34 Pieces of You

by Carmen Rodrigues

  “Your father will be home this weekend,” Mom says. She makes a left on Cherry Hill Drive and halts obediently at a stop sign. She looks around and then at me like she wants to touch me, but she doesn’t. I continue to fiddle with my window. I roll it up and back down, wanting to drown in the sound of the wind coursing through her Ford station wagon.

  “He wants us to do something as a family for spring break next week. Maybe take a trip. What do you think, Mattie? Would you like to take a trip?” Mom glances at Mattie’s reflection in the rearview mirror. I think she’s praying for some form of approval from the only friend she’s got here.

  “Can I bring Ann?” Mattie lisps through her mountain of missing teeth—the ones she has sacrificed to the tooth fairy in exchange for cash. She holds up the Raggedy Ann doll that has been passed down from sister to sister for the last thirteen years. “She wants to come.”

  “Of course, sweetie, of course. What do you think, honey?” Mom takes a deep, nervous breath. “Sarah?”

  “I think”—my voice as distant as my heart—“the idea sucks.”

  “Well . . .” Mom makes a sharp turn onto Belvedere and stops abruptly at the light. She seems unsure of which direction to take. “I think it’s a fabulous idea. Right, Mattie?”

  Mattie says, “We like the cabin. Can we go to the cabin on the lake?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mattie,” Mom says.

  “But why not?” Mattie says.

  Mom is silent. She’s probably recalling that last year we took Ellie on our vacation there, and debating whether a return visit will be enough to push me to the edge, when the truth is I’m way past standing on the edge. Right now I’m clinging to it with the tips of my fingernails. “I’m not sure Daddy meant to go so far. The cabin’s a long ways away,” Mom says finally.

  But I say, “I think I’d like to go to the cabin. It’ll be warmer there.” No ice. No snow. No Concerned Therapist. No Smith. No box in my closet digging its way to China.

  “Really?” Mom says. “I guess it’s a nice place to have some family—”

  “Can I bring Tommy?” I interject before she gets on the subject of family time, which is the opposite of what I want. I want silence, crickets, Tommy acting as a buffer between me and her.

  “Well, I’ll have to ask your father about Tommy, but I think that’ll be okay. It’ll be fun. I promise.” She winks at me, trying hard to be cheerful, but her face must not remember these kinds of gestures, because it remains stiff, her lips spread thin.

  It feels like months since I’ve actually looked at her. Her disheveled hair hangs in a ponytail at the base of her neck. She wears yoga pants and one of my dad’s SEMPER FI T-shirts. I remember when we were young how she used to doll up—all high heels, trench coats, and patent leather purses. But lately, she is stretchy pants and running shoes. I wonder if she, too, had the ability to hurt her mother the way I always seem to hurt her.

  “Are you okay, Sarah?” Mom is surprised by my gaze.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. I look out my window, ignoring the reflection of her curious face. Her wide eyes blink quickly, like she’s caught in a dust storm. “I said I’m fine.” My voice is terse, and I start again on the automatic windows. I push the button and watch the glass move up and down. Now the car is silent, except for Mattie in the back, singing.

  “It’s going to be okay, Sarah” is what Mom finally decides on. “I just want you to know that.” She places her hand underneath my elbow like she wants me to turn to her. But I can’t . . .

  I can’t because I’m afraid if I do, some piece of my heart will break open. And the things I want to say will spill out and hurt us all. So I wait, and Mom waits too.

  The light flashes green, and only then does she let me go.

  23.

  The morning you found out, you crushed me to your chest, and your tears wet my hair. Later you stood barefoot in the backyard, a trash can in front of you, a pile of his clothing at your feet, that bright flame licking the sky, all those white ashes rising up, swirling around you, like an SOS.

  Jake

  AFTER. MARCH/APRIL.

  At night, when the palm-tree fronds brush against the roof tiles, I let my mind wander. I think about what life would be like if I stayed here forever, enrolled in junior college, let my dad be my dad again. I picture us working in the yard, sweat glistening off our backs, beers cradled in our hands. I think about watching Liza grow older, about always letting her hold my hand.

  For whatever reason, these impossible plans alleviate the pain, save me from the boredom of days spent mostly in my bedroom, reading books from the library: Far from the Madding Crowd, A Passage to India, On the Road.

  I have made friends with the blue-haired ladies who like to spend their afternoons in the library. They say, “You’re too smart for such a good-looking kid. Why do you read so much?” They say, “Even at our old age, we’ve never read all these books.”

  The rest of my time is spent running past strip mall after strip mall. Some days, I walk the man-made canals that connect the housing developments with names like Panache and La Palma and Summer’s Cove, and I think about what this world with its peach houses and always-green grass might hold for me.

  But two months after I arrive, Carla stops eating her chicken and rice and stares at me across the dinner table. She says, “Jake, your father and I discussed it. We think it’s time for you to go home and really deal with some of your issues.” My dad is silent, his jaw clenched, but Carla nods toward him anyway. Liza sits across from me in her high chair, giggling, but Carla does not seem to see this. She says, “The depression isn’t good for Liza. It makes her feel unsettled.” Again, she looks to my father for support, but finds none.

  Carla says, “You need to decide about school and your future. And being here is just delaying all that. Once you’ve figured it out, we can talk. We’d love to have you back for a visit, but we think it’s important for you to take care of this now.” She doesn’t mention that this is supposed to be my “home away from home.” I don’t mention it either.

  A few days later, my dad drives me to the airport. He doesn’t discuss his reasons for sending me back, but he hints at them. He says, “Carla’s not used to stress.” He says, “The baby has a routine.” He says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were little, but this time I’ve got to get it right.”

  Curbside, he avoids my stare. I don’t know what to say to him, so I stand there with my hands in my pockets, waiting for something I’m not even sure is coming. Around us are honking horns and policemen directing traffic. Exhaust, heavy and acrid, coats our skin. The palm trees sway fiercely with the arrival of another afternoon storm.

  Finally, my dad looks toward the American Airlines sign and says, “Ellie called me the day before she died. She said she wanted to come here, to live with me . . .” Then he looks at me. His eyes are red.

  The words come out of nowhere, like a sucker punch to my chest. My body can only react. “Wh-what did you say?” I finally ask.

  He rubs his hands through his hair, looks up at the sky. “I said I had to ask Carla, and I’d call her back.” A few tears gather in the corners of his eyes, make it just to the tips of his eyelashes before his thick hands wipe them away.

  “What did Carla say?” The noise around us is drowned out by the thumping in my chest.

  “She said no.” He blinks furiously, but no amount of blinking can stop this flood. Outside Terminal C of Miami International Airport, a wall has cracked. “I didn’t know, Jake. . . . I thought . . . I thought we’d have more time.”

  He reaches out to me with the same hands that taught me about gardening and bikes and being a gentle older brother. I don’t know what to do, so I take those hands, move a little closer, shield him from the prying eyes of others.

  * * *

  Inside the airport, I call my mother. She tells me how a few days ago she celebrated her third month of sobriety. She asks me about my semester of freedom (as sh
e has decided to call it), if the sun in Florida has done me any good. She tells me that she’s finally able to do the Bird of Paradise in yoga class. “You wouldn’t believe how much balance that pose takes, Jake. When you come to visit, I’ll teach you.” We are silent for a bit, and then, like she does with each phone call, she tells me she is sorry, how she wishes she could change all the mistakes she’s made, but she can’t. “And I have to live with it.”

  I don’t say anything to that, but because I am a dutiful son, I stay on the line when she starts her “aha moment.” I take it all in, a safe place for her to store her regrets.

  * * *

  In Smith, I sleep the weeks away. For the most part Gary leaves me alone, but I feel his presence. There are notes left in the kitchen, pointing to the meals delivered daily. There is money left on the coffee table in case I want to get out of the house and see a movie. A spring jacket, the kind used by runners, miraculously appears on my bed two days after I arrive, but when I see him, he doesn’t mention it. He just says, “Are you sure you don’t need to talk? When you’re ready, I’m here.”

  Once Tommy realizes I’m at home, he stops by for a visit. It’s only four in the afternoon, but already he’s high. He says, “Why didn’t you call and tell me you were coming? You should come by. Smoke out. Or have you gone all straight?”

  I haven’t spoken much to Tommy since I left for NYU, and that wasn’t an accident. In some ways he’s like a brother to me, but in others he’s the worst friend I ever had.

  I briefly tell him where I’ve been and what I’ve done and what I’m not doing anymore. The whole time, he’s fidgety, moving around the kitchen and glancing across the yard toward his place. About ten minutes in, we hear the distant sound of someone knocking. I follow his gaze and see a girl as small and blond as Ellie standing in a thick jacket right outside his door.

  Tommy says, “Whoa, dude, chill the eff out. Don’t give me that look. It’s donzo between me and Sarah. Been that way for a while now.” He knocks on the windowpane, catches the girl’s attention, and waves. “Yep, as over as that haircut you’re rocking.”

  I say, “And what about her?”

  He says, with a smirk, “What about her?”

  After Tommy leaves, I go to the living room. I pull the curtain aside and watch Sarah’s house. It’s something I do a lot of lately.

  Before Ellie died, the house was full of noise, but now their world seems muted. The curtains are always drawn. Mattie plays quietly in the yard. Jessie comes and goes, but she looks tired and underfed. Meg still runs wild, but she does it far away from the house. I have yet to see Sarah.

  I think about what Tommy has said about him and Sarah being over, consider what that means. When it grows dark, I put on my gear and run.

  24.

  It was like hovering above yourself, like stepping outside of your own skin, trying not to feel what’s happening to your body. It was over in minutes, but I stayed outside, my spirit freed from gravity, the earth and Tommy so small behind me.

  Jessie

  NOVEMBER.

  After Mom left to join Dad at the hospital, I put on Bedknobs and Broomsticks and sat with my sisters on the couch. Mom had loved this movie as a girl and would play it for us whenever we got sick or something terrible happened. When her mom died, years before, we watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks for what felt like weeks.

  About twenty minutes into the DVD, Mattie fell asleep and Meg’s eyes glazed over. I slid off the couch and went outside. The neighborhood was quiet again, the edges of the darkness slowly turning pink.

  This time it wasn’t hard to get in. Ellie’s front door was unlocked. I stepped into the living room and noted everything out of place: the liquor-cabinet doors that were ajar, the empty bottle of gin lying on a table that had been bumped into the walkway.

  The more I saw, the more anxious I felt. It took forever, but slowly I pushed forward, until I stood in her doorway. The room was a disaster—cigarettes scattered everywhere, Polaroids strewn across the floor, and in the corner a single white cap, the kind that fits a pill bottle. I moved closer to Ellie’s bed, the smell of vomit suddenly hitting me like a train.

  I ran back to the porch, gulping in the fresh air. The lump in my throat had grown to epic proportions, but still I could not cry.

  In the kitchen I found a pair of rubber gloves, a sponge, and a bucket, which I filled with hot water, adding a cup of vinegar, just like my mom had taught me. Then I returned to the room, fell to my hands and knees, and began to scrub.

  The front door opened and shut. A voice I hadn’t heard in months yelled out, “Ellie? Ellie?” There was a pause. “Hello?”

  Jake appeared at the door. He took in the room and me on my knees. “Jess, what are you doing? Where’s Ellie?”

  I stopped scrubbing, rolled back onto my heels, and said quietly, “There was an accident. Didn’t your mom call you?”

  His face contorted, almost like he knew this was much bigger than a fender bender or a slip-and-fall in the shower. “My phone’s dead. I’ve been driving all night. What kind of accident? Where’s Ellie, Jess?”

  My words were quick, all sharp consonants. “Tommy called an ambulance. They’re at Smith Memorial. My dad’s there too. I don’t know anything else. . . .” I didn’t have the heart to tell him about Ellie. About it not being good.

  He took in the room again, only this time slowly. His mouth opened, but no sound surfaced. Then he put his hand to his chest and held it there, tightly fisted. The veins in his neck emerged and spread upward, until one large vein seemed to split the center of his forehead. Again his mouth opened and shut. Still no sound.

  “Jake?” I stood, rubbing my hands on my jeans. I wanted tears, but for some reason all I felt was that unreachable numbness—a fear I might never be able to find myself again. I took a step toward him. “You okay?”

  He nodded, but his crimson eyes said the opposite.

  “Jake,” I said, “it wasn’t just Ellie. It was Sarah, too.”

  It was just a split second before he turned away, but still I saw it, that next wave of pain that washed across his face.

  Moments later the front door slammed shut, and Jake was gone.

  * * *

  When I finished cleaning Ellie’s room, I emptied the bucket of water in the backyard and put away my supplies. Then I lit her favorite vanilla candle and placed it on the center of her dresser. I pocketed her Hello Kitty lighter and sat on the bed. Near my feet were the sketch pads, somehow still carefully stacked. Below me, hidden beneath her mattress, was the box.

  Weeks before, Ellie had offered to let me go through her sketch pads. She said, “It’s kind of like a visual history of me. If you ever want to know the truth, here it is.”

  “Like your own graphic novel?” I teased.

  She smiled. Then she took a deep breath, like she was trying to get herself under control, picked up the stack, and laid it between us on the bed. There were ten. “I just want someone to know,” she said.

  I slipped my hand into hers, waiting to see if that was okay. When she didn’t pull away, I asked, “Why, Ellie?”

  “No reason.” She leaned back against her headboard and closed her eyes. All the black eyeliner and eye shadow made it seem like her eyes had been cut out and all that remained were empty sockets.

  “I hate when you do that,” I said.

  “You could take one now.”

  “What?” But I knew what she meant.

  “Go on.” She nudged me with her foot. I stared at her fishnet stockings. There were holes where the knees should be.

  I felt tempted. I wanted so desperately to know more about her, but at the same time I wanted her to trust me enough to tell me what it all meant. I gathered the sketch pads and set them beside the bed. “I don’t want to learn about you that way. I want you to tell me. Why won’t you talk to me?”

  She shook her head. “Do you think I should dye my hair black? It’d look cool with my blue eyes.”

&
nbsp; “I like your hair blond. It’s the same color as mine.” She opened her eyes, and something inside me jumped, surprised as always by their intensity. “You want to be different from me?” I moved beside her and rested my head on her shoulder. “We’re the same. We’re the only two I know that are the same.” I picked up a strand of her hair and placed it against mine. “See? They’re almost identical, so we must be the same.”

  She laughed. She always laughed at me, but not like everyone else did. Her laughter made me feel special, like she got me.

  “You should go.” She picked at her stocking, so that it tore right above her thigh. “Sarah and Tommy are coming over soon.”

  “So?” I hated when she made me leave.

  “So? So?” She stood up and walked to her desk, separating herself from me. “They can’t know. You know that.” She picked up her black eyeliner and started lining the inside of her eyes. She turned to me. Her expression changed. “Go already.”

  It was useless to fight with her when she got like this. So after grabbing my backpack from the floor, I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “Ellie, why won’t you tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” She stepped away. “Just go already.”

  This was the pattern with her. She’d pull me close only to push me away. But with every tug-of-war I felt her guard slipping, and I consoled myself by saying it was only a matter of time until she let me in. One day she would pull that secret box from under her bed and show me.

  But she never did. So I knelt in her bedroom, the scent of vanilla flooding the air, and took it.

  * * *

  That night Mom entered my room and found me awake, staring at nothing in particular. We had spoken briefly that afternoon, but our conversation had been short. Just long enough for her to say Sarah’s situation seemed promising, that she hadn’t heard anything else about Ellie, and to remind me of Meg and Mattie’s nighttime routine.