Pieces (28 page)

Naomi smirked and nudged his shoulder. If only her mother could be so laid-back. The garage house entrance led into a small sitting room where Naomi took off her shoes and dropped her purse. Her mother was standing at the far end of the room, her arms folded. Naomi could tell she was fighting back tears.

“How
dare
you,” she said in a trembling voice, her eyes like knives boring into Naomi’s skull.

Her father approached her with both his palms up, as if trying to sooth a rabid dog. Her mother refused to look at him. She kept her glare on Naomi, who stood frozen at the other end of the room.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I texted you. You knew I was okay.”

“No, I didn’t know you were okay,” she retorted. “That text could have come from anyone—from Jesse— anyone who could have taken you again. How was I to know? And you wouldn’t return my calls. We worried, Naomi ... so much. When I heard Jesse broke parole and went missing, I ran to the police. I hired an investigator. I couldn’t handle you disappearing again. I couldn’t—”

When she burst into tears, Naomi rushed to her and embraced her. Her father stood to the side, a soft smile on his lips. Surprisingly, Naomi didn’t feel emotional at all. She wanted her mother to know how sorry she was, but she wasn’t about to cry. She was too tired from the journey home, and too sick of thinking about the irreversible decision she had made to leave Jesse. She wanted to collapse and sleep for five days straight.

Her mother backed away and started wiping the palms of her hands across her wet cheeks. Naomi watched her, not knowing what to say

“Naomi is tired,” her father said, reaching out a hand to rub her mother’s back. “Let’s all get some rest and talk about everything tomorrow, okay? She’s healthy and safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

Sniffing, her mother nodded. “I’m happy you’re back,” she said to Naomi, touching her hand.

Naomi tried to smile, but it was difficult. She knew what was coming next. There would be investigators and drama and more counselors. She had brought it all on herself, so she couldn’t complain. All she could do was drag herself upstairs to her room. For a moment, she stared at her bed and wanted to fall into its depths and sleep for eternity. Then she turned her attention to a desk in the corner of her room. On top of it sat a computer she hadn’t touched in ages. Her laptop was in storage back in Massachusetts. Sitting down at the desk, she buried her face in her hands while she waited for the computer to boot up.

T
HE NEXT
morning, Naomi rolled out of bed and took a long, hot shower. She stared at the clean, white tiles and noticed the new shampoo bottles—tea and mint, like she always used—the unused bar of lemon-scented soap, a shiny razor just taken out of its package. She knew her mother had told the housekeeper to go to the store to buy all these things. The housekeeper would pick up clothes left on the floor. She would make Naomi’s bed. She would cook dinner. Naomi realized how much she had enjoyed living in her house at Harvard, making her own stupid meals, cleaning up her own stupid messes and picking up her own stupid clothes.

Leaning her forehead against the tiled wall, she let her tears come fast and hard. Sobs made her chest heave. She remembered all those hours she had spent crying in the shower when she was captive. It had been such a haven, then, but now it was an old ritual she wanted to throw away. She was so
tired
of feeling sorry for herself. She lifted a fist and hit the wall over and over until her tears stopped.

Showered and dressed, she went downstairs. She didn’t even know what day it was. Had her parents gone to work? She remembered her father’s words from the night before—
Let’s get some rest and talk about everything tomorrow, okay?

And just as he had said, there they were at the breakfast table, waiting for her. Scrambled eggs—please, oh, please no more scrambled eggs to remind her of Eric!— toast and jam, sausage links, and pancakes. There was also a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. A seed was floating on the top near some frothy bubbles.

Naomi stopped in the doorway of the dining room. She wanted to turn around and run, or keep walking past the table and out the French doors leading to the deck and trails down to the beach. She didn’t want to face her mother looking at her with a warm, concentrated smile. It was almost too forced.

“We made breakfast for you,” she said, sweeping her arm in front of the food. “Me and your father. Mindy has the day off.”

Naomi looked at the fluffy pancakes. “You made all of this yourself?”

Her father looked up, his smile more genuine than his wife’s. “Of course we did. You know we’ve been trying to cook more since your ... escape.”

He meant the
kidnapping
or
captivity,
but Naomi knew how strange it was to say those things. She walked to a chair across the table from both of them and spread her napkin over her lap. Tension hung in the air, mostly from her mother. Naomi started piling up her plate with more food than she could eat. She cut a piece of sausage and stuffed it into her mouth. Maybe if she kept eating, she wouldn’t have to say much.

Her mother set down her fork. She gave her husband a nervous look.

“Are you feeling rested?” he asked Naomi.

She swallowed and stabbed the other piece of sausage with her fork. “I’m alright,” she mumbled. “Listen, I know you guys want to talk about Jesse. I know you think I ran off with him.”

Her mother cleared her throat and folded her arms. “Well, didn’t you?”

Stuffing the other piece of sausage in her mouth, Naomi shrugged. “I might have,” she said through her chewing. She watched the emotions play across her mother’s face. Confusion, anger, a hint of desperation.

“Either way,” her father said firmly, “we’d like it if you saw another counselor. Running off to Italy, with or without Jesse, was a drastic thing to do. We both feel you need more guidance right now.”

Naomi opened her mouth to object, but her father continued.

“Now, I have no idea why you left without trying to get a visa, but to me, that makes it all the more clear Jesse had a hand in this. In fact, we know he did. When the investigator your mother hired started digging into your phone records, he found a text from Jesse asking you about a passport.”

Naomi pushed another sausage around her plate as she recalled the text. Crap.

“Jesse’s father has told us what he’s capable of doing. I doubt he’ll ever be caught.”

“No,” Naomi said, setting her fork down, “he won’t.” She looked from her father to her mother and then down at her plate. The scrambled eggs were untouched and probably cold by now. Her stomach flipped over.

“Right now, it doesn’t matter,” her mother said in a calm voice. Naomi looked up at her, noticing she was dressed in her usual whites and creams. “We want you to know we’re here for you no matter what happens.” She paused and then put on the stupid forced smile again. “It would be nice if you could communicate with us more from now on. You can’t possibly imagine what you’ve put us through. You—”

Naomi lifted a hand and her mother stopped talking. “You should be happy Jesse is gone for good. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“That’s ... that’s good,” her mother said. Naomi could practically see the weight lifting from her shoulders.

“Glad you think so.” Naomi put her napkin on the table and stood. “I’ll see whatever counselors you want me to see. I’ll do whatever you want as long as I’m living here, but please don’t ask me about Italy. Ever.”

Her mother nodded as Naomi left the room. She wasn’t sure if she should feel guilty or good for standing up for herself, but part of her knew it didn’t matter. She had hurt her parents deeply by running off to Italy after everything that had happened. Nothing was going to fix it.

T
HE DEFINITION
of a prison is a place or condition of confinement or forcible restraint. Naomi knew her parents weren’t restraining her inside their home, but in many ways, she felt as if they were since she had no car and nowhere else to go. She still had the money she had brought from Italy, but she didn’t dare spend it. She wanted to save it for when she finally did get on her own two feet. Her bedroom was a prison. Their house was a prison. Her entire life was a prison, she realized, and it was her own fault. It would be a long time before she could live completely on her own. She typed all this to Finn over a chat program and waited for him to respond. A little bubble with ellipses popped up in the window, indicating he was typing a response.

This was the third time she had chatted with Finn and the third time she felt a breath of fresh air amid all the stuffiness of her mother’s overbearing control and the several investigators she had been forced to talk to. Tomorrow, another one was coming by. She already dreaded her mother insisting she brush her hair and put on decent clothes. If only she could scream at them to go away and leave her alone. She wouldn’t admit knowing where Jesse was ... because she didn’t know where he was. She wouldn’t admit she had spent two weeks with him in Italy. She didn’t care that they had found her and Jesse’s text correspondence. It wasn’t proof that she had left with him. There was no proof, and she wouldn’t admit to anyone what had really happened, even Finn.

I’m sorry you’re feeling so trapped,
he typed.
I’m sorry I can’t help you very much.

She stared at his words, not feeling very comforted by them. He had admitted earlier he was still with Carly, but that hadn’t stopped her from asking if they could still be friends. She needed someone. He was nice enough at least to tell her he was happy to still be friends.

You’re helping by talking to me,
she typed in return.
I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been here for three weeks and I feel like I’m drowning.

She imagined him shaking his head and thinking, “I told you so.”

He responded,
Do you want to come back to Harvard?

No, I can’t.

Why?

She paused with her fingers curled over the keys. Finally, she typed,
I just can’t.

Okay, fair enough. Can you go to another school? What about USC?

She looked up at the ceiling and swallowed. She wasn’t sure she was ready for anything that big yet. She had unpacked all of her art supplies from Italy, but they were piled in her closet, untouched. One day she would touch them again, when drawing wouldn’t remind her of five billion bad things.

I can’t go to USC. Not yet.

Okay, but I’ll bet you’d be happier if you moved out to be on your own again. I know you can’t right now, but eventually.

She laughed out loud.
Again? I was never on my own. Ever. Not really. Not like you.

Like me?

Yeah, you have a job. You provide for yourself.

Two minutes passed before he typed,
Heh, barely, and my mom helps out some, but at least I got accepted to Harvard, right? At least I’ve told her the truth now.

She warmed up inside, reading those words. He had already told her once that he had been accepted and told his mother about his big lie, but every time she thought about him overcoming such a hurdle, her admiration for him expanded. He had wanted to tell her while she was in Italy, she realized. That was what his text had been about.

I’m proud of you,
she typed, thinking carefully about what she wanted to say.
I wish I could make such big changes in my life, but every time I try, I fail.

A minute passed as the typing bubble popped up. Naomi went over to her closet and pulled out a folder she had brought from Italy. She sat back down and flipped through it. Inside were sketches of Trastevere and the winding streets. In one, she had drawn Jesse sitting at an outdoor café. It had been chilly that day, but there was no more room inside, so they zipped up their jackets and ate outside. The smile she had drawn on his face was calm and peaceful. A part of her wanted to crumple up the page and toss it into the trashcan. The other part of her wanted to cradle it to her chest as she stared at the little ellipses on the screen. Finally, Finn’s words appeared.