Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  It was little more than a stick figure, but it was smaller than the rest and clearly feminine. But she didn’t look at all like Lucy. The caricature had long yellow hair that hung all the way to the hemline of her purple skirt.

  Despite the obvious physical differences, Lucy had nodded almost imperceptibly at Quinn’s assessment. Yes, she tacitly agreed. That’s me.

  Quinn felt a burst of triumph as a small piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Lucy’s hair had definitely been dyed. A few short days ago it had been long and blond. And the change had happened recently enough for Lucy to forget as she was drawing that her curls were now Shirley Temple short and ginger.

  “How about this handsome fellow?” Quinn pressed. “Who’s this?”

  There were two men in the picture. Or boys, it was hard to tell. They both had short hair and pants in contrast to the long hair and skirts of the girls. Lucy had drawn them on opposite corners of the page, as far apart as she could possibly space them. One looked like he was flying away. The other, grounded.

  “Wait.” Quinn was struck with sudden inspiration. The grounded character had yellow hair, green eyes. “Is this Nora?” Why had Lucy drawn her mother so far away?

  But Lucy clamped her lips shut tight and focused instead on rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. Her fingertips were coated in pastel dust and she smudged the whorls together until they were a dingy cardboard brown.

  “What about this one. Who’s this?” Quinn tried again, tapping the only other female figure in the picture. This one had squiggly cocoa-colored hair and stood in the middle of the paper beside Lucy. Definitely closer to the girl than her own mother.

  Quinn was eager to know more, to crack Lucy open like an egg so she could begin to understand what was inside. But Lucy persisted in ignoring her questions, so she gave up and started to collect and stack the papers.

  “Want to watch a little TV?” Quinn offered, sighing inwardly. So much for her feeble attempt at art therapy.

  Lucy slid off the chair and wandered toward the living room without a backward glance. From where Quinn was sitting, she could see the child locate the remote control on the end table and turn the TV on. Before she even sat down she began her methodical click-click-click through the stations.

  It was unsettling how vacant she could be. How flat. Flat affect, Quinn thought, recalling the term from one of her developmental psychology classes in college. If she remembered correctly, flat affect was usually a symptom of schizophrenia. She highly doubted that her niece was schizophrenic, but her dulled expressions and lack of emotion were worrisome. Maybe she was in shock as the result of some unidentified trauma. Quinn wasn’t very familiar with the features of shock, but if crime dramas could be believed, Lucy certainly seemed to fit the bill.

  Where were the tears? The anger? The indiscriminate rebellion that seemed the most logical reaction to the sort of reckless abandonment Lucy had recently experienced? Quinn tried to put herself in Lucy’s shoes and knew that if the roles had been reversed, her younger self would have ranted and railed, thrown things and bitten people. But even after Lucy shared her fear with Quinn in the field, she went on to nibble at her sandwich as if nothing had happened. It was starting to creep Quinn out.

  What have you been through? She wanted to gather the girl in her arms and force attachment. To take back all the years that Nora had stolen from them. It made Quinn so mad she could’ve screamed. But instead of pitching a fit, she carefully stacked their artwork and pastels on the kitchen counter and went to stand near the arm of the couch. Lucy was perched on the edge, staring at the progression of daytime shows as they flicked past on the screen.

  “I have to run out to the boathouse,” Quinn said. “You know, that building just down the hill? Near the water? I won’t be gone long.”

  Lucy didn’t seem to care whether Quinn stayed or left.

  “I need you to promise me that you won’t go anywhere.”

  No answer. No acknowledgment that Quinn had spoken at all.

  She moved in front of the TV. “Lucy,” Quinn said, “I need you to promise me that you won’t go anywhere while I’m gone. I’ll be right outside. But you have to stay here.”

  “Okay.” Lucy’s eyes were trained on the narrow segments of screen that she could see around Quinn’s waist.

  “Fine.” Quinn tossed up her arms and let them fall back to her sides, the sharp smack of skin on skin punctuating her frustration. “I’ll be right back.”

  Quinn slipped on her flip-flops by the door and stepped out into a brilliant summer afternoon. It was hot and dry, the sun on the water so lovely she could feel the beauty like an ache in her chest. She complained about Key Lake, but there were moments like this—when it was clean and lovely and pure—that still took her by surprise.

  Or maybe she was just sick of being cooped up with Lucy.

  The boathouse was down a gentle slope and close to the water. In fact, there was a wide front porch and a short dock that arched out over the lake. It was shady and private, protected by a serviceberry tree that had grown askew but that no one wanted to cut down because of the way it shielded the porch. Quinn and Walker had made love on that porch when they first arrived. It was the middle of the night and even if Liz had been peeking through the lens of her telescope she wouldn’t have seen a thing. The memory gave Quinn a little thrill, and she felt her heart go warm and liquid, melting through her limbs like a drug.

  I’m pregnant, she told herself, and the hope was so incandescent she was sure it smoldered in her cheeks. This was what she had always wanted. A happy family. A family filled with laughter and marked by openness. Forget the secrets and lies, the hiding and gritty scum of things that she could never quite put her finger on but that always lingered.

  Quinn was so caught up in the moment that she grabbed the door to the boathouse and tried to wrench it open. But it was locked with a hook and latch from the inside, and her shoulder jerked painfully. It was a bit of a wake-up call.

  Walker had never expressly forbidden her from entering his workspace when he was creating, but she knew that he needed privacy and time and room to dream out loud. His art was public and accessible—just not until the moment that he declared it done. His critics called him moody and temperamental, the sort of self-absorbed, self-proclaimed genius who expected the world to wait with bated breath for his next inspired offering. But Quinn knew that Walker was actually painfully insecure when it came to his art. Terrified that another person’s approval or disapproval might pop the fragile soap bubble of his artistic revelation.

  She should have knocked.

  Quinn was rubbing her shoulder and chastising herself when Walker lifted the hook from the latch and opened the boathouse door. “What are you doing here?” he asked, squinting in the sunlight and peering around Quinn.

  “I came to see you,” she faltered.

  “Where’s Lucy?”

  “In the house.” Quinn crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s watching TV, Walker. She’s fine. It’s broad daylight.”

  “I don’t think you should leave her alone.”

  “What’s she going to do? Burn the house down?”

  He gave her a hard look but then softened a little and held out his arms. “Sorry. Nora’s got me spooked, I guess.”

  “I’ve missed you today,” Quinn said, stepping into his embrace. She lifted her face to kiss the curve beneath his sharp chin. He smelled of spice and peppercorns, wood and something industrial that she couldn’t identify. Steel? No matter. She suddenly wanted to lick his skin. To eat him up.

  “This isn’t new,” Walker reminded her as her teeth grazed his collarbone. “This is how I work, Quinn. You’ve known this for years.”

  It was why there was always a secondhand couch and a mini fridge in his studio space. A place to sleep and a place to keep the chopped salads that Quinn made for him cold. Walker refused to drink alcohol when he was working, but he was rather addicted to a carbonated kombucha that he had to order
in by the case. His studio was his own makeshift apartment, complete with a Bluetooth speaker and, if he was lucky, a bathroom where he kept several essential toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. The boathouse was equipped with a toilet and an old rusty sink, but no shower. Walker made do.

  “I know,” Quinn said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but you weren’t answering my texts.”

  “Sorry, my phone is dead.”

  “Have you been working nonstop?”

  “I napped for a while early this morning. I got in a few hours.” Walker rubbed her back, pushing the heels of his strong hands into the tight muscles beside the ridges and valleys of her spine. Quinn moaned, and she could feel the pleasure rippling off her husband in waves. “Feel good?”

  “You know it does.”

  “Good.”

  They stood like that for a moment. Quiet. Holding each other. But Quinn couldn’t stop herself from breaking the silence. There was so much to say, she didn’t know where to begin. Lucy, her eerie detachment, the man she was afraid of. And a thank-you for the clothes, the art supplies, the little acts of kindness that made it possible for her to begin to scratch the surface of the child who was living with them.

  The baby.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” Quinn blurted out.

  “What?”

  Tears burned hot and sudden and she blinked them back furiously. “I’m not. I mean, it’s only been a couple hours, right? I’m just …”

  “It’s a lot.” Walker took her by the shoulders and pushed her back so he could study her face. “There’s a lot going on right now. But I need you to just let this go for now, okay? We have to focus on Lucy and—”

  “Let this go?” The anger she felt was a bolt of lightning, a gunshot. Quinn was surprised by how quickly her attention shifted, but she was deep, drowning, and she couldn’t rationalize her way out. She shrugged off Walker’s arms and backed away, her blood boiling, sizzling and popping in her veins as if she were on fire. “I can’t just ‘let this go.’ We said this was our last chance. If it doesn’t work this time …”

  “That’s not what we said,” he reminded her. “This isn’t our last chance; we just agreed to take a break if it doesn’t work. Step back. Regroup.”

  “I don’t want to step back.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I don’t want to regroup.”

  “Quinn—”

  “I want a baby.”

  There was an almost tangible pause, a beat of time so small and yet so significant that Quinn felt it as a tremor in her bones.

  “Me too,” Walker said.

  Too late. It was a lie or a half-truth or just something to say to placate his crazy wife. And Quinn could see that now: that she was acting crazy. Irrational and hormonal. This wasn’t her, not at all. Not the way her emotions could turn on a dime. Not the way she struggled to see the silver lining. Usually, Quinn was the queen of silver linings, the eternal advocate for the theory that when God closed a door he opened a window.

  But she felt trapped inside a house with no windows at all.

  “I want this, too, Quinn. I want a family with you. But the family we have right now is pretty messed up. Maybe the timing just isn’t right.”

  Quinn drew a shaky breath, surprised that she wasn’t crying. But her eyes had dried up; her heart felt shriveled and empty in her chest. “Go back to work,” she told Walker. But when she glanced at his face, expectant and fearful of how he would receive her dismissal, she realized he was looking past her toward the house. His brow was furrowed, and as she watched, he pushed past her and began to jog up the hill toward the cabin.

  Spinning around, Quinn saw Lucy coming toward them. She was barefoot and wild, her shock of hair tousled by the wind and clinging to her mouth, her eyes. She looked like an apparition in the wavy light of the humid afternoon, and she was holding something in her hands. The telephone?

  Quinn raced up the incline, only a few steps behind Walker, and reached the two of them just as her husband sank to his knees in front of Lucy.

  “Hey,” Walker said gently. “You’re supposed to stay inside, honey.”

  Lucy shied away from him, backing up slowly even as her eyes found Quinn’s. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose that popped in the bright sunshine, but the set of her face was grim. She seemed so much older than her age.

  “What is it?” Quinn asked, reaching for her.

  “He called,” Lucy said, backing away from Quinn, too. She was holding the handset from the landline in the cabin, and she clutched it to her chest as if it were precious. Or terrifying. “My daddy said he’s coming for me.”

  NORA

  THE BAR WAS DIM after the glare of the bright summer sun and Nora blinked in the entryway as her eyes adjusted. The air smelled of popcorn and old fryer grease, but instead of turning Nora’s stomach, the scents reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since Ethan’s omelette that morning. She made her way to the commercial popper in the corner of the bar and helped herself to a cardboard container and a generous amount of stale, buttery popcorn. Not exactly nourishing, but it would do.

  The Cue was mostly empty at four thirty on a lazy August afternoon, but it was Friday and the sticky booths would soon fill up with workers from the window factory down the street. The day shift was over at five, and the crew usually celebrated with a cold one or two. Nora knew many of them by name, mostly because the majority of the men who frequented the Cue had tried at one time or another to buy her a drink. She always refused. Accepting a drink from a man was an open invitation for said man to flirt. Nora had no desire to chitchat with half-drunk perennial adolescents who were only interested in one-night stands and NASCAR. Okay, maybe they also liked football. Nora hadn’t really taken the time to find out.

  She picked a booth near the front of the bar and directly across from the cash register. There would be lots of traffic, lots of people stopping by to say hi and shoot the breeze, if only for a moment or two. Nora wanted that sort of visibility.

  “The usual, Nora Jeane?” Arlen had come out of the kitchen and spotted her. He called her Nora Jeane, not because her middle name was Jane but because he said she reminded him of Norma Jeane. Which was ridiculous. She looked nothing like Marilyn Monroe. Quinn, maybe, with her curves and full lips and periwinkle eyes. But not spare, angular Nora, whose razor-sharp jawline matched her personality. A guy in high school had once called her the Ice Queen. A far cry from the Blonde Bombshell.

  “Actually, no,” Nora said. “I’ll take an Arnold Palmer.”

  Arlen gave her a bit of a sideways look as he took his hand off the sleek Guinness tap. But he poured the iced tea and lemonade mocktail without question and came around the bar to deliver it to her table. He was humming “Candle in the Wind.”

  “Thanks, Arlen.”

  Nora sipped the drink—too sugary—and bounced her knee as she settled in to wait. After the shock of Tiffany’s betrayal and the fruitless search of all their former favorite haunts, Nora needed something much stiffer. But she couldn’t risk dulling her senses with alcohol, no matter how much she would have liked to.

  Ethan had let her crash on his couch for a couple of hours and then insisted she take a shower. While he was out. Nora locked the doors to both his apartment and the bathroom, and stood for far too long under the lukewarm spray. She wished she could wash her problems away as easily as she lathered the grime off her body. But even after she had toweled off, the sickening miasma of the trouble she was in would not dissipate. Nora didn’t dare go to her apartment alone. She didn’t dare contact Quinn or call the cops or do anything to upset the delicate balance of the precarious situation in which she found herself.

  But as she slipped on the jade blouse she had worn to the bank and her now-rumpled pair of jeans, her phone pinged with a text.

  We need to talk.

  It was Donovan’s number.

  Meet me, he wrote. The Cue.

  She had only agreed to
meet him because she was afraid that if she didn’t say yes he would hunt her down. That was a bit melodramatic, but he did often remind her of a bird of prey. Hawkish features; slick dark hair; thick, weightlifter arms that were intimidating, to say the least. Nora could still remember the first time that she ever met him on the porch at the farmhouse she shared with Tiffany and Everlee.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” he said, extending his hand toward her as she walked slowly up the front steps. She was still wearing her apron from her evening shift at the Grind (she had just started), and before that she had worked eight hours at the car dealership, where she washed and detailed the trade-ins and got them ready for the lot. Nora had been weary and irritable, not at all in the mood to meet Tiffany’s boyfriend du jour. But from the moment her fingertips touched Donovan’s—no matter how reluctantly—she knew that there was something different about this one. Instead of shaking her hand, he pulled her into an uncomfortable embrace. Too close, too intimate for a stranger. As he held her too tight, he whispered in her ear, “We’re going to be one big, happy family, aren’t we?”

  Everything inside her screamed no.

  But less than two months later she moved out and Donovan moved in.

  I should have fought harder, Nora thought. But what could she have done? The spell had been cast and Donovan was suddenly a part of their lives. Well, he was a part of Tiffany’s and Everlee’s lives. Nora found herself being slowly but surely edged out. Once it had been her job to wake Everlee and get her ready for the day. To dress her in the frilly pink ensembles that she and Tiffany bought on the clearance rack at Shopko. Nora made most of the meals and bathed Everlee and often put her to bed, too. But when Donovan moved in, Nora was lucky to see her patchwork family once a week, and though Everlee complained at first, though she cried and clung to Nora when she visited, the little girl was young enough to begin the guileless process of forgetting. It wasn’t her fault, but it broke Nora’s heart.

  Her pulse quickened and her palms went clammy just thinking about it. It was a conditioned pain response, the only way she knew to deal with the hurt that came with knowing that she had been replaced. Breathe through it. Try to forget.