Broken Pieces: A Novel (20 page)

“Oh, sweetie,” Sydney said. “I’m afraid I spent all my energy walking down the steps.”

But instead of frowning or pouting or complaining, Ella grinned, her smile wide and bright. “What about your chair?”

Sydney frowned and smiled simultaneously. “My chair?”

Ella nodded, excitement radiating from beneath her purple wig. “You can dance in your chair.”

The three adults—Sydney, Jessica, and myself—sat motionless for several moments, stunned by the simplicity of Ella’s reasoning; then Jessica and I launched ourselves into motion.

“What are you doing?” Sydney asked, as we pushed her across the grass, toward the fire.

“I’ll get the kids,” Jessica said, once we’d reached an area of packed dirt and the wheels of Sydney’s chair moved smoothly, almost effortlessly.

“Destiny,” Sydney said, uncertainty heavy in her voice.

I leaned down to place my lips to her ears. “You’re going to dance with your daughter, and I’m going to help.”

I only wished my father were with us, so we could all dance together one more time.

Jessica, Max, and Belle returned, and we danced along the banks of the Delaware under a harvest moon, with the sparks of the bonfire floating up into the darkening sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A cold front moved through early that next week, and yellow and orange leaves blasted down Third Street. A gust buffeted the house, and the eaves creaked. Leaves tapped against the window, countless points of contact, begging to be let inside, out of the cold.

I sat beside Sydney’s bed, my head in my hands.

Tuesday may have dawned as a new day, but in this room—this space—I couldn’t help but feel every moment brought me closer to losing what I’d only just found.

She’d asked for hospice on Friday, and again over the weekend. The pain in her head had intensified and had spread down into the back of her neck. Although my dad and I had done our best to keep pillows fluffed and ice bags full, we’d had to call the emergency number twice over the weekend to help us navigate her pain relief.

The hospice staff had spent most of Monday ensuring we had everything we needed. The guest bed had been taken apart and stowed in the closet. A hospital bed had been installed, complete with height and tilt adjustments available at the push of a button.

A steady infusion of Dilaudid held the monsters at bay, and we sat, waiting.

I’d sent Ella to school and Dad to the market. I’d taken the day off from the shop and wanted to focus on Sydney.

She stirred and reached for her ginger ale, smiling. Always smiling.

“You comfy?” she asked.

Who cares?
I wanted to scream, but instead I nodded. “Absolutely. You?”

She pushed herself up to sitting. “Would you open the window?”

I pointed at the swirling, gray sky outside. “Do you hear that wind?”

She nodded, a smile teasing at her lips.

I shook my head and patted her hand. “It’s too cold.”

Her sly, stubborn grin widened. “You afraid I’ll catch my death of cold?”

“Not funny,” I said, while I thought,
truthfully, yes.
“Too cold,” I repeated.

“Open the window,” she insisted.

“No.” I made a show of checking her ginger ale, pretending I might need to run to the kitchen at any moment.

“Open. The. Window.” She spoke clearly and distinctly, each word its own declarative statement.

And although we’d spent the first thirty years of my life apart, she was still my big sister. I pushed to standing. “You sure?”

She nodded. “I want to smell the air.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and moved to the old original casement windows. Neither my parents nor I had ever installed screens, and when I unlocked the panes and pushed the windows open, cold air rushed into the room, sending the sheer cotton curtains fluttering wildly.

Sydney inhaled sharply, and I pulled the panes back toward me, afraid the sudden drop in room temperature might shock her system.

“Open,” she said, more forcefully than I’d heard her speak in days.

I pushed the windows completely open and turned to face her.

“Do you smell that?” she asked, looking at the ceiling, and I wondered if she might be hallucinating. “Oh, my, that’s lovely.”

She spoke in barely more than a whisper, and I found myself frozen, captivated by the simple beauty of her words.

A sudden burst of wind hit the front of the house, sending a swirl of leaves through the open window and into the room. They danced above Sydney’s bed—flashes of amber, scarlet, and gold—and we laughed, awkwardly trying to catch them in our hands.

Sydney shivered, a smile on her lips, and I pulled the windows close together, leaving only a crack between panes.

“Enough,” I said softly, taking note of the way her lids drooped after a hum from her pump and a fresh infusion of pain medication.

“OK.” She nodded, grasping a large yellow maple leaf between her fingers.

For that moment, we were just two sisters sitting side by side, until sleep claimed her once more. Then I sat, staring at the leaf that rose and fell with her inhales and exhales, wondering how much time we had left.

Ella continued her withdrawal after Sydney went on hospice. The more we tried to engage her, the more she disappeared into her silent world. She spent hours inside her reading nook, went to school and back, and barely spoke to Marguerite, Albert, or me. She’d fall asleep each night beside her momma, one arm across Sydney’s waist, her head on the side of Sydney’s bed. Then my dad or I would carry her back to her room, where we’d tuck her into bed.

She ate little. She played little. She stopped painting rocks.

My dad and I huddled in the violet bistro chairs late one afternoon as Sydney and Ella spent time together upstairs.

“I don’t know how to reach her,” I said. “Any advice?”

His features softened, then fell. “I’m afraid Marguerite was always better at drawing you out of your shell than I was.”

The memories came crashing back, and I said nothing, tired of the past, tired of the present.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment, then snapped them open to look at him. “You’ve already apologized, and I think I finally understand.”

I opened the floodgate of fears I’d guarded so tightly.

“What if I’m no good at this?” I asked. “What if I panic and leave? What if I’m not cut out to be her stand-in mother? I don’t know anything about guiding her through grief and tween years and life.”

But my father only smiled; then he reached over to gently set his hand on top of my arm.

A short while later I stood inside the kitchen, staring out the window over the sink.

Marguerite slipped through the kitchen door to drop off a loaf of homemade bread. She pulled me into a hug, sensing instantly how much I needed her. She’d never hesitated to treat me like her own, and as far back as I could remember—back as far as losing Mom—she’d loved me, and I’d rested secure in that knowledge.

Could I do the same for Ella?
Would
I do the same for Ella?

“I wish I could be more like you,” I whispered against her shoulder.

“That’s funny”—she pushed me out to arm’s length—“I wish I could be more like you.”

A laugh slipped between my lips. “Like what?”

Her expression softened, yet her gaze grew intense. “Strong. Sure. Confident.”

I shook my head, sighing. “I’m not strong, and I’m certainly no more confident than you.”

Marguerite cupped my chin. “Yes, my dear, you are.”

Her simple statement soothed my spirit, and when she turned to leave, I patted the loaf of bread. “Thanks for this. Maybe she’ll finally eat something.”

“Mac and cheese.” She smiled, presumably remembering. “That always worked for you.” And then she was gone, slipping out the back door as quickly as she’d slipped in.

“Was that Marguerite?” My father’s voice sounded from behind me.

He’d gone upstairs to check on Sydney and Ella.

“How are they?” I asked.

“Quiet,” he answered.

I held up the loaf of bread. “Marguerite suggested we try macaroni and cheese for Ella.” I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t suppose you know how to make it?”

The light in my father’s eyes shifted, and curiosity slid through me.

He held up one finger, gesturing for me to stay put. “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned a few moments later, he handed me a large plastic index-card box, and my breath caught.

A tiny, battered silk rose sat glued to the center front of the lid, just as I’d remembered it. The ivory petals had darkened with age.

“You had Mom’s recipes?”

He nodded, watching as I set the box on the kitchen counter. I opened the lid as though the world’s most precious treasure lay inside, waiting for my discovery.

“Grandmother and I looked everywhere for these after you left.”

“I should have told you years ago.” He tensed, hearing himself. “Or when I first came back, but somehow I couldn’t let go of her . . . of these. They were all I had left.” His pale gaze lifted to mine, the remorse I saw there genuine. “I’m sorry.”

For the briefest moment I thought about getting angry, thought about telling him that this was just one more truth he’d kept from me. But then I stopped to think about the man—the father—he’d proven himself to be since his return.

I thought about Marguerite’s letters from Joseph and the letters Sydney had been dictating for Ella.

Perhaps he’d simply wanted a tangible piece of Mom to keep with him forever, and I couldn’t fault him for that. Her recipes. Cards she’d written and touched, ingredients she’d listed and tested, meals she’d prepared.

Countless index cards and scraps of paper sat tucked inside, their edges worn, bent, some corners missing, evidence they’d once been greatly loved.

I pulled out a single card and traced my finger across the faded ink of her handwriting.

Cinnamon Rolls.

I could still smell the yeast rising in her glass dish, covered by her favorite turquoise tea towel.

“She was like no one else,” he said.

In his eyes I saw mirrored the pain and fear I’d known my entire life. He’d shut out the world—our world—when he’d lost her, but he’d taken this personal reminder with him, and he’d held on to it.

The old sadness rose inside me. He’d held on to this box. He just hadn’t held on to me.

I searched for the recipe that had led to this moment.

“Macaroni and cheese,” I said as I pulled the card free.

“Your favorite,” he said.

He remembered.

My father’s abandonment had colored my life perhaps even more than my mother’s death. If my father had stayed and raised me like I knew she’d wanted him to do, my life would have turned out differently, surely.

But perhaps, after all the years and all the time spent apart, it wasn’t too late to move forward. And while part of me wanted to explode and accuse him of keeping the cards hidden in his room because he’d never planned to stay this time, either, I said nothing of the sort.

We’d brokered a fragile peace, and in the grand scheme of all we’d been through, I could forgive this secret. I could forgive this box of memories kept to himself.

“You should keep the cards,” he said. “She would have wanted you to have them.”

“They’re here now,” I said. “You’re here now.”

He fell silent, and the exhaustion that had bracketed his eyes for days seemed a little bit lighter.

I leaned the macaroni and cheese recipe against a set of cobalt-blue canisters and ran my fingers over the top of the box’s contents one more time.

My fingers stopped when they hit the last visible edge, this one thicker than the rest.

I pulled free a photo, a faded snapshot.

I remembered the costume—a sky-blue ballerina dress, brocade down the front, the tulle skirt lovingly stitched by my mother’s hand. I’d worn a tiara, back when tiaras were sewn with beads and sequins, not pressed from plastic. The knees of my blue tights sagged, darkened by a tumble through wet leaves before my mother could snap the picture.

In the photo my father stood tall beside me, holding my hand. He smiled—not at the camera, but down at me, looking at the top of my head with so much love it rendered me weak in the knees.

Myriad questions raced through my brain, all starting with the same word.

Why?

He’d already apologized for leaving. Already apologized for the way he came back. He’d already promised to stay.

But why had he left in the first place?

He’d loved me enough to carry my picture with him for twenty years, but he hadn’t loved me enough to stay.

“You looked just like her.” My father’s voice. “Too much like her.”

“So instead of honoring her memory, you threw me away,” I said softly, with heartbreak in my voice, not anger.

I’d moved past the anger. I just needed to finally understand why he’d done what he’d done.

“I squandered my chance at happiness. At family.”

His blunt admission stopped me cold.

My father’s handsome features crumbled. “She was gone.”

“But I was here. I’ve been here all my life. Waiting for you to come home.”

There it was, an admission of my own. All the years of sadness and confusion grew inside me, mixing with the questions and uncertainties the past few months had brought to the surface.

I’d waited twenty years for him to come home, and I’d spent the past three months waiting to see if he’d stay.