The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

  “This isn’t over, Esther,” Beth says. “I can try other adoption networks in California. It’s just getting late, and I need to get you home.”

  “Don’t worry,” Color says, hugging me. “Trust in Dharma. We’ll make it to California somehow.”

  Beth drops me off in the old station wagon, and Tom asks how it went delivering valentines. I say fine.

  And he says, “You don’t look fine.”

  And I say, “I’m just not feeling very well.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Maybe.”

  And then Tom makes a cross with his fingers and says, “Stay away from the rest of us, then.”

  “Not a problem,” I say, and disappear into my room for the rest of the day.

  The knock at my bedroom window echoes in my head, startling me. Jesús stands out in the darkness, his shoulders shaking. He knocks again and makes a sign for me to open the window.

  When I do, I say, “What’s going on?”

  “I think the rain is coming.” Jesús’s voice quivers as he glances skyward. “And I thought maybe you needed me.” He climbs in the window. “Are you . . . crying?”

  “No,” I say.”

  Jesús wipes tears from my cheek.

  “OK, yes.”

  Once he is inside, he pulls me into the closet. “What is it?”

  “Why is this so hard?” I whisper, now blubbering like an idiot.

  “You’re asking a gay boy why life is so hard? I definitely don’t have the answer.”

  That makes me laugh. I wipe tears from my cheeks. “Does it even matter? What if nothing changes when I see her? What if it only makes living harder? What if . . .”

  “What if you don’t do it at all?”

  “Then I’ll always wonder.” I hiccup with tears.

  “Is it harder to wonder or harder to live with it? Whatever it is.”

  Here are a few notable things about Esther. The reason I cut off all my hair when I found out I was pregnant was that I figured maybe Amit wouldn’t love me anymore if I changed how I looked. I was wrong. He didn’t love me because of my looks, and I knew it, but I hoped anyway. It wasn’t the first time. My short hair has now grown out some, and I need a haircut, because I can’t be the girl I was when I had long hair and Hannah spent time curling it. I don’t want to be. I like how I look now. I like short hair. I also have really bad breath in the morning. If I drink orange juice after I brush my teeth, I gag. I love my friends. And some days I wonder whether it might be possible to love Hannah again.

  One more notable thing—I think about my dad every day. I wonder if he thinks about me. I think about seeing him again and about the first question I’d ask him.

  Do you think about us?

  Why did you leave?

  Did you not love us?

  Was it my fault?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  Wasn’t our love strong enough to hold you still?

  I know the answer to the last question. I don’t want the baby Amit and I created to have the same questions. And if that means I have to live with whatever the consequences are in order to give her that truth, I’ll survive it. Even if it makes living harder.

  “I’d rather know,” I say to Jesús.

  He wraps himself around me and pulls me as close as we can get.

  “That’s my girl.” He kisses me on my cheeks. “Mon chéri.” He kisses my forehead. Then he stops, his eyes lingering on my lips. The air between us is still and warm and wonderful.

  “It’s OK. You can kiss me,” I say. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Esther,” he says.

  And so I reach up for Jesús and pull his face down to mine, and we kiss in a real, loving way. It’s sweet, but mostly it’s simple—the way love should be.

  “I’m still gay,” he says when our lips part.

  “I would never want to change that about you.”

  Jesús exhales. “Thank God.”

  I wake up on the floor in my closet and shake Jesús awake.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Ainsworth,” I say.

  “Ainsworth.” Jesús nods but then shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “My last name is Ainsworth.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Beth called Tom ‘Mr. Ainsworth.’”

  “And?” Jesús asks.

  “Hannah and I never changed our last name. It’s my dad’s name. Tom’s last name is Wyatt.”

  “OK?”

  “And so is my mom’s,” I say. “It’s no wonder Beth can’t find anything. She’s been searching for the wrong name.”

  38

  Mom hands me a banana and my water bottle, examining me thoroughly in the way only a mom can.

  “Esther, eat something,” she says.

  “I don’t feel so well.” I grab my belly.

  Tom makes a cross with his fingers again. “Keep it to yourself.”

  “I got the part of Mary in the Passion play,” Hannah says, like I’m not here. “The virgin, not the slut.”

  I poke at the banana.

  “That’s not eating, Esther,” Mom says.

  Hannah leans her elbows on the table. “Pastor Rick said he’d help me memorize my lines.”

  “Try some water.” Mom pushes a glass toward me. “Hannah, elbows.”

  But she doesn’t remove them. “He said I was the best Mary he’d ever seen.”

  “Maybe you’re dehydrated,” Mom says. “I knew it would happen at some point.”

  “Pastor Rick said I was the prettiest Mary he’d ever seen, too.” Hannah is practically yelling.

  “I’ll be back,” I say.

  Hannah sits back with a dramatic huff. “Is nobody listening?”

  I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then I come back to the table. “Maybe a glass of orange juice?”

  Mom smiles like this is a great idea. I take one sip and gag.

  Tom stands up rapidly and says, “I can’t get sick. I have a big meeting next week. Esther, why don’t you stay home from church today.”

  The plan works like a charm.

  And as I watch Mom, Tom, and Hannah pull down the driveway on their way to church, I see a small raindrop fall on the window.

  “We have two hours. Three at the most,” I say. Color, Moss, Jesús, and Beth assemble on my bed. Beth is typing away on her laptop. When Jesús gets antsy, he goes to the window to watch the rain. It’s come on slowly. A few drops here. A few drops there. Now it’s starting to pour.

  “Those clouds don’t look good,” he says.

  “I’m in,” Beth says. We all crowd around her, and she stands up with the laptop. “OK. Maybe I need a private room.”

  “Try the closet. It’s lovely.” Jesús opens the door.

  Beth declares, “This is the last time I hide in a closet.” Then she looks at all of us and says, “I’m gay. You knew that, right?”

  And Color says, “Duh.”

  Moss just kind of shrugs, but Jesús grabs Beth by the arms and says, “Do you know what this means?”

  “What?”

  “This means I’m not the only one! I mean, I’ve had my suspicions of other kids, but never actually heard it confirmed.”

  “We are so not the only ones,” Beth says.

  “Who else do you think?” Jesús asks, intrigued. “No, wait. Let me guess. Leslie Culpepper? Jacques Sweeney?”

  “Madeleine Todd?” Beth offers.

  “Definitely a potential lesbian,” Jesús says. “And there’s a sophomore kid. He’s for sure gay. I think his name’s Paul or Pete or something.”

  “Can we get back to business here?” Moss says.

  “We should start a club,” Jesús says to Beth. Then he pats her on the butt and points at the closet. “Now, get in that closet and work some magic.”

  Before Beth disappears behind closed doors, she looks at me and says, “I’ll find it. I promise.” And I trust Bet
h, because she lies the least of anyone I know.

  “This is so exciting,” Color says, wringing her hands together. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “I might throw up,” I say. Or burst into a million pieces that Color will have to vacuum up next week when she comes to clean . . .

  The rain picks up outside.

  Beth is doing something totally illegal in my closet, to get information so that I can do something totally illegal, by running off to California as a minor to see a baby I gave up for adoption. I’m pretty sure there are laws against birth moms seeing babies without the consent of the adoptive parents.

  Complex Math Problem: If laws prevent people from making dumb decisions, how did we all end up here?

  Moss grabs my hand and pulls me down on the bed next to him. “You’re doing that thing you always do.”

  “What?”

  “Thinking.”

  “You do it, too.”

  We lie down on my bed with an exhale. “Guilty.”

  I am guilty of having sex with a boy. I am guilty of having a baby. I am guilty of asking too many questions when I should just be satisfied. It’s been sunny for four months straight, and all I’ve wanted is rain. Now it’s raining and I still want more. Why am I never satisfied?

  The house is just so damn quiet right now.

  Jesús knocks on the closet door. “How’s it going in there?”

  “You can’t rush genius!” Beth yells.

  Color and Jesús lie on either side of Moss and me, surrendering to the wait.

  “The Big Dipper,” Color says, pointing at the ceiling.

  “Orion’s Belt,” Moss says.

  “I love the stars. They’re so humbling,” Color says. “It’s like the universe’s way of reminding us that we are just the teeniest, tiniest pieces of this gigantic, infinite puzzle.”

  “That’s kind of depressing,” Jesús says.

  “No way,” Color says. “It’s a puzzle. Without all the pieces, it can’t be complete. We are needed.”

  And in Color’s totally odd way of making sense of things, she hands me an answer. I need this piece of my puzzle. Without it, I won’t be complete. I won’t be whole. I’ve tried to forget it . . . to forget her, but the stars shine every night, even when they’re covered in clouds.

  And just then, out my window, lightning flashes across the desert.

  “One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand.” Color sings the words.

  A crack of thunder.

  “Three miles away,” Moss says. “It’s getting closer.”

  Minutes pass before there’s another flash of lightning.

  “One, one thousand. Two, one—” Color is cut off by a boom of thunder.

  “Damn,” Jesús says. “This storm is bad.”

  Time passes slowly. The cascade of rain on the roof echoes in my hollow house.

  “At least your pool won’t be empty anymore,” Color says.

  I can barely hear her over the noise.

  “Oh my gosh.” The words come from the closet. I swear I hear something else at the same time, but I’m hearing a lot of things right now. Crashing and booming and rain.

  “What is it?” Jesús puts his ear to the closet door. “I think she found something.”

  Lightning strikes again. Color doesn’t have time to count. The thunder claps immediately after the lightning strikes. And the house goes dark.

  “Oh my gosh.” This time the voice doesn’t come from the closet. I only know one other person who wouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

  Hannah.

  We turn to find her standing in my bedroom doorway, holding her Bible, water dripping from her hair.

  At the same time, Beth bursts out of the closet and says, “The internet just went down! Damn it! I almost had the address!”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Hannah.

  Her eyes are so wide, they might pop out of her head. “I knew it. I knew I’d catch you doing something. Peter said I was being paranoid, but I was right.”

  “Peter Marshfield!” Jesús says enthusiastically. “That’s the sophomore kid I was thinking of!”

  “You aren’t sick.” It’s like all Hannah can see is me, and vice versa. Her eyes bore into me. “What are you doing? What address is Beth talking about?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I say.

  “Are you looking for the baby?”

  “OK”—I amend my words—“it’s exactly what you think.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Hannah comes into the room. She paces, her eyes wild, the Bible clutched in her hand. “You’re ruining our lives. Again.”

  Hannah scans my friends’ faces, a look of pure hatred in her eyes. “Why do you love her? Don’t you know what she is? What she’ll do to you? She’ll break your heart! She’s so messed up!”

  Hannah spreads the truth about me all over the room, painting her pointed words on the walls, like this is Heaven. “She’ll only ruin your life! It’s not worth it to love her!”

  Hannah lifts her hand high in the air, and I think for just a moment that she’ll bring it down on me. But instead, she shoves the fishbowl off the dresser, sending it flying. It smashes against the wall. Glass splinters everywhere. Colorful rocks scatter across the floor. Water spills, and my fish flops, struggling for life, as Hannah runs out of the room.

  My mind moves slowly, like it’s being dragged behind me, bumping against the ground. I pick up a piece of glass, and it cuts my hand. “She shattered it.”

  “What do we do?” Moss asks, panicked.

  The front door slams and Peter’s car pulls out of the driveway, but all I can do is stare at my fish on the ground, surrounded by broken pieces.

  “I can’t believe she hates me this much.”

  “Esther, what do we do?” Moss is at my side.

  I scoop my fish up and hold her in my hands.

  “Esther!” Jesús is frantic. Even Color looks scared. And she never looks scared.

  My fish sits in my palm, barely moving.

  “Get me a cup of water.”

  “But what about your sister?” Color asks.

  I look at her and say, “I promised you and me I’d save this fish, and that’s what I plan to do.”

  When she comes back with a small plastic cup, I drop the fish inside, and we all huddle around to see if she swims.

  “Don’t float,” I say. “Please, don’t float.”

  When my fish starts to flutter, we let out a collective exhale. Then a rumble of thunder rolls through the sky.

  “Oh my God,” I say. Blood drains from my face. “Hannah.”

  My fish can’t talk. I wish she could. Her world is gone now. I need to apologize for that, but that’s what I do to people. Hannah is right. I ruin everything. Now my fish is trapped in a little cup.

  All five of us load into the station wagon—a car Color used her hard-earned money to fix for me. I’m so not worth it.

  Jesús is next to me. “Where do you think your sister went?”

  Does it matter? It’s over. Hannah will tell Mom and Tom what I was doing. They’ll never let me out of their sight. Or worse, Tom will make us move again.

  “I’ll be this fish.” I examine her in the tiny cup. “I’ve waited so long for this, and look at where I end up.”

  “Mon chéri.” Jesús pulls on my chin so I look at him. “Where do you think your sister went?”

  Hannah could be anywhere. Does it matter?

  “Why do you love me?” I ask him. Then I pose the question to all of them. “Hannah is right. I ruin everything.”

  The windshield is covered in rain. Even the rain is ruined.

  “Pain is inevitable in life,” Color says. “The point isn’t to avoid it. The point is to surround yourself with people who catch you when you fall. We’re your trampoline, Esther.”

  And through the rain, a light dawns. It turns out I didn’t need to bring that rusty old trampoline from Ohio to New Mexico. I f
ound a new one.

  “Church,” I say. “Hannah went to church.”

  Half of the town is experiencing a power outage, but Touchdown Jesus is still lit up. The parking lot is packed with cars.

  “What do we do now?” Moss asks as he parks.

  I hand Jesús my fish. “Whatever happens, keep her safe. I still need to set her free.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise,” I say.

  “Promise.”

  And then I ask everyone, “What is a bird’s favorite type of math?”

  “What?” Beth asks.

  “Owl-gebra.”

  I get out of the car and step in a puddle. Dirt and water run together and make everything messy, but inside the church, it’s dry. I can hear the service coming to a close as the congregation collectively sings a hymn.

  My feet squish and squeak up and down the hallways as I search for Hannah. I need to stop her before she gets to Mom and Tom.

  Lightning and thunder continue to roll through the sky. The choir room is empty, and down in the fellowship hall, the ladies who serve coffee wait for people to filter out from the service, but no Hannah. I get desperate and start pulling open every door. Hannah was always a good hider when we were little and played hide-and-seek. She never made a sound until I’d almost given up, and then she’d peep like a bird to give me a clue.

  I stand in front of Pastor Rick’s office door. A moment from back at the house comes to me. Did Jesús say Peter is gay? Who actually told Mom and Tom about the special choir group she’s been practicing with almost every night? Ms. Sylvia hasn’t mentioned it once, even though she’s the one who formed the group. And Beth didn’t know about it. Hannah’s the one who brought it up.

  Peep.

  The sound of falling rain echoes through the church, like God stored water just for this moment, so he could release heavy drops on the world to weigh us down.

  I turn the knob and open the door.

  Lightning flashes, and the loudest crack of thunder yet shakes the entire church.

  I find Hannah.

  With Pastor Rick.

  And he’s touching her cantaloupes.

  39

  Pastor Rick pulls his mouth off Hannah’s and backs away frantically.