Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  It was still early, not quite eight o’clock, and the only sign of life on the water was a smattering of lazy fishing boats. Liz waved at Arie Van Vliet, recognizable by the abundance of white hair poking out from under his ever-present Vikings cap. He waved back a little too enthusiastically, and she was grateful that he wasn’t close enough to hear her chuckle.

  Jack hadn’t been gone for two years and already she had had suitors. Not officially, of course. One didn’t date past college in Key Lake. After that, people were more or less paired, and those who weren’t knew their prospects were grim. Some moved away. Some embraced the single life. And those who found themselves widowed and alone after being a happy (or unhappy) couple for more years than they ever imagined possible learned to speak volumes with mere glances. Arie, a widower for over a decade now (he lost his wife to cancer; Liz couldn’t remember the type), would have scooped her up so fast it would have made her head spin.

  Liz didn’t much want her head to spin.

  Where the boardwalk ended, a gravel path began to wind through the trees near the water. Liz stepped into the dappled shade of gnarled oaks and drew close to the edge of the trail to let a jogger pass. She was almost halfway around the lake at this point, two and a half miles from home and another half mile to go before the A-frame. Liz didn’t regret her decision to pop in on Quinn, but the day was already warming in that slow, burning way of August. She could feel the heat beginning to descend through the cooler morning air. It was going to be a scorcher. Maybe she would ask Quinn for a ride home.

  The thought made Liz’s stomach flutter, and she didn’t know if it was because she was nervous about inconveniencing her daughter or if she was hungry. Liz had planned on stopping at Sandpoint for a coffee and a scone until she was seized with the desire to be far away from Macy. And close to Quinn. Her longing for her daughter was a layered thing, and she wasn’t quite ready to examine it.

  The front door of the cabin was locked, but Liz kept a spare under the lip of the flowerpot on the little front porch. She debated a moment whether to knock or quietly let herself in, and decided that if she poked her head inside and all was quiet she would just slip away unnoticed.

  Renters sometimes complained that the key stuck, but the lock was butter in Liz’s hands. She eased the door open and stopped just over the threshold, noting instantly that the windows were open and it was definitely not seventy degrees in the house. Walker and Quinn had turned the air-conditioning off again. She repressed a little sigh and determined to bring it up with Quinn again. Just maybe not today.

  Were there lights on? Sounds in the house? Liz couldn’t tell. So she took a few more steps and scanned the great room. The sitting area to her right was empty, but as her gaze flicked over to the kitchen, Liz found herself staring directly at Quinn. Her daughter was leaning against the counter, tank top bunched up in one hand and a small pen in the other. No, it wasn’t a pen. It was a syringe. And Quinn was giving herself an injection.

  Liz didn’t mean to make a sound, but she must have done exactly that. Quinn’s head whipped up.

  “Mom?!” She dropped whatever she was holding and hastily tugged her top down. As she kicked the vial beneath the edge of the cupboards, anger began to mingle with the shock already coloring her pretty face. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  And just like that, Liz couldn’t think of a single reason for coming. A part of her wanted to scurry across the space between them and take her daughter into her arms. She looked so vulnerable in her pajamas. The girl wasn’t even wearing a bra, and because she was so young and lovely and perfectly perky she didn’t need to. Liz felt an ache in her heart that was exactly Quinn-sized. But another part of Liz was already pulling herself up, straightening the skirt of her tennis dress and lifting her chin a fraction of an inch.

  “The renter’s agreement specifically states that the windows are to remain closed,” Liz said. She hadn’t even known the words were going to come out of her mouth until she uttered them, and though she wanted to take them back, to ask Quinn about the syringe and the sad downturn of her sweet mouth, something stubborn and unbending and distinctly Midwestern prevented her from doing so. One didn’t talk about such things.

  “Oh, Mom.” Quinn put her forehead in her hand and took a deep breath. When she looked up she said, “You scared me half to death. I could have sworn I locked the door last night.”

  Liz didn’t bother to tell her about the key. “Just out on a walk and thought I’d stop by.”

  “You could have called first.”

  “Family needs to call first?” Liz began to straighten the knickknacks on the end table beside her and then reached to square a picture on the wall that had slipped a bit crooked. “Now that I’m here, how about we have breakfast? I could take you to Luverne’s for pancakes.”

  It was a spur of the moment offer. A stroke of brilliance, if Liz said so herself. Luverne’s had been Quinn’s favorite when she was a little girl, but her daughter’s eyes didn’t brighten at the idea like Liz had hoped they would. Instead, her gaze darted to the spare bedroom just off the kitchen, and for a moment a look of something like panic shadowed her face.

  “No, thanks,” she said too quickly. “Walker’s working on a project. I promised I’d make him breakfast. In fact, I’d better get started.” Quinn turned to the cupboard beside the stove and pulled out a frying pan, banging it onto the gas range with a bit more force than necessary.

  “I could whip up—”

  “No, Mom, really,” Quinn interrupted. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Just need a little time alone.”

  Liz wanted to argue that all they had was time alone. But she bit her tongue and gave her daughter a narrow smile. “Well, have a good day then, darling. Let me know if you need anything at all.” She considered mentioning the windows one last time, then decided against it.

  “Goodbye,” Quinn called, but her back was already turned and the word was muffled and weak.

  Liz let herself out, heart pounding wildly in her chest. She was hurt and embarrassed, sure that there was something going on but helpless to do anything about it. The chasm between her and her child felt enormous. The syringe was mildly terrifying—Quinn wasn’t diabetic, at least not that Liz knew of. She was aware that the condition could develop later in life, and she no longer had access to Quinn’s medical files, but her daughter and Walker practically ate paleo and exercised all the time. Swimming and jogging and yoga on the lawn … who knew what else? Type 2 diabetes at twenty-five would have been a shock.

  But that mystery could be solved at a later date. Liz was far more worried about the fact that when Quinn felt backed into a corner, she didn’t look toward Walker and the gorgeous master suite that they shared.

  What was she hiding in the spare bedroom?

  Liz couldn’t even begin to guess. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  QUINN

  THE TILE WAS COLD beneath her bare knees as Quinn fumbled for the discarded syringe. She hadn’t had time to release the little mechanism that covered the needle post-injection, so when her finger met with a sharp poke, she knew she had found it. Perfect. Nothing like adding insult to injury.

  Quinn put her finger in her mouth and sucked the drop of blood that formed at the tip. Shuffling over to the cupboard on her knees, she tossed the syringe in the sharps container under the sink and straightened up right into Walker’s chest. She stifled a gasp of surprise.

  “Good morning,” he murmured into her hair. His arms went around her waist from behind and she stiffened for just a moment before relaxing into them. Or trying to. Her heart was beating a staccato rhythm that refused to slow. “I thought I heard voices. Were you talking to yourself again?”

  “My mother.” Quinn was grateful that she could chalk up her racing pulse to the fact that Liz had just walked in on her dosing herself. She had jumped when she realized she was being watched, and the last burn of medication had pooled too close to the surface of her skin. She could already
feel the itch of a bruise forming.

  “Your mother?” But Liz was gone and therefore not something Walker needed to be concerned about. His hands slid beneath Quinn’s tank top, finding all the places where her stomach was puffy and tender. His touch was gentle, knowing, and he asked, “Last dose, right?”

  Quinn was supposed to have given herself the injection last night, but she had forgotten. In the shock that marked the minutes after Nora sped away from Redrock Bay, Quinn had forgotten nearly everything. There was a child before her. A little girl who was a complete and total stranger.

  But Nora had said, She’s one of us.

  As the dust from Nora’s tires settled around them, Quinn went to her knees in front of Lucy. The child was slight, her shoulders delicate and rounded in fear. Despair? She looked so tiny, so fragile. Quinn wanted to hold her. But there was something in the set of that narrow jaw that warned her away.

  Furious, Quinn decided as she leaned back on her haunches and blew a strand of hair out of her face. She was furious at her sister. Damn it, Nora. She could be such a drama queen. A black hole of a woman, the kind of person who drew people to her dark gravity and sucked them in before they realized what was happening. Everything mattered to Nora, from global warming to civil rights to animal cruelty. And she expected everyone around her to care just as much as she did.

  Who was Lucy? Another cause? But she was a child. Quinn felt a fresh wave of rage wash over her. Why had Nora abandoned a little girl?

  Lucy was a dilemma in and of herself, but Quinn was livid when she realized that Nora hadn’t even attempted to ease her transition. Lucy had absolutely nothing with her. No bag, no clothes, not even a stuffed animal that she clutched beneath the standard issue car blanket that Nora had so unceremoniously draped around her. Quinn would have cursed her sister to kingdom come if Lucy weren’t nearby. It was just like Nora to make a mess and then leave Quinn behind to pick up the pieces. How did her sister expect her to keep a little girl a secret? Even more important, why?

  Answers or no, they couldn’t stay in the parking lot at Redrock Bay all night. Somehow, Quinn had managed to convince Lucy to crawl into the back seat of her car. Really, what choice did she have? They drove back to the A-frame in silence, Quinn nursing a tension headache that made her vision blurry and worrying about how in the world she was going to explain to Walker what had happened. But he was still in the boathouse studio when they arrived home (a detail that both relieved and devastated Quinn). So she ushered Lucy into the house and decided that sleep was the only, albeit temporary, solution.

  “I don’t have a nightgown for you,” Quinn faltered when they were finally in the great room together. It felt as if a year had passed since she had grabbed her car keys off the end table and blithely left to meet Nora. Since then, her world had been upturned.

  Lucy was staring at her shoes, blanket still wrapped tight around her shoulders. Tears would have been understandable. Even a tantrum. But the little girl was just standing there, breathing shallowly with her gaze fixed on the floor. She was as stoic and unmoving as a porcelain doll. A Shirley Temple doll with her cropped red curls and creamy skin, but the similarities ended there. Lucy’s mouth was quivering, her eyes so troubled that Quinn was overcome with a desire to hug her. But she didn’t dare.

  “No pajamas,” Quinn repeated weakly. “But I do have a T-shirt that might work. It has a clover leaf on it …”

  The girl’s fingers went to the skirt of her cotton sundress, bunching the fabric as if daring Quinn to try to take it off.

  “Okay. You can sleep in your dress,” Quinn quickly amended, and then added, “but maybe not your shoes.”

  Lucy bent down slowly and began to work the double knots in her pink laces. Her tennis shoes were old and scuffed, so worn at the toe that Quinn was sure she could see a hint of flesh peeking through. For some reason, that more than anything tugged at Quinn’s heart. Dirty child, tangled hair, tattered shoes.

  “Can I help?”

  Lucy didn’t say anything, but neither did she pull away when Quinn sank to the carpet. They each worked on a different shoe, struggling with laces that had clearly been tied by someone with a sadistic streak. Thanks, Nora, Quinn thought. But as the back of her hand grazed Lucy’s, it struck her that this was the first time they had touched. Lucy didn’t pull away. It gave Quinn a crumb of hope.

  She settled Lucy into the spare room off the kitchen. The bed was queen-sized and it seemed to gobble Lucy up, making her look like a tiny baby instead of a five-year-old. Six? Nora hadn’t told her how old Lucy was and Quinn didn’t consider herself competent enough to accurately guess. It had been years since she had been the Key Lake resident babysitter extraordinaire, and all Walker’s siblings were older. There were a dozen questions on her tongue, but she ignored them all and asked, simply, kindly, “Is there anything I can do?”

  Lucy turned her cheek into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut as if she could wish Quinn and the unfamiliar cabin and the entire experience away. Quinn’s heart seized. She wanted to do something, anything, to comfort her. But the girl was stone.

  “My bedroom is just down the hall,” Quinn offered quietly. “And the bathroom is right beside it.” Should she have made Lucy pee before bed? Brush her teeth with one of the extra toothbrushes in the convenience drawer that was stocked with single-use toiletries? But there was nothing to do for it now. The girl was curled inside of herself. Inviolable. Not wanting to make the situation worse, Quinn backed slowly out of the room. She left the door open several inches and the light above the stove in the kitchen on. It cast a band of light straight into the spare room and onto the bed where Lucy lay. She hoped it was enough.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and intended to wait up for Walker. It was no use texting him, he wouldn’t pick up his phone when he was working, and she didn’t dare to leave Lucy alone in the cabin. But by midnight, Quinn had moved to their bedroom, door thrown wide so she could listen for any hint of movement in the house. Of course, she fell asleep. She knew this about herself, that lying horizontal for any amount of time would result in a deep and dreamless slumber no matter how stressed or preoccupied she was. But Quinn didn’t imagine she could rest with Lucy nearby. A living, breathing child who she was suddenly, unfathomably, responsible for.

  When she woke, sunlight was streaming in the window and Walker was sprawled beside her. Most mornings Quinn rolled over and welcomed her husband to bed. He often worked into the wee hours of the morning, and his presence beside her when she opened her eyes was always a bit of a surprise. She liked to wrap her arms around the hard plane of his weary body and press kisses onto his shoulders and back, but he rarely accepted her early morning invitations. He was too tired.

  This morning, Quinn had sneaked out of bed. No kisses. Instead, she had hurried to the spare room with her heart in her throat. The reality of Lucy was an astonishing thing, like pain that hit when the morphine wore off. It felt like a bad dream, but Quinn knew it was real. Worst of all, she felt guilty for falling asleep, for not keeping vigil. What if … ?

  Lucy was there. Sleeping or faking it, Quinn couldn’t tell. But she pulled the door shut quietly and stood in the kitchen with her head in her hands.

  “You seem upset,” Walker told her, breaking her reverie by kissing the curve of her ear. Quinn hadn’t realized that her whole body was tensing, remembering, and she tried to relax her shoulders as Walker’s mouth trailed down her neck. But when his hand slid into the waistband of her shorts she pulled away and turned to face him.

  “We can’t.”

  “Why not?” Walker’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “The timing is perfect, right?”

  What could she do but tell him? And yet, there were no words. Instead, Quinn took him by the hand and led him to the spare room. She put a finger to her lips and eased open the door. Walker stared for a moment, his face expressionless, and then he turned to her with a look of pure bewilderment.

  “Who is that?”

&
nbsp; “Lucy,” Quinn said, because it sounded better than “I don’t know.” She carefully edged the door shut again.

  “Who’s Lucy?”

  “Nora’s friend.”

  “What?” Walker looked so disconcerted that Quinn made him sit down on one of the barstools while she started boiling water for a cup of his favorite pour over coffee. She told him the story in starts and stops, searching for words, for explanations to fill in the many gaps. All the same, she had told him everything she knew long before the kettle on the stove began to whistle.

  “She’s one of us,” Quinn said, repeating Nora’s cryptic revelation.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Walker just shook his head. “This is insane.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What do you know about kids?”

  You, because Walker was the oldest of six (ranging in age from twenty-seven to eleven) and Quinn had heard many times how he had practically raised his younger siblings. How he helped them with their homework and made them oatmeal for breakfast and could tell if his sister had had a bad day just by the way she dropped her schoolbag by the door. Walker had assured her that children were far more complicated than she imagined them to be. Quinn bristled. “I’m great with kids.”

  “Well, yeah, for an hour or two, but, Quinn, this is different.”

  “How?”

  He ignored her. “Where is her mother? Her father? She didn’t just appear out of thin air. I think we should check the news for a report of a missing child.”

  “Walker!” The entire situation was difficult enough, but Quinn was starting to get angry. She trusted Nora, and even if Walker couldn’t understand her confidence in her sister, he could at least try.