Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  I am invisible. You cannot hurt me.

  “That’s why I insisted on the corset dress,” Mom says. “Cost an arm and a leg, but it’ll suck her in so she can’t slouch. Soon as we get to the seamstress, I’m going to make it quite clear: taut and snug. That’s what I want to see.” She tugs at her shirt sleeve. “I swear, Tracy, sometimes I wonder if you’re really my child.”

  My father chuckles. I press my cheek against the window.

  “The dress hurts my ribs,” I say in a robotic mutter. “I can’t breathe in it.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t eat so much junk food, then.” Mom straightens her posture in her seat. “We got the plus-size dress against my better judgment, but I’m not letting it hang loose like a tent. And really, most people can’t afford designer wedding gowns. You should be grateful you have parents with means.”

  My father snorts. “She’s not fuckin’ grateful. Look at her…Sam’s problem now.”

  Sam’s problem now. I am Sam’s problem.

  “Regardless,” Mom says as she touches his arm, “the wedding will be flawless. A perfect occasion. I told the florist not to skimp on the flowers. I want to feel smothered by calla lilies.” She gestures her hands into the air.

  I exhale a heavy breath.

  The guests will have a grand time.

  The seamstress stuffs me into my dress. She nimbly laces up the corset back, yanking at the strings. Each tug clamps my chest, forcing air from my lungs. Mom paces around me, squinting.

  “That sequin is off, lower than the others,” she says. “I want it fixed.”

  The seamstress approaches, pins clasped between her teeth. “Hold still, dear. I’ve got to pin it.”

  My lifeless arms hang limp at my sides.

  I’ve been still for almost two weeks now.

  “There! Look how beautiful you are,” the seamstress says, leading me to the floor-length mirror. My lip quivers at the lifeless person, draped in glossy white fabric, staring back at me.

  “What a beautiful bride,” Mom says, clapping her hands. “You and Sam will be so happy together.”

  “Sure.”

  Happiness is a farce. It only ends in pain.

  My parents pull up in front of my apartment.

  “We really don’t have to stop here,” I say in a monotone. “We can just go back to the house.”

  “Five minutes.” Mom studies herself in the rearview. “You need to kiss your Partner one last time before the wedding. Bad luck not to.”

  “Hurry up.” Dad waves his hand in dismissal. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  More like stuff to drink.

  I trudge inside and hardly recognize the bare walls. Stacked boxes of my possessions lie strewn across the apartment floor, waiting to be hauled to our married home.

  “Hey, babe.” Sam pushes a box to the side. “I love you, Tracy Bailey. My almost wife.”

  “I love you, Sam Macey.” The automatic words fall out as if spoken by a machine.

  “I got these for you.” He hands me a bouquet of white calla lilies.

  “Thanks.”

  He yanks me toward him like a ragdoll, smashing his lips to mine. My body tenses in his vicelike arms. He tugs my hair, jabbing his tongue into my mouth, forcing it to the back of my throat. I flinch, and he jerks his head back.

  “Something wrong?” He caresses my cheek with his thumb. “Kissing works better when your Partner isn’t a dead fish.” He pecks me on the cheek.

  My body won’t let me laugh. “Sorry. I’m just out of it today.”

  He squeezes me tighter in a hug. Invisible barbells weigh me down, and my muscles can’t muster the strength to reciprocate his passion.

  Piren is with Lara. I am with Sam. All is right with the world.

  Maybe love is what kills us, and Assigning saves us. Maybe a numb, blank existence of fake emotion trumps the pain of loss.

  “I can’t wait for tomorrow.” Sam gives me one final peck on the lips. “Next time I see you, we’ll be getting married.”

  “I know.” A stone drops in my stomach. “See you then.”

  Piren Allston

  Feet propped against the coffee table, I sprawl on the couch with a book. My eyes scan the same two lines again and again, a wordy record on endless replay. My head pounds as if a thousand armies wage war in my brain.

  Love. I tell Lara I love her. What the hell does that even mean? Have I overused it to the point where it’s just as damn meaningless as any mundane word?

  My leg jiggles against the coffee table, thumping on the wood.

  What if the one you’re supposed to be with, and the one you want to be with, are two different people? My entire life was mapped out for me before I was born. Is my only choice to silently follow the course already plotted? To blindly accept my future and walk that trail until I die? To smile and pretend everything is okay and I’m happy and in love with my Partner when I’m spiraling downward and drowning in my own loneliness? I’m drowning, like in my childhood nightmares. Only this isn’t a nightmare; I can’t wake up from this life.

  Trace’s smile flashes through my head, shooting a lightning-sharp pain through my chest.

  I hurt her. I hurt my best friend. And for what?

  I slam the book down on the coffee table and throw my head back.

  What the hell am I supposed to do?

  Lara ambles into the room and scowls. She rushes over and heaves my feet off the coffee table.

  “Can you not do that?” she snaps. “It’s not your personal footrest. This furniture wasn’t cheap. Your parents didn’t buy it for us so you can scuff it up.” She sweeps back down the hall. Somewhere in the distant corridors of our home, a door bangs.

  Forever.

  The inflating balloon bursts inside me, spewing a million pieces that fall into place.

  I know what to do.

  Tracy Bailey

  I sit at my parents’ kitchen table, cheek drooping against my hand, sorting place cards for the seating chart. Chunky headphones smother my ears with the same silence that consumes me inside.

  My parents went downtown to mingle. I’m sure they’re enjoying trolling around greeting everyone, busy being the center of attention. They’re the parents of tomorrow’s bride!

  Hooray! I don’t give a fuck.

  I count eight guest name cards and stack them together on the table. Then another. Count, stack. Count, stack. I stack the cards randomly, because I don’t care. They can sit in the hall. They can sit home. I just don’t care.

  The door slams, and Veronica walks in. “Hey, Trace. Excited for tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Count, stack.

  She hovers by the stove. “You okay?”

  I nod, not meeting her eyes.

  “I’m going out with Ollie. You want to come?”

  I throw my current stack onto the table. “Why? So I can get trashed? Get wasted? Isn’t that what you kids do with your time?”

  Her forehead creases. “We’re just going to the movies.”

  “Gotcha. Have fun.” The words snap from my mouth.

  V rubs her hand down my back, and I bristle.

  “Trace, talk to me. Something’s up; I know you.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” I flare out my fingers. “Tomorrow is the wedding of the year! Fun fun. Let’s all get trashed. I’ll go shot for shot with you tomorrow. Kick your skinny ass.”

  “What has gotten into you?” She walks around the table, brows lowered, forcing herself into my line of vision.

  “Nothing. Sorry.” Count, stack. “I’m in a mood.”

  “I can see that.”

  “You go have fun with Oliver. I have wedding stuff to do here.” Count, stack.

  She examines my latest pile. “The Murphys can’t sit with the O’Fallons. They don’t get along at all.”

  “Awesome. Maybe we’ll have a wedding brawl. Mom will get her little panties in a bunch.”

  V snorts. “You’re so weird, Trace.”

  I shru
g.

  “Well, if you’re not coming, I gotta go.” She heads toward the door. “Text me if you need anything. I don’t want you to be so sad, especially for tomorrow.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot.” I slam the cards down, scattering piles across the table. “You’re in that contingent who wants me to be just so utterly happy with Sam.” I bat my eyelashes at her.

  She pauses by the door.

  “No.” Her gaze softens. “I just want you to be happy.”

  Piren Allston

  Gunning my car, I race to the Ceremony Hall. A wedding begins there in twenty minutes, a wedding starring my best friend. I’m not wearing a customary full suit. I will not be attending any wedding.

  I am going to rescue Tracy Bailey.

  Tracy Bailey

  Sam stayed in our empty apartment alone last night. I slept in my teenage bedroom. I sat still for hours in the dark, letting time wash over me. As the second-hand clicked, my even breaths rose and fell like a ticking time-bomb. The clock struck midnight, and I closed my eyes.

  It’s the happiest day of my life.

  Mom ties me into my wedding dress, sucking breath from my lungs with each tug. The gown explodes at my sides, suffocating me in an eruption of white lace. It consumes half the space in the cramped dressing room.

  “There, that’s my bride,” she says.

  My listless arms dangle from my slouching shoulders. I inhale, and the corset digs into my ribs, pressing against my stomach.

  Mom paces around me, pruning pieces of hair and loose threads from my dress, thrusting them into Veronica’s waiting hands.

  “Smile.” She pats my cheek. “You look like a zombie.” She pushes in front of me to the mirror and starts dabbing on lipstick. My tired facial muscles won’t budge.

  Veronica shifts from one foot to the other, smoothing her purple bridesmaid dress.

  “Don’t just stand there.” Mom snaps her fingers. “Get your sister’s flowers.”

  Head lowered, V trudges from the room. I slump down on a pink seat. The bones of my dress constrict like a boa.

  The makeup lady comes and slathers some paint on my face. I stare straight ahead as she dollops mascara and shadow over my eyes. My mother purses her lips, pointing to places on my face that aren’t covered enough.

  “Do you have any drops for her eyes?” she asks the woman. “They’re so red, you’d think she’s back here smoking.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Bailey, I don’t carry eye drops.”

  “No?” Mom grabs my chin, yanking my face toward her. “Well, just layer the mascara on a bit thicker then.”

  Veronica reenters the room and hands me my bouquet. Purple and white flowers burst from a silver ribbon, radiating springtime. I let it fall into my lap, sprinkling petals to the floor.

  “Tracy!” Mom hisses. “Be careful with those.”

  “They’re flowers. They’re fine.”

  The makeup lady packs her trunk and leaves. Mom slips her a fifty-dollar bill. “For your trouble,” she tells the woman. “I’m sorry she’s so difficult.”

  My tuxedo-clad father wobbles into the dressing room, releasing a roaring belch into the air. He smashes into the makeup stand, knocking brushes to the floor.

  Let’s commence the Bailey Family Circus.

  “You’re drunk?” Mom’s eyes blaze with fire. “Today? Really?”

  He sways on his feet. “Just…buzzed.” He leans too far, and a tiny glass vial slides from his pocket and shatters on the ground. Liquor explodes onto the carpet, soaking my waiting veil. Veronica gasps. Mom shrieks and slaps him on the arm.

  I run my fingers across my bourbon-stained veil. Liquid seeps onto the edge of my dress, slowly infecting the lace like a disease.

  Mom’s face flushes crimson. “How can you do this to me on my daughter’s wedding day?”

  “Shut up!” Dad stumbles into the wall.

  Mom jumps up in his face, screaming. Veronica presses her trembling hands over her ears and slips outside. Dad swings his arm, crashing into the makeup table. Glass vases and canisters smash to the floor, sprinkling powders and liquids everywhere.

  Mom’s face contorts into a snarl. She grabs the hairdryer and flings it at him, shattering it against the wall. Dad throws out his bumbling arms and storms from the room. Mom follows after him, shouting obscenities that echo in the hall.

  The door slams behind them with a boom. My chest rises and falls, stretching against the corset, drowning the silence with my sharp breaths.

  My family left a tidal wave of destruction in their wake. Scattered items litter the floor. Stains and colors dapple the carpet.

  I press my hands to my cramped stomach. My body is a prisoner in a white, puffy, glittering cell. Floor-length mirrors wall the dressing room; my pallid face stares back at me from a million angles. Hair drawn up like a princess, eyes layered in sparkly purple shadow and thick black mascara, I don’t recognize myself.

  These are my last moments of being Tracy Bailey. My last moments of being me.

  My throat burns with a thousand angry lumps. The weak and wilting woman in the mirror gazes back, dead-eyed and cold. I want to smash her into a million pieces.

  I jump at the tat-tat-tat I hear behind me and twist toward the window. Piren stares back at me through the glass. I unhinge the locks, and he topples inside.

  Here I am, in my expensive wedding gown, suffocating in layer upon layer of tulle and bows, hair done up like a celebrity, face painted like a porcelain doll, reeking of liquor. And here he is, sweatshirt and jeans. Hair uncombed. Shirt untucked. Smelling like Piren.

  I dart my eyes to the floor, ribs aching with every sharp breath. My palms grow sweaty at my sides, and I wipe them along the edge of my dress.

  “What happened in here?” He scans the disaster that is my dressing room. “A hurricane?”

  Someone beats on the door.

  “Go away!” I shout. The knocking ceases. I whirl on Piren. “What do you want?”

  “Trace, please, just hear me out.”

  I open my mouth, but words won’t come.

  “Five minutes!” my coordinator screams through the door.

  “Okay!”

  “Trace. Please. I need to…God, you’re so beautiful.” He takes a deep breath. “I need to say something.”

  I keep my eyes looking at anything but him.

  “I…I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. But the stupidest, the worst, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done—” he throws his hands behind his head “—was letting you go. Watching you walk off that train.”

  His arms fall back to his sides. “I get why people go to Lornstown. It’s a sacrifice; no one’s saying it isn’t. It’s giving up everything. But it’s also gaining everything. It’s understanding what you have to gain. I love my family—I do!—But you…What I have with you is unlike anything else in the world, Trace.”

  I stare at a scuff mark on the wall, fighting back tears prickling behind my eyes.

  “Don’t marry him. You can walk away. You can. You don’t have to do it. You’re my Partner, Trace—my real Partner.”

  Partner. What a stupid word.

  “Trace…I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry too. Those things I said on the train, I…I didn’t mean any of it. I don’t hate you.” A knot twists in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

  I touch my eye to stop the seeping trail of water. Black moisture stains my fingers, mascara mingling with tears across my cheek.

  Piren holds up his palm, and I press my hand to his. He gives me a half-smile, and in his eyes is the same little boy who scurried through the woods with me growing up. The same little boy I couldn’t ever let go.

  Maybe I don’t have a family. Maybe I have no one to love.

  I swallow hard.

  But he does.

  Because no matter what we have, no matter what we are, this place will never change. Being together will always be a crime. There will never be a time when he can truly be hap
py with me, because being with me will always mean leaving so much behind.

  Our unstoppable force has met its immovable object.

  When you really love someone, nothing else matters.

  I love him.

  I love him with every fiber of my heart.

  I love him absolutely and completely.

  I love him.

  And so I’ll let him go.

  “Trace—”

  “I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much, to see you, to be around you…this friendship, this, whatever it is…” I force the words past the choke in my throat. “I can’t be your friend anymore. It’s over. This is good-bye.”

  The venomous words rip through my body. The words I was too selfish to speak before. The words I should have said in that janitor’s closet on graduation day and every day since. Makeup-tainted tears drip into the folds of my ivory dress.

  Water pools in my best friend’s eyes. His pain rips a hole in my heart. I reach out my hand, longing to comfort him one last time.

  I sigh. “Piren, I—”

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey.”

  My arm falls back to my side. I clamp my eyes shut.

  “I can’t.”

  With two swift steps, I exit the room.

  I plod into the long hall, tripping over my train. My parents stand stoic by the doorway, waiting arm-in-arm beside my coordinator. Mom presses her lips together when she sees me blotting my eyes. Dad shakes his head with a disapproving frown. I stare ahead, back straight, shoulders poised, bouquet clasped between my shaking hands.

  Veronica steps to my side.

  “You okay?” she mouths, rubbing my arm. I nod.

  The Ceremony doors clang open, revealing an endless aisle lined with benches and the backs of four hundred twenty-four heads.

  My coordinator nods to someone I can’t see, disappearing into the Ceremony Hall. Processional music strums to life, filling the room with romantic ambiance. My parents smile and step forward, gliding through the doorway. They float up the aisle, waving to their spectators.

  Veronica proceeds after them, leaving me alone in the hall. My heart thuds like a hammer in my chest.