Pieces of my Heart

by Jamie Canosa

  Sinking against the counter in relief, I squinted at the sudden onslaught of light from the bright fluorescents overhead. You don’t realize how dark a room has become until you actually leave it. The air out here felt cooler too. Guess that’s what happens when you spend most of your time hiding under blankets. Inhaling, I ignored the gag worthy stench of alcohol and BO beginning to overwhelm the small apartment. It had never smelled like the ‘spring rain’ the air fresheners I kept buying promised, but I couldn’t remember it ever smelling that bad. In correlation, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard Michael shower. Ever? The man was a scumbag. And a slob.

  The counters and table were cluttered with empty beer cans. Collecting an armful at a time, I set them to drain in the sink while I moved on to trashing the dozens of wadded up paper towel tossed wherever they happened to land. I nearly put an eye out trying to finagle the broom to sweep the crumbs off the counter into the waiting garbage can below. And I didn’t even want to think about what the sticky film was on the floor as I used a towel and some dish soap to wipe it up.

  When the glare was nearly blinding, I moved on to the living room and stopped. What was the point? It looked exactly like the kitchen. No matter what I did, five minutes after they got home, it would look that way again. Why bother? I was ready to throw in the towel—literally—when a knock sounded at the door.

  When someone knocks on your door, what do you do? You answer it, right? Not in our home. In our home, the door existed for one reason and one reason only. To keep people out. I knew that. I’d known that my entire life. So, I have no idea what possessed me to open it. My only defense was that I was wrapped up in in the daze of roaming free around the apartment for the first time in days and all logic simply vanished with the unexpected interruption.

  Somewhere around the time I cracked the door wide enough for my head to peek out, it returned, sending me into a panicked frenzy. “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon. Is Marilyn Carlson home?” A man in a pale blue button down shirt and black slacks stood at the door holding a clipboard.

  “Not at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?” Please be here to tell me all about God’s love.

  “And you are?”

  There was a right and wrong answer here. I just had no idea which was which, so I went with what was easiest: the truth. “I’m her daughter.”

  “How old are you?” The man was tall and the way he squared his shoulders and stuck his chin out made it very clear he was looking down on me.

  Shut the door. Tell him you’re not allowed to talk to strangers. Lock him out and go hide. Any of these options would have been wise. Instead, I chose to do the stupidest thing possible. “I’m eighteen.”

  “Excellent. You can sign for these, then.”

  No. No, I cannot. “Um . . .” He thrust the clipboard at me and before I knew it there was a pen clutched in my hand. “I—”

  “There.” He pointed to a red marked X. “And there.”

  The moment the pen left the paper, he snatched it from my hands and tore off a copy, which he shoved back at me. I stared at my name scrawled across the signature line in disbelief. What was wrong with me? I let some stranger come to my door and interrogate me? And then I signed something without even knowing what it is? I couldn’t possibly be that stupid. And yet . . .

  Across the top of the professional letterhead read ‘Farnel and Associates’.

  “Tell your mother that she has twenty day to dispute the debt or repay it. Otherwise, we will be forced to move forward with legal action.”

  “Legal action?” I blinked slowly at the page, letting my brain catch up, and then back up at the man.

  My question went unanswered, however, because he was already hustling down the stairs like the building was on fire.

  “Debt? What debt?” Muttering to myself, I shut the door and navigated my way across the living room by memory alone, eyes latched onto the paper in my hands.

  I scanned line after line of legal mumbo jumbo, looking for something useful until I came across the Amount Due section in the upper right hand corner. Useful? Not exactly. Terrifying? More like.

  “Twenty-three-hundred-dollars! Who the heck do we owe that much money to?”

  Farnel and Associates was a collection agency, so that didn’t tell me much. The original creditor was listed as a bank. So what? A credit card? We didn’t have any credit cards . . . did we?

  Idiot. Of course we did. And of course I didn’t know anything about it. That’s the only way something like this could have happened. But twenty-three-hundred-dollars? What could she have possibly spent that much money on? How long had this been going on behind my back? And, worse, where the hell was I supposed to come up with that kind of money?

  I couldn’t show it to Mom. Not now. Not when our entire lives felt like they were dangling by a thread. This would surely snap it, plummeting us further over the edge than she’d already taken us.

  So, I did what I’d always done. I hid.

  Scurrying into my room like a kid about to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I scanned the limited space for an ideal hiding spot. Where was a good old false-bottom drawer when you needed one? Then I realized how dumb that was. No one even knew those papers existed. No one was going to be looking for them. And no one came into my room. Ever. I could leave them in the middle of the floor and no one would ever see them.

  Deciding on something slightly more discreet, I tugged open the shallow drawer on my nightstand and tucked it inside, promising myself that I’d figure it out later.

  ***

  Morning broke with a rare sense of tranquility. A stillness that made me squirm with anxiety. Rolling out of bed, I shuffled down the hall. Mom was out cold on the couch. Judging by the motorboat sound effects coming through the door, Michael was in a similar state in the bedroom. Not surprising considering how late they’d stayed out. I was up half the night just waiting for them to get back. I’d told myself to take advantage of the quiet to get some overdue rest, but it was useless. I couldn’t sleep until I knew she was home. Safe and sound.

  Looking at her lying there, I didn’t feel anger, or fear, or resentment. All I felt was an overwhelming amount of guilt. And a fierce need to protect her. This hadn’t always been her life. She’d been young once. My age. Newly graduated with a world of possibilities before her. And then I’d come along. I couldn’t even imagine what having a baby at my age would be like, but it looked an awful lot like a slamming door from where I stood.

  “Sweet dreams, Mom.” Tugging the throw from the back of the couch, I tucked it around her, careful to make sure her feet were covered because they always got cold, and pressed a careful kiss to her hair. “I . . . I love you.”

  They weren’t words I spoke often or frivolously, but that made them all the more genuine.

  I read somewhere once that loving someone allows you to see their flaws more clearly. My mother’s weren’t exactly hidden, but love meant defying the impulse to abandon that person despite those flaws. So, yes, I loved my mother. Very much.

  My stomach led me into the kitchen where I rummaged through cabinets until I came up with two slices of bread. One was the end piece, but it would do. Popping them in the toaster, I leaned back against the counter and let the morning sunlight coming through the window warm my arms.

  Michael roused from hibernation and shuffled into the room behind me, wearing his boxers. Wearing only his boxers. He took one glance at the deer-in-headlights look I must have been giving him and smirked. Tossing an empty can on my newly cleaned counter, he reached into the fridge for a new one. What he came back out with was two cans, one of which he held out in my direction.

  “Have a drink with me.”

  “Um . . .” My gaze shifted around the room, wishing the toaster would hurry the hell up and spit out my breakfast already. “No thanks.”

  “It’s only beer.” He lifted the can higher, but my hands stayed glued to my sides.


  “I’m only eighteen.”

  His smirk grew deeper and he used his bare shoulder to rub at some of the sores on the underside of his chin. “You don’t tell, I won’t.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t really want to.”

  He looked me over once more and huffed a humorless laugh. “Fine. Have it your way, Princess.”

  Every little girl wants her daddy to call her a princess. But not the way Michael said it. Taking both cans with him, he stumbled his way into the living room where I heard him flip on the television and crank it to max volume, careless of the fact that my mother was trying to sleep in there.

  My toast sprang up and I snatched it, burning my fingertips on the hot bread. I didn’t bother with butter or jelly, not that I knew if we actually had either. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Throwing up the white flag, I retreated to my safety zone.

  Trying not to get crumbs on my bed, I leaned forward off the mattress as I took a bite and chewed slowly. And I waited. For what? For Mom to wake up? For the inevitable fighting that would start again as soon as she did? For the fighting to end? For the next call from Caulder? For my next shift at work?

  I was sitting there, in a darkened room, wishing my life away, waiting for some kind of light at the end of the tunnel that I couldn’t see. But what if I couldn’t see it because it wasn’t there? What if my tunnel was a dead end? What if the light never came?

  Six

  Do you have work today?

  I blinked at my phone and rubbed the sleep from the corner of my eyes.

  No. Which was why I wasn’t awake at the butt crack of dawn when Caulder decided to text me.

  Good. Get up.

  Really? Wasn’t that counter intuitive? Why?

  We’re going swimming.

  Umm . . . What?

  I don’t have a bathing suit.

  Don’t worry about that. Just get ready. I’ll be there in twenty.

  Twenty? Clearly Cal knew nothing about girls and swimming. Bathing suits required prep work that . . . took longer than twenty minutes first thing in the morning.

  Maybe today isn’t the best day for me to go swimming with you. Or any day.

  I waited. No response.

  Maybe another time? Or not.

  I waited. And waited. Still no response.

  He was either already in the car or he was purposely ignoring me. My money was on the latter. Either way, I was down to twelve minutes.

  ***

  The smell of chlorine tickled my nose. It wasn’t altogether as unpleasant as I imagined it would be. The way the overhead lights played on the gently rippling water fascinated me. It looked so calm. So deceivingly harmless.

  “There are locker rooms where you can change through there.” Caulder pointed out a thick wooden door, while rooting through a shopping bag he’d brought with him. “Here ya go.”

  I damn near died on the spot. What he pulled out was not a bathing suit. There wasn’t even enough fabric involved to cover a Chihuahua.

  I’m certain my mouth fell open as I gaped at him, making no move to touch the string bikini dangling from his fingers. Caulder started right back at me, completely straight-faced for what felt like the longest minute of my life before he burst out laughing.

  “I’m kidding.” He dove back into the bag, and this time what he brought out was a modest, pale pink one-piece.

  I was lost. “You bought two bathing suits? Just to trick me?”

  It seemed like an insane waste of money to me. Knowing him, neither one was cheap. But I guess, being Caulder Parks, things were a little different from his point of view.

  “Your face . . .” The jerk was still grinning ear-to-ear. “Worth every cent. Besides, there was always the chance you might put on the first one.”

  No. No, there was not.

  Snagging the suit with a huff, I turned and headed for the changing room.

  It fit perfectly, which was something I chose not to think too hard about as I made my way back into the deserted pool area, grateful that we were the only ones there, seeing as I didn’t even have a towel to cover myself. Caulder was bent over a set of bleachers near the wall, tugging a gray tee over his head.

  As he straightened, I couldn’t believe my eyes. “You have a tattoo.”

  He startled and twisted his neck to glance back at me over his shoulder as he continued to fold the shirt in his hands. “Yeah. Three, actually.”

  Bold, black strokes fit together in a series of patterns that I assumed made up some kind of Chinese lettering. Two—one on either side of his spinal column—sat directly below his neck. Two more below those. And then a series of four slightly smaller ones ran in a vertical line down his spine almost reaching the top of his swim trunks. The smooth lines and elegant curves enchanted me and my fingers itched to trace them.

  “What do they mean?”

  “The middle one means strength.” He kept his back to me, allowing me to continue to inspect the artwork as he gave it meaning. “I got that for Kiernan when he was diagnosed. The four on the bottom mean . . . connection? Like an unbreakable bond. I got that one after the funeral.”

  “And the top one?”

  His back bounced on a silent laugh. “That one means freedom. I got it with a couple friends when I turned eighteen. Don’t know exactly what it was I thought I was free from, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “They’re . . . beautiful.”

  He laughed again, finally turning to face me. “Not exactly what I was going for. But from you? I’ll take it. Do you have any?”

  “Tattoos?” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “No.”

  I’d never have the money to do something like that—much less the guts.

  “Do you want one?”

  Well . . . that was a question. Did I? I didn’t think I would, but seeing his . . . They were amazing. More than that. They meant something. They were a statement to who he was. To what mattered to him most in the world.

  “Yeah. I mean, maybe. Someday.” When—if—I ever discovered who I was.

  His eyes drifted down over my body, but I didn’t get the impression it was the suit—or the lack of what it covered—that he was seeing. He was imagining ink on me. And I did the same. I liked the idea. A lot.

  When his gaze came to a sudden stop, fastened somewhere south of my face, I felt my nerves ignite. He reached for me and I had to physically stop myself from taking a step back.

  “You’re wearing it?” His fingers wrapped around the silver charm that I’d forgotten to remove from around my neck.

  I’d worn that angel wing pendant every day since he’d given it to me at Christmas. Something about having it close gave me strength.

  “I always wear it.” Surprise mixed with unexpected pleasure in his eyes when they jerked up to mine. “I love it. I never got to thank you for it.”

  “It was nothing.” He released the necklace and the charm thumped against my chest.

  “It was thoughtful.”

  He shrugged, his teeth going to work on the inside of his cheek. “You deserved it.”

  “Well . . .” I didn’t really know what else to say. The conversation seemed to have taken a sudden left turn into awkward territory. But there was one thing that needed to be said before we abandoned ship. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Clearing his throat, Caulder shifted his gaze to the pool. “Let’s get to it. We didn’t come here to stand around out of the water.”

  In two long strides, he’d made it to the edge of the pool and executed a graceful head-first dive, breaking the surface with a tiny splash. His reemergence was far less serene. He erupted, shaking his head and spraying water in every direction like a wet dog.

  I laughed, slowly inching my way closer. He looked so fluid out there. His arms and legs flowed with the motion of the water, somehow keeping his solid body from sinking like a stone despite all laws of reason. I could never do that. I would, without a doubt, go straight under and never draw br
eath again.

  Lowering myself until my butt made contact with the cold tile, I dared to dip my toes, lowering them until my thighs lay flat and the water nearly reached my knees. My fingers wrapped firmly around the smooth, rounded edge, gripping tight enough to make my knuckles ache.

  “You coming?” Caulder cocked his head and watched me, a curious smile playing on his lips.

  Not in a million years. “I think I’ll just sit here and put my feet in the water.”

  “No way, Angel. Get your butt in the pool. The water’s nice.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” The smile faded away, replaced by confusion.

  “I . . . um . . .” God, this was embarrassing. I pulled a lock of hair over my shoulder and twisted it just to give my fingers something to do. “I don’t know how to swim.”

  Surprise lifted Caulder’s brows. “At all?”

  I shrugged and dropped my gaze to examine my hair for split ends. There were a lot. “I’ve never been in a pool.”

  I intentionally avoided his reaction to that one, but the underlying pity in his voice couldn’t be ignored. “As in ever?”

  I shook my head and kept my eyes plastered to the ratty pale brown strands wrapping around my fingers like vines until I felt the water shifting around my calves. When one large hand folded around the pool edge on either side of my body, I peeked to find Caulder floating right in front of me.

  “Trust me?”

  How could I not? “Of course.”

  “Then give me your hand. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise, Angel.”

  Oh, hell. He really wanted to get me into that tub of death. “I don’t know if—”

  “I promise.” The look on his handsome face was so sincere—eyes burning into mine, droplets of water dripping from the scruff on his set jaw, and the wild hair hanging over his forehead and around his ears—I felt myself caving despite my fears. “You’re safe with me.”

  “Okay.” I whispered the word, sealing my fate, as I reached for his outstretched hand.

  Ever so slowly, he lowered me into the lukewarm water with one hand on the wall and the other wrapped firmly around mine. When I was low enough, he released me for one heart-stopping second to secure his arm around my waist, instead.