Broken Pieces: A Short Story



  Broken Pieces

  by Tracy L. Higley

  copyright 2013 Tracy L. Higley Do not reproduce

  I hate that cold, stone beast.

  I pressed my forehead against the chilly glass pane of my darkened museum workroom and watched a light blink on inside the New City Church across the street.

  Okay, I didn’t hate the church. Not truly. But I knew that it would soon open its doors to righteous Christmas Eve worshippers, while others of us, lost in the guilt of past mistakes, would long for redemption from distant places across the street.

  I breathed a patch of fog onto the glass, then pushed away and turned back to my worktable, where broken things were still able to be repaired.

  I shared this cramped, street-level workroom in the museum with two other restorers, but they had long left for the holiday, escaping cluttered workspaces, fleeing to filled-up lives.

  The partially-restored clay pot I’d been working on today still lay in seven pieces, but my time was up. I circled the table and placed the pieces back into their foam-cushioned box. I would finish perfecting it after the holiday.

  If I’m around that long.

  I use four different types of adhesive in my work, and I took, a moment to line the bottles up like plastic soldiers at attention, guarding the edge of my table. I placed soiled paper into the trash bin, swept clay dust into the palm of my hand, and then brushed it into the trash as well. I filed my notes from the day and sharpened three pencils before putting them into the drawer. I took a deep breath and studied my workspace, then nudged one of the adhesive bottles forward into formation. Across the semi-darkness of the room, my cell phone rang. I pulled my tan purse from the counter and retrieved the blinking phone, studying the incoming number. Kristina.

  I punched the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Natalee? Are you still at work?”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to do this to you…”

  I exhaled and waited. Across the street, the first saint scurried up to the oak doors of the church.

  “It’s little Toby, Natalee. The poor guy woke up with a cough this morning.”

  “Is he okay?” Kristina’s new baby had lit up my coworker’s world and taken over her life.

  “The doctor says he’ll be fine, but he’s not sleeping well, and he’s so cranky. Michael just got off work, and he’s trying to rest…”

  “It’s fine, Kristina. I don’t need to come.”

  Kristina paused. “I feel so bad, Natalee. I hate to think of your spending Christmas Eve alone.”

  Not the first time. I leaned against the counter, legs a little weak. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll have you over really soon, when Toby is feeling better.”

  “That’ll be great, Kristina. Have a good Christmas.”

  “You too, girlfriend.”

  I snapped my phone shut and pressed the cool metal against my forehead. I didn’t fault Kristina. Husband and baby were more than enough Christmas Eve for anyone. No need for a messed-up coworker with no place better to go.

  Stop it, Natalee. You’re a pathetic, whining idiot.

  Well, perhaps I was. But it was the truth. I returned my phone to my purse, and my fingers brushed the sharp edge of the days-old office party invitation. I pulled it out and studied the cheery Santa sticker in the bottom corner and the green-inked “Natalie” scrawled in the middle. I flicked a finger against those last two letters. In my world of medium-build, medium-brown hair, and medium-talent, the spelling of my name is the only stand-out feature about me. But my boss, Hank, hadn’t noticed, and used the common spelling. I hadn’t attended the party last night. No one mentioned my absence today.

  Would they miss me if I never came back to work?

  I leaned a hip against the counter once more and closed my eyes.

  There’s a reason for the increase in suicides at Christmas.