34 Pieces of You

by Carmen Rodrigues

  And then there is silence and gasping. Minutes later, I realize I am the one gasping. I make myself stop. I tell them I am sorry.

  “It’s okay” is what my dad says.

  “You’ll get better. Give it time,” is what my mom says.

  We are silent for a long while. We are silent until we are a calm, picture-perfect family: a good mommy, a good daddy, a good daughter. And in the silence I suddenly understand the many ways a person can die but still be alive.

  2.

  That year Dad left us, I pressed my ear to the wall between our bedrooms, listening to your quiet cries.

  Jake

  AFTER. NOVEMBER.

  Mom says, “There’s no way you could have known.” After I came home from NYU, after I accompanied her to the morgue, after she dug manicured nails into the center of my palm, after the funeral arrangements were made, after the viewing of my sister’s body, Mom finally looks at me and says, “Jake . . .” Then she taps her foot nervously against the bottom of the sofa and looks away.

  Her eyes are bloodshot, but she is uncharacteristically sober, and because of this and her grief, her hands shake cigarette ash everywhere, coating the beige carpet with a thin layer of gray. She says, “There’s no way you could have known.” Then she lays a cold compress against her skin.

  I look away, toward Ellie’s room. The door is locked, as if my mother wants to lock away the memory of that night when Tommy found Ellie’s body cold and motionless on the bedroom floor. One part of me is relieved the room is inaccessible, but another part wants to break that door down and bury myself in the pieces of her abandoned life.

  Mom scoots closer on the sofa, presses her wet hand over mine. I try, like always, not to cringe. I don’t confess, I knew something was wrong. I don’t confess, It was my fault. Instead I watch her eyes search the room for an anchor, something to weigh her down, and I think about the slight tremor that takes her voice and spins it like a Ferris wheel.

  “I want to scream,” Mom says quietly, but I know she won’t. She doesn’t know how. She’s a doctor, a mother, and an alcoholic, but, surprisingly, none of these pursuits ever prompt her to raise her voice, not at me or my sister or any of her three idiot husbands. My mother turns things inward, so that her insides must be as black and murky as a landfill.

  She clears her throat. “Your father will be here for the service tomorrow. We’ll bury Ellie’s ashes underneath a tree, beside that creek she loved when she was little.” Her voice reduces then, suddenly the density of decomposing leaves. She struggles for breath, but I do not turn my head. “Do you remember Falling Creek?”

  I cover her hand with mine and say, “It’s a good spot, Mom. A real good spot.” She starts to cry then. Her shoulder slumps against mine; her tears hit the collar of my shirt. A low moan emerges from her lips. I wait for it to grow, to swirl around the room until it settles across our shoulders like a shroud. But the whimper stays low, the frequency of a turned-down radio. Eventually it stops, but not the crying. The crying remains.

  BEFORE. JUNE.

  The thick black smoke from the U-Haul’s exhaust pipe burned the sides of my legs, and Ellie stood, swinging her willowy arms, scratching her nose. I was leaving her to go to college, and she was edgy, her cigarette nearly gone. She tossed it to the ground, stomped it out with the tip of her flip-flop, and said, “Can’t you go to community college here or something? Why do you have to go so far? Why NYU?”

  “Ellie, please.”

  “I just don’t understand why you have to leave so early. Why can’t you leave in August like everyone else?”

  “Because,” I said. “I have to take those summer classes. You know they told me I have to.” She was silent because she knew all of this to be true. That a nearly perfect SAT score and solid essay earned me my spot at NYU, but Admissions, worried about my spotty GPA, insisted I take summer classes to “improve my chances of succeeding at the collegiate level.” What she didn’t know was how grateful I was to leave early.

  Our uncle was in the U-Haul, impatiently waiting. I glanced at him, took in his newly shaved head, the bright white of his eyes, and remembered how only years before, after the holidays I would find him slumped over the kitchen table, still too drunk to drive, his hand clutching the carcass of a cigarette.

  My uncle was an asshole when he drank, and during those moments of his incapacitation, I’d take my revenge. Prop my feet dangerously close to the curl of his lip. Set the sole of my shoe against that slip of pink flesh. Still he slept. So I’d slide a hand into his back pocket, steal whatever I could find. Then I’d ride my bike to the bookstore. Buy a graphic novel or a CD. And when I returned, he’d still be there, his hand still clutching.

  Now he was sober. Had been ever since he met his second wife, Matilda. And he was blowing the horn again and giving me a look that said, Come on already. And then he leaned out the window and yelled, “Jake, hurry up already!”

  “You know I have to go.” I looked past Ellie’s sad eyes to Sarah and Tommy, who stood just a short distance away, holding hands. And even farther away, behind them, stood my mom with her husband, the latest—and, hopefully, last—asshole.

  I don’t know why, because you would think seeing Tommy with Sarah or seeing my mom with the jerk would make me want to leave, but in that moment I realized leaving was harder than I imagined. Still, there was a part of me that just wanted out and away from all of this confusion. From my on-and-off-again situation with Sarah. From those moments between us that seemed real but dissolved in memory. From the drama of Ellie, her moodiness and urges to self-destruct. From the weirdness that had started with Tommy ever since he and Sarah began hooking up last year.

  “Ellie, I’ve got to get out of here.” I touched her arm, wrapped my hand around her wrist and swung it back and forth, like when we were kids and touching each other wasn’t so awkward.

  Behind her, Tommy said, “Jake, your uncle, man. He’s, like, hitting the steering wheel and shit.” I glanced at my uncle. He was hitting the steering wheel with his balled-up fist.

  “Jake?” Mom stepped forward. The rings around her eyes hovered like dark clouds, proof she’d always be one step away from a hangover. Sarah stepped forward too. And when our eyes met, I was reminded of the night before, when she’d come to me, said she wanted to talk, her hands buried in the pockets of her cutoff jeans. How the shape of her lean thighs beneath the denim made me want to touch her, but I didn’t, not even when she placed a confident hand in the space between my shoulder blades.

  Sarah was like a roller coaster. Just when I thought the ride was over, she’d peak again, another hill rising against a dimming blue sky. Each time, the hill would be bigger and scarier than the last. Still, there were days when I wanted her fingers running lightly over my forearm or her hand rubbing that tender spot between my shoulders. And I’d recall with clarity the feeling of her palm against the back of my neck. The way she would gently press in circular motions until my head fell forward and I felt—just for that moment—a complete sense of surrender.

  Maybe that was why the night before, when she’d placed her hands on me, I’d let myself take in the first waves of her touch. But as her voice grew more confident, as her belief in the possibility of us solidified, I’d moved beyond her reach. The truth was, I didn’t trust her. How could I? Even right now, after everything that had happened between us in the last five years, she stood there, holding my best friend’s hand.

  Ellie kicked me lightly, and I looked back at her. The soft spots beneath her eyes were blue from lack of sleep. She pulled her wrist away and said, “Tell me you didn’t, Jake. You promised you wouldn’t.”

  “Do what?” I said, but I knew she was talking about Sarah. She never wanted me near her. Never wanted me to fuck it up. Because that’s the other truth: I wasn’t exactly nice to girls.

  “Come on, Jake.” She looked down at the grass, so that her long blond hair fell across her face. I could tell she was crying. I couldn’t remember t
he last time I had seen her cry. But if I had to pinpoint an exact period, I’d say it was the summer she was eleven and she came to me, hands trembling between my palms, and told me what Evan, our first step-asshole, had done to her.

  “Come on, Ellie.” I stepped closer but didn’t touch her like before. “Don’t.”

  She laughed and wiped her eyes with the underside of her tank top, leaving streaks of black mascara on the thin fabric. She said, “God!” Then louder, “God! Look at this. I’m such a fucking baby.” Her tears came down a little harder.

  I pulled her closer and held her until she stopped squirming. The side of my neck grew wet from her crying.

  She whispered, “If I need you, you’ll come back for me?”

  “Yes, of course.” I pulled her in as close as I could, and wondered if she understood how much I had watched out for her these last ten years, since our father left. How sometimes I still had nightmares about Evan’s hands touching her, hurting her.

  She said, “You promise me. If I need you, you’ll come back to me.”

  “Always, Ellie. Always.”

  Behind us, Sarah watched. And when our eyes locked, I felt that pain I got whenever she was around. That pain of knowing that sometimes the things I want aren’t the things I need, but not knowing, exactly, how to let those things go.

  My uncle honked the horn and revved the engine. Ellie took a step back. She said, “You better go.” Then she looked away from me and pushed another cigarette between her lips. I lit it for her, watching as she tucked her hair behind her ears. Some strands still clung to her damp face. She didn’t look at me, but she said, “I love you, Jake.”

  I looked at the ground. I said, “I know, Ellie. I know.”

  3.

  This house is lonely.

  I want . . .

  Jessie

  AFTER. JANUARY.

  After Sarah came home from the hospital, Mom moved her from our shared bedroom into the guest room on the first floor. Now I spend a lot of time alone, thinking. I think a lot about Sarah, a lot about Ellie, a lot about me, who I am, and who I’m meant to be.

  My mom thinks that we—her daughters—all have types. Sarah is the reactive type. Meg is the silly type. Mattie is the sweet and cuddly type. I’m the thoughtful type. Or at least that’s what Mom always says: Jess, you’re just so thoughtful! How did I end up with such a thoughtful daughter?

  Still, before Ellie died, I liked to do other things besides think. I liked to hang out in front of my house or go to the movies or run around crazy with my best friend, Lola. Before Ellie died, I liked to pretend that I was someone else, someone who wasn’t so . . . thoughtful. But now it seems like there’s no use in pretending.

  I think when someone you know dies, something inside of you changes—like some supernatural creature came into your room and took his big, supernatural hands and rearranged your entire DNA.

  I tried to explain this to Lola once, but she just looked at me like I was crazy. Then she asked me why I was suddenly so waiflike, like a shorter version of Kate Moss. She actually took out a pen, asked me to describe my diet secrets, and said that no matter how many miles she ran, her curvaceous hips wouldn’t shrink fast enough to fit into the size 2 jeans she imagines herself wearing.

  I waited a few minutes to answer. Then I told her the truth: “My diet’s simple, so simple you don’t even have to write it down. Just throw up after most meals, and sometimes don’t eat at all.”

  I had never said this out loud, so I gave us both time to process the seriousness of my words, but she just thumped me on the head with her fuzzy blue pen and said, “That’s brilliant!” And, after that, she never mentioned it again. Although I noticed she lost five pounds in the next month.

  In total, I’ve lost fifteen pounds, but except for Lola, nobody’s asking why. I suppose that’s because Mom’s too busy worrying about Sarah, Dad’s too busy worrying about Mom, and Meg and Mattie are too busy worrying about themselves to notice my incredible disappearing act.

  Besides, it’s not a big deal. I’m okay. I don’t have a problem. I definitely don’t have an eating disorder. I don’t think I look fat. I don’t want to be this skinny. I don’t think I look good this skinny, but I can’t help it. I can’t change it.

  When I eat food—that is, if I feel like eating at all—it won’t stay down. There’s just not enough room. I guess that’s what happens when your belly is filled with secrets.

  * * *

  Ever since Sarah came home from the hospital, there’s been a lot of tiptoeing. We tiptoe around conversations in the dining room when we all sit down to family dinners. We tiptoe through the hallway, in case Sarah might hear our footsteps clunking past the guest-bedroom door. Even now I tread as softly as I can. Lola follows, laughing.

  “Why are you walking so slow?” She bumps me from behind, and I fall into a table with the slightest thud. The noise shocks me. I have this irrational thought of shoving her face into the wall, but I push that feeling away—mark it as another typical Lola thing not worth thinking about.

  When we hit the second-floor landing, I pause to take a deep breath.

  “Jesus,” Lola says, “are we going to stand here forever?” She nudges my shoulder until I start walking again. I think of something sharp to say, but when I open my mouth, I only explain. “I told you. We have to be quiet downstairs because of Sarah.”

  Lola says, “I don’t understand why you have to be quiet for her at all.” Then she dives onto my bed and tosses all my stuffed animals—the ones she wants me to throw away because fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t have toys—onto the floor. My favorite, Mr. Big Butt Bear, stares at me accusingly.

  Before, I might have yelled at Lola, but now I only pick up Mr. Big Butt Bear and sit with him on the carpet, my back against the bedroom door. Downstairs another door creaks open, and I realize we’ve woken Sarah. The guilt sets in immediately. It’s a trait I inherited from my father. Sarah says you can get him to do anything if you make him feel guilty enough.

  Below are scratching noises, like Sarah’s dragging a chair back and forth. It’s weird, because the more I listen to the sounds and start to identify them, the more I can picture what’s going on.

  In the movie in my head, Sarah drags a dining-room chair through the living room and places it underneath the archway that leads into Dad’s den. She stands on the chair, reaching her hand up to feel along the decorative molding. She searches for the key to the liquor cabinet but doesn’t find it there. After the hospital, Dad moved the key. I saw him do it.

  Now she drags the chair back into the dining room. She paces the living room. She lifts up porcelain figurines, wooden picture frames, maybe even Mattie’s plastic toys, and searches for the hidden key. She goes into the den and rifles through Dad’s desk, but she’s very careful not to disturb his things. She doesn’t want to get caught. Still, she searches thoroughly, but she doesn’t find the key, because it’s not there.

  Now she’s near Dad’s desk, probably leaning back against it. Her mind races: Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? And her veins chime in: Need it. Need it. Need it. She glances at the clock on the wall. She takes the steps, one at a time. She pauses outside the room and debates knocking. She turns the doorknob and pushes hard because I’m blocking the door.

  And there she is, looking down at me through this narrow crack. She doesn’t acknowledge Lola. She doesn’t see Mr. Big Butt Bear. She doesn’t even see me, really. But she stares at me, and her stare is panicked.

  “Where is it?” she asks.

  “Where’s what?”

  “You know what.” She nudges the door some more, and I slide over a few inches.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  Lola is quiet. I think Sarah scares her. It’s easy to scare people once they’ve heard a rumor that you’ve killed your best friend. If I killed Lola, I wouldn’t have to hear her stupid stories and put up with her bossy commands. She’d be dead. She’d be silent. Th
e thought makes me feel horrible, yet it is there.

  Sarah continues to stare. She nudges the door again. I’m sure there’s going to be a big bruise on my leg in the morning. She says, “Don’t do this,” in a voice that doesn’t really belong to her—the real Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since Ellie died. Still, I hear this Sarah’s voice clearly, and I know what she’s really saying is, Please don’t make me beg, not in front of Lola.

  It’s hard for me. I’m not supposed to have the answer to this question. I’m not supposed to even know what she’s talking about. But we both know I do. We both know that’s the problem with me. I see everything.

  “It’s taped underneath the rug in Dad’s office.” My voice is meek, because I know I’m betraying Dad. I’m betraying Mom. I’m betraying me. And worst of all, I’m betraying Sarah.

  Sarah shuts the door, and I stare at it real hard. From behind me Lola goes, “Fuck. What’s her problem?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Lola says, like that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever said.

  “Yeah, nothing,” I say, because it’s true. The fact is, when Ellie died, the things that used to matter stopped mattering. And now all of this, absolutely all of this, means nothing at all.

  4.

  Do you remember when you were eleven and you saved that mouse from a trap set by your father? How you walked a mile into the woods to find a safe place to set it free.

  Sarah

  AFTER. JANUARY.

  At home, my sisters stare at me like I’m some sort of alien or something, like they’ve never seen someone who doesn’t want to leave the house, who lets days slide by like raindrops down a windowpane. “Sarah?” Chubby Mattie, with her first adult tooth partially grown in, is the bravest. She sits with me each day, watches me be lethargic. Only, she doesn’t know what “lethargic” means, because they don’t learn three-syllable words in kindergarten.