All The Broken Pieces Vol. 2, Page 2

  Tim rises and walks away from me to confront the detective. “This is ridiculous! Can’t you do something? She’s bleeding this time, for Chrissakes!”

  “Of course,” offers young cop , “we can try to get to the bottom of this. I’d go pull the footage from your surveillance cameras, if you’ll supply the account information, Ms. Taylor.”

  I nod once, curtly, and request my cell phone so I can pull up the recording. Tim bounds up the stairs to grab it from my bedroom, and then offers it to me. I unlock the phone and open the app. I have the camera set to record when there’s movement only. There’s a list of old videos of me coming and going. The mailman. A UPS delivery. But tonight. Nothing is between sundown and Tim entering followed by the police.

  “I don’t understand.” I glance up at Tim. “There’s nothing here.”

  Tim snatches the phone out of my hand before the old cop can look at it. His face becomes drawn as he flicks through the settings and then flicks the screen. His shoulders crumple for a second before he meets the police officer’s gaze. “The cameras went offline tonight.”

  I grimace. “It didn’t get anything?”

  Tim shakes his head, and shows the cop. “There’s a message generated by the app that the camera went offline during the night.”

  “So, someone unplugged it?” The old cop asks, not caring if he sounds technologically impaired.

  “Probably not. These send recordings to the cloud via the Internet. It probably lost the connection. We can confirm that,” young cop answers, scribbling on his pad, and then, looks up and asks me, “Did you take any medications tonight?”

  I know where this is going. Tim tries to defend my honor, but there’s no point. I hold up a hand for him to stop. “It’s all right. I took a Valium.”

  “Anything else? Alcohol maybe?” The younger cop is burning a hole in the side of my face, but I don’t look at him. I know what he’s going to think. He’s just like the rest of them.

  “Earlier in the evening, yes. But that’s not relevant here.” I try to keep myself in check as the medic finishes patching up my foot.

  The medic is a guy with a sharp widow’s peak and bleach blonde hair slicked back with gel. His eyes compliment his expression—one of concern. It’s rare that anyone looks at me like that anymore.

  The medic interrupts, “Ms. Taylor, this will be throbbing once the shock wears off. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER? You might need some pain medication at the very least.”

  Young cop glances at Tim. Their gazes meet before Tim’s arm juts up. He points toward the door. “There’s no way in hell she’s throwing things through her own front windows! That’s custom glass! Why would she break it? That’s an asinine assumption!”

  The medic takes advantage of Tim’s tirade on the cops and uses the commotion to lean in and whisper in my ear, “If you’re in danger here, just squeeze my hand, Ms. Taylor. I’ll insist you go to the ER.” He waits like that, his hand next to mine long enough for me to act.

  I try not to laugh. “I’m okay.”

  He inhales slowly and nods. “As you say, then. Keep that foot up for the next few days. The cut wasn’t too long, but it was deep. Don’t drive for the next few days.”

  It dawns on me that the medic thinks Tim did this to me and covered it up with a broken window and a fake story. With zero footage from the cameras, there’s nothing to prove otherwise.

  It’s the scars on my face. People assume someone slashed me. Like a damsel in a horror film. No one realizes I was in an explosion and got this token to mark me for life. It stands to reason if I have a slash on my face that Zach would have one on his body. That picture…

  Part of me wants to explain what really happened, to save Tim, but I’d rather not get into it.

  I begin to answer, “I have to work—” but my protest is cut off.

  “Have a friend drive you or take an Uber. Seriously though, try to rest.” The medic lifts his bag of supplies and says something into the black box on his shoulder. It crackles back a response as he walks out the door.

  I remain where I am on the couch with my foot elevated, the skin on my sole patched up and no longer trailing blood around the house.

  The police don’t believe me, so I don’t bother calling them anymore. It’s Tim, the idealist, who always thinks this time will be different. That a new set of cops will see someone is tormenting me, but they never do. The detectives have an unspoken understanding of my guilt and feel this is me crying out to repent.

  Finally, young cop leans his chiseled face in closer, lifts his dark brows, and asks me softly, “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  My eyes cut to the side and meet his. He’s crouching next to me and is as young as they come. There’s a sincerity in his golden gaze that’s usually absent with me. “I didn’t see anyone. I was asleep and then stepped on the glass.”

  He watches me for a few minutes more and then nods his head. “Sometimes the local kids get into trouble when the weather turns warm. With summer rolling around…” he trails off, as his eyes leave mine. There’s no way it was kids and he knows it. Zach’s dive belt was in the basement and taken as evidence last time this occurred. His forehead creases and he looks back at me. “They might do things like this on a dare, and—”

  Young cop is barely twenty-five, if that. He slips me a card. Detective Lance Gotto. A phone number is typed out below it.

  His voice is soft, “Call me if you need anything else. That’s my cell, understand? If you need help.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.

  The way his gaze falls on my face, the way those thick lashes lower, bashfully. He rests his hand on the back of his neck for a second, adding, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. If you need anything, just call or text. I’ll help however I can.” His eyes bore into mine, searching for truth, but only find hollowness.

  When I was younger, before Zach, I would have responded to this guy—to his type. He wants to help me. That’s sincere. He says nothing more about the pills, nothing about the previous calls for the same problem.

  Always the same type of weight. Always with the same message. The same word. Scrawled and scratched into the metal by the same hand.

  STOP.

  Chapter 4

  Once my foot is patched up, Tim produces the bottle of Xanax. Sheepishly, he hands them back to me. We argued a few days ago over the meds I’d been taking. He saw them in the bathroom and freaked out. I’ve accumulated a small pharmacy. The doc gave me anything that I asked for to help me sleep.

  Tim holds the bottle in the air between us. I don’t take it. He finally huffs, “You’re really rattled. Take it.”

  “I don’t need it now, but thanks for not judging me and all.” I take the bottle from Tim and limp into the kitchen.

  He follows behind me. “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  He sighs deeply and stops in the middle of the room. “I’m just worried about you. And this shit doesn’t help.”

  “Tim.” I say his name sternly. It’s a warning that this topic is closed. “I hardly ever take them, okay? If you need to know so badly, I have them around to knock me out on the weekends if I can’t handle the insomnia anymore. It’s not like I’m going to eat the whole bottle. I’m not nuts.”

  He lowers his head, nodding. “I know you’re not. I’m sorry.”

  Stopping in front of the Keurig, while stuffing the pill bottle into a drawer, I ask him if he wants a cup of coffee. An olive branch. Apology accepted.

  Tim clears his throat as he settles into an old whitewashed chair at my tiny table. “Yeah, I’d love a cup.”

  I feel his eyes on my back. “Just say it. You’re starting to think I’m busting my own windows with my husband’s dive weights.”

  “Wait, those are Zach’s? How do you know?” Tim looks horrified.

  “Because I was there when he bought them. A bunch of the same size squares thread onto his old belt—which I no longer have. T
hey probably think I buried extra pieces of the belt in the yard like a psycho.”

  After starting the machine, I turn and lean back against the counter, watching him. His dark eyes are filled with pain and there’s a matching pinched brow that indicates his level of worry is in ulcer territory.

  He sighs softly. “No you wouldn’t. You’re not like that. I don’t think you’d destroy any of those panes, either. I was there when you put them in and know how much you adore them. You talked about Craftsman style entryways for two hours. If you were smashing stuff, you’d break something you didn’t care about.”

  “Gee, thanks.” My voice is flat, but I’m not wounded by his words. Tim is a little too honest at times.

  “It’s the truth. Besides, you have enough pain, and cutting your foot open like that on purpose would be insane—and you’re not crazy.” His gaze lingers on my face, tracing the scar that’s deepest and runs from my lower eye all the way down my cheek and to my jawline. Sometimes it throbs so badly I need narcotics. Other times it’s silent, unable to feel anything. The nerves sustained a great deal of damage.

  I fold my arms across my chest and let my shock of gray hair fall over my face, hiding the scar. His gaze meets mine. I confess quietly, from beneath a wall of hair, “Everyone is worried about me. They all treat me like I’m some time-bomb ready to blow.”

  “I don’t.” His statement is firm, but then his forehead crumples. “Do I?”

  “No, what you do is different. You see someone taped back together and you’re wondering when the adhesive will fail.” The Keurig hisses when the pot of coffee is finished. I grab two cups and head over to the table, pouring Tim’s first.

  Tim looks upset with himself. “Abby…”

  “No, listen. I know what you think. It’s on your face every time you come over. You think I’m fragile. Do you know how hard it is to be strong when everyone around you thinks you’re weak?”

  I tip the coffee pot and watch the dark liquid stream into my Elsa mug. A remnant of a former life when I loved to laugh, when I enjoyed any type of art, and when life was still magical. I set the coffee pot down and hold the warm mug in my hands. The inner rim says I LIKE WARM HUGS.

  Tim watches me gripping the mug, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m sorry. You’re strong. I know that.”

  I lift a hand and shake my head. “It’s too early to have smoke blown up my—”

  He cuts me off, “It’s not smoke. I mean it. You’re strong. I see it in you every day, Abby. Other people would have fallen apart under less strain, but you keep going.”

  “There’s no other choice. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” I arch an eyebrow at him and then return my gaze to the black coffee in my happy mug.

  “Yes, there is. That’s the part you don’t see. Other people give up. You’re fighting. You’re trying. Pills, nightmares, and all—you don’t give up.” His words are so sincere that I can barely sit across from him.

  My eyes are anywhere else, avoiding him at all cost. The numbness in my chest twists as a foreign sensation fills me and more words tumble forth from his lips. He continues, “I’ve seen people who gave up. I’ve watched them fall apart. That’s not what’s happening here. You’re miserable because you’re fighting. You’re stronger than you realize, Abby.”

  The knot in my throat tightens and when I try to swallow a sip of coffee, I choke on it. Napkins are thrust toward me, but he knows what his words do to me. Tim is one of the reasons I haven’t fallen apart. Not yet. I press my eyelids together and force myself to look at him. I’m this mess of a woman, a hollow shell of what I was when we met.

  My voice is soft and I can barely say it, but I manage, “Thank you.”

  “I’m here for you, Abby.”

  “I know.”

  He nods and glances around before shoving himself upright. He pushes the only other chair towards me, directing me to put my foot up. “I’ll clean up the broken glass and the blood in the foyer. I can have the glass guy here later today, after you’re home from work, to seal that broken pane. I know it won’t be handmade, but it’ll keep animals out until you’re on your feet again. Maybe you should make the panel?” He baits me, knowing how much I once liked working with glass.

  I shake my head. “Nah, I have other projects in the works. I’ll have to save up and commission another pane next Fall.” A moment of silence passes as Tim collects the cleaning supplies from under the sink. “Do you know what worries me the most?”

  Tim stops, straightens and meets my gaze. He shakes his head softly, and whispers, “No.”

  “Summer. No kids. No work. Nothing to occupy my thoughts. I’m dreading it.”

  He offers a knowing smile, one filled with remorse because it’s not something he can fix. “Lets go somewhere. Do something. We can travel until you need to be back next Autumn.”

  His response shocks me. “That’s crazy. I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have the money for one.”

  “I do. What’s your next objection? And it can’t be that you won’t accept my money. A trip is cheaper than your therapy bill.” He smirks at me.

  “I don’t know…I just can’t pick up and go. Tim, that’s crazy.”

  “Why?” he presses, standing there with the broom and dustpan in his hands. “Going on vacation isn’t nuts. It’s actually an annual kind of thing.”

  “Yeah, but you’re leaving out something big.” He glances at me, waiting for an answer. “Your mother. She’ll have a stroke, and—”

  “That’s not true. She’ll be glad we’re happy.” I snort because he’s so totally wrong.

  “No, she won’t. She hates me.”

  Tim shrugs. “Sorry, I must have been thinking about her feelings for me. Either way,” he swats a hand in the air.

  A moment of silence stretches between us. It’s ridiculous to object on the prude front, but he’s Zach’s brother. I already crossed a line with him. I don’t want to do it again. It feels like betrayal. “Tim, it won’t look right. People will say we’re…”

  “Together? So what?” He watches the way my face pinches in pain and quickly adds, “Bring your friend, Vi. I’ll bring someone too. Better?”

  “Maybe.” I press my thumb to the wedding band that made it’s way back onto my finger. Fear won out and I shoved it on in case I had to use the I’m married and my husband will beat your ass card on the intruder. The glass breaker. The invisible wifi killing asshole who’s been messing with me.

  STOP. Stop what?

  He nods once. “An eight-week road trip to anywhere we want to go. Some time away will do you good, you’ll see.”

  As he wanders off to clean up the mess in the foyer, I start thinking about where we could go and the things we could do. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve been able to see past the aching, lonely days.

  Chapter 5

  By the time the sun spills over the treetops, I’m on autopilot until I realize I can’t drive. I consider it for a moment, as I dangle my keys in my hand. They said don’t drive, but didn’t really explain why. I can walk—it’s more of a limp—but I’m not putting that much pressure on the ball of my foot where the gash penetrated the deepest. The medic also shot a pain killer into my arm. Then there was that Xanax. Damn. The last thing I need is a DWI, so I tug my phone out of my purse.

  I thumb the screen to life and flip to my Uber app. There’s a car around the block. I request it and go wait by the front door as I balance my purse on one shoulder and my massive satchel on the other. I wedge the bag between my hip and the door to ease the way the straps cut into my shoulders.

  Staring at nothing, I watch the quiet street slowly waking. The houses are all in neat rows of capes and ranches with dew covered lawns and manicured flowerbeds. The one I’m standing in is an old arts and crafts style relic. It could be pretty, but it’s too dilapidated. I feel like it looks. Worn out. Gutted. Beyond repair.

  A screen door separates m
e from the world. Through it I can feel the morning air. It’s already sticky, with the promise of another blistering day. In school buildings with no air conditioning, that means it’s going to be a long day. My classroom feels like a furnace. It faces the wrong way for the breeze and the right way for the sun to blanch the wooden bookcases under the windows.

  Remaining perched in the doorway, I glance down at the broken window pane, now taped in place with cardboard. The pane isn’t even by the doorknob. Why break that one? It’s weird. A burglar wouldn’t do that. But I have no idea who would.

  I don’t know how to explain away the word. STOP. Or the repetitive occurrences. So I don’t try. But something about the word, the writing on the weight, makes my stomach twist. I can’t tell if it’s a premonition or an echo of a past I’d rather forget. No one could survive that pain twice, of living through an explosion and having your body thrown through the air and skewered with flying debris. So I try to pretend it never happened.

  While that works okay for me, it is not acceptable for others. Her wig must be burning, because at that moment, her name flashes across the screen of my phone.

  MOTHER TARA

  I reject the call and shove the phone in the side pocket of my purse as it chimes that the car is arriving. The driver rounds the corner in a rust colored Buick.

  It’s a tank.

  The thing looks like it was stored in mothballs. It’s the type of car that cops drove thirty years ago.

  Tugging my phone back out, I glance at the screen to confirm that it’s my ride. The driver’s name pops up.

  K’Teal.

  I sigh. A Millennial.

  Chapter 6

  Millennials make me feel old. This one probably has a huge chip on his shoulder and is going to tell me how Gen X screwed him over by opening too many Applebee’s. Apparently, my generation of slackers-turned-workaholics are the reason the world went to shit.