley sits between me and Jack's diner. I can faintly see the diner's lights and giant sign. Something scurries across the alleyway and my heart seizes in my chest. My stomach is in knots the way your stomach drops riding the Tower of Terror ride in Disneyland. A loud screech fills the air and a black tabby cat races out of the alley.

  I let out a shaky laugh.

  This is ridiculous.

  I've walked through this alley plenty of times and there is nothing to be afraid of. It's just a gap between two buildings—nothing more.

  I pull out my phone and put on my Hannah Montana playlist. I skip songs until “Who Said” plays through my earbuds.

  A sense of dread fills me as I take a step into the alley, despite the upbeat music I'm singing under my breath. My limbs tremble with fear as I walk on, shadows dancing before my eyes, but I try my best to ignore them. The alley isn't terribly long—if I keep putting one foot in front of the other and ignore the paranoia festering in the pit of my stomach it will probably only take me 10 minutes to make it to the diner.

  When I was younger, my family used to go camping a lot. We would stay up late, roasting marshmallows and sharing ghost stories.

  One year when I was nine or ten, Mads came along with us. We waited until my parents had fallen asleep and then we snuck out to Old Man Miller's house. He was a grumpy old man. When he discovered his wife had been cheating on him and got knocked up by another man in the town, he acted like everything was normal. He went to work and bought his wife a bouquet of flowers every day.

  Two weeks passed and everything still appeared to be okay . . . and then the town sheriff discovered Old Man Miller's wife beaten and stabbed in this alley.

  The story has been passed down generation to generation and so many different variations have been told, I'm not even sure what to believe anymore, but when a hand clamps down over my mouth, pulling me further into the alley I can't help but think Old Man Miller's come after me, too.

  Strong hands push me into the wall. My head hits the bricks with a definite smack. I try turning around to get a look at my assailant, but it hurts too much. A chin rests against my shoulder, stubble scratching my cheek. Whoever is behind me is breathing deep, labored breaths.

  My assailant's hands slide over my body, slowly: down my back and onto my hips. A deep and husky voice whispers in my ear, “Told you we weren't finished yet.”

  Terror fills my being as Mason's hands wrap around my waist, his fingers fumbling with my jeans button. I squirm against the wall trying to break free, but he presses his body against mine more firmly, trapping me against the wall. His fingers tug at my jeans, unfastening the button. Mason forces me to turn around and face him, his eyes full of hatred and lust.

  He pushes his lips against mine, hard. His fingers curling in my hair. I close my eyes and let my body go limp, refusing to give him the satisfaction he wants. Scared and trembling, I start praying to God and angels that somehow I'll get out of my current predicament.

  This is not how I imagined my first time.

  Mason slams my head into the wall. “Open your eyes. I want to see the terror in them as I—”

  “Hey!” Someone is walking towards us. He's tall, skinny and is wearing a biker's leather jacket and a baseball cap. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from her.”

  An ugly sneer forms on Mason's lips. He runs his fingers across my cheek tenderly. “There's plenty of her to share.”

  “I said get away from her.” My mysterious savior says again. As he gets closer I realize he's not older than us but is probably close to the same age—maybe 16. His dark, curly hair falls in his face. A baseball bat is slung across his shoulders. “Move now.”

  “Make me,” Mason says, looking him up and down.

  “My pleasure.”

  Curly Hair yanks Mason away from me and as he does Mason digs his nails into my shoulder. A blood-curling scream escapes my lips and tears fill my eyes as searing pain races across my shoulder.

  The young man pushes Mason to the ground; his strength surprises me and by the look on Mason's face he's surprised, too. Before Curly Hair can do anything else Mason quickly scampers to his feet and scurries down the alley like the little rat he is.

  “Here,” Curly Hair says, handing me his jacket. His eyes are trained on the opposite wall. I quickly fasten my pants and slide his jacket on. He glances at me. “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  Why did I avoid Main Street? Who cares about the gossip that would have spread at least Mas—he wouldn't have been able to get his hands on me. A sob rips through me. My body is shaking. This is all my fault. I should have known Mason was going to try something, I shouldn't have left the house.

  “Are you sure you're okay?” Curly Hair asks again. “Who was that?”

  I feel as if a heavyweight is pressing against my chest and lungs, making it impossible to breathe. I try taking a deep breath to relieve the pain, but it only worsens.

  His name is like bile in the back of my throat, I want to spit it out and rid myself of it once and for all, but I can't form the words. My eyes fill with tears and I can't see. I slide down to the ground and sit against the wall, pulling my knees to my c
hest. I rest my head in the palms of my hands and sob.

  “Mama has anxiety,” Curly Hair says and I peer at him through my fingers. He slides down on the ground across from me. “The one thing that's always proven to help her is listening to me talk about, well . . . anything really. It helps her take her mind off of things she can't control. Is it okay if I tell you about myself?”

  “Go ahead.” I didn't realize it before, but Curly Hair has a thick southern accent. I focus on his voice as he talks, trying to purge my mind of what just happened. “Where are you from?”

  “I just moved up here from Tennessee to live with my uncle. Name's Finn.” He holds his hand out and I shake it.

  “I'm Emily. W-what made you want to move to Cedar Heights?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I didn't want to. If I had my dunthers I'd still be gazing at the stars under the wide Tennessee sky. Mama's under the weather and she needed some time to herself, so she sent me up here to stay with Uncle Jack.”

  I rub my hands on my pants.

  “Do the doctors know when your mom will be better?”

  “No, but I'm sure a change of scene will help brighten her spirits. Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well, Emily, where are you headed?” Finn asks. He stands up and offers me his hand. I let him help me up and then pull away.

  “Jack's Diner. You?”

  “Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle.” He slaps his leg and hoots. “I'm headed there, too.”

  I smile.

  “They have the best burgers in town.”

  “I know,” he says, winking at me. “Family recipe.”

  “You're Jack's nephew?”

  Finn nods and smiles. “You're darn-tootin'.”

  We reach the diner and I take a few seconds to take it all in. The outside of the diner is an old school bus that Jack has added on to. It's painted silver like aluminum foil and has two sets of red stripes under the windows. He sealed off the original doors to the school bus and moved the new doors to the middle of the bus. It sounds a little tacky, but it's really cool.