All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  I didn’t get to fully hear the lyrics because it was a clipped video, but everything sounded amazing. You changed the words a little bit! I’m fighting the urge to bust out of here all on my own and make my way to you because all I can think about is what happened last time I heard that song.

  For the record, I don’t think I will ever be able to give you such an outstanding display of my affection because you’re setting the bar too high, frankly, but know that seeing you, hearing your voice, gives me the strength to get well enough to come home.

  Dr. Linderman was just here. All reports indicate that I’m not a total basket case, and I’ve been advised that I can leave soon. I can’t wait.

  Sure, I’ll miss the madness and the fine dining, but at least I’ll get to see you. It’s a fair trade. I want you to know that your talent extends far beyond singing, playing the guitar, or even the way you kiss, because somehow, because of you, I have the strength to believe in me. I know I need to get better before I can come home, but for the first time, in a long time, I believe I can.

  With love,

  Lennon

  Dear Lennon,

  I think it’s fair to say we owe Jacob something epic when you break free from the literal chains of Willow Recovery Center, and the figurative chains of your mind. As for the Instagram fiasco, I know. It’s unreal. People I don’t know are stopping me at school, acting like I’m something special. It’s ridiculous. Austin and Emmett are eating up the attention and Silas would be, too, if he could work a phone. (Insert a laughing tears emoji here to reminisce about our lost texting.) I’ll practice and be ready with a solo performance when you bust out of the institution, Lennon. Promise.

  You don’t get your phone, huh? That’s rough, but hey, we have Jacob. Part of me feels like we’re abusing the kindness of that little dude’s heart, but I like to think he’s rooting for us. I’m glad you like the song. By the time you get out of that place, there is a good chance that I’ll have an entire collection waiting for you. I eat, sleep, go to school, and make or write music. Not a lot different from what I did pre-Lennon, but insanely lonely given the Lennon era that followed, and the post-Lennon solitude that haunts me.

  For the record, we already talked about this. The only thing I want is your lips on mine so I can have my Nirvana. And don’t lie, you’re a total basket case but not so out of touch with reality that you can’t get better.

  Oh, and before I forget to tell you, Fuck with Fear, our slogan is “Expand Your Mind.” Think about it, Davis, taking on your fears is soul food for the brain. #truth

  You should believe in yourself. I swear to God; your DNA is composed of 97% awesome and 3% whacked. If anyone can kick OCD’s ass, it’s you. I love you, and I can’t wait to tell you that face-to-face every day at school until you’re sick of hearing it, but until then, paper airplanes must do.

  Tell me something I don’t know about you yet.

  Me: my favorite book growing up was The Monster at the End of This Book. My mom used to read it to me all the time. I loved how Grover would warn you not to turn the pages, and I felt like such a little rebel when I kept going, even though he was pleading with me not to.

  XOXO,

  Kyler

  Dear Kyler,

  You’re right. I am a total basket case. But I’m a basket case in the throes of mind expansion. (Perfect tagline.) Today, however, I took a step back. During our group session, one girl talked about her mom always being there for her, and I lost it. Sobbed like a wreck. A flood of snot and tears and tissues later, I made it out alive, and without OCDing the situation, but now I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  On a happier note, Cecilia Prescott displays valiant attempts to rouse me from my pits of sorrow by offering the Instagram video of you at least a hundred and one times. If you’re reading this, I’ve seen Claire, my dad, and Jacob. Things are still tense with my dad. I get he’s trying to protect me, but he’s protecting me from the wrong people. He doesn’t know about OCD me and I think I confuse him. He treats me like a china doll, breakable and fragile.

  I have cut my ritualizing down by almost 65%. Yay me! Technically I can leave whenever I want, assuming my dad will let me come home. All indicatons at family therapy point to yes, but I’m waiting, because as nice as Willow is, and as much as I want to see you, I need to make sure I don’t come back here. I need to make sure I can control it. I feel better every day, though, and today’s crying episode proved to me that maybe I can, so I’m aiming for release into the wild in three weeks. A personal goal I’ve set for myself. That’s not so bad, right? A week before summer break. Works out perfect, almost, because I don’t have to go to school. I don’t think I ever want to go back to that school, to be honest.

  Doesn’t matter, I suppose, but I don’t think I will change my mind, even if I make it out of here somewhat more sane.

  I’m determined. Nothing like the love of a boy to make me want to succeed. How disgusting is that sentiment, truly? YUCK. Anyway, I can’t wait to see you, I promise it will be soon.

  As for something you don’t know about me. I used to climb fences when I was a little kid. Scaled them all the time in our neighborhood in Maine. I was trying to parkour or something insane like that, and I broke my femur. Like full-blown-surgery broke it. You can still see a tiny scar on my thigh.

  Much love,

  Lennon

  Dear Mind-Expanding Lennon,

  I’m sorry you felt sad about your mom. But you can be sad when you need to be, there’s no law against it. Try to remember that and not be so hard on yourself.

  I can’t believe in a couple of weeks I’ll get to be with you again. It’s like I’m being reunited with my long-lost arm. The downside is, I gotta admit, paper airplane letters have grown on me.

  Now let me say what is on my mind aside from the scar on your thigh and how much I’d like to see it. I don’t think you should let them scare you away from school. Fuck them. I’m not you, but I can tell you I know what it’s like to feel different. Running from them is telling them it’s not okay to be different, when it is. Just my humble thoughts on the matter.

  As for the love of a boy to make you want to succeed, I’m flattered. Even if you find it revolting. I’ll leave you with this. Given that you wipe grease on your jeans and burp louder than I do (you think I haven’t heard), I get that the idea of wanting to be better for someone else as much as yourself is revolting. But it goes both ways here, Davis. I want to be better because of you, too. I’m starting with exploring my poetic side. Lowry is teaching a poetry option for extra credit this semester, I’m late to join but he’s letting me. So, immediately after shitty cafeteria lunch, I get to go dig deep. I think I got something already. Check it out:

  Oh, chicken nugget, Mauled piece of meat,

  I long to taste your nectar so sweet,

  A love so great, so flavorfully profound,

  A taste so cardboard-y, sing your sweet mushy sound,

  I’ll not give up on us, little nugget, I will not rest!

  I’ll indulge in temptation, which leads me to death,

  Diabetes…

  What do you think? Epic, right? I mean, I know I took creative license, adding the “diabetes” at the end, but…it fits so well I had to go with instinct.

  XOXO

  Kyler

  Dear Kyler,

  Epic? Not the word I’d use to describe a poem about your love affair with nuggets. It’s like a tragic free verse, but I get why you want to take Lowry’s poetry class and I think it’s cool.

  This will be our last letter! I feel as though I should seal it with hot wax and an iron press. Because I did it. I finally freaking did it. My impending homecoming is days away. I’m writing this because Jacob, Dad, and Claire are coming tonight to take my clothes and some of my other things home in advance. I don’t know what else to say. I can’t focus on anything. I keep replaying the idea repeatedly in my head of what it will feel like to kiss you again.

  I don’t want to t
alk about school. We can do it in person. Soon.

  I can’t wait to see you.

  Love,

  Lennon

  “I’LL WAIT FOR YOU AS LONG AS IT TAKES, I’LL NEVER LET YOU GO,

  I’LL COUNT THE DAYS TILL YOU RETURN, I’LL NEVER LET YOU GO.”

  Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, “Resistance”

  ACCORDING TO JACOB, KNOWING INFORMANT and investigative reporter, Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken and Beautiful and Badass returns home today. He’d informed me when he delivered her last letter. He’d been doing it on the sly. In between soccer balls, soda bottle rockets, and paper planes, Jacob is an infallible master of finding reasons to be outside. I couldn’t sleep last night, and consequently I’m yawning every ten seconds while I gaze out the window straight into the early-evening rays of the California sun.

  I’ve been here for the last forty-seven minutes…waiting…because the instant I see their car pull up, I’m making a break for it. For her.

  Finally, Josh’s Porsche eases up the long driveway and parks. The door swings wide and the first thing I see is her long, blond hair falling down her back, followed by one pale blue Converse and then the other. I watch for a moment, silent and spellbound by the sight of her—like I forgot somehow that she was so beautiful. She doesn’t turn around, and I’m struck with how similar this is to the first time I saw her. Turn around, my beautiful girl. I want to see you. Her hands swing out to the sides animatedly. Josh’s face is stern. They’re fighting. Lennon heads toward the house and turns back around to keep arguing with her father. When I spin on my feet, prepared to bolt, I’m stopped dead in my tracks. My father stands, arms crossed over his chest menacingly, blocking the doorway. Alone, that wouldn’t bother me so much, but the expression on his face is one I’ve encountered only a few times in my life, and none of those times resulted in anything positive happening.

  “Going someplace?”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder. Lennon marches toward their front door, a duffel bag slung over her arm. I move to go to her a second time, but my dad readjusts his footing and stops me. Again. His teeth clamp down and his brows draw together in pinched irritation. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask. “Isn’t somebody somewhere screwing up their life right now?”

  He nods, then issues a cold smirk. “Probably, Kyler, but it won’t be you. You won’t be seeing that girl.”

  “Maybe not now, but what are you going to do, quit your job and stand guard over me twenty-four seven? You will not stop me from seeing her.”

  His face darkens.

  “You can’t stand here forever. And for every ounce of anger you have, I have triple the motivation. You won’t keep me from her. Don’t care what it takes.” As I say it, I hope he believes every word.

  The line I’m dancing is perilously close to being crossed, so I say nothing else.

  “You’re going to land your entitled ass in prison, Kyler. Restraining orders aren’t something you want connected with your name. I can’t allow it to happen, so if I have to quit my job and watch over you twenty-four seven, then so be it.”

  Quit his job? Yeah, right. Empty threats and hollow lies. I know this is true, because I’ve spent most of my life hearing them. I peer out the window again. The front door is closed at the Davis residence. Lennon was within feet of me and now she’s gone, and, ironically, it begins to rain.

  FACT: THE TERM EVIL IS DEFINED AS PROFOUNDLY IMMORAL.

  IF THAT’S TRUE, ANDREA IS LITERAL EVIL INCARNATE.

  SWEAT PRICKLES AGAINST THE BACK of my neck when we get to the car. I’m stronger than the thoughts. My dad takes his seat behind the wheel and looks over to me, his eyes dancing across my hand. I don’t move a muscle. And as we sit in the car and I tap nothing, instead of saying Good job, Lennon, or Way to conquer your worst nightmare, Lennon, my father hits me with a grenade.

  If he’d done it any sooner, I wouldn’t have been so eager to vacate the creature comforts of Willow Recovery Center. I am still forbidden from seeing Kyler. I’d bargained on a trip spent battling the thoughts about being in the car, but instead I find myself filled with so much rage, the only thoughts I’m fighting are the homicidal kind.

  I mistakenly assumed I might be glad to see the Jenga house. It will never be home, but Kyler made it seem like it could be…almost…and now that’s gone. I’m bitter. The instant the car is parked, I unbuckle, reach into the back seat for my duffel bag, and chuck it over my shoulder.

  Dad steps out of the vehicle and makes a move to seize my bag from me, but I turn my body around so it’s out of his grasp, sidestep him, and glare. “I don’t want your help, thanks. God, it’s bad enough you kept me from him for two months because you don’t believe your stepdaughter is capable of something so evil, even though she is! Two months, Dad! Do you hate me or something?” My voice is escalating, but I don’t care. “I did your stupid therapy. I’m better. I made it the whole way in the car without ritualizing. Isn’t that what you wanted, a nice, normal kid? Well, you got one, but you’re doing everything you can to make it so I’m not normal at all! Did you have locks installed while I was gone?” The tears burn in my eyes because everything is so unfair.

  “Lennon, time for an attitude adjustment. He’s violent. I’m your dad, not your friend. It’s my job to protect you.”

  My body shakes with anger as I hold up a finger. “First of all, you’re not protecting me. You’re walking me straight into the place where the person I need protection from rests her vile head every night. Secondly, I wish he’d scared her more. He’s not violent. He’s been framed for doing something despicable to someone he cares about! He was mad! I’m not the one who needs an attitude adjustment!” I scream. “You do.”

  His stare is blank, expressionless, which only serves to make me more irate. He says nothing, so I pause and wait for any kind of reply, justification for his unjust decision, yet I still get nothing. Is he going to speak at all? His silent treatment continues, so I roll my eyes, spin on my heel, and charge toward the house, determined to make it to my room and never, ever emerge.

  Jacob is sitting in the foyer holding his camera. There’s a sign made from letter-sized paper taped together. In Jacob’s rudimentary printing, it says, WELCOME HOME, LENNON.

  Despite the argument with my dad, I smile when I see it. Jake, quick to catch moments of candor, takes a picture with his camera before letting it hang from the strap around his wrist. He throws his arms around my waist. “I’m so happy you’re home! Mama went to get you a fruit bouquet. Whatever that is.”

  I ruffle his hair. “Me too, bud. Missed you.”

  It comes out with a croak. The type of vocal change that issues a clear signal of distress. Jacob’s hands fall from my waist, and he looks up at me, head tilted. “Are you okay?”

  I nod because if I try to speak, the tears will fall. I suck in a breath and gather my emotions enough to say, “Just tired is all.”

  He considers this but doesn’t hold on to the information for long, because he asks, “Now that you’re home, can we go to Kyler’s? I want to make more airplanes.”

  Before I can answer and tell him we’re both forbidden from seeing Kyler, Andrea comes sauntering into the kitchen, eyes fixed on her cell phone. Maybe I should return to the driveway and continue to yell at my dad, because surely it’s better than being forced to look at her.

  My stomach flip-flops and my ears ring, echoing the space around me. Andrea who sabotaged me, framed Kyler, and annihilated my entire existence is walking around like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I narrow my eyes and wonder how on earth she can be related to someone like Claire.

  Claire is good and kind. Andrea is not. As if she can hear my thoughts, she looks up from her phone. “Back from the nuthouse?” she asks, plucking an apple from the fruit bowl.

  “Back to the nuthouse,” I clarify. “Or maybe it’s literal hell on earth. It cou
ld be that, too, because…well…you’re fucking Satan.”

  Jacob’s eyes go wide.

  “That’s a bit drastic,” Andrea says. “Besides, you’re far from perfect.”

  “Why don’t you admit to doing it?” I ask her. “You destroyed everything, anyway, so you might as well have the guts to own it.”

  She turns the apple in her hand, lips slightly parted, her eyes glazed over as though she’s seeing right through me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Dad closes the door behind us, locking me into a whole different kind of prison.

  A flicker of relief dances across Jacob’s face when my dad comes in, but as soon as I register the interruption, my gaze is back to Andrea. “I hope you get everything that’s coming to you,” I say to her. “Tenfold.”

  She laughs and bites into the apple. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  Jacob tugs on my sleeve. “Can we play hide-and-seek? Please?”

  My options are limited. I can play hide-and-seek with Jacob, continue to be disgusted by my father and Andrea, or I can go to my room and throw an epic pity party. I look at Jacob. “Twenty minutes, okay? I have to unpack and stuff.”

  Twenty minutes turns into an hour, most of which I spend finding Jacob versus the other way around. Claire returns with my fruit bouquet and a trivia book. She wraps me in a hug and I let her, because I hate my dad, I hate Andrea, and it feels like Claire is the only person save for Jacob who is truly happy for my return. Correction: She’s the only person whom I’m permitted to have contact with save for Jacob, who is happy about my return. Jacob leaves to have a sleepover with one of Claire’s friend’s kids, a boy named Lincoln. He assures me he’ll be back, and when the door shuts behind them, I find no reason to stay outside the walls of my bedroom.