Missing Pieces (37 page)

“What?”

“And her tapes?”

“I don’t have any of Michelle’s tapes, and why would I take her sweaters? They don’t fit me.” Sara managed just the right degree of indignation. For a split second, I thought maybe Michelle might be mistaken.

“Then you wouldn’t mind showing me the contents of your knapsack,” I pressed.

“Of course I’d mind. I said I don’t have any of Michelle’s things, and I don’t. What—you don’t believe me?”

“Apparently not.”

She shook her head, as if my suspicions were beyond belief, as if I myself were beneath contempt. “Well, that’s your problem.”

Oh, she’s good, I thought, rising to my feet. She’s very good. “No, I’m afraid
it’s your
problem.”

“There’s nothing in my knapsack but a lot of books,” Sara protested.

“History books?” I asked.

“I have a big test tomorrow. Remember?”

“Oh, I remember.”

“And I still have a few things I want to go over, so if you’ll excuse me …”

“Don’t you think you’ve studied enough? I mean,
you’ve been at it all weekend.” My voice was soft, conciliatory.

“I just want to go over everything one more time.” Sara punctuated her lie with a modest laugh for extra authenticity, took several more steps toward her bedroom.

“When are you going to stop lying to me, Sara?”

The simple question stopped her cold. Her back arched, stiffened, like a cat’s when threatened. “I don’t have Michelle’s stupid sweater or her dumb tapes,” she enunciated carefully, as if each word were an effort, her back still to me.

“And you were at the Sperlings’ house all weekend, studying for a test.”

“You know that. You spoke to Mrs. Sperling.”

“Yes, I did. Several times, in fact.”

Slowly, Sara spun around to face me. When she stopped, I could see her eyes still moving, trying to process this latest bit of information, readying a fresh line of defense. “When did you speak to her?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“You were checking up on me?”

I laughed. Her indignation was truly inspirational.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she warned.

“Don’t lie to me,” I said in return.

“I didn’t lie to you. I did go to the Sperlings’.”

“Yes, but you didn’t stay there very long, did you?”

A pause, but only a slight one. “I couldn’t. Something came up.”

“Yes, I know,” I sympathized. “Your grandmother. You were needed back home.”

Sara rolled her eyes, glanced from side to side, as if searching for the proper alibi. “Something came up,” she repeated. “It was important.”

“I bet it was. Why don’t you tell me about it.”

Sara shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I can’t betray a confidence.”

Again, I almost laughed, this time managing to keep it in check. “You can betray my trust but you can’t betray a confidence?”

“I didn’t mean to betray your trust.”

“You just didn’t care.”

“Of course I care.”

“Where did you go?” I asked.

Sara lowered her gaze to the floor, then slowly lifted her face back to mine. Even in the fading light, I could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She’s in pain, I thought, aching to take her in my arms. Despite everything, it was all I could do to keep my feet still, my hands at my sides. “A friend of mine is in trouble,” she began, and my hands instantly lost their desire to comfort, clenching into tight, angry fists. More lies, I thought, fury spreading like a cancer through my brain, all but blocking out her words. “She’s been seeing this guy her parents don’t like, and they want her to break up with him, and she wants to, but she’s afraid she might be pregnant.” A pause. A gulp. The threat of more tears. “She really needed someone to talk to. What could I do, Mom? It was pathetic. She was almost suicidal. She turned to me because she knows you’re a therapist, and I guess she thought that maybe some of your wisdom might have rubbed off on me, that I’d be able to help her.”

I gasped at the sheer wonder of how her mind worked, the speed with which it concocted these convoluted stories, her effortless ability to suck me into each elaborate scenario, flatter me into becoming at least partly responsible. After all, if I weren’t a therapist, none of this would have happened. If it hadn’t been for my profession, my
expertise, my
wisdom,
Sara wouldn’t have been dragged into this mess, she wouldn’t have had to skip out on the Sperlings, she wouldn’t have had to lie. “And were you able to help her?” I asked, continuing the charade.

“I think so.” She smiled, relaxed her guard. “Anyway, I’m really sorry I had to lie. But I did manage to get some studying done anyway. I think I’m going to do really well on this test.”

“You studied?” I asked. “Without any books?”

“What do you mean, without books? I had my books with me.” She patted her knapsack in confirmation.

“Your books are in your closet,” I said, tired of the charade.

“What?”

“Your books—they’re in your closet. You want me to get them?”

“No, I don’t want you to get them.” Sara’s voice swept across the house like a broom. “Who said you could go into my room?”

“Your grandmother has been using that room,” I began, but she didn’t let me finish.

“What were you doing snooping around in my closet?”

“I wasn’t snooping.”

“God, Mom, how can you expect me to respect you when you don’t show me any respect?”

“I show you plenty of respect.”

“How? By sneaking into my room? By rifling through my things?”

“I did not sneak into your room. I did not rifle through your things.”

“What were you doing in my closet?”

“This is not about me,” I reminded her, trying to regain control.

“The minute I leave this house, you’re in my room, snooping around, calling the Sperlings, checking up on
me. You call that trust? You call that being honest? You’re such a hypocrite.”

“Watch it,” I warned.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, as Larry had demanded earlier. “I’ve told you the truth. I didn’t want to. It meant betraying a confidence, but I told you anyway.”

“You told me nothing.”

“I was with my girlfriend.”

“The same girlfriend who collects empty cigarette packages?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Concern softened the angry lines around her eyes and mouth. “Mom, are you all right?”

“I know where you were, Sara,” I said, my voice filled with so much rage, humiliation, and disappointment, it wobbled. “I know you weren’t with any pregnant suicidal girlfriend. I know you were with my sister. I know you went to her goddamn wedding.”

The room fell suddenly silent. If I expected more tears, apologies, pleas for forgiveness, I had the wrong child. Sara stared at me with undisguised contempt. “If you knew all along where I was,” she said, her voice low, firm, resolutely unapologetic, “then why this stupid charade? Who’s really the liar here, Ms. Therapist?”

“Don’t you dare talk to me that way.”

“Then stop all these stupid games.”

Frustration froze my tongue. It lay fat, heavy in my mouth. I should have listened to Larry, gone with him to the movies, dealt with Sara after we got home, Larry at my side. I was too tired to deal with her alone, and Sara was much too wily an opponent. Everything Larry said had been right.

“I’m going to my room,” Sara said.

“You’re sleeping in the den,” I told her, surprising both of us.

“What?”

“Grandma has your room. I don’t think it would be wise to move her. She’s confused enough.” This was probably true, although I hadn’t given the matter any previous thought.

“Fine,” Sara said. She swayed toward the den.

“And while you’re there,” I continued, unable to stop myself despite my best intentions, despite my years of professional training and
wisdom,
“you might give some thought as to whether you really want to be a part of this family anymore.”

“What?” The look on Sara’s face told me she thought I’d lost my mind. “What on earth are you jabbering about now?”

“As of this moment, all privileges are suspended.”

“What?”

“You heard me. No more privileges.”

“You give a dog privileges,” Sara shot back. “People have rights.”

We have rights too,
I heard Larry say.

“No more allowance,” I continued, fueled by her protest. “No more going out on weekends. For the rest of the school year, you’re either at school or at home,” I said, repeating Larry’s words.

“Go to hell,” Sara said succinctly.

“No,” I said. “You’re the one who’ll be looking for new accommodations. You either play by the rules of this household or you find somewhere else to live. It’s as simple as that.”

Sara looked me straight in the eye. “Fuck you,” she said.

In the next instant, I watched myself literally fly across the room at Sara, my feet off the floor, my arms out-stretched.
I landed almost on top of her, my fists falling like hammers across the back of her head, her neck, her shoulders, any part of her they could find. Sara screamed, tried to escape, her hands reaching up to protect herself from my blows. We were both screaming and crying, as my fists continued to pummel her flesh.

“Stop it, Mom!” she was screaming. “Stop!”

I pulled back in absolute horror, stared into Sara’s startled, tear-stained face. “Sara, I’m so sorry,” I began.

“Fucking bitch,” she said.

Without thinking, I hauled back and slapped her hard across the face, so hard the palm of my hand stung, and the sound echoed throughout the house. I watched a torrent of angry wet tears wash the years from Sara’s face. The teenager became the adolescent, then the child, then the infant at my breast. My baby, I thought, as she pulled herself up to her full Amazonian height and slapped me right back.

I stared at my older daughter in astonishment, my cheek, my insides, on fire. “If you ever hit me again,” I told her slowly, my voice surprisingly calm, “then you’re out of here.”

“You hit me first,” she protested.

“If
I
ever hit you again,” I continued without missing a beat, “then you’re out of here.”

“What? That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not, but it’s
my
house.”

“You’re crazy,” Sara started screaming. “You know that? You’re crazy.”

It was around this time that Larry brought my mother and Michelle home.

“She’s crazy,” Sara was yelling, as Michelle cradled my mother in the front foyer. “I’m going to call the police. I’m going to call Children’s Aid.”

“What happened?” Michelle asked, temporarily abandoning
my mother to come to my aid, eyes shooting daggers at her sister.

“Oh, here she is,” Sara intoned. “Little Miss Perfect.”

Somehow, Larry managed to settle us all in our rooms, as a referee manages to restore order in the ring, returning the combatants to their respective corners. He calmed my mother, reassured Michelle, tended to Sara’s invisible bruises, made sure everyone was breathing normally. Eventually, the house fell silent, grew dark.

“Are you all right?” Larry asked later, climbing into bed beside me.

I lay on my side, staring at the fuzzy glow from the moon through the bedroom curtains. “No,” I said.

It was as simple as that.

D
on’t feel guilty,” Larry advised me often over the course of the next few days.

But, of course, I did feel guilty. How could I not? I’d hit my child, not once, but repeatedly. I’d used my fists on her back and shoulders, my open palm on her face. That beautiful face, I thought. How could I have slapped it?

“You were provoked. She had it coming,” Larry said.

And that was true. I was provoked; she did have it coming.

That still didn’t make it right.

“You taught her that she can push people only so far,” Larry said.

“The only thing I taught her is that I can’t control my temper.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, Kate.”

“I’m the adult in this equation.”

“She’s seventeen,” he reminded me. “She’s six feet tall.”

“I’m her mother.”

“You don’t call your mother a fucking bitch.”

“I hit her.”

“She hit you back.”

Strangely enough, of all the things that were said and
done that night, the fact that Sara had hit me bothered me the least. Maybe because I’ve always believed that if you hit someone, you have to be prepared to be hit back.

It was something my mother never did.

A torrent of deliberately repressed memories rushed back at me. I heard the front door of my childhood open, saw my stepfather walk through.
Hello, darling,
my mother greeted him.
You ‘re late.

Are you complaining?

Of course not. I was just worried. Dinner was ready an hour ago.

Dinner is whenever I get home.

It’s on the table.

It’s cold.

I’ll warm it up.

You know I hate warmed-over food. I don’t work hard and pay good money for meat to have it warmed over.

Don’t get all worked up. I’ll make you something else.

You think I have all night to wait until you make something else?

It won’t take long.

You don’t think I deserve a decent meal when I get home?

Of course you do. That’s why I try to make everything nice for you.

Then why
isn’t
everything nice?

It is. It’s just that you were late.

You ‘re saying it’s my fault?

Of course not. These things happen. I understand.

You understand shit.

I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean …

You ‘re always sorry. You never mean. You never
think,
that’s your problem. Why do you do these things?

Please, Mike, calm down. You’ll scare the children.

Fuck the children.

Please watch your language.

My language? Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? Your first husband, fuck his sainted memory, he never swore, did he? Well, what are you going to do, wash my mouth out with soap? Is that what you’re going to do?