Broken Pieces: A Novel (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Our days began to run one into the next.

Sydney’s condition and strength deteriorated until, two weeks later, she could no longer use the walker we’d purchased. Ted Miller, our local pharmacist, used his medical-device connections to find a wheelchair, which we kept by our front door. I’d installed a simple ramp, and when he wasn’t sitting by Sydney’s side, reading to her, my father spent every waking moment in the garden, as though he believed planting new bulbs might somehow change the future.

Sydney had experienced a difficult night, and I sat with Ella the next morning, outside on Marguerite’s patio. The weather was unseasonably warm for October, even though the morning air nipped at our cheeks.

Ella had grown withdrawn in recent days, and Marguerite spent much of her weekends drawing my niece out of her reading nook and into the fresh air for art lessons and conversation, much as she’d done for me so many years ago.

Marguerite now sat cradling a cigar box in her lap. Ella knelt patiently at her feet, and I nursed my second cup of coffee.

Marguerite lifted the box’s lid, and a pale yellow card winked out from inside. A single line of words had been written on it in ink.

“What does it say?” Ella asked, her voice an excited whisper.

“‘Happy is the heart that still feels pain,’” Marguerite read.

“Who said that?” I asked.

Marguerite’s lips curved into a sly smile. “I have no idea.”

“Well”—I took another sip of coffee—“he was an idiot.”

Marguerite pulled out a stack of letters neatly tied with a green ribbon. She sighed.

“From Joseph?” I asked.

Marguerite nodded as she carefully slid the ribbon from the stack, leaving its bow intact. “I thought you might like to see them.”

“Who’s Joseph?” Ella asked, brows furrowed.

Marguerite held out the letters, and Ella held up her palms. “He was my one true love,” Marguerite answered. “We were going to be married, but he was killed in a war a long time ago.”

Ella tensed, holding the letters as if they might break or explode or vaporize.

“Did you write letters to him?” Ella asked.

“I did.”

“What happened to them?”

Sadness washed across Marguerite’s features, but she caught herself, quickly recovering. “I’m not sure, sweetie, but I know he got them, because he kept writing me back.” She pointed to the letters on Ella’s palms.

“Can we read one?” Ella’s tone brightened. “Are there secret messages? Codes?”

Marguerite laughed, gathering the letters into a careful pile before she slid the ribbon into place. “No codes. No secrets. Just a lot of private mushy talk about love and marriage and family.”

Ella’s face fell. “Will you keep them forever?”

Marguerite nodded.

“Why?”

“Because, even though I can’t see Joseph anymore, I’ll always have a piece of him here”—she tapped the envelopes—“and here.” She tapped her temple. “In my memories.”

“Will I have letters from Momma?”

Marguerite and I exchanged looks, and I locked on to what she’d said just before Ella’s question.

Her letters from Joseph gave her something to hold on to, something she’d have forever, just like letters from Sydney could do for Ella.

I thought of Jessica and her desire to help, and I realized that if we worked together, if we helped Sydney, there was no reason we couldn’t give Ella something she’d have forever as well.

“We’ll see,” I said, not wanting to raise her hopes before I’d shared my idea with Sydney.

Ella sighed loudly. “That means
no
. ‘We’ll see’ always means no.”

“Except when it doesn’t,” Marguerite said with a gleam in her eyes, her thoughts apparently following the same route mine had.

“Will I be able to write Momma letters if she dies?” Ella asked.

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell her we could still win the battle. She wouldn’t need letters. Something. Anything. But Marguerite beat me to the truth.

“Of course you can,” she said, her voice gentle. “You’ll be able to talk to Momma, pray to Momma, remember her, and write her letters.”

And although her words felt like a betrayal of any hope for a miracle we might have left, I knew Marguerite was right. Sydney wasn’t going to live forever. None of us were. It was better to prepare Ella with the truth than with placating words.

“How do we survive this?” I asked Marguerite, dropping my voice low after Ella jumped up to dance around the yard.

Marguerite took my hand and held it tight. “With hearts broken but chins up.”

The sound of small feet racing through fallen leaves mixed with happy laughter in the late October air. Paris youth made their way from door to door, street to street, bringing the town’s Halloween tradition to life for yet another year. Residents sat on front steps, fire pits glowed, and neighbors talked animatedly about life and costumes and candy.

“Ella,” I called up the stairs as I waved good-bye to two three-foot-tall salt and pepper shakers and their parents. “We’d better get going before the candy’s all gone.”

The evening was unseasonably mild for late October in New Jersey, and Albert stood outside on the front step.

He laughed at costumes, cowered from ghouls, and handed out treats exactly as he’d done back when I’d been Ella’s age.

I caught myself watching him, remembering, wishing we could freeze this moment forever—this moment when laughter filled the air and the costumes and masks gave us all a chance to hide from reality for just one night.

“Auntie D,” Ella admonished as she rounded the top of the stairs, “stop teasing.”

I shrugged. Teasing the kid had become one of my favorite pastimes. “Momma?” I asked.

Ella shook her head, her smile fading. “Too tired.”

I patted her shoulder as she reached me. “Sit tight; I’ll be right back.”

She’d picked a costume based on a character she’d fallen in love with in one of her books, a steampunk heroine, complete with velour top hat and brass goggles. I straightened her hat and then headed for her mother’s room.

I found Sydney sitting in the white rocking chair beside her window. Not long after the day she and I had walked along Artisan’s Alley, I’d purchased the chair back from the store owner. Then I’d placed it in Sydney’s room. The rocker had become her favorite seat, where she spent hours resting with her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders.

She stared through the glass panes as the town trick-or-treated past, her expression one of utter heartbreak. “This is my last Halloween,” she said softly, and although I heard her, I pretended she’d said nothing.

“If you’re strong enough to sit in that chair,” I said, “you’re strong enough to sit in the wheelchair.”

She turned to face me, anger flashing through her dark eyes. “Ella doesn’t need her momma in a wheelchair, slowing her down.”

“Bullshit.” I reached for her, anchoring one arm around her back as I helped her push to her feet. “You get down those stairs, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

“I hate that chair,” she said.

“Tough.”

“I don’t have a costume.”

“I’ll tie a towel around your neck and draw a mask on your face,” I said as we walked side by side down the hall. “I think there’s a Sharpie in the junk drawer. That’ll work.”

The defeat on her face softened, and a smile played at the corners of her eyes. “You’re a real pain in the ass,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Who hasn’t?” I stopped our forward progress long enough to tighten my arm around her shoulder in a hug. My mind flashed through all the possibilities of shared experiences we might have had. Bikes. Books. Muddy feet. Skinned knees. Halloween.

“Thank you,” Sydney said softly, and my heart twisted inside my chest.

“Ella,” I called out, determined to make this Halloween work. “Get Grandpa Albert, please. Tell him we need your momma’s chair at the bottom of the stairs.”

Sydney steeled herself on the top step, drawing in a long, slow breath, like a warrior headed into battle. I saw her then, in flashes of images through my mind. Diagnosis. Denial. Anger. Acceptance. Battle.

I hadn’t been there for any of it. Hadn’t even known she existed. But I could be here now, for however long we had. “You hold the railing, and I’ll hold you.”

Sydney nodded, then stepped forward and down. One step at a time. Two feet planted. One foot forward.

“You could always sit down on your behind and slide,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

Even though perspiration beaded on her forehead, she smiled. “Now, there’s a mental image for you.”

Ella waited at the bottom of the steps, her brows pinched with concern and fear—too much fear for a nine-year-old’s face. My dad appeared with the wheelchair, moving toward us, hands outstretched to help, but he knew better than to touch Sydney when she was fully determined to make it on her own.

At the bottom of the steps, she eased herself into the chair and exhaled, as if she’d held her breath during her entire descent.

I gave Ella’s shoulders a squeeze, then turned to Sydney. “I’ll get you some water.”

A moment later I was back. My father had opened the front door and stood ready.

He rolled Sydney’s chair down the ramp, then stood back as we started to move away. I could see the longing in his eyes, how much he wanted to join us.

“Leave the bowl,” I said. “We can write a note, tell everyone to take one piece.”

But he shook his head, his features going serious. “You girls go. I’ll man the fort.”

So we made our way down Third Street—Ella, Sydney, and me—but when I glanced back my dad was still watching, by all appearances trying to capture the moment so he’d remember every detail.

We worked one side of the street and then the other, laughing as Ella raced from front step to front step, wielding her pleases and thank-yous like a champ.

She wished everyone a happy Halloween—other trick-or-treaters, neighbors in doorways, parents standing at the curb.

“She’s lovely,” I said, and Sydney nodded. “You’ve done an amazing job.”

“I had help,” she answered.

“Your parents?”

Another nod.

“I’m sorry. You must miss them terribly.”

She nodded again, this time with eyes glistening, and I let the silence stretch between us. I’d learned at a very young age that platitudes meant nothing.
Time heals. She’s in a better place. She’d want you to be happy.

None of those meant a thing.

So I did the only thing I could do. I stood beside her and gave her grief the space it needed.

By the time Ella had hit the last house on Third Street and we turned the corner onto Front Street, Sydney had regained her composure. We trick-or-treated until Ella’s bucket was nearly too heavy to carry, and then we headed for the river, and the town’s annual bonfire.

Ghosts, goblins, princesses, and superheroes raced and played, laughing, shouting, and dancing as families gathered. We settled at a picnic table beside Jessica and her children; then Ella, Max, and Belle dashed off to join a spontaneous limbo competition.

Jessica and I hadn’t spoken again about the issue of hospice and where Sydney would spend her last days. She looked at me now, sliding her hand across the table to cover mine.

“About that thing,” she said, as Sydney stared off at the children dancing. “I was out of line.”

But she had been trying to help, and I understood that. Hell, I appreciated that. Jessica had been there for me every step of my journey, and I knew she only wanted to be there for me now.

I nodded. “I know.”

Then I reached for Sydney’s hand, and we sat surrounded by children’s laughter.

I broached the subject of Marguerite’s letters. Sydney’s expression grew somber as I explained how Marguerite had lost her fiancé, and how she’d saved every letter he’d written, priceless keepsakes of the love they’d shared.

Jessica, to her credit, remained silent, waiting for Sydney to make the first response.

“I’ve thought about leaving something for Ella.” She spoke slowly, searching for her words even as she worked to say them. “But I’m not terribly creative, and now . . .” She hesitated, took a slow breath in and out. “I don’t have the stamina for much of anything.”

“That’s where we come in.” I gave her hand a slight shake. “Me and Jessica. You talk and we’ll write.”

Sydney’s eyes lifted to mine, searching.

“Letters,” I continued. “Love notes. From you to Ella. Words she’ll cherish for the rest of her life.”

Jessica’s features crumpled.

I could read her like a book. Always had.

I was certain her mind had gone immediately to her children, and what it would be like to know she was leaving them forever. Then I imagined her thoughts had traveled to the past and my mother, a woman Jessica had once loved like a second mom.

“I’ll help,” she said. “Anything for you.”

Sydney’s expression brightened, then a slight smile curved her lips.

“So it’s settled,” I said. “We have a plan.”

Ella bounded to Sydney’s side, her face full of innocent hope. “Dance with me, Momma.”

Sydney’s features fell, and Jessica grimaced.