All the Shattered Pieces

by B. Celeste

  “What was I supposed to tell her?” I ask before she can say anything.

  She pinches the bridge of her nose. “She looks up to you. If you don’t show up before Thanksgiving, imagine what that’ll do to her.”

  “She really needs a better role model.”

  It’s rare I see my mother roll her eyes, but the way she does it now seems fitting. “No, my boy. You need a better attitude. You beat yourself up all the time. Sophia knows a good person when she sees one. She’s a great judge of character. You’re one of the good ones.”

  I hear Henry call out something in the background and decide to end this conversation before it can really begin. “I’ll let you go. I’ll look at my schedule and see when I can make a trip over to see you guys. It’s going to depend on this job. I need it.”

  There’s a brief pause. “I know you do. And I sincerely hope you get it. Having you back in New York is better than nothing. Maryland is too far away, baby boy.”

  “I know,” I murmur.

  “You look like you’re sleeping better,” she notes, smiling softly. “I’m glad to see that. I love you.”

  I don’t tell her my secret to getting a few extra hours in bed. “Love you too,” I tell her quietly. Last minute, I add, “Tell Henry I said hi. And give Soph a hug for me.”

  After getting off the phone, I stare at my blank TV screen and then glance over at the abandoned art supplies resting on my kitchen table. I walk over to them and examine the newest paint set Mom shipped to me.

  It’s hours later the tree forms.

  Reds. Oranges. Yellows.

  Leaves freefalling.

  A sunset sky.

  Serene. Peaceful.

  Purple flowers in the field.

  Half bloomed. Half dead.

  Hours after that, two gravestones are painted beneath the partially naked tree branches.

  Gray. Grim.

  But clean.

  Polished.

  I stare at the finished piece until my jaw is sore from how hard I clench it.

  I don’t put my paintbrush through this one no matter how bad I want to.

  I also don’t take a pill that night.

  One of those is a lie.

  Chapter Four

  My leg bounces anxiously as I sit outside the office of a potentially big opportunity. I arrived thirty minutes early hoping it’d give me the edge, but all sitting here is doing to me is feeding the bubble of pressure in my chest.

  I pick a piece of lint off my black dress pants—the nicest ones I own—and check my watch again. The receptionist glances over at me with a small smile. She’s probably a few years older than me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. Pretty. Beautiful, even. In another lifetime maybe I would have acted on her flirty advances.

  But I’m not here for that.

  There’s too much riding on this.

  “He should be almost ready for you,” she tells me, noting the leg that hasn’t stopped moving for the past fifteen minutes.

  I force my foot to remain still. “Thank you.” My eyes go to the name plaque on the corner of her desk. “Miranda.”

  Her smile widens. Leaning forward, she studies me carefully. “You’re young. Would this be your first job in the field?”

  I itch the column of my throat. “That obvious, huh?”

  “You’re nervous. It’s cute.”

  Sinking into my chair, I glance at the closed door I’ll be entering soon. “I drove five hours to get here. I need this job.”

  “Wow. You should mention that to Steiner. He appreciates dedication from people. I think it’ll give you an edge on the competition.”

  My eyebrow twitches knowing there are still other people in my way to get this position, but her suggestion is a solid one. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  She leans back. “No problem. I’ll be rooting for you.” The phone on the corner of her desk rings so she gives me another smile and answers it.

  Thankfully, the door to Dr. Steiner’s office opens and the gray-haired man himself appears shaking hands with an older woman. “Thank you, Denise. It was nice meeting you. We’ll be in touch.”

  He turns to me as she walks away. “You must be Mr. Monroe.”

  “Kaiden, sir.” I stand quickly, offering him my hand. I’m grateful it’s not clammy when he takes it in a firm shake.

  “You can call me Steiner. Come on in.”

  Miranda gives me a wink as I walk inside the small office space.

  I’m pointed toward one of the upholstered chairs positioned across from his desk, so I take the nearest one. “I appreciate the chance to meet in person, s—Steiner. I know I’m probably not the most qualified person out of the candidates, but I’d be perfect for the position.”

  Dr. Steiner walks around his desk, flattening his paisley tie out as he sits. “Tell me why that is. I see you’re a recent graduate from the University of Maryland. They’ve got a nice program there. I’ve got a friend or two who teach courses in it.”

  Hopefully none that have had me in their class, or this opportunity is as good as dead.

  I make sure not to fidget no matter the pressure from the claws raking down the forefront of my mind. “I suppose it’s like you said. The university is known for its physical therapy program. I did well. The professors seemed to like me.” For the most part. “And when I interned, it was at Rodman’s Center in Washington D.C. under Rodger Rodman himself.”

  The man was a dick, but he promised me a good recommendation because I took his shit and then some. It takes an asshole to know one, which is why I lasted longer than the previous interns. Unfortunately, there were no positions open that paid by the time I graduated. Probably not a bad thing. I’m not sure I could have taken a long-term position there if I had to work closely with the namesake himself.

  “That is quite impressive,” he agrees. “I saw on your application that your specialty is sports therapy, not general. Why’s that?”

  “I played lacrosse. Like any player, I’ve been hurt more times than I can count. I know what it’s like. How frustrating it is to be sidelined while other people do what you want to be doing on the field. Being restricted isn’t any fun. I can help people get through it using what I learned. Guide them. Strengthen them.”

  He hums.

  “Look,” I say, unsure of where his mind is. “I’m sure compared to the others you’ve met with already, I’m not much to look at. But Rodman said I have a lot of potential under the right leadership, and I’d like that to be you. I’ve got family in New York. I woke up early and drove all the way here from my crappy apartment outside of Baltimore. I’d be a good fit regardless of experience. I’m a fast learner. People don’t hate me.”

  Not as much as I hate myself.

  He sits back, interweaving his fingers on his desk. “You’ll need to be certified in the State of New York. Your application shows your certification is only for Maryland.”

  “I’ve already looked at exams.”

  “Optimistic.”

  “Desperate,” I admit openly.

  He chuckles. “I like you, and from what I saw, Rodman did too. That man hardly likes himself, so you must be one hell of a hard worker to get his praise.”

  Kissed his ass is more like it, but I don’t bother telling him that. “I did what I was told and learned alongside him. I like what I do. I like fixing people.”

  He cocks his head. “Why?”

  The question isn’t one I anticipated, but the only way I can secure one of the last positions is to be honest with him. “I know what it’s like to be defeated. Broken down. Helpless. It’s our job to get people out of the woods, isn’t it? The rest is up to them, but we get to be part of the journey.”

  “You find it rewarding.”

  It’s not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been in those woods a time or two yourself, son.” The man can’t be more than mid-forties. Probably younger than my own father would be. Yet his term of endearment h
its me square in the gut.

  Drawing my shoulders back, I say, “Like I said. I know what it’s like to be defeated.”

  He studies me in silence, contemplation evident on his face. “I’m not going to lie. I was skeptical when I looked over your application. I planned on hiring seasoned therapists for my practice, but I know what it’s like to be in your shoes. You can’t gain the experience people want for their hires if nobody gives you a chance in the first place.”

  I sit up straighter.

  “I’d like my new hires to start no later than two months from now. Does that give you enough time to get your certification for the state and figure out your living arrangements?”

  The anxiety rippling within my bones slowly subsides for the time being. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure to arrange things right away.”

  We both stand, grabbing each other’s hands. “I think you’ll be a good fit for this team as well. Congratulations, Kaiden.”

  When I walk out, I take my first real breath in weeks. Miranda must see the relief on my face because she says, “I knew you’d get it.”

  Dr. Steiner tells me he’ll talk to me soon and heads back into his office. Before I can leave, Miranda holds something out to me.

  Grabbing it, I note the number scrawled onto the back in blue ink. “In case you need a friend around here. Or whatever.” It’s obvious friendship isn’t what she’s really after.

  “You don’t want me as a anything,” I tell her, handing it back. “Trust me. I’m doing you a favor.”

  She slowly accepts it, watching me as she wraps her fingers around the card. “I don’t think that’s true at all. Everybody has baggage. And I look forward to figuring out what yours is.”

  My eye twitches.

  I look at the door for a second before shoving one of my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “There was a girl…”

  Miranda holds up her hand. “Ah. Say no more.” The smile she gives me is genuine enough. “Lucky girl.”

  I shake my head, pressing my lips together. “No. I was definitely the lucky one.”

  She doesn’t get a chance to reply before I turn on my heel and walk out the door.

  I pull out my phone and dial my mother’s number once I’m inside my car. When it goes to voicemail, I say, “I’m heading to the house now. It’ll be a few hours. I need to make a pit stop first.”

  Chapter Five

  My throat tightens at the sight of the two gravestones side by side. Both clear of dirt and grass trimmings.

  Sitting in front of the newest one, I stare at the engraved letters and let the sun soak into my already overheated skin.

  “I got a job today,” I tell the stone. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked to an inanimate object. Usually, it’s my father’s name in front of me, though. “It uses my degree. It’ll get me a decent apartment. Full benefits so Mom can stop worrying about me.”

  Well, that’s not entirely true. Mom will always worry. I’ve given her every reason to over the years.

  I chuckle to myself before laying back and staring up at the clear sky. Only a few clouds skirt across the open blue space above me and I remember a time when I used to do this very thing with the ghost I’m talking to. “I never thought I’d come back. To New York. Here. I thought staying away would be easier. I promised myself that…”

  My teeth ache from how hard I grind them against each other. I’d promised myself years ago in the ICU that I wouldn’t forgive Emery for giving up. I was sure I’d take that to my own grave someday.

  Not hers.

  My fingers begin drumming erratically against my stomach before I force them under my arms to stay still. “I made a promise to myself about you. Maybe I thought it’d be easier to hate you if I kept it. Look where that got me.”

  Silence.

  No wind.

  No birds.

  No rustling of leaves or animals.

  I sigh.

  I hate the silence now. I used to love it. The spot just below the sycamore at the cemetery back home in Exeter was the one place I could go and think without being bothered. Now it holds too much sentiment because of the hours I’d spend sitting under it with a soft, warm-blooded blonde curled against me.

  I try swallowing the words before they escape, but it’s too late. “You ruined everything. My favorite spot. My plans. Drawing.” Every picture and painting end up being her. An outline of her soul—an empty space within thick charcoal lines and brushstrokes surrounded by bursts of bright color. The tree. The field. It all winds up on a canvas in front of me before I can help myself.

  My nostrils flare open. “Your dad is pretty fucked up. He tries to play it off, but I can see right through it. Takes one to know one. He’s being strong for Sophia. For Mom.”

  Sophia. She barely looks like Henry except for the eyes. Eyes like the girl whose headstone I’m talking to like I’m waiting to hear it talk back.

  I’m grateful she doesn’t look like Henry—grateful she takes after my mother. Because then I wouldn’t have to wonder how much in common I’d have with Emery’s mom and the struggle she faced having to watch her daughter grow up when her twin sister was gone. After resenting Joanne for how she treated my quiet Mouse, I don’t want to be anything like her.

  I don’t want to understand.

  Because if I understand, then what?

  I’d move on.

  Forgive.

  Am I ready for that?

  My words come out hoarse. “Nobody can replace you or Logan. Not that I think Henry is trying to. Having Sophia was a second chance, though, and he took it. He’s happy. As happy as he can be, I guess. I don’t think he ever will be without you in his life.”

  Mom too. She’s always wanted a daughter. When they told me they were expecting, I had mixed emotions. I’d been dealing with enough stuff that put focusing on a sibling on the back burner.

  Then I saw the photos of Sophia.

  Witnessed the three of them together.

  One unit.

  One family.

  Me included, not that it always felt like that. Half the time, it felt like I was a stranger looking in. And I was okay with that because it meant they had a chance.

  To be happy without my baggage.

  My issues dragging them down.

  I genuinely wanted that for them.

  Because I know Dad would have wanted that for Mom. That Emery would have wanted that for father.

  “Why’d you have to fucking ruin it?” I whisper in cool accusation, clenching my fingers into fists. My fingernails dig into my palms until there’s a bite of pain, but it grounds me.

  I don’t know how long I lay there, letting the swarm of emotions take over until they’re choking me. I don’t stop them. The suffocation reminds me that I’m alive. Breathing with struggle, unlike the person I’m angry with.

  The blonde could have fought—should have fought. She should have tried. For me. For her mom. Her grandma. Hell, for Henry.

  I’ve been able to spend the past six years pissed off at the girl to keep myself grounded to reality. And reality is a cold, hard bitch.

  Emery didn’t ask to die.

  But she didn’t fight to live, either.

  For that, forgiveness will always be hard.

  Mom told me it wasn’t that simple, though. The therapist I saw mirrored that sentiment. I’m not interested in the logistics, though.

  The what ifs.

  The whys.

  What’s done is done. She’s gone. I’m here. And my pent-up frustration is along for the ride every single day, morphing into anxiety that likes to wrap around every piece of me and squeeze as hard as possible until I think my last breath is right around the corner too.

  Would I welcome it?

  I huff at the question, amused I’d even let myself wonder. “You fucked me up. Everybody says you gave me a gift, but it doesn’t feel like that.” I scoff at the ridiculous notion. “You’re haunting me. Your choice. Your words. You lied to me.”

/>   I’ll be at every game, she’d told me.

  As fucking what? A ghost?

  I remember the sunshine.

  The faded rainbows.

  How many of them graced me and my teammates during game days? Championships? I don’t want to believe that was Emery. I don’t know what I want to believe anymore.

  Something crunches under the weight of footsteps that has me sitting up quickly. When I turn to look over my shoulder I see an older, wrinkled face appear that I haven’t seen in a long time.

  “I thought that was you, boy,” Emery’s grandmother says, putting her hands on her hips.

  How long has she been here? Has she been listening?

  I don’t know what she sees when she looks at my face, but she gestures toward the house after a few moments. “I think there’s some sweet tea inside. C’mon in. Looks like you could use some.”

  I tell myself to go home.

  But I follow her inside the house.

  The woman who reminds me a lot of my own grandmother looks out the window. “Joanne cleans the stones almost every day.”

  Joanne Keller. Emery’s mom.

  The last time I saw her was at the funeral. She’d been crying at the front, barely able to say a word when the pastor asked if she’d like to share her fondest memories of her daughter. I’d lost it. On her. On Henry.

  On everybody in listening distance.

  As far as I was concerned, she didn’t deserve to play victim. She didn’t deserve to feel the pain of her loss when she’d acted like Emery was dead for years before then. Mom and Henry had to escort me out after apologizing on my behalf to the horrified crowd.

  Weeks later, there’d been a voicemail on my phone from an unsaved number that ended up being Joanne. It was fifteen seconds long. An apology, even though I know it was me who should have been the one saying I was sorry. I deleted it five seconds in, not interested in hearing what she had to say.

  “It’s the least she could have done,” is all I say, gripping my glass tighter. The condensation sliding down the side holds my attention. Anything not to meet the eyes I know are pinning mine to my seat.