Pieces

by G. Benson

  She’d walked in, and he’d been on the sofa, strangely ashen and gaunt-looking. And then he’d said something that just wouldn’t register.

  “Ollie. She’s gone.”

  Her father repeated the words, standing now in front of her. When had he stood up?

  “What?” she asked.

  “She—she’s gone. It happened this morning, right after you left. They tried…”

  She’d never really know what they’d tried, because his voice broke then, painfully, and that ringing sound grew louder.

  “What—” Her lips felt numb. “What do you mean, gone?”

  His face was agony to look at, so Ollie looked back at the painting on the wall. She wasn’t really a fan. The colors clashed. “She…she died, this morning.” Her dad’s voice had never sounded like this. “It was a heart attack.”

  The air disappeared.

  That word.

  Died.

  Dead.

  Ollie absorbed the news with a simple blink, a slight parting of her lips, and a rush of air from between them. She looked at her father again. His eyes were glittering, brimming with tears that fell too fast to be her father’s. His fingers grasped her arm in a way that left five perfect circles on her bicep.

  “I tried.” He cleared his throat, though it did nothing. “I tried to help.”

  How? Her mother was a heart specialist and the only one who could have possibly done something.

  “They said it was instant. That nothing could have been done.”

  Her phone was still clutched in her hand. The message from her father was still open, telling her to come home early.

  The receptionist at school had taken her from class and whispered to her to meet her father at home. A woman known for having a raised voice and for harsh words. But still, Ollie hadn’t expected this.

  Her lips were numb, and Ollie wanted to ask him again what he meant. Her mother couldn’t be gone. That morning when Ollie had left for school, her parents had still been getting ready for work. The entire house had smelled like her mom’s shampoo, and Ollie had heard their laughter, her mother’s flirtatious giggle, floating from her parents’ bedroom.

  Ollie had rolled her eyes and left without even shouting good-bye.

  Why hadn’t she said good-bye?

  Were her father’s lips trembling?

  Ollie took a step back, shaking her head, her heart thrumming away in her chest, while apparently her mother’s heart did nothing. Her father’s hand was in the air, hovering now that he didn’t have her arm to cling to. Did he feel like she did—untethered?

  She turned on her heel and went to her room, the air gone from there too.

  After that, things passed in a blur, and Ollie wanted to clutch at all those moments, to grasp them to her chest and not let them go, each of them precious because they kept her closer to the time when her mom had been alive. But it was like when she was small and tried to cup the seawater in her hands to carry home with her.

  Days passed, and Ollie barely registered them. Her father ghosted through the house. Sometimes, he tried to speak to her, but Ollie couldn’t even hear him. That ringing in her ears didn’t leave, as if it were trying to muffle out the truth of everything around her.

  The house still smelled like her mother’s shampoo.

  Or maybe she was imagining it.

  The morning of the funeral dawned strangely bright and warm, as if it hadn’t received the memo that they were supposed to be mourning. A fluke of fall weather. Not much of the day imprinted on Ollie’s mind beyond that. She vaguely recalled the weary shaking of her father’s shoulders, the way he looked like he hadn’t slept, like he was rumpled without her mother there to put him together. There was a vague recollection of black clothes and of ground that swallowed her mom whole, leaving Ollie aching with nothing.

  Sara and Deon pressed against her on either side, as if to hold her up.

  Partway through the wake, she’d stumbled to her room, the door clicking shut behind her. She was gasping, gulping air, and her fingers clawed at her chest, trying to wrench out whatever the thing inside her was that left her feeling so empty, so heavy, so unable to breathe.

  Sara’s body against her back, her arms wrapped around Ollie’s waist, saved her. It was the pressure of her best friend against her hyperactive, overstimulated nerves that slowly slowed Ollie’s breathing. As her oxygen levels returned to normal, a sob cleaved from her throat, and Ollie slowly sank to her knees, Sara a puddle around her.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Sara repeated again and again. Ollie didn’t have the words to tell her that it really wasn’t.

  Deon found them later. Without a word of question, he sat down next to them, his baritone joining Sara’s voice to murmur words Ollie didn’t believe.

  Strangely, in that moment, she wondered if had been like this for Carmen. If it had felt like something important had cleaved itself from her body.

  The next month ached, if time could do that. Ollie wandered away from school when she could, her mind a cloud of grief. The weather was freezing now, and she welcomed the sting in her fingertips, the bite to her lungs as she gulped down air by the river. The cold was like some kind of retribution as it sank deeper and deeper into her bones. Even when she left school alone, either Deon or Sara always found her. One would fall into step with her, or just sit with her, their warmth soaking into her side. The other would collect all their homework and make a list of all the things they missed, and pass it to Ollie with nothing but a hug.

  Everything felt like she was behind glass, muted and watching the world but unable to touch it.

  The school counsellor called her down and tried to get her to speak. But Ollie had no words, just a racing heart and the feeling of anxiety, once under control, now raging. She tried to be present, to acknowledge that her father was hurting, to find out how to put them both together when their puzzle had been torn apart and the pieces set on fire.

  Most nights, Ollie pulled on every jumper she could, followed by her parka, and slipped out her window to lie across the grass of her backyard, a bottle of vodka turning her eyes glassy and numbing the icy air in her chest.

  She wished, in some moments, she hadn’t pushed Sean away. She would have someone to cling to, lips to bite at, would at least be able to chase at something he didn’t have to give. But he was gone, and it was her doing, so she curled into herself on the grass, desperation groping at her throat and frustration scorching behind it.

  She never tolerated the cold for long and would crawl into her bed later, shivering and numb.

  On her seventeenth birthday, she choked on a smile when her father gave Ollie her mother’s old watch, the metal cool and not holding any of her warmth anymore. The watch had been a gift from Ollie’s grandparents when her mother had gone to medical school. Ollie wanted to thank him, to say something, but all she managed was a tight pressing of her lips, and her father’s face mirrored her own.

  Looking at him was hard. When her mom had collapsed, had his face been the last thing she’d seen? Had he really tried to save her? If it had been the other way around, would she now have both her parents with her, whole and together and breathing?

  That night, Ollie got a hold of another bottle of vodka and went to Sara’s with the mission of trying to ignore the guilt at leaving her father. He’d been sitting on the sofa in an empty house and she left with nothing but her inability to smile. As if her mother’s death had flipped the entire world and left her with no idea how to walk among it.

  Sara took her out back to lie on the trampoline in a nest of blankets and watch the sky unfold.

  “Happy birthday to me.”

  Ollie held the bottle up, and Sara pulled her harder into her side. The stars were a blur overhead, from tears or vodka or both; Ollie didn’t know. He
r glasses poked painfully into the bridge of her nose, but she didn’t want to move. Later, she barely blinked as Sara took the bottle away.

  She fell asleep with her wrist held to her ear, trying to match her heartbeat with each tick.

  There was something methodical in cleaning the bar. Maybe it was because it was always somehow filthy, even after Carmen had spent hours the day before cleaning it. But whatever the reason, the action was soothing, and Carmen found a way to not think. If she was one for that type of thing, it could have been like meditation. This time was her favorite, when the bar was just closing on a weeknight, not too late, and the last of the regulars were dragging themselves from their stools, a sway in their steps.

  She’d thought this place would disgust her, that watching people drink away their evenings, watching their nights fade around them as they bathed themselves in alcohol, would remind her of her mother. Would remind her of blown pupils, of the stench of a week-long bender, of cheap, spirit-laced promises that dissolved to nothing in the harsh light of day, of flashing blue-and-red lights washing the living room and casting shadows on Mattie’s cheeks.

  Curiously, it didn’t. Instead, the entire thing was something new, something fragile, something she finally belonged to. Her hours were all over the place, adjusted depending on Dex, on Mattie, on Jia. But Carmen had signed a contract, had some kind of proof she was earning legitimate money. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. Plus, she was allowed to play around in the kitchen. They didn’t do much food, just fries, mostly. But Dex had insisted they serve something: drunks needed it, and he truly believed it led to fewer fights, fewer problems.

  The bar was quiet during the week, but he’d built it up for the weekend, offering half-priced beers at happy hour and drawing in a college crowd. They were lax with IDs, and some of the faces Carmen saw couldn’t have been much older than her own. Some nights, inexplicably, her gaze searched the room for a face she might recognize, before she’d drag it away and tell herself not to lose her mind to fantasy.

  “You’re getting good at that.”

  A plate was balanced in Carmen’s hand, piles of glasses tucked under her forearm, looking precarious but perfectly balanced. She shrugged at Dex, the glasses barely shifting. “I’m a pro.”

  He put down the two trays of clean glasses and started putting them away. He was a conundrum, Dex. All brawn and muscle. Yet watching him with Mattie, watching him put glasses away, watching him with his dog, he was so gentle, his fingers moving over things as if always aware of the vulnerability under them.

  When they sparred, she could forget he had the ability to lay her flat, to break something. His movements were fast, his footwork resembling a dance. But then, Carmen had also seen him dark-eyed and dangerous. There was something of that buried deep that had been stitched into him, not born. She’d seen him take out people who threatened one of the kids—or Rae or Jia.

  “Can you finish stacking these? I need to go out back and unpack the new order.”

  Carmen hummed a yes as she backed into the tiny kitchen and put the dishes down to get to later. At the end of her nights here, her fingers were often pruned from soap and water. Her back ached a little, and her eyes burned with a new kind of tiredness.

  But it was her pain, her exhaustion.

  It was her life.

  Some nights, Carmen snuck behind the bar and served a few drinks. Not at all legal, but it was where Dex normally needed her on a weekend. They’d made her a fake ID, one that looked genuine, just in case. But whenever other bars had been checked, no one had ever gone as far as comparing IDs with working records. Most cops, if they appeared, just checked IDs and left.

  The bar made no real money, barely managing to do anything but cover costs. They never wanted anything big. Their focus was on the warehouse, the kids, the runaways. But Dex had wanted something to his name. Jia had come around to the idea when she saw the way it could be used as a stepping stone, when she realized the plus side to having a business around, linked with taxes and doing legitimate operations. All the profits went into the warehouse, into anything for the kids who Dex and Jia tirelessly worked for.

  With the glasses unpacked and Dex back behind the bar, Carmen headed into the tiny office, pushing the swinging door open and sliding into a chair opposite Mattie.

  He had his DS on and was playing the one game he owned, swiped by Rae, his face screwed up in concentration. Carmen still remembered how he had lit up when they had first walked through the back door, Mattie’s hand in her own, and he’d realized he had somewhere to charge the game’s battery.

  The table was strewn with open books, a notepad, and a pencil. He didn’t even look up.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be doing some kind of report?”

  “Did it.”

  Blinking at Mattie, Carmen waited for him to make eye contact. Nothing. Swiftly, she grabbed the notebook. Notes filled the pages, headings were highlighted, an occasional doodle in a corner.

  Sometimes, Mattie went quiet, withdrew a little, and Carmen tended to wait for him to come back. Most likely, he’d learned it from her, and she understood the need to crawl inside your own head and live there for a while. So she would just sit near him, listen to the little beeps from his DS, and let him know she was nearby.

  She always tried to be nearby, never really leaving him until he was asleep, wearing every pullover he had to try to drive off the cold. Then she’d go down to spar.

  It had taken weeks, but Carmen had finally remembered the ways to move her body when Rae threw a punch. Had remembered how to duck under it, to seamlessly pop up behind her and use her body weight to drag her to the ground. Never in her life would Carmen have enough strength to take out Dex, and instead she learned how to dodge and use his momentum. She used her speed and her reflexes, and she turned his few flaws against him.

  It was addictive having something to throw her body into—to finish, gleaming with sweat, her chest working for air, her muscles somehow tight and loose all at the same. Like she had with soccer. She felt cleansed after, limber, like she could actually lie down and sleep.

  Plus, it kept her warm.

  With the bar finally closed that night, Mattie slipped his DS into his backpack, and Dex, Carmen, and Mattie all walked home together, Mattie tight against her side. Carmen was itching to spar that night, energy prickling up her limbs even as the cold prickled her face.

  Looking completely the opposite, Mattie blinked sleepily, his stomach full after eating fries in the bar, delighted with the hot food, the salt. She had just been glad about the surprising amount of fruit they managed to get hold of, as well as some veggies. So much was thrown away. Dex made pasta in the warehouse sometimes, when they had enough of the ingredients to make some for all of them. Mattie had told her it tasted like home was supposed to.

  In the warehouse, Mattie was dead on his feet. As he followed Carmen upstairs, he waved hello to Jia and Rae and to Artie, who was sprawled on a sofa. After they lay together on the mattress in their bedroom, he read to her. His voice fell to gravel, to the waves of exhaustion, until his eyes were almost closed, the book an inch from his nose as he tried to keep going. When Carmen’s hand touched his hair, the book fell on his face, his eyes closed, and he was breathing heavily.

  Finally, sure he was asleep, she went down to spar. Sleep rarely came without pushing herself physically for hours. For some reason, her body was always wound tight, and her thoughts raced until she stood across from Dex or Rae or one of the others Dex was teaching and bounced on her toes with somewhere to direct her energy.

  The best nights were ones she spent with just Rae and Dex and Jia, and they fell into step with each other easily, something comfortable in the air between them all.

  That night, like most, Carmen ended up leaning heavily against the wall of the sparring room, the brick harsh against her back.
Dex’s arm rested just against hers, a whisper of connection, something to melt into. A light sheen of sweat covered them as they watched Rae train with one of the older teens, a kid new to fighting. Unlike before, Rae held back, treating the session as a moment to teach him rather than letting her rage fly out. That wasn’t how it had been when Carmen had first met her. These days, Rae still buzzed with something electric, but in the last few years she had mellowed.

  “Mattie asked me when he could learn to fight.”

  Carmen’s head turned so fast to look at Dex that her neck twinged. His face was impassive.

  How could Mattie have asked without Carmen knowing? She was never far from his side. But sometimes Mattie and Dex were poring over a book, and Carmen had her feet kicked up on a sofa not far away, but not paying attention. “How did he know we were fighting?”

  “I’ve seen him sitting up on the catwalk, watching from up there through the door.”

  “The door’s always closed.”

  “Not always.” His lips pressed into a line, just visible through the gruff salt-and-pepper of his beard. “Besides, most of them here are learning. He was always going to know.”

  Carmen looked away, swallowing heavily.

  “Carmen. Maybe he should.”

  “He’s eight.”

  Dex’s voice was low, steady, a thread to cling to. “He is. But he’s also an eight-year-old who lives, well…” his hands gestured vaguely, “…here.”

  “He has me.” Carmen’s voice was harsher than she had meant to make it, the words flying out of her mouth with flame.

  Dex didn’t even flinch. “He does. But he can’t always have you.”

  Truth was something Dex always dropped like it was nothing. He had always littered the floor with it and left it behind for people to stumble over, gather up, or avoid as they saw fit. Something in Carmen’s chest rose up, fierce and undiluted, the words forming on her tongue to fight that, to argue, to tell him Mattie would always, always have her. They were lava in her mouth, threatening to burst through. But then her gaze caught his, deep and honest and open, and everything stuttered.