34 Pieces of You

Jessie

NOVEMBER.

That Saturday I woke before dawn to the sounds of sirens, the doorbell ringing, and Mattie crying. I sat up, glanced at Sarah’s empty bed, and then the door creaked open. Meg stood there in her polka-dotted pj’s and fuzzy slippers, framed by the light from the hallway.

What’s going on? I murmured.

I don’t know. They won’t tell me. She flipped on the light.

God, Meg! I shielded my eyes. Turn it off.

Sorry. She flicked the switch and the room went dark.

Is it Old Mrs. Sawyer again?

I don’t know.

I grabbed the robe hanging off my bedpost and wrapped it around me. The house was chilly, and the cold only added to my exhaustion. I thought about going back to bed, but Meg was still there, staring at me expectantly. Below, our parents’ voices grew louder. A door slammed, and the sirens started up again. I peeked out the window just as the ambulance rushed away.

The street was bright with porch lights. A few neighbors huddled together in front of Mr. Lumpnick’s yard, talking. I scanned the group, looking for Sarah and her best friend, Ellie, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t find them. Just because I had spent last night moping didn’t mean they hadn’t spent it partying. They were probably passed out somewhere.

Meg peered over my shoulder. Mom said to come get you.

I followed Meg down the stairs and thought about the possibilities for that ambulance. Since most of our other neighbors were standing in Mr. Lumpnick’s yard, I decided it had probably come for Old Mrs. Sawyer.

Mattie was wrapped in a blanket on the living-room sofa, sucking her thumb as she watched her Dora the Explorer DVD. Mom stood a short distance away, in the kitchen, her back visible from the hall. She was talking on the phone. I gave Meg a reassuring smile and said, It’s okay. See how calm Mom sounds?

Meg leaned forward to grasp her tone, which was steady enough for such an unexpected morning. Go on. I nudged her toward the living room and watched as she curled into the couch, covering her lower legs with part of Mattie’s blanket.

In the kitchen, Mom stood quietly beside the phone, her hand still holding the receiver to the base. There was something about her stance that made my numbness fade. Everything okay? I asked.

She turned to me, her skin blotchy from crying.

Mom?

Jess. She came to me, grabbed my shoulders, and pulled me close. She whispered in my ear, Sarah’s been in an accident, and I have to go meet your dad at the hospital. Okay? But it’s going to be fine. I just don’t want to upset your sisters. So let’s talk quietly for now.

She stepped back and took my hands. She searched my eyes, offering me a shaky smile, but I saw the tears waiting.

A lump formed in my throat. I imagined Sarah in the role of Old Mrs. Sawyer, slipping in the shower, breaking her collarbone or something, the ambulance rushing her and Dad to the hospital while Mom sat in the kitchen, writing speeches about the perils of underage drinking. And there was little doubt in my mind that my sister and Ellie had been drinking.

Is she really going to be okay? I asked, because parents had a way of lying to you so you wouldn’t freak out. I wanted to know the truth. Seriously, Mom.

Mom nodded, dropping my hands to push the hair from her face. We think so. She was still coherent when Tommy found her . . . found . . . She put a hand to her mouth and looked out the kitchen window that faced Ellie’s house. I followed her gaze. The lights were on there, but the driveway was empty.

Tommy was there? Tommy was another kid from the neighborhood. The scenario changed again to include him: Sarah still in the shower, drunk, but now Tommy with Ellie, his hands crawling over her body. What did Ellie say, exactly? My voice turned sharp, the suspicion so strong it made my skin tingle. Is she at home? Can I talk to her real quick before you go? I wanted answers that I knew only Ellie could give, and I wanted to tell her she was an awful person for misleading me and betraying Sarah. I wanted to tell her that we would never forgive her.

Mom was at the window now.

Mom?

She sank onto her knees and buried her head in her hands.

Mom?

Tommy found them, but he wasn’t there. The accident, Jess . . . it was Ellie, too . . . She turned to me, tears streaming down her face.

And again the scenarios shifted until finally I understood. I gripped the edge of the table, willing the room to stop spinning, my breath to return.

It’s not good, Jess, she said. Ellie . . . it’s not good.

The heat clicked on, and a warm burst of air flowed across my calves. The room spun quickly now, flashes of colors that disappeared when I closed my eyes. Every noise in the world was silenced.

Then a small, cold hand slipped into mine. A soft voice whispered my name. I opened my eyes. Mattie stood beside me, her eyes curious but absent of fear.

1.

You said, Ellie, this is the truth, everybody leaves. Everybody. I was just seven, and when I reached for you, you were where death and absence and missing take you. You were where bad husbands disappear to. And you were whispering, Just ask them.

Sarah

AFTER. NOVEMBER.

Concerned Therapist taps her pencil on her notepad and smiles. This is not because today is a pleasant day, and the birds outside Smith Memorial Hospital are chirping, and the sun has created rainbow patterns on the worn linoleum floor. No, it’s because it’s one of her settings. She has three: Concerned. Reassuring. Empathetic.

Sarah, she prompts again. Do you recall saying that in our last conversation?

I tug down the sleeves of my flannel pajamas, wondering why the junior psych ward is so cold, and say in a weary voice, Really, I’m sorry. I don’t.

Concerned Therapist consults her folder, flips back a few pages on her clipboard. She says that the last time she came to visit, I remembered some things. She changes gears from Reassuring setting to Concerned setting, her thick eyebrows forming a rolling caterpillar above dime-size brown eyes. When I don’t budge—not because I don’t want to but because I honestly don’t remember what I said the last time—she leans forward, one elbow pressed into the soft chocolate-colored skin above her knee. Her full lips turn downward into Empathetic setting.

Sarah, I know this is hard for you, but can you try? Ellie was your best friend. I’m sure you’re incredibly confused right now. Can we talk about that a little?

This is not a subject I want to talk about, but it is a subject I have to talk about. Tomorrow I’ll be released from the hospital, and before they discharge me, I have to perform this song and dance. It’s sad, and I’m really upset about it, I say finally.

Concerned Therapist motions for me to continue. Because it’s true, I say, It was an accident, a stupid accident. Then I stop talking, because here it is again, the bubble in my chest. The last time I felt it was when I overheard the doctors tell my parents, You’re lucky she’s alive. An overdose like this . . . Well, she’s lucky things didn’t turn out for her the way they did for her friend.

This isn’t true—this whole overdose business. At least not the way the doctors make it sound. I tried to explain this to one of my doctors, but all he did was nod politely, like he didn’t believe me. And that made me hold on to this truth: I don’t have to explain anything to anyone. I just have to tell them enough to be released.

Stoic. That’s the word I keep putting in my mind. I hold it there like a ball suspended in midair. It takes a lot of energy to keep a ball in midair when you’re not using your hands. When you’re just using your mind, it’s a miracle if you can get the ball off the ground.

And so that’s what I do: I use all my energy to stoically stare at this woman’s pinched face, but after a while it doesn’t seem so pinched. That’s because she continues to speak to me in that encouraging way of hers. And her face starts to seem kind and generous. And my heart breaks open a little and comes into contact with the thoughts that pop into my head: How can Ellie be dead? And where does that minute go, that minute that separates life from death? I want those sixty seconds back.

Concerned Therapist studies me. Tell me about the accident, Sarah.

We did this before, I remind her, and luckily her pinched face returns.

But tell me again, she says.

Because . . . The word fades, like I don’t have the strength to make it whole, and I hate myself for sounding weak in front of her.

Because? Concerned Therapist says. Her bony shoulders curve forward. Her hand flickers at her side. I wonder if she wants to reach out to me. Sarah, this is a safe place. You can say anything.

This is the big lie adults tell you: that you can say anything. But the minute you say anything about anything, you’re given this lecture about how you can make your life better and what you should do but aren’t doing. And you’re told how you screwed it up and what they’re going to do to make it better. And how this will be the absolute last time they help you, and isn’t it time you grew up already?

I could even hear my mom’s voice whispering in my ear: It’s simple, Sarah. A + B + C = Problem solved.

So I don’t say anything. Instead I close my eyes, and even though I don’t want it, Ellie is there. And it’s five days before, and she’s twirling and laughing and holding the pills. And she’s calling out to me. She’s saying, Catch up, Sarah. Catch up.

Sarah? Concerned Therapist places her hand lightly on my arm. Goose bumps spread across my flesh. Are you okay? she asks, but I hold still.

I hold still, and when I am composed, I say, It was an accident. I’m sorry about Ellie, but we never meant for any of this to happen. We were just being stupid. We just—

It is here that I put my hand to my mouth. The therapist hands me a tissue and nods her approval. The bubble in my chest expands but does not burst. It holds steady. Waiting.

* * *

There is one solid truth in my life: When visiting hours are over, Glenn will still come to see me.

Glenn isn’t my biological dad—no, that man abandoned me before I was born—but he’s my real dad and so I call him Dad, because he’s always been there for me. When I look at him, I see all these pictures. Pictures of him in his marines uniform the day he married my mom, my life still forming in her swollen belly. Pictures of him at my third birthday party, our hands covered in sticky white icing. Pictures of him at the births of my younger sisters, his real daughters—first Jessie, then Meg, then Mattie. Even now, I snap a picture of this moment to place in my internal box of proof that Glenn loves me.

My dad is a handsome man with large eyes and limbs as solid as tree trunks. He understands that I haven’t looked at anyone in days. He says, I should have been here. I should’ve known.

She can come home tomorrow, Glenn. That’s my mom speaking. She’s not at all like my dad. She’s small, with blond hair, pale skin, and nervous hands. Mom hates her nervous hands. For a second she stands beside my dad, her hands buried deep in her pockets. But before long she’s tidying up the space and making small talk. She says things like, How are you today? Did you sleep well? Do you need something? Look at that tree outside. Isn’t it lovely? Tommy asked after you. Isn’t that nice? Do you need more pillows? I can ask the nurse for more pillows. Why is it impossibly cold in here?

Sarah. Here is my dad, again. His smile is cautious. You can come home tomorrow. That’s good, isn’t it?

And here’s where I nod. I do this so they can see I’m responsive. Responsive is a big word in the junior psych ward. If I stop acting responsive, I might never get out. So I’m careful to respond and to hide that I’ve been crying a lot. But when I speak, my throat is parched. I want to go to Ellie’s funeral so I can say good-bye. These are difficult words to string together. Especially the part about my best friend’s funeral. Especially the part about good-bye.

There is a silence that’s not silent at all. It’s exchanged glances and shuffling hands. My father clears his throat. Sarah, he says. Sarah, that’s not going to be possible—

And my mom gently touches the side of my face and says, Honey . . . But the word is soft, more like a prayer.

Then Dad says, Sarah . . .

And I say, I’m here. Because I think that’s what they need me to say, but now my dad is looking beyond me. He’s looking outside the room to the beech tree visible from my hospital window. I look too. The branches are like a thousand arms pleading with the sky. When I look back, my dad is watching me. He swipes a quick hand beneath his eyes. Then he calls to my mom like he doesn’t know what to say. He says, Serena . . .

Glenn . . . Mom places her hand on my dad’s neck. He is the person she understands best, not the rest of us, who came from her body. I think we’re a mystery to her. Just tell her.

And this is where he looks at me. He rests his palm on the back of my head. His hand encompasses my entire scalp, and there is safety in this knowledge that he can still fit parts of me beneath the callused strength of his fingertips. He says, Ellie was cremated. They’re spreading her ashes today before her mother leaves on some kind of retreat.

And then there is silence and gasping. Minutes later, I realize I am the one gasping. I make myself stop. I tell them I am sorry.

It’s okay is what my dad says.

You’ll get better. Give it time, is what my mom says.

We are silent for a long while. We are silent until we are a calm, picture-perfect family: a good mommy, a good daddy, a good daughter. And in the silence I suddenly understand the many ways a person can die but still be alive.

2.

That year Dad left us, I pressed my ear to the wall between