Pieces (14 page)

“So,” she said, swirling the noodles in her bowl, “this whole Italy thing. How soon, do you think?”

His eyes lit up. “Have you decided already?”

“No, I just want a time frame.”

He nodded. “Well, tell me about school. How badly do you want to finish?”

She looked at the stack of books on her desk—the same ones from last semester since she was taking the same courses and the books hadn’t changed. The only new class was the one with Professor Carlisle. She was regretting signing up for that one.

“Honestly,” she said after a heavy sigh, “I don’t like school right now. I’ve always liked school. It used to be my life.”

“Well, it’s Harvard. I imagine it’s challenging.” He leaned back and let out a low whistle. “But Harvard, Naomi ... that’s great. I feel like a jerk asking you to leave.”

“It’s not your fault, but to answer your question, I don’t know if I want to finish. I feel so obligated.” She rubbed at a spot on her forehead and proceeded to tell him about her scholarship and her mother and the conversation with her professor. She went on and on about her classes and how art wasn’t what it used to be to her. As she talked, she pulled out one of her sketchpads and flipped through the pages, hating every single sketch. To her, they all sucked. Jesse listened.

She tossed aside her sketchpad and picked up her bowl of noodles again. When she took a bite, they were cold. “I guess I’m seeing how hard all of this can get,” she said, wrapping up her story. “I don’t know how my mom got through law school here. My housemate is in that program. She wants to slit her wrists half the time.”

Jesse smiled. “Your mom is intense. Period.”

“I know.” Naomi thought about the moment Jesse had met her mother during the trial. There had been a lot of poorly concealed glaring on her mother’s end.

“So, you feel obligated,” Jesse said, picking up a glass he had set on a nearby table. He was sitting in a room she didn’t recognize—not his father’s apartment, which was stuffed with books. There were no books anywhere around Jesse. “You’re also losing interest in your major. Can I ask why? Are the classes too hard? Not specific enough yet?”

She forced down the rest of the noodles and pulled up her hair, holding it off her neck as she thought about his question. It was hot in her room. “It doesn’t help that I have to take all the same classes again.”

“Right, but you can get through that.”

She gave him a crooked smile. “Are you trying to talk me into staying?”

“I want you to make the best decision for you.” His green eyes sparkled as he took another drink. “I’ll admit I want to be selfish and talk you into Italy. I’ve been looking at places we can rent.” He set down his drink.

“This isn’t helping, Jesse.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. But I want you to know it’s all possible.”

She nodded, letting it sink in. Possible. It seemed anything was possible when it came to Jesse. “Am I going to need to learn Italian if I decide to go there?”

He laughed. “If we’re living there, I assume you would want to learn Italian.”

“I guess so. I can’t decide yet,” she muttered.

“You don’t have to.”

She stared at Jesse’s face, surprised she still remembered the pattern of his freckles and the way he tilted his head when he was waiting for a response.

“I want to hold you,” she said, unsatisfied with the video. It didn’t give her warmth and smell and touch. “That’s all I can think about right now.”

He frowned and looked at his watch. “I can come in a few weeks. Promise. I should let you go so you can get some homework done.”

“Ugh, homework. I have to write chapter responses. I haven’t read the chapters yet. I did all of that last semester, but I can’t use the same assignment I turned in before. My professor told me everything has to be new.”

“I’m sorry.” He stuck out his bottom lip in a puppy-dog pout, and she laughed.

“Don’t make fun.” She let her playful smile fall into a frown as a million questions entered her mind. “What was it like?” she asked, leaning forward. “Prison, I mean.”

Jesse looked surprised at her question. He leaned back from the camera and looked away. “Some days I thought it would never end, and some days I regretted turning myself in. Most men there are scum. Lots of prejudice and ignorance.” He shrugged and looked up. “I kept out of it as much as I could, but they don’t like it when you’re a loner like me. Makes it easier for them to pick on you.”

She shut her eyes and thought about Evelyn in her prison cell. And Eric. He was probably the type to let prison wear him down so much he cracked and lost it, just as his father had.

“Thank you,” she whispered, opening her eyes to see Jesse watching her with a solemn expression.

“For what?”

“For letting me go and turning yourself in—for going through all that.”

“I had to.” He stared down at the drink in his hand. “I’ve tried to erase what I did, but it will never be enough, Naomi. Never.”

She blinked, trying to process if what he said was true. He had already done so much for her.

“Naomi, are you okay? You look tired. It’s late there.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes. “I think my homework will have to wait until tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t want to end the call, but she knew she had to. She said goodbye. When she was staring at a blank screen, she remembered something she had thought was gone forever. She remembered a series of dreams from her time in captivity. They were filled with dragons and there was a prince who kept trying to save her. He had never succeeded.

S
TACY’S OFFICE
always smelled like the ocean. It was one of the reasons Naomi liked to go. Once, she had asked Stacy how she made it smell so good.

“It’s called Sandy Shores,” Stacy explained with a half-smile. “It’s scented wax.” She waved her hand toward a ceramic pot on a bookshelf. A light inside the pot melted wax on a ceramic tray above. Naomi had never noticed it before.

Today, when she entered Stacy’s office it smelled like a pine forest. Naomi stopped in her tracks as Stacy held open the door.

“Are you doing alright today?” Stacy asked.

“Sure.” After staring at Stacy’s manicured fingernails, painted a deep aquamarine color, Naomi swallowed and looked up. Stacy was one of those women who looked a lot younger than she was. Naomi guessed she was fifty, but she appeared thirty-five. She reminded her of her mother, with blonde hair always twisted into a bun or pulled into a low, sleek ponytail. The difference was Stacy didn’t wear professional clothes. Half the time she was dressed in yoga pants and a fitted T-shirt. Naomi didn’t care, and obviously Stacy didn’t either. Smiling, she motioned Naomi into the office, where Naomi settled into her regular seat on the sofa. Stacy sat in a big armchair across from her and asked, “Is there anything you want to focus on today?”

Naomi leaned against two soft pillows and slipped off her sandals so she could bring her knees to her chest. She always assumed the same closed position when she talked to Stacy about the house and her captivity. This time, however, the ritual felt off balance without the scent of the Sandy Shores wax permeating the air. Instead of the beach, she found herself imagining she was in a forest. She shivered.

Stacy’s eyebrows rose. She was sitting Indian-style on her chair. “You can begin when you’re ready.”

Naomi closed her eyes and took four deep breaths as she let her mind slip back into the bedroom at the house. There was tan carpet, an oak dresser, and a handmade quilt on the bed—alternating patches of faded blues and greens. There was a deadbolt on the door, and in her mind it was always locked. She sat on the bed and ran her hand over the soft, worn folds of the quilt, counting to ten in her mind. It wasn’t real. No matter how many times she went there, it wasn’t real anymore. The problem was it felt real, and that was all that mattered. The door was locked and they were holding her captive. She didn’t want to stay there. She knew what they had done was wrong. She would stand her ground. She wouldn’t feel guilty when they went to prison.

“Play it out,” Stacy’s soothing voice said. “One thing at a time.”

Nodding, Naomi kept her eyes closed. The locks on the door tumbled open and Eric stepped into the room, dressed in his suit and a brown silk tie with a checkerboard pattern that reminded her of a chocolate bar. He was clean-shaven and smiled when he saw her. She returned the smile and let him approach her, his arms opening to take her into a gentle embrace. She hugged him, noticing the smell of garlic. Evelyn cooked with it so much the entire family smelled of it.

“You’ll stay?” he asked as he kept her in the embrace.

She looked up into his cold blue eyes that contrasted so sharply with his dark hair. She saw sympathy in his expression, and pain—deep, clouded pain. She opened her mouth to answer. It was always, “Yes, I’ll stay,” but this time she paused.

“I’m not sure,” she replied, her bottom lip trembling.

Eric tensed and pushed her away from him, blood rushing to his face. His eyes narrowed and darkened. “Not sure?”

She felt the space between them widening as she backed farther away. “What you’ve done is wrong.”

“What we’ve done is care for you when nobody else gave a shit about you. How is that wrong?” He marched forward and took her by the arm. “Answer me.”

When she looked up, she saw beads of sweat on his brow and his fist raised, ready to hit her.

“I’ll stay,” her voice cracked.

The smell of a forest surrounded her. She opened her eyes. Stacy was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes wide. “Something different happened, didn’t it?”

Nodding, Naomi clenched her arms around her legs, pressing her knees as close to her body as she could. “I told him I wouldn’t stay this time, but then he threatened me and I gave in.”

A smile spread across Stacy’s lips. “We’ve made progress. This method seems to be working well for you.”

“Yeah, I think so. I wish you’d get the beach wax smell again. I miss California.”

Laughing, Stacy glanced at her bookshelf. “They were out last time I ordered. I’ll check again if it’s that important to you.”

“It helps me think of home.” Not that she understood why that was the greatest comfort ever.

“I understand.” Stacy put her hands together and lowered her voice to her usual calm tone. “Let’s move on and talk about the past week. Did your memories impair any of your activities?”

Naomi winced. “My memories aren’t the problem. It’s Jesse.” She noticed a slight crease forming on Stacy’s forehead. “Not that I’m blaming him, but I hate school right now, and I’ve never hated school. I can’t concentrate on my homework. If I get bad grades again, I’m screwed. So it’s not my kidnapping that’s holding me back. It’s none of that. It’s ....” Her voice trailed off as she realized she didn’t want to tell Stacy about Jesse or Italy.

Stacy waited, the crease in her forehead disappearing.

“I’m worried about what I really want, that’s all.”

Keeping her hands together in her lap, Stacy nodded once.

Naomi narrowed her eyes and then let her shoulders droop. “I don’t know what I want. That’s the problem.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Let’s talk about school and your art.”

Naomi’s shoulders drooped even more. “I don’t like art right now.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Stacy cocked her head and gave Naomi the,
If you don’t try, I can’t help you,
look. Naomi sighed and thought about the unfinished projects piled in her room and the countless photographs she had yet to download from her camera card. In her head, everything was a mess and no longer fun. Art had always been an outlet. Now it was nothing but a chore.

“It’s like when Jesse convinced me to read all those novels when I was captive,” she explained, pushing through the thoughts in her head. “He expected me to read them, just like when Mom expected me to read
The Awakening.
Now I’m expected to be creative here at school. I was fine at first because it was my choice, but now it doesn’t feel like my choice anymore.”

Stacy nodded. “You told me you were happy you read those books.”

“Yeah, I was. It wasn’t bad ... I felt pressured, is all. In the end, I was happy I read them.”

“And the book your mother wanted you to read? What of that?”

“She was trying to connect to me in any way she could ... because I shut her out.”

Naomi was surprised how quickly she had answered the question. Her arms relaxed even more as she realized how much she had learned to accept in the past few years. When she had first started seeing counselors, she hadn’t been able to say the word
kidnapped.
It was such an ugly word. She could say it now, but there was still a long way to go.

Stacy unclasped her hands. “You feel pressure to do what others expect of you, and you find that difficult to work with.”

Naomi stared ahead, her vision blurry. “Yes, so what should I do? Quit?”

“That would be a drastic course of action, but not unheard of. Only you can decide.”

Stacy wasn’t the type of counselor to give magical nuggets of advice. Naomi nodded and leaned her head on the back of the sofa. She didn’t want to decide anything.