The Pieces We Keep (6 page)

W
hen it came to the task at hand, Vivian was on her own. Lying in bed, down pillow scrunched against the white wrought-iron frame, she skirted thoughts of the consequences; they would only apply if she was caught.

The designation
off-limits
applied to many a thing in the James household: the pantry and cookie jar between mealtimes, a china closet full of impractical gifts from dignitaries, any mention of her mother’s four o’clock flow of gin and tonic. And the vertical file cabinet downstairs in the study.

Her parents’ slumber, however, would soon be deep, allowing her to creep through the house undetected. The waitstaff’s nightly absence would also ease her efforts. Over the past three days she had snagged every discreet chance to search for the key by daylight. Under the cloak of darkness, she hoped for a better result.

The most confidential files would be stored at the embassy. Nonetheless, those kept at home carried enough importance to merit a lock. A memo inside, for instance, might confirm unflagging neutrality by Prime Minister Chamberlain. There could be a proposition for a new non-aggression pact between the United Kingdom and Germany. True, Hitler had reneged on the previous one, breaking the Munich Agreement by seizing all of Czechoslovakia. But the majority of British leaders might still desire peace, just as much as Isaak did. Proof of this could help allay his fears.

Vivian centered on the prospect as she stared at the ceiling, its crown molding trimmed in gold. Lace curtains sieved moonlight across her small but tidy room. With every blink, her eyelids gained another gram of weight. She pinched her leg beneath the sheets. She needed to stay alert. But with fatigue nibbling at her senses, her vision went gray at the edges....

A chiming melody roused her. It floated up the staircase from the grandfather clock in the parlor, marking the hour of one. She had planned to wait until two, yet if she didn’t act now another slow blink might tug her into a dream and keep her captive until dawn.

She shook off the dust of exhaustion and planted her feet on the cool rug. In her long cotton nightdress, she tiptoed down the stairs. Beams of light from outside splashed against the arched entry window. Vivian froze, imagining a policeman armed with a flashlight. Instead a vehicle rumbled away, taking its bright headlights along.

Quiet returned to their street lined with virtually matching houses. They stood narrow and three storied, like soldiers at attention. The uniformity of the area was well suited, as many of the residents were employed at the diplomatic hub of Grosvenor Square. When the U.S. embassy moved there a year ago, Vivian had been grateful her family didn’t relocate to an apartment in the pillared building. She had barely unpacked from their initial move.

Now she realized the benefits of the alternative. Discarded documents and whispered secrets would have lurked in every corner.

At the closed door of the den, she gripped the ornate knob. She twisted it to the right with painstaking care and glanced cautiously over her shoulder. She pushed the door open, and her heart leapt to her throat.

“Vivian.” Her father sat at his desk, working by lamplight. “What are you doing up?”

“I—couldn’t sleep.”

The last two years had thinned and silvered his hair to the point of translucence. A set of bags puffed beneath his eyes.

“Is there something you need?” he asked.

Insomnia didn’t explain why she had intruded into his study.

She feigned a yawn, stalling, and averted her eyes from the file cabinet beside the bookshelves. The coffee mug on his desk spurred a plausible excuse. “I was going to warm up a little milk. Thought you might like some too.”

He traced her gaze to the ceramic mug, then peered back at her and shook his head. Did he see straight through her words? Empty as a promise from a crooked politician?

“I’m all right,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Well, then. I’ll leave you to your work.” She started to back away, her hand still on the knob.

“Vivian.” His tone was unreadable, same for his expression.

“Yes?”

“Your mother and I—we’ve had a discussion.” He reclined in his chair and pressed at his temple, as if to subdue the motion of his thoughts. He still wore his button-down shirt, but with tie removed and collar open.

That’s when she spied the couch. Sheets and a large blanket covered the furnishing in the corner, punctuated by a pillow. Something in the bedding, such a neat and tidy arrangement, indicated regular use.

“How would you feel,” he said, “about moving back home?”

She stared at him, thrown off. “Back home? To DC?”

He nodded.

“It’s ... what I’ve always wanted.”

“Yes,” he said. Then silence.

She reviewed his inquiry, its very phrasing so far from the norm. His role had always been that of a quiet judge, stoic but fair-minded. He was sensible and practical long before the Depression. He didn’t bother with excess, even in conversation. And he certainly didn’t consult over major family decisions, particularly based on feelings.

“When were you thinking?”

“I’m not certain. More than likely, rather soon.”

For the embassy to transfer him with little notice meant a significant change had occurred. She thought of Isaak, yet couldn’t allow herself to dwell on their separation. Not now. She needed to consider the welfare of his family.

“Is something happening with Hitler?” Cautious of raising suspicion, she added, “I’ve seen the newsreels. Has there been a development that would affect England?”

He leaned forward, laying his forearms on the desk. Consciously or not, he covered the splayed file of documents. “Nothing to concern you at the moment.”

The room was too dim and the print too small for Vivian to read anything from a distance.

“We can discuss the matter later,” he said. “Go on and enjoy your milk.” He returned to his work pile. An end to their talk.

What if she simply came out and asked? He had fought the Germans, yes, but on the sea, not in the trenches, and before she was born. His current occupation, in fact, promoted relations among countries. At one time, even Great Britain and America were dogged foes.

“Father?”

He hummed a reply, already consumed by the page in his hands.

“I was wondering ... ,” she began. “Do you think all of these worries over Hitler will eventually die out? Surely there won’t be another war.”

Still reading, he murmured, “One would hope.”

“But-if it does happen?”

Another absent hum.

She pressed on, more daringly.

“What do you think will become of the Germans? Those who aren’t Nazis, that is? I imagine a good number of innocent people are there. Just as in any country. They should be allowed to leave, shouldn’t they?” She waited for his agreement, any sign that he might help. “Father?”

Finally, he set the paper down. He raised his eyes with weary annoyance. “If the Reich persists in its hostilities, there’s no telling how great a catastrophe will result. Hitler will keep every citizen he can at his disposal. All of Germany would be declared an enemy. And I guarantee, they’ll suffer for it, in every way imaginable.”

“What about the innocent people? What about-”

“No one,” he said gruffly, “is innocent in war. Especially not a German.”

When she winced at his reply, he let out a breath. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, “It’s been a tiring day. Run along now. Get some sleep while I finish up.”

With the option of his aid eliminated, sleep would not come easily. But she tendered a nod all the same.

M
oist air seeped from under the door like the passing of a secret. One hand on the knob, Audra rapped twice before opening the door an inch. On the other side Jack sat soaking in her tub. He tended to stay in until he wrinkled into a prune.

“Time to fish you out, buddy. Ten more minutes, okay?”

“ ’Kay.”

The soft sounds of his splashing were a welcomed comfort. Peaceful and relaxing, they were the precise opposite of her day from the start. She should have known the refrigerator leak was a sign to stay tucked beneath the covers.
just talk to Jack about it.

Tess’s suggestion from that morning had seemed simple enough. But then Audra would see the drawings, each tacked to the walls of her mind, and wondered what frightened her more: crafting the wrong questions or what his answers might be?

She continued down the hall in her faded sweats. Their two-bedroom apartment was located in West Linn, a tree-lined suburb of Portland. Aside from new roofing, the complex was showing its age, as evidenced by the creaking footsteps from neighbors upstairs. The tradeoff was a decent rent that preserved Audra’s savings.

Life insurance and wills had long been on her and Devon’s to-do list, but naively without urgency. Neither of them had
planned
for an undetected brain aneurysm to rupture while he jogged on a treadmil at the gym. The symptoms had been there, of course, as they often were with disasters. From extramarital affairs to climate change, red flags were obvious in hindsight. As a doctor, albeit for animals, Audra should have seen them waving sooner. The memory loss, the headaches. On his final morning, he’d even mentioned a strain in vision.
Are you surprised?
she’d teased, given his long night of analyzing marketing data, to which he had laughed.

There was so much they had both taken for granted.

Through the open window in Jack’s room came a cool evening breeze. A fleet of model planes swayed on strings pinned to the ceiling. An
Avengers
poster rustled over the desk.

As Audra gathered a trail of dirty clothes, a van zoomed by, too fast in a neighborhood with kids. She set the laundry on the foot of Jack’s bed and went over to shut the window. The vibrant sky gave her pause. Feathery strips of clouds floated in a sea of purple and pink.

Lured by the springtime hues, she let her eyelids fall. Suddenly she was on their old back deck, the air scented with fresh-cut grass. Devon had insisted on a weekend of camping, but in their own backyard. They made s’mores with a portable gas stove. Jack told ghost stories without including a single ghost, instead starring SpongeBob or ninja warriors. And at midnight, when lightning cracked and a downpour pummeled their tent, they voted two to one to “rough it” by sleeping in the house....

Audra broke from the memory. She shoved the window closed.

This was the reason they needed to move, whether to Boston or elsewhere. Downsizing to this apartment, thought to be a solution, had amounted to a bandage. Ten months here and still the surroundings formed a trap.

Turning, she noticed a stray sock peeking from under the bed skirt. She reached down and uncovered a book. Its sturdy tan covers were spiral bound with thick black wire. At the title, recognition set in:
PIECES OF ME.

Jack’s kindergarten teacher had given him the scrapbook following Devon’s death. She suggested it might help, providing an outlet for Jack’s feelings. The non-lined pages could double as a journal. He could write, scribble, draw.

Audra’s thoughts again circled back to the pictures from school. Her son wasn’t
disturbed.
She knew this. Yet doubts had managed to slink into her mind. Flushing them out would be easier if only she could confirm the violent drawings were a fluke.

She knelt down on the woven rug. To encourage him to use the journal, she’d initially assured him that books like this were private, to be read by no one else. Her cracking it open would betray that understanding.

But then ... as his mother, wasn’t she obligated to look?

“Mom?”

She dropped the book onto her lap and raised her head to see him over the bed. Jack stood in the doorway in his Scooby-Doo pajamas. His hair was mussed and damp, a terrier caught in the rain.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

The therapist’s card flashed in her mind.
Trust.
A prerequisite for healing.

“Just picking up your laundry.” She rose, exhibiting the lone sock from the floor while nudging the journal into place. “Did you brush your teeth?”

He nodded. If he suspected anything, he didn’t let it show.

“Hop into bed, then. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

For the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, his grandparents would take him on their annual excursion. At Willamette National Cemetery they would plant mini-flags at the gravesites of veterans, a Boy Scout tradition passed down from Devon.

It would be the first time Audra would see Meredith since their run-in on Monday. To Audra’s surprise, their brief phone calls to coordinate schedules had indicated all was forgiven.

Then again, that’s how families were supposed to work. Not that Audra would know from her parents, whose forms of contact were limited to postcard updates and two annual calls: Christmas morning and her birthday. They were nice enough people, just not the parental type. Nurturing their latest causes always took priority. They’d started with local issues, trendy ones like clear-cutting and spotted owls—the puppy-mill protest, come to think of it, had inspired Audra’s career choice. But then an episode of Oprah broadened their scope. Two days after Audra’s high-school graduation, the couple flew to Africa to aid villages in need. It was no wonder Audra had debated ever having children. She’d agreed only when Devon promised to helm the family ship, a role he fulfilled with gusto. He was the soccer dad in the minivan, the guy who cooked dinners that didn’t come from a box. He was the husband who kept all afloat—but whose absence could leave you drowning.

Jack crawled under the covers. As he flipped his pillow, Audra recalled the pressing topic. She sat on the side of his bed and took the captain’s seat in her mind.

“Hey, buddy, I need to ask you something,” she said. “I had a visit today with Miss Lewis.”

“It was just an accident,” he said before Audra could finish.

The classmate. He was referring to the one he had fended off to stay under the desk.

“Oh, I know it was. And Miss Lewis does too.” Audra tried to reassure him with a smile. “But she’s still a little concerned about some drawings you did.”

He lowered his eyes to his hands, fidgeting with the covers. “She already told me. I’m not supposed to do those anymore.”

“That’s probably a good idea for now.” Audra kept her voice light. She wanted him to chat freely, the way he used to rattle on with his ghost stories. “Could you tell me, though, about the man in the chair? I’d love to know more about it.”

He gave a small shrug. No elaboration.

“Did another kid show you something like that? An older boy at recess? Maybe at after-school care?”

He shook his head.

“How about a TV show?”

He paused for a moment, and shook his head again.

The source of the drawings wasn’t necessarily important. It was the message behind them.

“If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, if you’re sad or angry or scared, you know you can tell me. Right?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little groggy. A discussion after his warm bath might not have been ideal.

Enough for tonight.

She smoothed the spikes of his hair and kissed him on the forehead. “Don’t forget, you still need to tell me what you want for your birthday. It’s almost here, you know.” Standing, she bent over to grab the laundry.

“Mom?”

She smiled, expecting the name of a toy she’d never heard of. Instead, he gave her a look that deflated any levity. The sadness in his eyes matched the tone of his murmur. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the new job.”

Her heart turned to gelatin left in the desert. “Oh, baby, it’s not your fault.” She gingerly squeezed his chin. “Like I said, there might be an opportunity in Boston. That’s a much better place. Lots of great things there. They’ve got some of the best clam chowder ... and baked beans. And the Red Sox and Celtics play there.”

When his expression didn’t lighten, it dawned on Audra what might be his greatest concern. “And,” she said, “wherever we end up, we can definitely drive to get there.”

His mouth lifted at the corners and his covered body visibly relaxed.

On the motherhood chart, Audra felt a small but distinct plus mark added to her score. Who knew? Maybe that’s all the information he needed to change his art—and dreams—for the better.

“Close your eyes now,” she said, and kissed him once more.

 

Then came the scream.

It sliced through the fog of Audra’s mind. She was on a couch. The gray couch she’d bought to fit their apartment. How long had she been asleep?

A second shriek tore through the room. Another of Jack’s nightmares. She jumped up, fumbling a wineglass. Red sloshed onto her sweatshirt. She had dozed off before even taking a sip. She rarely drank alcohol—the calories were better spent on cake or pie—but the day had called for an exception.

Squinting against the hallway light, she stepped onto something sharp. A LEGO piece, in the middle of her bare arch. The pain snapped her wide-awake, along with another yell from Jack.

“I’m coming,” she said through gritted teeth, withholding curses at the toy. She forged onward into Jack’s room. In his bed, he sat backed up against the headboard. His night-light cast an eerie shadow, aging him by years. He clawed at a wall of air. His eyes bulged with terror.

“It’s a dream, Jack. Do you hear me? It’s only a dream.” She touched his shoulder gently, an approach that had helped the last few times.

“No!” he exploded with a force that jolted her backward. “Let me out! Let me out
now!”

“Please. Just listen to my voice.”

His gaze, though vivid with fear, placed him in another dimension. A maze in which he didn’t belong. If she could visualize it, too, maybe she could guide him out.

“Jack, where are you? Tell me what you’re seeing.”

He muttered some words she couldn’t decipher—except for one.

“Himmel? Is that what you said?” He’d uttered something similar before. She thought of a Hummel. But a collectible figurine made no sense.

He started kicking against the wadded covers, a barricade to destroy.

“Jack,” she said, yet remained unheard.

Enough already. She would wake him despite theories to the contrary. A shock of light could break his trance.

She clicked the switch of the nightstand lamp. As the bulb came to life, Jack swung away fiercely and scraped Audra’s cheek. In shielding herself, she caused the lamp to topple. The lightbulb popped and plunged them back into darkness. His screams and flailing soared.

“Stop it,” she ordered. “Jack, stop!”

His elbow boomed against the hollow wall. She managed to grab hold of his wrists, to keep him from hurting himself. Within her grip, he twisted and pulled and yelled, fighting to escape. Several minutes of battling slicked her grip with sweat. His left arm broke free and slammed a corner of the night table. The crack alone communicated the damage, even without the wail of pain that projected from Jack’s mouth. He retracted into a ball and his body shivered. His cries faded to a soft whimper. The dream had released its grasp.

For now.

“You’re going to be okay, Jack.” She stroked his back, the motion no steadier than her breaths. “Mommy’s right here.”

He raised his head and his gaze flitted around the room—to the lamp, his pillow, his comforter, all strewn across the floor.
What happened?
he asked without words.

Because she had no real answer, she simply held him. Her arms trembled, more from anxiety than exertion.

When he agreed to let her, she picked him up with a know-how for handling scared, wounded creatures. She carried him to the car, a blanket over his body, and drove to the closest ER.

 

They didn’t return until three in the morning.

Once they settled in, Audra’s dreams, like Jack’s, were so vivid they were hard to discern from reality. She was prepping for surgery, scrubbing her hands and donning latex gloves. A little girl appeared in the corner. Hair covering her face, she wept into her knees. Audra asked what was wrong. The girl choked out, “You said my dog, Max, would go to heaven. And you
lied.”
Audra glanced around the empty room, her technician nowhere to be seen. The clinic ached with quiet. “But how do you know he’s not there?” Audra gently challenged the child, who then stopped her crying and lifted her head. Her skin shone pale, thin as a sheet of tissue, but her voice turned hard as stone. “Because I’m dead,” she said, “and he’s not here.”

 

Audra wiped her hairline, dampened from the dream. She rolled over on her bed and discovered Jack asleep—she’d laid him there after the hospital. Daylight filtered in around the closed white blinds, gracing Jack’s face with a peaceful glow, spotlighting the half cast on his arm.

Careful not to wake him, she edged out of the room.

At the kitchen sink, she filled a glass with water. She retrieved her vitamins from the cupboard, and noticed an old container of fish food partially hidden on a shelf. Between Devon’s allergies and her full-time job, a dog or cat had never made sense for their family—ironic, considering her profession. They’d once treated their son to a pair of goldfish. When the pets died, Jack grieved for days.

Audra tossed the fish flakes into the trash. Another lesson learned.