The Pieces We Keep (20 page)

T
here was nothing surprising about the statement, only the way it suddenly applied to Audra’s life.

It was a fundamental law of physics—more scientific than spiritual. Maybe that’s why her mind kept revisiting the quote since the day she finished the book. And to think, when Dr. Shaw had forced the thing into her hands, she had no intention of even cracking the cover. Now select passages were imprinting themselves on her brain like galactic secrets on an ancient scroll.

In Jack’s bedroom, she placed his laundered shirts in a drawer. When she pushed it closed, she imagined storing her mystical theories inside. There would be ample opportunity to obsess over them at the next session with Dr. Shaw, after his return from a conference in Vegas.

Audra smiled at the vision: hundreds of suited shrinks parked around poker tables, analyzing each other for tells.

She just wished their festivities hadn’t been planned for this particular week. The result was six days of waiting until Jack’s next appointment, a delay intensified by today’s meeting with Russ. For that’s when she had learned of the race they were in: a sprint to uncover the source of Jack’s behavior before a judge and evaluator presented speculations of their own.

She closed the curtains over the darkened windows, just as Jack appeared in his pajamas.

“Hey, buddy. You finish your routine?”

“Yep,” he said softly, and climbed into bed.

“Brush, floss, and flush?”

He nodded. He had covered it all.

“You sure? Because if you did happen to skip the toilet flushing, I’ll have to sentence you to ...” She twisted her lips, deciding. “Five full minutes of severe and merciless tickling.”

He smiled widely, as if recalling the tickle attacks he used to love. He’d giggle and wiggle even before being touched, just from clawed fingers near his sides, toes, or tummy.

But the memory didn’t last. His expression retracted and lips went level. All throughout dinner he appeared to be wrestling with a thought, yet each of her inquiries had met a dead end.

“Remember,” she said again, “I’m here if you want to talk. Okay?”

He scratched the skin at the edge of his cast and simply said, “I know.”

When it came to Jack, she was becoming one of those old Chatty Cathy dolls that spewed the same few sentences over and over.

With an internal sigh, she pulled up the covers, leaving the sheet loose enough for his feet to burrow free. He used to sleep cocoon-style, blankets drawn snugly under his chin. These days he required more space, as though ensuring the option to escape.

“Just one more day till the weekend,” she reminded him.

“Yep.”

“You know, on Saturday, Tess and Grace wanted to join us for a picnic. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” he said, but nothing else.

Audra nodded. “Good.” She smiled and kissed his forehead. “Sleep well,” she told him, consciously opting against bidding,
Sweet dreams.
It would be enough to see him rest through the night without an episode of terror. After three straight weeks, one could only hope.

She clicked off the nightstand lamp. The hall’s gentle beam cast shadows over Jack’s face, giving a glimpse of his future stages. Junior high. High school. College.

Life was suddenly moving too fast.

Needing to slow it down, she sat on the side of his bed. She stroked the fine strands of his hair, and an ache throbbed beneath her ribs. It was the area where loss tended to settle. Saying good-bye ten years from now would be difficult enough; she couldn’t fathom the day coming sooner.

At this very minute, a private investigator could be hunched over a computer, gathering any dirt possible to strengthen the case against her. He wouldn’t have to dig far. Laws in Oregon might traditionally favor the mother; but what about one with no current income? Depending on the court date, her offer in Boston could easily vanish. As for her last job, the timing of her resignation, within days of being put on leave, looked like she’d been allowed to save face while actually being fired.

It wouldn’t be tough to believe. After all, she was the woman who had gone on a rant before an entire neighborhood. A woman who rarely heard from her own parents. A woman who, in the beginning, never wanted to be a mother. Yet now, faced with a chance of losing that privilege, she could think of nothing she wanted more.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” Jack’s groggy question alerted her of the tears slipping down her cheeks.

She wiped them away and smiled. “Nothing, baby. I’m just tired. Just very, very tired.”

Between his heavy blinks, he peered at her with eyes of a bottomless depth.
Old-soul eyes.
That’s what a nurse in the maternity ward had called them. Even as a baby, Jack had scarcely cried. He was too busy gazing around in a serene yet eager way, as if reacquainting himself with his surroundings.

She had forgotten about that. The recollection had been buried in the shuffle of life’s more pressing issues, none of which mattered now.

“Is it because you’re sad,” he said after a pause, “from your fight with Grandma and Grandpa?”

She had brought this on herself, of course. Confronting Robert while Jack sat there in the car was a reactionary mistake with a long ripple of consequences.

“I guess we’re all kind of sad about that,” she admitted. “But we’re trying to work it out.”

“It’s about the BB gun, isn’t it? ’Cause if it is, I really don’t need one.”

Why hadn’t she connected that before? She should have, in order to prevent Jack from feeling responsible. “The BB gun has nothing to do with it. And you’ve done nothing wrong. I promise.”

Relief passed over his face, but just a thin shade. “You ... still love each other, don’t you?”

Although odds of reconciling had become immeasurably remote, she was mindful in choosing her words.

“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, just like kids do. In our hearts, we still care about each other. The most important thing is, we all love you very much.” She touched his round nose with her finger. “Okeydokey?”

He smiled halfway and nodded.

“Good. Now, close your eyes and get some rest.”

She stroked his head again until he drifted into a peaceful sleep. As his breathing rose and fell, ebbing him further from wakefulness, she caught the gaze of a man. Captain America stared from the
Avengers
poster across the room. The same character was plastered across Jack’s latest backpack.

A hero, she realized, of World War Two.

Her attention moved to the model planes in the corner. She’d always attributed Jack’s fascination with bombers and other aircraft to his stuffed 747, a favorite gift from his third birthday. But what if it was the other way around? Maybe the plush toy had become his favorite because of interest that already existed.

A mumbled phrase drifted from Jack’s mouth. Nothing she could make out. Typically she would let him be, but now she couldn’t afford to ignore it.

She spoke just above a whisper. “What’d you say, Jack?”

“Yeah, yeah . . . ,” he said, resembling a three-beer slur, like the day he’d ingested laughing gas before having a cavity filled. On the car ride home, he had rambled on and on, sharing every thought that entered his head.

Perhaps once more she could benefit from his narrow interim of consciousness.

She leaned closer to his ear. Against her dwindling skepticism, she pushed out the name that consistently eased his nightmares: “Jakob.”

Not seeing a reaction, she tried again, more pronounced. “Jakob Hemel.”

Jack didn’t answer, but his breath hitched.

“Buddy, is that who your dreams are about?”

A hum indicated agreement and sent Audra’s mind spinning.

Vivian’s necklace. Isaak’s letter. Was it possible Jakob and Isaak knew each other? Served as pilots in the war?

She tempered her volume, so as not to wake him. “Jack,” she said, “do you know who Isaak is?”

He shifted onto his side, angling his face away. But she couldn’t let up. She sensed a window open between them. She would have to hurry before it closed.

“Could you tell me why he—” Not
he.
To make progress, she would have to buy in fully. As Dr. Shaw had told her, what she believed didn’t matter right now, only what Jack did. “Why are
you
here? Is there a reason you’ve come back?”

At that, he resumed his mumbling.

She held her ponytail aside and hovered her ear over his mouth. The response came in jagged pieces: “So ... finally ... she can ... be with him....”

When he trailed off, Audra pressed, “Who is
she?”

No reply.

“Jakob? Please, tell me who ‘she’ is.”

A long exhale confirmed his deepened level of sleep, leaving Audra to review her approach.

This was ludicrous. She was speaking to him like a psychiatrist treating a patient with split personalities. She needed air, needed to ground herself in reality.

Quietly she retreated to the kitchen and opened the window over the sink. She inhaled crisp breaths through the screen, wishing the netting could filter her thoughts.

None of this could be real. If it was, it meant an afterlife existed. That a higher power, too, could exist. That something touted as good and holy stole lives on a whim, inflicting pain on those left behind. And for what purpose? There wasn’t one—which was why Audra had taken the reins of their lives into her own hands.

How quickly those reins were slipping from her grasp.

“No!” Jack bellowed from his room. “Let me out!”

He was peaceful only minutes ago. Rarely did he start so early.

Audra raced to his bed to find him wildly flailing. She called him Jakob several times, but he just screamed with renewed intensity. She clasped his upper arms, taking care not to press too hard. Repeatedly he broke free.

Which would be worse? Incriminating bruises or another trip to the ER—where, incidentally, a nurse might recall their previous visit, wine-stained shirt and all? None of these factors would help keep Audra and Jack together....

Wait.

That was it.

The figures in his drawing, the couple who held hands while falling toward the waves—they were never Audra and Jack. But they, too, wanted to be together.

“I’ll bring them back to each other,” she said over his yelling. Distantly, something about it made sense. “I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”

Just like that, he went eerily silent. The fright left his eyes, his muscles gone lax. She guided him to lie down and offered the usual assurances until his eyelids lowered again. Another dream he would forget by morning.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, rubbing the back of his shirt. She felt both clearer and more confused about what was happening. “Everything’s all right.”

His pajama collar, misshapen from the struggle, exposed the birthmark on his shoulder. Or rather what remained of it. Originally bright and solid red, the hemangioma had once been a perfect strawberry. Over the years it had faded to pink, gone soft around the edges. Yet only now did Audra notice the shape.

His birthmark had become a heart.

V
ivian sat on her bed, writing fiercely in her diary. Her heart still thudded as she described the torturous walk from her switchboard chair to the Army major. Only a march to the gallows could have felt longer. Her legs had prickled with a thousand needles as Mrs. Langtree shut the door, confining the three of them in the hall.

There was no arrest, however. No interrogation. No accusation of treason, a crime Vivian hadn’t fully realized, until that second, that she was committing. Rather, due to the prestige of her father’s work, backed by Mrs. Langtree’s surprising endorsement, the major was offering Vivian a job. The newly formed WAAC, or Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, would soon overtake the base’s switchboard, requiring a uniformed staff of operators.

Vivian’s initial stammering and flushed cheeks had passed as delight. “I would love a chance to help out, of course,” she’d managed to say. “But I’d need to make sure my parents are comfortable with my serving in the military.”

“That’s quite understandable,” the major had replied. Evidently, Vivian struck them as far from someone who, an hour from now under the dome of night, would be conspiring with a soldier of the Reich. No doubt, that’s how her meeting with Isaak would be viewed. A wiser person would call it off. Yet she couldn’t. She needed to see in his eyes that no matter the outcome for his family, he would still betray his mission.

 

 

Decoded, her invitation specified Prospect Park at ten. Last night at the cafe, she had slid the message beneath the clay pot just minutes before closing. It was the soonest she could get there after returning from the ball game with Gene.

“Chérie,
you come here again so often!” the cafe manager had exclaimed, spotting her in the courtyard. “You see? The fig tart, I knew it brings you back.” He beamed with such culinary pride, Vivian gratefully played along.

A knock interrupted the memory. It was a rapping on glass from the curtained window.

Without seeing, she knew it was Gene. He often entered from the fire escape past curfew.

She suddenly recognized her awful bind.

“Criminy,” she murmured. He was supposed to work late tonight. How was she to meet Isaak in an hour at Binnen Bridge?

The tapping became insistent. Fortunately, it was muted by orchestral music drifting up from the floor below.

Then it dawned on her: Perhaps Gene had come bearing news of Isaak’s family. A solution could be within reach. Vivian had no choice but to answer. Besides, if she pretended to be out, she would need an explanation of where. With Luanne gone on a date, Vivian hadn’t bothered to prepare an alibi.

How she despised this need for deceit.

She calmed herself before parting the curtains. As she raised the window, she caught sight of his face.

“Isaak.”

“May I?” He motioned toward her room.

Utterly relieved, she scuddled out of the way. He had added a fedora to his outfit, but as he crawled inside, the same German uniform peeked from his coat.

Struck by the altered plans, she whispered, “Did you not get my note?”

“The Army is using parts of the park for training exercises.” He looked outside before closing the window. “I wouldn’t have come here, but I couldn’t think of another way.”

She had never told him where she lived....

But then she recalled his specialized training, his ability to furtively track her to the cafe and who knew where else.

“You have news for me,” he said. His voice vibrated with such hope, she regretted the ambiguity of her message.

Vivian cleared her throat, realizing they could speak at a normal level. For once, she appreciated the intrusion of the landlady’s RCA. “I haven’t had luck with acquaintances of my father, I’m afraid. But I do have someone else trying to help. A person in Intelligence. We should know more soon.”

Disappointment set into his features. He said nothing while laying his hat on Luanne’s bureau.

“I’m sorry, Isaak. I’m doing everything I can think of.”

He took this in. Regrouping, he shook his head. “I’ve no doubt about that. Believe me, darling, I’m terribly grateful.”

From a female voice in the hallway Vivian recalled the door. She hurried over and turned the lock. The measure was solely a precaution, but when she twisted to face Isaak she registered the connotation-securing them in her bedroom, alone.

“I have a Luanne,” she blurted, and caught the misstatement. “I meant roommate. I have a roommate. That’s why ... the lock . . .”

He moved closer, a seductiveness in his gray-blue eyes. He was a stranger and a lover all in one. She wanted to step away, but her legs defied her. Soon his fingers reached her cheek, sloping to her neck, and the proximity of his body launched a shiver down her arms. Would he always affect her in such a way?

Gene ... she had to think of Gene. Pressure mounted as Isaak leaned toward her.

“There’s another fellow,” she told him. “A fellow I’ve been dating.” She waited for Isaak to pull back. He only raised a smile.

“I know that, Vivian.”

He knew?

Yes. Yes, of course he did.

“But I also know you wanted to see me as much as I did you. There’s nothing you’ve told me tonight you couldn’t have put in writing.” His low rasp fogged her mind. Even if she disagreed, she had no ability to refute him. “I swear, Vivian, I’d be with you every minute if it didn’t put you in danger.”

She strained to collect her bearings, to address the issue at hand. “We should ... really talk. About a plan. We need ... a plan.”

As she curbed her gaze from his lips, she noted the clothing on the vanity. A diversion. Her salvation. She forced herself to break away.

“I bought these for you.” She scooped up the pile, nearly dropping the shoes. She had intended to bring it all to the park. They were plain men’s garments, meant to blend: black trousers and socks, a button-down shirt and a tie. “In case you didn’t keep the civilian outfit you were given. With what you have on, you’re begging to be caught.”

“Vivian,” he said, “I told you already–”

“There’s a reason you were instructed to bury your uniform. At least take these with you and consider it. Soon enough you’ll be speaking to authorities and it won’t matter what you’re wearing. Until then, we need every day we can get.” She held out the clothes. “Am I wrong?”

He looked at the stack, and slowly at her. It appeared he knew what she was asking, the confirmation she was seeking. “No, darling. You’re right.” He relieved her of the items and walked toward the window.

Her chest tightened at the imminence of his departure. There was no guarantee she would see him again. How many times could two people say good-bye?

But then, to her surprise, he set the garments on her bed. He removed his coat and loosened his neckerchief.

“What are you doing?” she said, barely finding her voice.

“What you asked for.” His gaze on hers, he continued to undress, sending a rush of blood to her face.

She swung to face the wall. Classical notes from violin strings mixed with the rustling of his navy pullover. Out of the corner of her eye, in the vanity mirror, she saw him toss the shirt aside. Lamplight accentuated the lines of his shoulders, the V of his naked back. His muscles had gained strength and tone. She watched, mesmerized, as he unbuckled his belt. He raised his eyes and connected with the reflection of her stare.

Vivian jerked her head away, feeling like the one exposed. Then came the dual thunking of his boots, the whooshing of his trousers. And her mouth went dry.

An eternity lapsed before he declared himself fully dressed. “Better?”

Composing herself as best she could, she reviewed his dapper appearance. Since their parting in Europe his jaw had thickened and the area around his eyes had wearied. But at his core, he was still Isaak-the man with whom she had shared picnics in the park and strolls by the Thames, kisses under a London moon.

A rattling shot from the door. The jiggling of its knob.

“Viv, are you in there?”

Luanne. To keep her from danger, she could know nothing of this.

As if understanding, Isaak scrambled to collect his uniform. Vivian handed him his boots and ushered him toward the window.

“Vivian?” Luanne said, knocking.

“Uh, yes?” Vivian called groggily. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Who else?”

“Be right there.” Vivian helped Isaak climb out and went to lower the window.

“Tomorrow night,” he whispered. “Altman Movie Palace, seven o’clock.”

“What?” she said in a hush. “No–I–we shouldn’t.”

“I’ll wait for you in the balcony. The very back row.”

Luanne knocked again, yanking Vivian’s attention. When she turned back to Isaak, he was descending the first ladder.

She slid the window shut.

Heading for the door, she tousled her hair and rubbed at her eyes. “Sorry about that,” she said, letting Luanne in. “I must’ve locked it by accident, before I drifted off.” She shuffled away and flopped down to sit on her bed, as if it had been a chore to abandon it. “You’re back early, aren’t you?”

Luanne closed the door. Her questioning look ended with a shrug of her brow. “Not early enough, as it turned out.”

“That bad?”

“Only the first date and he’s already talking about how many children he wants to have the minute the war’s over.”

“It’s probably because he sees what a great mother you’d be.” Among the differences between her and Vivian, this was a distinct one. Even in passing on the street the gal had a knack for making kids smile.

“Maybe so.” Luanne shrugged out of her cardigan, its daisy appliques sewn by her own hand. Further proof of her natural domestic skills. She hung the garment in the closet and her eyes gained a gloss.

Vivian didn’t have to ask why. It was merely a matter of time before American troops were deployed on a massive scale. As a young Army private, the fellow had a high chance of landing on the front line, which made any plans past tomorrow a wishful notion.

“Anyway,” Luanne said. “What about you? How was your evening?” She padded over to the bureau to change into her nightgown.

“Fairly uneventful.” Discomfited by the fib, Vivian aimed to busy herself. She flipped open her diary, as though resuming the activity that had taken up her night.

“Have you decided about enlisting yet?”

All things considered, Vivian wasn’t exactly an ideal candidate. “Not yet,” she said, attention on her book, unseeing.

“Might be worth it, you know–just to see your mother have a conniption.”

A valid benefit to consider, but later.

“Hey, Viv. Whose is this?”

Vivian raised her head and found Luanne with a hat.

A black fedora.

Isaak’s.

In an instant, Vivian’s thudding heartbeats returned.

“Oh, yes. That.” An explanation rushed to mind and quickly tumbled out. “I bought it today. For your brother.”

Luanne inspected the item. “Really?” she said, uncertain. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you think so?”

“It’s just that . . . well, it doesn’t look ... new.”

Vivian honed in on the dust marks, the bent brim. She replied as if the reason were obvious. “That’s because it isn’t, silly. It’s from a secondhand store.”

The lies were pouring out faster, like grains of quicksand, sure to drag her under. “I thought it was best to conserve, with the war on and all.”

Luanne contemplated a thought as she glanced to the side-was she looking at the window?

“What did you think?” Vivian pinned on a smile. “That I was hiding another man in here?” She felt herself sinking, past the ankles, up to the knees.

Luanne hesitated, then snipped off a laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I know how deeply you care for Gene. After the mess with Helen, I just get a little protective sometimes.”

It took Vivian effort to connect the name, given the settling of her pulse. “The cheerleader,” she remembered. A discussion on the girl he dated through high school was a welcomed shift. “Why? What happened between them?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Vivian shook her head.

After a pause, Luanne gave a shrug that said her brother wouldn’t mind the divulgence. She leaned her back against the bureau. “They stayed together even when Gene went off to college. I think Helen was hoping he’d propose before then, but he wanted to wait. Eventually, he found out Helen had stepped out on him-if you know what I mean.” Her inflection and lowered eyes alluded to much more than a kiss.

No wonder Gene, too, had bypassed any mention of former loves. It was for Vivian’s sake as much as his. “I take it they didn’t stay friends,” she guessed.

“Not for lack of trying-by Helen anyway. She truly wanted a second chance. She even came to me in tears, looking for advice. She was so desperate to fix things. But it was too late. She’d broken his heart, and for Gene, there was no going back.”

His value on loyalty and trust certainly fit within his character; still, testament to the fact caused Vivian a stirring of dread.

“Well, enough of all that,” Luanne said with abrupt lightness. She walked over and handed Vivian the fedora. “As I said, I know you’d never do anything like that.”

Although the assurance came with a smile, threaded in her tone was a message resembling a warning.