34 Pieces of You
Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
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To Snowy,
proof that prayers are answered,
and that faith,
above all else,
will lead you home
—Tremendous gratitude to my editor, Jen Klonsky, for her sharp eyes, accurate red pen, and humanizing sense of humor. I am so thrilled to have worked with you on this project and look forward to many more in our future.
—Big thanks to the lovely behind-the-scenes people at Simon & Schuster: Mara Anastas, Laura Antonacci, Bethany Buck, Paul Crichton, Katherine Devendorf, Michelle Fadlalla, Russell Gordon, Jessica Handelman, Lucille Rettino, Dawn Ryan, Sara Saidlower, Michael Strother, Carolyn Swerdloff, Venessa Williams—and the wonderful sales force, who ensure that this novel finds readers.
—Much appreciation to my fantastic agent, Steven Chudney, for believing in this project and me.
—Special love to Random House (Germany) for giving this novel a second home and second language.
—Big thanks to my peers and professors in the creative writing department at the University of North Carolina Wilmington for your faith, feedback, and guidance. Additionally, I owe a special gratitude to my thesis readers: Wendy Brenner, Clyde Edgerton, and Robert Siegel. The education I received at UNCW was top-notch.
I’m so glad to have once been a part of your intoxicatingly creative world.
—Gratitude to my favorite fellows, the D.O.T.B. crew: Nathan Johnson, Trey Morehouse, and Eric Tran. Your home was often my home, and for that I am grateful.
—Buckets of love with whipped cream and sprinkles on top to my friends/confidants/second family: Amy Risher, Lindsay Key, Kiki Vera Johnson, Alison Harney, Brian McCann, Kate Rogers, and Peter Trachtenberg. You graciously listened to my endless worries, schemes, and plans for multiple revisions, and despite your exhaustion, continued to provide encouragement and love. God bless you.
—Thanks to my writing buddies. In particular, Bethany Griffin, who said from the very beginning, “I love it!” Those kind words kept me going. To Melissa Walker and Nina de Gramont, for your willingness to always give me advice. And to Matt de la Peña, who popped up out of the blue and continues to believe in me.
—To those whom I may have forgotten, I give you my thanks and ask for your forgiveness.
—To my dear family: Mom, I love you more than the stars. Thank you for instilling such a faith in God in me. Natalie, thank you for your stories. Your unique imagination sparked mine. Walter, you’re the best bro a girl can have. You constantly surprise me
with how wonderful you are. And to Suzette, my twin in spirit and blood, may the years be long and the road traveled soft. And to the rest of my family: There is a place in my heart I keep warm and safe for you.
—And, most important, thank you to God, my guiding light above, for all that I am and all that I continue to be.
NOVEMBER.
That Saturday I woke before dawn to the sounds of sirens, the doorbell ringing, and Mattie crying. I sat up, glanced at Sarah’s empty bed, and then the door creaked open. Meg stood there in her polka-dotted pj’s and fuzzy slippers, framed by the light from the hallway.
“What’s going on?” I murmured.
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me.” She flipped on the light.
“God, Meg!” I shielded my eyes. “Turn it off.”
“Sorry.” She flicked the switch and the room went dark.
“Is it Old Mrs. Sawyer again?”
“I don’t know.”
I grabbed the robe hanging off my bedpost and wrapped it around me. The house was chilly, and the cold only added to my exhaustion. I thought about going back to bed, but Meg was still there, staring at me expectantly. Below, our parents’ voices grew louder. A door slammed, and the sirens started up again. I peeked out the window just as the ambulance rushed away.
The street was bright with porch lights. A few neighbors huddled together in front of Mr. Lumpnick’s yard, talking. I scanned the group, looking for Sarah and her best friend, Ellie, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t find them. Just because I had spent last night moping didn’t mean they hadn’t spent it partying. They were probably passed out somewhere.
Meg peered over my shoulder. “Mom said to come get you.”
I followed Meg down the stairs and thought about the possibilities for that ambulance. Since most of our other neighbors were standing in Mr. Lumpnick’s yard, I decided it had probably come for Old Mrs. Sawyer.
Mattie was wrapped in a blanket on the living-room sofa, sucking her thumb as she watched her
Dora the Explorer
DVD. Mom stood a short distance away, in the kitchen, her back visible from the hall. She was talking on the phone. I gave Meg a reassuring smile and said, “It’s okay. See how calm Mom sounds?”
Meg leaned forward to grasp her tone, which was steady enough for such an unexpected morning. “Go on.” I nudged her toward the living room and watched as she curled into the couch, covering her lower legs with part of Mattie’s blanket.
In the kitchen, Mom stood quietly beside the phone, her hand still holding the receiver to the base. There was something about her stance that made my numbness fade. “Everything okay?” I asked.
She turned to me, her skin blotchy from crying.
“Mom?”
“Jess.” She came to me, grabbed my shoulders, and pulled me close. She whispered in my ear, “Sarah’s been in an accident, and I have to go meet your dad at the hospital. Okay? But it’s going to be fine. I just don’t want to upset your sisters. So let’s talk quietly for now.”
She stepped back and took my hands. She searched my eyes, offering me a shaky smile, but I saw the tears waiting.
A lump formed in my throat. I imagined Sarah in the role of Old Mrs. Sawyer, slipping in the shower, breaking her collarbone or something, the ambulance rushing her and Dad to the hospital while Mom sat in the kitchen, writing speeches about the perils of underage drinking. And there was little doubt in my mind that my sister and Ellie had been drinking.
“Is she really going to be okay?” I asked, because parents had a way of lying to you so you wouldn’t freak out. I wanted to know the truth. “Seriously, Mom.”
Mom nodded, dropping my hands to push the hair from her face. “We think so. She was still coherent when Tommy found her . . . found . . .” She put a hand to her mouth and looked out the kitchen window that faced Ellie’s house. I followed her gaze. The lights were on there, but the driveway was empty.
“Tommy was there?” Tommy was another kid from the neighborhood. The scenario changed again to include him: Sarah still in the shower, drunk, but now Tommy with Ellie, his hands crawling over her body. “What did Ellie say, exactly?” My voice turned sharp, the suspicion so strong it made my skin tingle. “Is she at home? Can I talk to her real quick before you go?” I wanted answers that I knew only Ellie could give, and I wanted to tell her she was an awful person for misleading me and betraying Sarah. I wanted to tell her that we would never forgive her.
Mom was at the window now.
“Mom?”
She sank onto her knees and buried her head in her hands.
“Mom?”
“Tommy found them, but he wasn’t there. The accident,
Jess . . . it was Ellie, too . . .” She turned to me, tears streaming down her face.
And again the scenarios shifted until finally I understood. I gripped the edge of the table, willing the room to stop spinning, my breath to return.
“It’s not good, Jess,” she said. “Ellie . . . it’s not good.”
The heat clicked on, and a warm burst of air flowed across my calves. The room spun quickly now, flashes of colors that disappeared when I closed my eyes. Every noise in the world was silenced.
Then a small, cold hand slipped into mine. A soft voice whispered my name. I opened my eyes. Mattie stood beside me, her eyes curious but absent of fear.
Y
o
u said, “Ellie,
t
his is the truth, every
bo
dy leaves.
Everybody.
” I was just seven, and when I reached f
o
r y
o
u, y
o
u were where death and a
b
sence and missing take y
o
u. Y
o
u were where
b
ad hus
b
ands disappear t
o
. And y
o
u were whispering, “Just ask them.”
AFTER. NOVEMBER.
Concerned Therapist taps her pencil on her notepad and smiles. This is not because today is a pleasant day, and the birds outside Smith Memorial Hospital are chirping, and the sun has created rainbow patterns on the worn linoleum floor. No, it’s because it’s one of her settings. She has three: Concerned. Reassuring. Empathetic.
“Sarah,” she prompts again. “Do you recall saying that in our last conversation?”
I tug down the sleeves of my flannel pajamas, wondering why the junior psych ward is so cold, and say in a weary voice, “Really, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
Concerned Therapist consults her folder, flips back a few
pages on her clipboard. She says that the last time she came to visit, I remembered some things. She changes gears from Reassuring setting to Concerned setting, her thick eyebrows forming a rolling caterpillar above dime-size brown eyes. When I don’t budge—not because I don’t want to but because I honestly don’t remember what I said the last time—she leans forward, one elbow pressed into the soft chocolate-colored skin above her knee. Her full lips turn downward into Empathetic setting.