Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  “Do you keep in touch with Nora at all?” Liz asked, wondering if maybe there was some private pact these days between women of a certain age to underachieve.

  Tiffany just shrugged. “I really should go,” she muttered, shoving the boxes back onto the shelf all helter-skelter. One fell to the ground and she didn’t bother to pick it up.

  Liz’s skin prickled with annoyance and she almost told Tiffany to fix her mess. But then she remembered. It came in a rush and she felt herself thaw with shame. “Oh, Tiffany! You’re in town for the funeral, aren’t you?”

  Lorelei’s funeral had to be soon. Or had it already happened? Was it only yesterday that Macy was telling her about that poor woman’s passing? Whatever the case, Liz was convicted by her own insensitivity. She was being stingy and small. Here she was judging Tiffany when the clearly grief-stricken girl had just lost her aunt, the closest thing to a mother she had ever known. What was the story again? Lorelei’s sister was Tiffany’s mother, but she had skipped town when the child was barely out of diapers. Something like that. Sad, sad, sad. Liz’s heart melted for the young woman in front of her. She reached out and hugged her again, and this time, she put some feeling into it.

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Tiffany whispered.

  “Do you need a place to stay? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t know if you heard, but Jack Sr. is gone and I have that whole big house to myself …” Liz trailed off when she caught sight of her own grocery cart and the bottles of booze and festive packages of tiny paper umbrellas. How mortifying. How inappropriate.

  But Tiffany was shaking her head, excusing herself feebly as she backed out of the aisle. “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford. I really have to go.”

  Liz struggled for something to say, anything that might offer a little comfort or at least communicate that Elizabeth Sanford wasn’t the thoughtless, bumbling idiot that she had just appeared to be. She settled on: “You’re in my prayers.”

  Which wasn’t true. But it would be now. And as Tiffany walked away Liz made good on her declaration and whispered: “God bless that poor, sweet soul.”

  Then she decided to order flowers for the funeral. A huge bouquet with lots of roses.

  Liz was no-nonsense. A fixer and doer and stiff-upper-lipper. She believed in pulling herself up by her bootstraps and would swear until her dying day that the glass was always, and always would be, half full. But she was also a mother. A grandmother?

  If she thought of it, which she tried not to, Liz might consider that secret part of her soul a sort of robin’s egg. Fragile, mysterious, lovely. Delicate and prone to brokenness, but containing all that was vital and life-giving. Holy. Sometimes, at moments like this, when she was raw and aching in a sudden, unexpected way, Liz wondered at the many fissures that had splintered across her heart. The fault lines matched the wrinkles around her eyes, the telltale creases that had set deep in her forehead and around her pretty mouth. She had lived. She had loved. But she was lonely. She was alone. It kind of made her want to sit down in the middle of Walmart and cry.

  But then she spotted it out of the corner of her eye. Shine gloss. The package proclaimed: Crystal Clear Shine System. For all types of hair.

  Perfect.

  Liz Sanford snagged that box off the shelf and set her shoulders. She would go home. Pull off the party of the year. Figure out why Nora kept Lucy a secret and reunite her family.

  Fix everything.

  QUINN

  QUINN WOKE FROM a nightmare, a silent scream clawing at her throat. She bolted upright, frantic and panting, and gathered the blankets around her as if the cotton sheets could protect her from whatever had scared her awake. They were in danger, she could feel it, but the worry that troubled her sleep vanished the moment she opened her eyes. Quinn squinted in the early morning light. Nothing was amiss. The room was empty, even Walker was gone—no doubt to his studio. Quinn was alone and the terror that had yanked her from sleep was just that: a bad dream.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Quinn said just to hear the sound of her own voice.

  She glanced at the clock and discovered it was a few minutes after six. Much earlier than she normally woke up, but the nightmare felt grim and dirty against her skin and her T-shirt was damp with sweat.

  Quinn scrambled out of bed, eager to wash her fear down the drain. She took a cool shower and then made quick work of her morning routine. Curtains thrown wide, bed made, teeth brushed. Clipping her bangs back with a pair of bobby pins, Quinn studied herself in the mirror. She was pale, almost gaunt. An uncharacteristic look for August and it made her shiver a little. Stress, Quinn decided. This whole Lucy thing is making me crazy.

  The thought of Lucy sent a jolt of worry through Quinn. Was she … ? But when Quinn hurried through the cabin to Lucy’s room she found the little girl sound asleep in her bed. All the same, Quinn double-checked the front door (it was locked) and the sliding glass doors (the bolt was still in place). She pressed her hand to her forehead for just a moment, unexpectedly shaky and relieved.

  Quinn lifted her phone from her pocket and tried to call Nora, but the attempt was halfhearted. After several rings she gave up and tapped a text instead: Call me. She doubted Nora would respond.

  The living room was a mess and Quinn dulled the sense of foreboding that raked bony fingers across her skin by tidying up. She folded the blanket that had been piled on the floor and straightened pillows, righted a picture frame, rescued the remote control from the couch cushions. It looked like a storm had blown through.

  Last night. It came back to her in a blur of snapshots, close-ups of Walker’s dark skin, white teeth, strong hands. He had been passionate, possessive, hungry. Almost angry. It was beautiful and unexpected. The tiniest bit unnerving because it felt so significant.

  The thought slid through her like a specter: I’m pregnant.

  Could it be?

  Finding out that Quinn had endometriosis shortly after she and Walker were married hadn’t seemed like that big of a deal. So what if her periods were heavy? But the pain could be intense, and when Walker insisted that she see an ob-gyn, Quinn relented—as much to appease him as to quiet her own misgivings. The diagnosis wasn’t shocking or scary, just something she had to deal with. But when her doctor suggested that a pregnancy earlier rather than later would be wise, they took him seriously.

  “I want kids,” Walker had said, a mischievous glint in his eye. What he meant was: I want to try to make babies with you. But they both knew that having a family was what they always wanted, so Quinn went off birth control.

  A year later, nothing had happened. And suddenly, the quiet, “let’s see what happens” approach seemed paltry and trifling. If they wanted children, they were going to have to work for it.

  Quinn placed her hands over her belly and said a desperate, wordless prayer. A wish, really, that she released with a sigh so soft it hardly existed at all. This time, she thought.

  Of course, there was no way to know. Not yet. Her doctor in California warned her that the medication she was on could produce a false positive. A theory she tested more than once only to be bitterly disappointed when that hopeful pink plus sign dissolved into her period just days later. It was almost too much. Her body—each curve and angle and even scent that she had called her own for well over twenty years—was foreign soil. The hormones rendered her so strange and unfamiliar she sometimes felt as if she had experienced a sort of incomprehensible exchange. A bait and swap. Switcheroo. Who was this woman with full hips, hair so thick she could barely fit a ponytail holder around it twice, skin as smooth and flawless as molded plastic? Quinn didn’t recognize herself and she certainly didn’t expect Walker to.

  Which was why last night was such a gift. They made love, a far cry from the clinical, scheduled sex that was supposed to result in a baby the size of a pinpoint. Walker had been so intense, so passionate that Quinn had forgotten all
about her final dose of Gonal-f. But now, she knew. The timing was perfect. Or, close enough. Besides, wasn’t this exactly the way it was supposed to happen? They were taking fertility treatments, but this baby had been conceived in love.

  The door to Lucy’s bedroom was still closed, so Quinn turned her attention to coffee. She felt as if she stood at the center of a teeter-totter, balanced between despair and hope. There was so much to long for she didn’t even know where to start.

  Next to the coffeepot, Quinn found a package on the counter, a clear plastic Walmart bag rolled into a tight little bundle with the receipt stuck on top. Walker had left a note of sorts on the back side of the strip of paper, an XO that had been quickly sketched in ink. The O was a mandala design, the intricate lines reminiscent of the patterns he sometimes liked to trace on Quinn’s hands and wrists. Hugs and kisses in detailed art, Walker’s version of a love letter.

  Inside the shopping bag Quinn found an assortment of items for Lucy. Walker must have made the trip to town after tucking Quinn in for the night. Lucy had been so fragile the day before, Quinn had known there was no way she could leave her. And taking the girl along on a Walmart run to casually bump into the fine, gossipy people of Key Lake was out of the question. Quinn smiled as she marveled at her husband’s forethought, his kindness, in the things he had picked out for the little girl.

  A pair of plaid shorts in bright, cheerful colors, size 5/6. Holding them up, Quinn guessed they would fit Lucy perfectly. There were two shirts to match, a pink chambray and a gray baseball tee. Then, a casual, breezy mint-green sundress and a pajama set with purple hearts. A pair of flip-flops. A five-pack of Fruit of the Loom underwear printed with, of course, fruit. Dancing cherries and round-cheeked apples and smiling bananas. Finally, at the bottom of the bag there was a small stuffed fox and a pad of thick art paper with a box of rainbow pastels. Classic Walker.

  Quinn grinned in spite of herself, struck by sudden inspiration. She had applied to be a teacher’s assistant at the Pumpkin Patch, the only preschool in Key Lake, and during the interview the principal had waxed poetic about the role of art and play and nature in the development of a child. Quinn’s degree was in secondary education and the emphasis on finger paints and pinecones seemed childish and just a bit naive. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t gotten the job. But now, with Walker’s unblemished pastels and hope unfurling before her, Quinn decided she’d take another shot at cracking through Lucy’s seemingly impenetrable facade.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Lucy emerged from her room.

  “Good morning,” Quinn said. Lucy looked rumpled and fragile, and there were lines on her pale cheek from the creases in her pillowcase. Quinn had convinced her to wear an old T-shirt as pajamas and the hem came down to her shins. Lucy looked so lost, so vulnerable; Quinn’s heart seized. She wanted to gather her niece up in her arms, study the soft lines of her face, and ask her all the questions that she should know without fail. What’s your favorite color? When is your birthday? Can you ride a bike? Do you know I’m your auntie?

  “I’m running water in the bathtub for you,” Quinn said, pushing all those unwieldy questions, those tricky emotions down. She pointed toward the bathroom door. “There are strawberry bubbles and a pair of rubber ducks on the ledge. And I left a surprise on the counter.”

  Lucy didn’t respond, but she did wander off in the direction of the bathroom and close the door. Quinn rushed over and listened for the click of the lock. It never came, but a couple of seconds later, she heard the water shut off. She assumed Lucy knew how to bathe herself and had carefully set out everything in advance. A bottle of shampoo and conditioner, a new bar of oatmeal soap. The bubble bath had come from a decorative basket and probably wasn’t supposed to be used, but, oh well. There was a fluffy white towel and a washcloth folded on a stool beside the tub, and on the counter Quinn had arranged the pale gray shirt and plaid shorts. Cherry underwear on top. On the floor, the flip-flops printed with tiny beach balls were set and ready for Lucy’s feet.

  A part of Quinn wished that she had been invited inside. She would have gently lathered Lucy’s hair, circled the plush washcloth on her back. Her own mother had been harsh and unbending at times, but baths were almost sacred in the Sanford house. Liz got down on her knees beside the tub and trailed her fingertips through the water while she listened to her kids prattle on. She washed them with care, hands gentle on velvety skin and eyes warm. At what? Their innocence? The delicate curls of their wet hair and scrubbed clean faces? It didn’t really matter. It was a fond memory.

  While Lucy bathed (at least, Quinn hoped that’s what she was doing) Quinn pulled the wicker picnic basket from the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards. The hamper was fitted with a pair of wineglasses, a corkscrew, and leather straps to hold a wine bottle. But Quinn removed those things and began to layer in more appropriate goods. A gingham blanket, a small bunch of bananas. Peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches on thick slices of Walker’s homemade whole-grain bread that she had prepared and wrapped in wax paper while Lucy was still asleep. She wedged two jam jars filled with orange juice and tightly capped into the corners of the basket and topped it all off with the art pad and pastels.

  “What are you doing?”

  Quinn was startled by the sound of Lucy’s voice and she whirled around, expecting to see her flattened hair and T-shirt. But there was a towel wrapped turban-style around her head and she was wearing the outfit that Walker had bought. The clothes were a bit too big and the boat collar of the shirt hung off her delicate collarbones. But she looked clean and bright. Really rather adorable. Quinn just couldn’t understand how she had done it all so fast.

  “You look lovely!” Quinn smiled, a fierce and sudden pride sweeping through her. Remarkable girl. “How was your bath?”

  “Fine.”

  Her niece wasn’t much of a talker, but Quinn was getting used to it. She tried to read more in the tilt of her head, the way she stood with her feet firmly planted in new flip-flops (also a tad too big). She was a strong one, this Miss Lucy. Brave and shrewd and hard as a little nut. Maybe that was a good thing. Necessary. “Were there enough bubbles?”

  Lucy nodded, her eyes still on the picnic basket.

  “Oh! You asked me a question and I didn’t answer. We’re going on a picnic.” Quinn figured that if she didn’t give Lucy a choice in the matter she just might go along with it. The tactic had clearly worked well with the bath and new clothes. “Do you like picnics?”

  Lucy shrugged, but something in the rise of her small chin told Quinn that the child’s interest was piqued.

  “Well, I love them. How do you feel about peanut butter and jelly?” Quinn was rambling, fastening the clips on the picnic basket as she tried to keep the tone in the kitchen happy and light.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s not far,” Quinn assured her, adding: “Can I help you with your hair? I have a comb in my bathroom …”

  Lucy paused for a moment, considering. Then she nodded slowly. It was all the encouragement Quinn needed. She rushed to her bedroom and found her wide-toothed comb in the en suite. She wished she had detangler, something that would ensure the process was painless. But she didn’t have anything like that. She’d just have to take it slow.

  Back in the kitchen, Quinn carefully removed the towel from Lucy’s head. Where had a little girl learned to wrap a turban like that? To bathe herself so thoroughly? Quinn was close enough to catch a whiff of the sweet scent of Lucy’s skin: strawberry bubbles mingled with oatmeal and shea butter and something that was simply the essence of a little girl. She breathed in deeply, her fingers working through the red strands of Lucy’s cropped hair.

  But as she pulled her hands away, she saw that there was blood on her palms.

  Quinn gasped, a shiver racing down her spine. Had Lucy hit her head? Where was the wound? But before she could truly panic, Quinn realized two things: the red streaks on her hands weren’t blood, and som
eone had dyed Lucy’s hair. Recently.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucy asked, her slight shoulders lifting toward her ears. She was retreating, preparing to protect herself.

  “Nothing!” Quinn swallowed hard and reached for the towel that she had just discarded. Yes, there, on the perfect white terry cloth were rust-colored stains. She hadn’t noticed the evidence before because she had been so intoxicated by the prospect of connecting in some small way with Lucy. But now her heart lurched painfully. Quinn wished she could take it back, pretend she had never seen what so surely meant that Nora wasn’t being melodramatic at all. This wasn’t a game.

  Who dyed a little girl’s hair? Why? The possibilities skittered across Quinn’s mind. Wild things. Rabid and dangerous.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucy asked again, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Nothing, honey, nothing at all.” Quinn forced herself to take the comb in her hand and start again. “You just have such pretty hair.” Taking a section at a time, she gently ran the comb from scalp to ends until the loose waves were smooth. Around her ears and at the nape of her neck Lucy’s hair was drying in corkscrew curls and Quinn had to repress the urge to kiss the spot where the ringlets brushed her skin. Poor child.

  “All set,” Quinn said. She dared to lay her hands on Lucy’s shoulders for just a moment and the girl tolerated her touch. She wanted to ask her questions, to somehow show Lucy that she was safe, trustworthy. But Quinn also didn’t want to push her luck. Too much too soon could send Lucy scrambling. Moving away, she reached for the picnic basket as if nothing at all was wrong. “Ready?”