Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  “Are you okay?”

  “No…”

  “They don’t usually allow Placement switches this late, but I guess ’cause they’re Partners, they made an exception. Plus, the waitlist for a job here was long enough, we found a replacement within hours. Her name’s Sarah. She got here early and has been hard at work. You’ll train her up and ready this week.”

  No.

  “’Bout time.” Clarence chuckles. “I was so sick of the two of you, running your yaps instead of doing your damn jobs. But Tracy’s with her Partner now; that’s what really matters…”

  He continues, but his words crackle like static in my ears. My pounding heart thrums in my ears, drowning out every other noise.

  No more Trace at work. No more Trace at all.

  My eyes blur, and the edges of the room go out of focus.

  No more fun. No more stories. My life consists of work and Lara.

  Sharp breaths suck the oxygen from my brain.

  I feel sick.

  “Piren, are you okay?”

  I bolt from Clarence’s office, race to the parking lot, jump in my car, and bury my face in my hands. Heaving for air, I surrender to sobs.

  It’s over.

  Part Five: Twenty-Three Years Old

  Tracy Bailey

  For the first six months at Dr. Patel’s office, I wanted to die. I came home every day after work, locked myself in my room, and clenched a steak knife in my fist. I pressed the blade to my neck, longing to sink it into my throat and end everything in a pool of red salvation.

  It got better.

  The beginning sucked. I didn’t think bosses stricter than Clarence existed, but that was before I met Ivanna. Her shrill barks followed me down every corridor.

  “Tracy! Clean that up.”

  “Tracy! Faster. Come on.”

  “Tracy! Get your fat ass up. Patient in four-ten needs fresh sheets. Hustle.”

  I’d lock myself in the employees’ bathroom and cry into my scrubs.

  “Ivanna’s fine; you’re too sensitive,” Sam would say. “Lighten up.”

  It was hell. But I adapted.

  After two years diligently mopping people’s shit, I follow Doc around like a sheep, soaking up every last drop of his medical knowledge.

  “I’m impressed, Ms. Bailey.” Dr. Patel pulls off his rubber gloves. “You didn’t even flinch when the bleeding started. Better than most Placements we get here.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Only your third time assisting day surgery, and I don’t know how I ever operated without you.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. “Good work.”

  My cheeks burn. “Well, I mean, it doesn’t take rocket science to pass you tools.”

  “Tell that to my last assistant.” He squirts sanitizer on his hands.

  “I would, but didn’t he run out screaming?”

  “Indeed.”

  Five months from today, a week after my twenty-fourth birthday, I will marry Sam.

  Mom and Veronica spend their weekends at Sam’s and my apartment, helping me plan final details. We never run out of things to do; there’s food to taste, decorations to order, dresses to buy.

  “Fireworks!” my sister squeals. “You need them. After the reception.”

  I scratch out notes on my Wedding Planning pad. “For the last time, V, no fireworks.”

  “But they’re so romantic!”

  “It isn’t a hoedown.”

  “I wanna kiss Ollie under the fireworks.”

  “So, do it at your own wedding.”

  “Aw, come on Trace—”

  “I said no.”

  She sticks out her tongue at me. I flip her off.

  “Rude,” she scoffs, tapping her thumbs across her cellphone. I absentmindedly look through a wedding catalog, slumping over on my arm.

  “Did you hear?” Veronica asks, her eyes glued to her screen. “Lara Goodren and Piren Allston’s wedding date was just confirmed. Six months to the day after yours.”

  I clench my jaw. “Fascinating.”

  “What? Their date? How is that fascinating?”

  “No…these candles. Look.” I open a random page and point.

  She raises her brows. “There’s nothing interesting about these candles, Trace.”

  “Well, there’s nothing interesting about their wedding date, V!”

  “Sheesh, okay.”

  Her long fingernails click-click-click across her cellphone keyboard.

  My body tenses. “That noise is grating my nerves. Who are you texting?”

  She doesn’t look up. “Ollie.”

  I swoop in and pluck the phone from her hands.

  “Hey!”

  “You’re spending your entire life with this kid. Do you need to spend every second now with him too?”

  She juts out her bottom lip. “I love him.”

  “Your life can include other things besides Oliver.”

  “Give it back.” She draws her words into whiny syllables. “Come on.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes, thrusting the phone back into her hands. “Just cool it on the tapping.”

  Piren Allston

  I drop a hefty pile of mail on the kitchen table, scattering colorful envelopes everywhere. Lara sifts through it.

  “Ugh, another one? How many flipping people were in our graduating class, anyway?” She rips open a thick green envelope and dumps out the contents. “You know, they don’t warn you how flipping expensive it is to be twenty-four. You have to buy gifts for all these people. Well, here’s another fifty bucks down the hole. Raymond and Alyssa. Didn’t even like them, and here we go, celebrating their wedding. Ugh.”

  She tosses the Save-the-Date back onto the table and grabs another. As her eyes scan the invitation, her lips thin to a narrow line. She slides it toward me.

  “Join us for Tracy and Sam’s big day!” proclaim vibrant orange letters across a cloud-dappled sky background. My chest tightens.

  The date is sooner than I expected. I should be happy for them, and I am! It’s just weird because I haven’t heard from Trace since she quit the Lab two years ago; no texts, no calls, no run-ins, nothing, and now here’s this damn invitation in the mail.

  My eyes glaze over, fixed on the parchment paper lying two feet away on the table.

  Lara struts toward the counter and uncorks a bottle of merlot. “We have to go to that,” she says with a huff.

  “We can just send a gift.”

  “Absolutely not.” She tips the bottle into her waiting glass. “I want everyone at our wedding, and no one’s gonna come if we miss everyone else’s.”

  “I don’t wanna go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not!” She anchors her right hand on her hip, her left hand gripping the stem of her glass. “Don’t say that. You should be excited about our wedding.”

  “I’m excited about ours. Do I need to share that excitement about everyone else’s?”

  “Well, a little enthusiasm about something would be nice. Seriously, you haven’t had one nice thing to say to me—to anyone!—for, like, two years now!”

  “I’m sorry! What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to cut it out! The attitude! I’m so sick of this!”

  She storms from the room with her wine. I don’t follow her.

  Tracy Bailey

  I park in my parents’ driveway and press my forehead to the steering wheel.

  First time home in five years.

  Mom nagged me forever to clear out the last of my belongings, so here I am. The Shitmobile rattles as I slam its door.

  Yeah? You’re not happy here either, then.

  Veronica’s silver sports car sits by the garage. Dad bought it brand new from the luxury dealership downtown. My sister lives with Oliver but comes home a lot. She likes pilfering goodies from Dad’s liquor cabinet.

  “Mom! Dad! I’m here!” I call up the stairs. “V?” I shout. “Mom? Dad?”

>   No one answers.

  I’m being ignored. Feels good to be home!

  I clamber upstairs to my old teenage bedroom. Dust coats the dresser and lamps in a gray blanket. My bookshelf remains fossilized, as if frozen in time, each item tilted and stacked exactly as I left it. Fingerprint smudges still speckle the rectangular window.

  The old house was home, but this place never was.

  I sink down on my childhood bed.

  It’s as foreign and lonely in here as it was the day we moved in.

  I close my eyes.

  We moved here…because—

  Something thuds loudly downstairs.

  I jump up and spring to the platform. Veronica lies in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, convulsing with sobs.

  “V! Veronica!”

  I trip over my feet, flying down the stairs to her side.

  “Are you okay? Hey!”

  Vomit stains streak down her shirt. Chunky liquid drips off her chin, dribbling to the floor. The hoppy scent of beer swirls through my nostrils.

  Are you effing kidding me?

  “I’m so tired…” Her eyelids flutter.

  I grit my teeth. “Okay, let’s get you to the couch to lie down.” I attempt to position my arms around her. “Do you want me to call Oliver, or—”

  She tugs my collar. “Trace!”

  “Yes?” I exhale a heavy breath. “You got puke on the floor.”

  “I’m bad. I did it. I did something.”

  “Veronica.” I give her shoulders a slight shake. “What did you do?”

  “I—I—I—I—”

  “Okay, I’m going to get you some water, because you’re not making any sense.”

  She yanks my head down. “I slept with Oliver.”

  “You what?” I leap up.

  “I did. Two days ago.” Her eyes cloud with tears. “I was drunk, Tracy. I was drunk.”

  “You’re still drunk! Right now!”

  “No…I’m…not,” she says between heaves. “Don’t tell Ollie I told you.”

  “Veronica—”

  “Stop yelling at me!”

  I clench my fists to rein in the urge to scream. “Are you looking to get Banished? Want me to drive you to the Mayor’s office myself? How could you ever—”

  Her ear-splitting wail cuts me off. I rub my pinched forehead.

  Great, now I’m the bad guy.

  “Veronica…shh…Veronica. It’s okay…shh…It’s okay. Listen to me. You’re getting married in a few years, but you can’t—you cannot—do that. Do you understand? No one can know, okay? You can’t tell anyone else, V…Shh…It’s okay…I won’t tell…”

  I pull her vomit-smeared body into my arms and press my face into her hair, inhaling the honey scent of her shampoo.

  I won’t be here to pick her up every frigging time this happens.

  I rock my sister in my lap, embracing her as she cries.

  I’m her mother, as always. I’m protecting her, as always. I’m keeping her safe, as always. But still, I’m helpless, because I can’t help her. She sobs and sobs, and I just sit here like an idiot and let her wail. Sit here like a useless mass, laboring to stay calm and supportive. I’m powerless. Watching her cry is all I can do. I don’t have a shoulder to cry on.

  An hour passes before Oliver finally decides to grace us with his presence. I’ve cradled my sister’s head in my lap for the past hour, and what has he done? Been M.I.A., that’s what. He rings the bell, and I tense my muscles, mustering every bit of self-control not to unleash my rage.

  “Hey, Tracy.”

  I glower back at him.

  Nice of you to join us, jackass.

  My sister was a normal, intelligent person before he introduced her to alcohol. She was a good kid. Oliver and his martini-slugging family threw her down a black hole. If she pulls herself up, he’ll always be right there to drag her back down.

  Oliver saunters through the door and tracks mud on the carpet. I count my breaths in my head, squeezing my hands into tight balls. Arms stiff at my side, I follow him to the landing.

  “V, Oliver’s here. He’s gonna take you home now, okay?”

  “Ollie?” she groans, her cheeks puffy and red.

  “It’s okay, Tracy.” Oliver crouches beside us. “I’ve got her.”

  How can you be so frigging calm and expressionless, you son of a bitch? You illegally fucked my sister—when she was drunk! It boils my blood!

  I give him a curt nod.

  Shifting Veronica’s weight between Oliver and me, we clumsily drag her to her feet. As we lift, Oliver’s face crosses into my line of vision.

  I haven’t seen my sister’s Partner in a few years, and he’s aged. He chopped his long, unwieldy hair to a slick crew-cut. For the first time in forever, he’s not lugging that hideous saxophone case. With a lion-like yawn, he steadies my sister in his arms.

  What the hell happened to him? He looks…different.

  “This is going too far.” I shake my head. “This drinking has to stop.”

  And if you prematurely fuck my sister again, I’ll rip your fucking face off.

  I brace myself for his whining, arrogant reply. The blame, the denial, the blah blah blah “pay attention to me” bullshit. Then I’ll have two babies to watch. He better be careful he doesn’t talk his way to a black eye.

  He meets my gaze. “You’re right. I screwed up. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I’m so sorry.”

  I blink. “You are?”

  “Yeah, she needs help. I know she does; I see it.” He takes a deep, quavering breath. “And I know it’s probably my fault.”

  “Oh, you think?” My words blurt out snarky and nasty, and I don’t care.

  “I’m sorry. She has a problem.” He sighs. “And I do too. I’m gonna get help. I’m gonna fix it.”

  My rigid arms relax at my sides.

  Oliver? Taking responsibility?

  “Come on, Veronica. Let’s get you home.” He drapes V’s arm over his shoulders. “I’m gonna make sure she eats something the moment we get back.”

  I nod.

  Who is this person, and what has he done with Oliver Hughes?

  Maybe holding down a job thrust him into maturity. Or maybe he just grew out of his dumbassery.

  Oliver watches V carefully, embracing her for balance as we lead her out the front door. His gaze is deep and vast as an ocean, unveiling his emotions to the world. I can see it plainly in his eyes: he loves her.

  “You gonna be okay?” he asks.

  “Yep.” I brush a hair strand off my sister’s face as we buckle her into Oliver’s car. “Take care of her, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  He starts his car, and I head back toward the house.

  I lean against the doorframe, fiddling with my fingers, studying The Wonder Twins as they drive off. When the car disappears beyond the horizon, I trek back inside to clean her puke before my parents catch wind of the mess.

  Next time she’s drunk, I’m gonna haul her ass to a frigging toilet.

  I moisten a wad of paper towels and dig out the baking soda from under the sink. Crawling on all-fours, I scrub the crap out of the carpet fibers.

  Elbow sore and aching, I pull back into a kneeling position to examine the stain. The carpet on the platform has returned to its original off-white, with a slight dark patch in the middle.

  Good enough.

  I wipe the sweaty film off my forehead with the back of my hand, letting the dirty paper towels float to the floor.

  Mom steps down the stairs. “What’s all this mess?”

  Nice to see you too, Mom.

  “Nothing. Spilled some Pepsi. Just cleaning it up.”

  She scowls. “I keep this place in decent order, and you come home and mess it up.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I still see a brown mark.” She steps around me. “I want it gone.”

  I reach for the worn paper towel. “I’m on it. Sorry.”

  She disa
ppears into the other room, and I slump back against the wall.

  Some people are self-sufficient; I’ve always considered myself one of those people. My sister is a different kind of person; she relies on others.

  I always knew I couldn’t fall down, not even for a moment. If I fell, no one would catch me—not my parents, not Veronica, not Sam. I learned to pick myself up. I keep myself safe and hold myself in my own arms. I am my own savior. For my entire almost-twenty-four years, this has held true.

  Except…once…

  My heart contracts at the memory I’ve tried so long to repress. I close my eyes.

  Nine years ago. Snow on the ground. A chill in the air. Christmas lights sparkling from every rooftop.

  One person who was different. One person who cared for me on a night I couldn’t take care of myself.

  Piren Allston.

  After I kissed him in his parents’ doorway and committed the blasphemous crime, I gaped at my best friend. Realization of my action dawned on me like an ominous shroud of mingled guilt and fear. My mouth ran dry as a terrifying thought played through my brain on repeat: What have I done?

  I expected him to hit me. Punch me. Call the police. Offer to cut me himself. I would have deserved it all.

  After three months of not talking to him, of ignoring him, of pretending not to hear when he called my name, I had the nerve to show up at his house. I had the gall to come crawling back in my time of need, seeking comfort, seeking friendship, after I denied him both for so long. That’s why I expected him to throw me down, scream at me, send me back out into the cold—because that’s all I wanted to do to myself that night. I hated myself. I was a horrible, awful friend, and in that one kiss, I became a horrible, awful human being.

  But Piren is not a horrible, awful human being. He has a heart of gold and a friendship I never deserved.

  “I’ll go,” I said, frozen in the doorway, eyes prickling with tears.

  “No!” His voice cracked. “Stay.” He grabbed my arms. “Please…stay.”

  I can’t. I should go. I shouldn’t be here. My brain buzzed with a thousand different apologies and excuses, but the words wouldn’t form in my mouth.

  I swallowed, and a whisper seeped out. “Okay.”

  My heart raced at light speed, a pattering drum roll in my chest. He took my hand and led me to his parents’ living room. We plopped down on his leather couch, cross-legged, facing each other like a couple of kindergarteners. He wrapped a Christmas quilt around my shoulders.