The Pieces We Keep

by Kristina McMorris

  Just then, Tess waved from the entrance. Her daughter, Grace, bounded alongside and submitted their tickets for admission. The eight-year-old had rich olive skin, compliments of her Italian side, and a braid of silky blond hair from her mom. Though the girl’s aqua beret was fashionably feminine, the roughened knees of her jeans affirmed a preference for climbing trees over dressing dolls.

  “Sorry to keep you guys waiting,” Tess said with a grumble. “Cooper couldn’t find his mouth guard for practice. We had to turn the whole house upside down. I would’ve called, but I left my cell on the kitchen counter.”

  “Not to worry,” Audra told her. “We got here a little late too.”

  “Oh, good.” Tess sighed and nudged her daughter. “Gracie, say hi.”

  “Hi,” she said with a smile.

  Audra reciprocated, but not Jack, his attention too consumed by their environment. And who could blame him? The scents of every imaginable fried food collided with all the chaos from the amusement park.

  “So, Jack,” Tess said. “I hear coming out here was your idea. What would you like to do first?”

  He answered with a shrug.

  “I think he’s pretty hungry,” Audra supplied.

  “Me too,” Grace said. “I could eat a horse.” She grinned at the veterinary punch line, and Tess tickled her ribs to elicit a giggle.

  After brief deliberation, the group decided on lemonades and pizza. In line at the booth, Audra and Tess rattled on about their most notable patients of the week. Among them was a Scottie who was neutered for his extroverted acts. Whenever company came to visit he would drag stuffed animals to the center of the gathering to show off his frisky skills.

  “It’s starting to rain,” Grace interjected. “Can I go find us a table?” She motioned toward the area beneath a huge striped canopy. Her motive was likely more about boredom than being helpful or staying dry, but Audra did feel a tiny sprinkling. Over the city, gray clouds were banding together and dimming the sky.

  “Fine by me,” Tess said, “if you and Jack stay together.” She turned to Audra. “You okay with that?”

  Audra hedged. The urge to keep her son close battled the need to let him live and grow. But then she recalled his cast. Though it barely peeked from his raincoat, a tent would provide better coverage should the sprinkling gain momentum.

  “All right. But don’t talk to any strangers.”

  “We know.” Grace laughed and rolled her eyes, the lesson far too basic for a third grader. “C’mon, Jack. Let’s go.”

  He followed her toward the canopy. They were just out of earshot when Tess switched to a tone of concern.

  “You told me about his arm, but you didn’t say anything about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your cheek. I’m assuming that’s how you got that.”

  For a time, Audra had forgotten about the two-inch scratch. An easy oversight for someone accustomed to being scraped, bitten, and peed on as part of a day’s work.

  She moved forward in the shrinking line. “The ER doc said it’s pretty common for kids to lash out when they have night terrors—that’s what he called them, by the way.”

  “Is there anything you can do to stop them?”

  “They’re supposed to fade on their own.” Supposed to. How many things in Audra’s life turned out as predicted? “Until then, I’ve at least moved the furniture away from his bed, to help keep him safer.”

  “How scary. I’m so sorry.”

  Audra had since read about the affliction online but found no solutions. Nor any connection to flying. She even did a Web search for “Himmel.” Most links referenced a park in Arizona, a classical composer, the Dutch translation for “heaven.” Nothing that applied. And asking Jack about the word had gone as predicted: He had no idea.

  “Next!” the cashier called to them.

  As Tess placed their order, Audra glanced back to confirm the kids’ whereabouts. She spotted Grace’s hat through gaps in the seated crowd, but balloons and tall strangers blocked her view of Jack.

  “One pepperoni and three vegetarians,” the guy announced in the booth. He handed Tess the slices on flimsy paper plates.

  Audra paid for her half and wrapped her fingers around all four drinks. She worked to keep a leisurely pace toward the tent. It was a thin line between cautious and paranoid.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Tess said. “There’s a new partner at Russ’s firm. Seems like a really nice guy. They’re having a celebration dinner for him at City Grill on Thursday. You should join us.”

  “Let me guess. He just happens to be single.”

  “Yeah? So?” Tess raised her volume as they threaded through the noisy dining area. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I’ve told you a gazillion times, Tess. I’m not interested in dating.”

  “Who said anything about dating? Just a good old-fashioned roll in the hay would do you some good.”

  An adjacent table of grizzled men snapped their faces toward Audra and away from their mound of nachos.

  “Oops,” Tess said.

  Lovely.

  Avoiding all eye contact, Audra charged toward Grace’s beret, a sudden beacon of refuge. But Tess’s determination followed.

  “You’ll come to the dinner though, right?”

  “Sorry, can’t hear you.”

  “Please?”

  “Too much static. You’re breaking up.”

  Several feet from the table, Audra noticed Grace was waiting alone. She was wearing earphones connected to an iPod in her hand. Audra set the drinks down and scanned the bustling area. “Where’s Jack?”

  Tess tugged Grace’s earpieces free.

  “Motherrr.”

  “Where did Jack go?” Tess said.

  The girl shrugged. “I thought he was with you guys.”

  Audra flashed back to his vacant airplane seat, to the terror of not being able to reach him. “Grace, what did he say to you?”

  “He just got up and left. I figured he was going back to see you in line.”

  Oh, God ...

  Audra’s gaze zipped from one bystander to another. “Jack!” she hollered across the tent. “Jack Hughes!”

  “Don’t worry.” Tess placed a hand on Audra’s elbow. “He probably just went to the bathroom. Do you want me to go check?”

  “No. No, I’ll go. You and Grace stay here in case I don’t see him before he comes back.” Audra shot off for the lineup of porto-potties beyond a towering bungee drop.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she heard Grace say before their voices waned.

  Audra restrained herself from sprinting in order to view every boy along the way. A short queue of people waited at the blue portable stalls.

  “Jack? Are you in there? It’s Mom! Answer me.”

  The doors opened and closed. Strangers exited and entered.

  “Has anyone seen a little boy? A seven-year-old, about this high?” She held her hand to her chest.

  Heads shook in a stagger of nos.

  Audra worked to control her breathing. She sped over the trampled grounds to reach another set of stalls. The results were no different. Panic bubbled beneath the surface, a geyser about to explode.

  Then she remembered. “Cotton candy,” she said. That’s what he wanted. He must have gone on a hunt, too eager to wait.

  She bumped past a teenaged couple who dragged their feet as they walked. Next she swerved around a family, their toddler leashed to a backpack.

  No sign of Jack at the cotton-candy stand. Same for the one with corn dogs. And elephant ears. And caramel apples on a stick.

  A ghoulish shriek wailed from the haunted house.

  By now Jack could be back at the table. She fumbled through her jacket pockets to get her cell, before she recalled Tess wasn’t carrying a phone. Damn it all!

  She raced all the way back to reach the edge of the canopy. On the opposite side, Tess was speaking to Security. She caught Audra’s gaze, a
nd a look of despair gave the answer.

  Audra’s thoughts launched into a spin. Round and round they went, like the linked carts of the Red Dragon, clicking and clacking on an oval track, picking up speed with every loop. She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob.

  “Jack, please,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

  12

  The simmer had heated to a boil. On September 1, Hitler waltzed into Poland with the confidence of Fred Astaire. In the two days since, herds of civilians had evacuated from London in anticipation of aerial bombings. The German embassy advised all German residents to clear out of Britain; Brits in Germany, Vivian heard, were urged to do the same.

  Keeping her promise, she passed along such snippets at her daily meetings with Isaak. While she hated to heighten his nerves, he repeatedly assured her: It was always better than not knowing.

  Vivian didn’t necessarily agree. A large part of her wished she had not learned of the update over breakfast. Our plans have been set, her mother said while buttering a slice of toast. We’ll depart for home next Sunday.

  We, however, did not include Vivian’s father. From behind his newspaper and between sips of coffee, he claimed he would follow once affairs allowed. This, Vivian realized, was the reason he had been so grave that night when inquiring about her feelings over moving back. She had answered him without knowing what he was truly asking.

  After breakfast, on the way to church, she had voiced her wish to stay, to wait and travel as a family. He told her a delay would be too dangerous.

  Yet if that was the case, should he not retreat as well? The same went for Isaak. How could she possibly leave him behind?

  All morning these were the thoughts that plagued her, through the drone of hymns and now the solitude of her room. The clinking of china and rustling of paper traveled from downstairs, where the maid was busily packing.

  Vivian sat at her small desk and flipped her diary to a clean page. She penned her dilemma in hopes of conjuring an answer. Time was running short. Isaak would be waiting by the river at half past eleven. Their frequent meetings had required an equal number of alibis to excuse Vivian from the house. Thankfully today, with political urgency trumping the Sabbath, her father was at the embassy, leaving only her mother as an obstacle.

  Vivian scrolled through her options. It had been a while since she and Alice, a British diplomat’s daughter, had shared an outing in the city. It was plausible they would have made plans for ... a picnic ... or lunch in Piccadilly ... to say good-bye.

  “Vivian, honestly.”

  At her mother’s voice, she covered her diary with a magazine.

  The woman appeared in the doorway wearing a yellow sweater and brown A-line skirt. Face powdered and rouged, she posed a cigarette like Greta Garbo. In fact, much about her resembled a film star, but aged from being too long on display.

  “We’re not waiting until the last minute to pack all of our things,” she said. “You haven’t emptied a single drawer, have you?”

  Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of London Life. “Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.

  “Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”

  Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.

  “You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”

  “Most of those are my work dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.

  Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.

  “So be it,” she murmured. For now, her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”

  Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.

  “I did not pout.”

  “You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”

  “I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.

  “Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mothers never do.” When she turned to leave, Vivian’s frustration sharpened, an arrow of unsaid words. She could hold them in no longer.

  “Aren’t you worried at all about Father staying here? Or are you secretly hoping something will happen to him?”

  Her mother froze, facing the doorway.

  Vivian girded herself for a glare, a reprimand. Perhaps even a slap, partly aware she deserved it. Instead, a sheet of silence erected, so brittle it could shatter from a single tap.

  When the woman eventually spoke, she did so over her shoulder in a tone cool as steel.

  “I was once your age, Vivian. Believed I knew everything about life and love, how the world worked.” After a pause, a wrenching mournfulness entered her voice: “Enjoy it while you can.”

  Vivian did her best to shake off the remark. She realized how greatly she had failed while ascending from the Underground, having little recollection of the trip.

  On the sidewalk, someone bumped her from behind and shot forward to pass her. No apology. Such rudeness was more typical of a kid in knickers than a gentleman in a suit. Her gaze trailed him to a barbershop, where a group had assembled outside. The presence of women made it clear that something other than a free cut and shave had beckoned the crowd.

  Vivian warily approached. The people held in place, still as stone, listening. The stout barber in a white apron adjusted the radio on the counter. The speaker’s voice belonged to Prime Minister Chamberlain. Through the crackling static came the formal announcement: Britain had declared war.

  War ...

  It was now official. Inevitable, really. The ultimatum had been made; the treaty had been breached. Nevertheless, the surrounding expressions confirmed Vivian was not alone in her shock.

  As if that weren’t enough, France, Australia, and New Zealand had also joined the cause. Another world war was upon them, all thanks to Hitler and his Nazi regime, dragging with them the populace of Germany.

  Isaak. She had to reach him.

  She glanced at her watch-eleven seventeen-and made her way toward the Thames. Storekeepers mounted sandbags and crisscrossed windows with fresh tape. Strangers toted boxes stuffed with gas masks on the ready. Optimists would no longer view these as overly cautious measures.

  From Vivian’s childhood, a nursery rhyme echoed in her memory. “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” She dreaded to think the same fate could befall the city. The whole country.

  She increased her pa
ce, bordering on a run. When she reached the designated lamppost-no longer her special spot, but theirs—she checked her watch again.

  Eleven twenty-six.

  Four minutes to wait, at the most. Isaak was never late. Punctual as a German train, he’d once boasted. Though she hadn’t considered how telling the phrase was until this moment.

  A growing rumble caught her ear. She turned toward the water, where boats had become rather scarce. The image of a German bomber flashed in her mind. She scanned the overcast sky. Patches of clouds were stitched into a quilt, a convenient disguise for the Luftwaffe.

  But then she traced the sound. The muffler of an old Ford grumbled down the street.

  “Just a car,” she sighed. She almost laughed from relief, when a siren wailed. An actual warning. Not a practice drill. A passing mother yelled at her child to keep up. Couples set off in a sprint, retreating to shelters.

  Where was Isaak? Vivian searched for his face. Panic coursed through her veins. The siren pierced all thought. She cupped her ears, muting the nightmare, and prayed that any second she would wake.

  13

  I’ll find him, I’ll find him ...

  Audra looped the declaration, a flimsy weapon against the images emerging from her memory. They were alerts of missing children—posters and billboards and five o’clock news leads—a collection she had unknowingly accrued since the day of Jack’s birth.

  “I repeat, we’ve got a Code Adam,” the security guard said into his walkie-talkie. He released the button, and a voice confirmed receipt of the message. He addressed Audra again, his tone and appearance straight from any crime-fighting show. “Do you remember what your son was wearing?”

  Jack’s entire wardrobe tumbled around in her mind, as if viewed through the window of a clothes dryer. She glanced around the food area, at the outfits of strangers, to jog her recollection.

  “He’s got jeans on. And sneakers. He has a cast on one arm, but it’s covered by his blue raincoat—no, green. It’s dark green.”

  Audra waited as the man relayed the description to the control center. Why hadn’t she dressed Jack in something more distinct? For public places, Devon used to put him in bright colors, fluorescent orange and yellow. She just didn’t think it would be necessary at his age.