Broken Pieces: A Novel (12 page)

Later that night, still mulling over Albert’s reaction to my decision, I found him in the kitchen, dishing out a bowl of ice cream.

“You did a good thing today,” he said.

I answered tightly. “That’s what I came down here to talk to you about.”

He pulled out a chair to sit down, but I remained standing. I had no plans to make this conversation any longer than it needed to be.

We’d coexisted in strained silence for days, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to forgive him for what he’d done. This latest betrayal had cut me to the core.

“I didn’t ask them to stay because you wanted me to,” I said. “I asked them to stay because I wanted to.”

He’d raised a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth, but set the spoon back in the dish untouched. The lines around his eyes deepened as he tried to wrap his brain around my words.

“I’m glad Sydney and Ella are here, and yes, I owe that to you, but you need to stop and realize that you’ve lied to me over and over again.”

“I’m sorry.” He spoke the words so softly I could barely hear him.

“Then start telling me the truth.”

He swallowed visibly. “I am proud of you,” he said, “for opening your home. Your mother would be proud.”

The mention of my mother brought a wave of emotion, but I tamped it down. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react to his praise.

The amazing thing was that I didn’t care what he thought. Not anymore.

I’d asked Sydney and Ella to stay because I wanted to help. I wanted to be part of their journey.

I’d done this for me. Not Albert.

“Good night,” I said, leaving Albert behind as I headed for the hall, finally silencing the ten-year-old girl who’d wondered for so long why her father hadn’t come back.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A few nights later, six of us gathered around the old kitchen table in my parents’ kitchen, in the space where I’d eaten more meals alone than I cared to think about.

Jackson Harding had driven over from New York to check on my father, who had invited him to stay for dinner.

He looked exactly as he had the two previous times we’d met. Faded jeans. Tweed jacket. Plain T-shirt.

He chatted easily with Sydney and Marguerite, did his best to engage Ella, and listened patiently as Albert described his plans for the garden.

Jackson had hung his jacket over the back of his chair as we ate. I couldn’t help but notice how relaxed he looked.

I also couldn’t help but notice how often I glanced in his direction, a disconcerting observation about myself.

Conversation filled the small space, silverware clinked and clattered, and I sat taking it in. Watching. Listening. Wondering what it might have been like to grow up in a house full of people.

Like this.

Sydney made conversation easily, while Ella had been a bit reserved since Jackson’s arrival.

Jackson, much to his credit, appeared even more at ease here, tossed into the middle of our unconventional family, than he did back in the New York City park where we’d shared hot dogs.

He explained how foreign opening night at the Manchester had seemed without having Albert onstage. When all trace of emotion vanished from my father’s face, Jackson switched gears, regaling us with stories and descriptions of the many sights found in Times Square.

“Why would a cowboy want to be naked?” Ella asked, and we fell into peals of laughter, the warm notes rising in the small space, filling every crevice that had formerly gone silent.

After everyone finished eating, Albert and Ella disappeared to go check the garden for rogue weeds. Marguerite headed next door to put together a plate of cookies, and Sydney and I moved to clear the dishes.

Jackson, much to my surprise, gathered three place settings before I’d cleared my first.

He nodded toward Scarlet’s tiny tank as he set the dishes in the sink.

“Your fish is trying to tell you something.”

I’d changed the water again and again, and still the fish was barely visible inside the dingy tank.

“I’m obviously doing something wrong,” I said.

The truth was that if I’d let her die to begin with, I could have returned her. But I didn’t want to imagine a person who could do such a thing. Scarlet had become a fixture in the kitchen, Ella loved her, and I was determined to keep Ella’s fish alive and happy.

I carried a second stack of dishes to the sink and peered into the tank. “I don’t even see her.”

But Jackson was already in motion. “Do you have a large bowl?”

I set the dishes in the sink and reached for one of my mother’s old Pyrex mixing bowls in a lower cabinet.

Jackson grabbed the container of springwater I kept on the counter for tank changes and poured quickly, filling the bowl sloppily and splashing water onto the counter.

“Hey—” I started to complain, but he was reaching for the lid to the tank, setting it aside.

Scarlet had jumped out of the water and onto a leaf, where she sprawled, sides heaving.

“Net?” he asked.

“No.” I shook my head.

He gently dipped the leaf into the water long enough to cup Scarlet in his hands and transfer her to the bowl of clean water. She sprang into action, swimming with abandon in frantic circles around the edge of the bowl.

Jackson pointed to the tank. “Something went wrong with her environment. Is there a pet store nearby?”

“Harrington’s,” I said, glancing at the time on the wall. Eight fifteen. “But I think they’ve already closed for the night.”

“How about a chain store?” he asked.

That, we could find.

“Big one.” I nodded. “Just outside of town.”

“Do you do this often?” I asked a few minutes later, as Jackson, Ella, and I drove out of town, headed for the large pet store ten miles away in the nearest strip mall.

Jackson smiled. “Rescue small aquatic animals?” He grinned. “Only when their demise is imminent.”

“You’re like a fish superhero,” Ella gushed from the back seat, all shyness forgotten. “Did you see the way Scarlet was swimming around that bowl? Who knew she even liked to swim? She never does anything.”

“Because I think she was half-dead,” Jackson said as he pulled the car into the parking lot. “But we’re going to fix that.”

Inside the store, I headed for the first employee I spotted in the aquatic section, but when I glanced behind me, Ella and Jackson had disappeared.

Adrenaline rushed through my veins. “Ella?” Surely I hadn’t misplaced the nine-year-old the second we walked through the door.

Jackson’s reassuring voice called out a split second later. “She’s with me. We’ll be right there.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, then rattled through Scarlet’s list of symptoms, watching as the young clerk’s perfectly made-up features settled into a frown.

“Did you rinse the gravel?” she asked.

Did Albert? “I don’t know,” I answered. “I wasn’t the one who set up the tank.”

The young clerk nodded. “That’s important. You want to rinse off any dust or dirt. Are you feeding her every other day?” she asked brightly.

I frowned. “The food says two to three times daily.”

She blew out a sigh. “Overfeeding. I’m surprised she didn’t jump out of her tank sooner. Her water’s probably full of ammonia. Maybe fungus.”

Fungus? Ammonia? Who knew taking care of a fish would be so complicated?

Jackson and Ella had still not appeared, but I could hear the rumble of his deep voice in the next aisle over, followed by Ella’s giggle.

I smiled, relieved to hear her laugh.

“I’d go with a bigger tank, maybe a five-gallon. Add a filter, a heater, and a thermometer,” the clerk said. “She’s probably constipated.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She shook her head.

I thought about the murky fog spreading upward from Scarlet’s gravel. “What about the gunk in the tank? Will that happen again?”

“If you feed her less, keep the filter running, and rinse your new gravel, no.”

She stared at me as a voice over the loudspeaker sounded. “Candace to small reptiles. Candace to small reptiles.”

I glanced at the girl’s name tag.
Candace.

“I have to go,” she said. Then she counted off on her fingers. “Filter. Water conditioner. Heater. Thermometer. Less food.”

I waited until she was out of sight; then I studied the shelves for some of the items she’d mentioned.

Jackson and Ella came around the corner behind me, pushing a cart.

Ella rode on the side, her hand in a salute, a wide smile plastered across her face. “Reporting for duty, Auntie D,” she said.

Behind her, Jackson shot me a wink, and inside the cart sat a glass tank five times the size of the one Scarlet had now, a bag of black gravel, a purple silk plant, a resin pirate ship, a heater, a thermometer, a filter, and a bottle of water conditioner.

Jackson plucked one small container from the bottom of the cart and gave it a shake. “Blood worms. She’ll love these.”

Ella wrinkled her nose.

After Jackson insisted on paying our ninety-eight-dollar-and-seventy-two-cent tab, we loaded the car and headed back to Paris.

Two hours later Scarlet had acclimated to her new home, and Jackson stood in the kitchen sliding his arms back into his jacket. Ella appeared beside him, holding out a crayon drawing of Scarlet in her tank. I grinned when I realized she’d drawn a pirate’s patch over one of Scarlet’s eyes.

“Thanks for helping Scarlet. She’s been a little stressed out.”

Jackson laughed, running his hand lightly over the top of Ella’s head. The gentle move did something odd to my heart, and I had to blink myself back into focus.

Ella, however, was staring into Scarlet’s tank. She frowned, then dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I know it’s not really my Scarlet,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “but I sure do appreciate Grandpa Albert trying to make me feel at home.”

Emotion fisted in my throat, and I pulled her into a hug. “You’re a good kid, know that?”

Jackson gave me a quick smile and turned for the door.

“Maybe I’ll stop by again sometime,” he said. “To check on Scarlet.”

“We’d like that,” I said.

Ella and I watched his car pull away from the curb out front, and I replayed his words through my mind.

Maybe I’ll stop by again sometime.

I hoped he wouldn’t wait too long.

CHAPTER TWENTY

One and a half weeks later, Ella started fourth grade at Paris Elementary.

I’d lingered at home in order to see her off, watching nervously as she and Sydney headed down the street toward the center of town.

New school. New friends. New opportunities.

Later that morning I’d stopped off at the opera house to take some additional photos of the stage frame and double-check my final measurements for the panels—step one of the three-part renovation.

But when I emerged from the opera house to head to my shop, I spotted Sydney sitting across the street on a park bench, her body language defeated, her facial expression vacant.

Worry exploded inside me. Was she sick? Had something gone wrong at school?

“Hey,” I yelled out, trying to make light of what looked like anything but a light moment. “Did you look both ways?”

She blinked, clearly pulling herself back, then laughed, the sound taking the edge off my fears.

“How did you get out of gardening?” I glanced to my left and right before I jogged across the street to where she sat.

Albert had made a great show that morning about sacrificing his gardening partner to formal education, and Sydney had vowed to take Ella’s place. Yet here she sat, a block from school, apparently lost in thought.

She wore an Ohio State cap instead of her wig, and I looped my arm through hers as I sat beside her. Although she held herself upright, she radiated fatigue.

“Ella’s first day of school,” she said.

“Pretty exciting.”

But Sydney looked broken. “She didn’t give me so much as a glance over her shoulder.”

“And you?”

“Having a moment.” Tears welled in her eyes, and I pulled her close. “What if I don’t see her grow up?” she asked softly, and my heart broke in two.

I wanted to answer her, wanted to say something wise or comforting, but I wasn’t capable.

I managed a simple “I’m sorry,” then realized I’d rarely stopped to think about what cancer had been like for my mother. I was intimately familiar with what it had been like for me, her survivor. But what had my mom felt and thought as her prognosis grew bleak?

Had she sat in this same spot staring at the same school, wondering if she’d see me grow up?

“Know what you need?” I asked.

Sydney shook her head, and I pulled her to her feet.

“A large to-go cup of Jessica’s magic coffee, and physical labor.”

“Physical labor?” She made a face, and I spotted the slightest glimpse of a smile. “Have you heard about the chemo?”

She’d started the sixteen daily capsules required by the new trial and had completed her first infusion of the second drug in the protocol last Friday.

“Chemo, shmemo.” I pulled her toward the curb. “Let’s go pound some nails.”

I stepped off the curb just as a small white car zipped past, and Sydney tugged me backward in one smooth motion.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, and then we laughed until we both held our sides.

We looked to our left, to our right, and to our left again. Then we headed toward the Paris Café, arms linked, as if we’d walked beside each other, just like this, countless times before.

The walk from the café to my shop wasn’t a long one, but Sydney labored over each step.

Although the sun shone brightly and the early air all but crackled with the promise of cooler fall weather to come, I couldn’t help but worry about why she seemed so tired. Her fatigue was always apparent, but today seemed different. Today seemed more.

“Would you rather go home?” I asked.

Sydney shook her head. “This new drug’s kicking my ass, but no.”

“We can.”

“No,” she said, her tone sharp.

We rounded the corner onto Artisan’s Alley, and shop window after shop window glistened in the sun. Behind their glass panes sat antiques, elaborate sun catchers, furniture, framed paintings, and more.

“Any of this yours?” she asked.

I pointed, and her features brightened. “Rocking chair. See it?”

“The white one?”

The shopkeeper had carefully draped a patriotic quilt over the chair’s back, and while the effect was eye-catching, it hid some of the shaping I’d done on the chair’s back and arms.

“That one was a pet project. I keep thinking I’m going to take it back if it doesn’t sell.”

We continued down the block, and the two-story garage that housed my shop appeared a few buildings later.

“You going to be all right with the steps?” I asked, but Sydney only nodded, saying not a word as she climbed the wooden boards one at a time, her concentration never wavering.

I unlocked the door and we pushed inside.

“It’s a mess now,” I said. “Bit different than the last time you saw it.”

Every inch of drafting table, worktable, counter, and wall space was covered with photos, sketches, grids, and diagrams of the opera house interior. I’d embraced the renovation wholeheartedly, focusing solely on the project and letting it consume my shop and my creative mind.

“Amazing,” Sydney said. “You can feel the creativity in this space.”

A frisson of pride wound through me. “Thanks, I guess. Unless that’s your way of saying it’s chaos.”

She graced me with the smile that brought my mother back to life. “Creative chaos.”

I swallowed against the knot of emotion in my throat and looped my arm through hers.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you the project.”

I carefully maneuvered her through the now-crowded space, detailed the workings of every machine, and explained the sketches and progress photos from the opera house. Then I flipped through my brag book—photographs from every job I’d ever completed.

I stopped myself when I realized I was acting like a kid trying too hard to please a new friend.

“Sorry. I’m probably boring you.”

“Never. I love how passionate you are about what you do.”

“Don’t you feel that way about nursing?”

She shook her head. “Not anymore. Now I’m just tired.”

Tired.

“Let’s sit you down. I have the perfect project to take your mind off Ella starting school.”

I handed her a mask and a pair of safety goggles, then held up a narrow strip of wood, carefully explaining how I planned to feed it through my favorite saw four times, using a different bit each time to create the lovely scroll molding I’d glue and pin to each section of the opera house stage frame. Her job would be to apply the molding, following my careful design grid, after I’d made sure the wood had been cut and mitered to fit.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked. “I can take your temperature, diagnose your appendicitis, or set your broken fingers, but I am not about to screw up your opera house work.”

I held up a pencil drawing of the vertical view of the molding design, proudly showing Sydney each measured angle and cut.

Then I fed a piece of wood through the saw exactly as I’d explained. Four careful passes.

When I was finished, I held up one long, beautifully trimmed piece of molding. Then I explained the measurements for turning the strip into mitered pieces that would perfectly fit each panel of the stage façade.

Sydney’s eyes had gone vacant, and I realized I’d been rambling on for quite a while.

“Earth to Sydney. Did I lose you?”

“Just for a second.” She shook her head, noticeably trying to wake herself up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. Sometimes I bore myself when I get going about corners and measurements and angles.”

I pulled a precut section of stage panel and set it on the worktable beside her. “Ready for the fun stuff?”

Sydney nodded, even though I could read the trepidation in her eyes.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of materials, but I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.

“We glue first,” I explained. “Plenty of time to catch any mistakes before we pin.”

“Pin?” she asked.

I held up a jar of tiny nails and one small hammer. “Pin. Holds the molding in place for good. Then our last step is staining, but we’ll hold off on that until all the sections are complete.”

“How long will this take?” she asked.

“I’m thinking the panels will take the better part of two months. The box seats and stage trim will take longer. Completion’s expected next spring.”

“Wow.” She narrowed her gaze behind her safety glasses. “Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

A short while later I used the saw to cut trim for a second section, while Sydney meticulously tapped pins into place on the first piece. She had managed not only to glue the entire panel herself, but finished the pinning without my supervision.

A ridiculously satisfying sense of pride welled up inside me. I threw open the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in fresh air, sawdust dancing in the beams of sunlight, and I laughed through my mask. Then my eyes met Sydney’s beyond my safety goggles.

“Thank you,” she said.

I gave her a quick shrug. “For what?”

“For this.” She gestured to the shop, the saws, and the wood scraps on the floor. “For all of this.”

I could see it in her eyes.
Relief.

For just a few hours, in the buzz of my saw and the smell of freshly cut wood, she’d been able to escape her reality.

For that, I was grateful.