Broken Pieces: A Novel (11 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

That evening, my father readied burgers and hot dogs for an impromptu cookout, and I couldn’t deny the resentment I felt. Were any of these efforts for me? Or were they purely for Sydney and Ella’s benefit?

While Ella stayed busy creating broken-crayon masterpieces with Marguerite, Sydney and I took our walk.

Albert had been quiet upon their return from New York, but Sydney had been downright subdued.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked as we headed toward the Bainbridge Estate and the bike trail.

“The question should be, do you want to hear about it?” Sydney answered, waggling her brows as if she were about to deliver humorous news and not an update that might concern her chances of survival.

We turned onto the gravel path that circled the huge old estate home, and I touched her arm lightly. “Yes.” I nodded. “I do.”

Each time I saw Sydney and interacted with her, I became more and more amazed at how comfortable I felt. The sensation was almost as though we’d known each other all our lives, even though those lives had been spent separately.

“The thing about cancer,” she said, silencing my internal monologue, “is that everyone wants you to fight. They expect you to fight.”

We turned down the path that cut through the estate’s garden and disappeared between towering hedges of butterfly bushes.

“Your friends, your family, your children, your doctors,” she continued. “Fight.” She fisted her hands and took a mock swing at the air. “I’ve seen patients fight. I’ve seen them survive. I’ve seen them die. I’ve seen the treatments kill them before the cancer has a chance.”

She came to a stop, so I paused, taking a step back to where she stood, arms wrapped around her waist, features tense.

I flashed back on my mother’s fight—the days she put on a brave face and kept up appearances, the days she stayed in bed, the way the light had faded from her eyes a little more each day.

“The drug for the clinical trial has been shown to extend life for a decent percentage of women,” Sydney explained.

“Extend life?” I questioned.

“Time.” She shrugged. “Isn’t that what we all want?”

Was it? Didn’t we all want a cure instead?

We turned around and headed for home, realizing we’d gone farther into the estate grounds than we’d intended.

“So I said yes,” Sydney continued, her voice tired and defeated. “‘New hope, Ms. Mason. New roller coaster. New paperwork. New side effects.’”

She bit down on her lip in an attempt to hide the depths of her emotions, but failed miserably.

“You’re allowed to cry, you know.”

But Sydney only shook her head. “Ah, that’s not what fighters do.”

So I did the only thing I could think to do. I took her hand and held it tight the entire way back to the house.

A short while later we dined around the table on Marguerite’s back patio. Ella bounced between the table and the yard, ducking in and out of the perennials that had lined the border of Marguerite’s property for as long as I could remember.

Vibrant violet bushes sat beside fully blooming hydrangeas, their lush pink and blue flowers all but shimmering in the late-August sun. I remembered their name because they’d been one of my mother’s favorites, and I realized they’d become one of my favorites, too, somewhere along the way.

The humidity had broken with a late storm the night before, and although condensation gathered on our tall, hand-painted glasses, it didn’t pool in circles on the table as it tended to do all summer long.

Sydney made polite conversation, glossing over her day, keeping her eyes bright and her smile wide as Ella switched from dancing to presenting a parade of her new artwork, showcasing one crayon drawing after another.

I watched Sydney as a person might watch a dream—partially detached, partially awed. Then I realized Sydney
was
a dream. She was part of what I’d longed for all my life. Family.

“You should stay here,” I blurted, wishing I could take back the words as quickly as I’d spoken them.

Was I crazy? What was I thinking? That she and Ella would simply pack up their things and move in like we were one big, happy family?

Then, while everyone studied me, their expressions stunned, I realized that what I’d said made perfect sense.

There was a good chance the new clinical trial would make Sydney sick, and there was no sense in her staying in a bed-and-breakfast when I had plenty of room here. Here, where Albert, Marguerite, and I could help her with anything she might need.

I grew more sure of what I’d proposed than I’d been of most things since Albert’s return to town.

“I never thought about moving Sydney and Ella in here too,” Albert said as he wiped a napkin across his mouth. He did his best to appear surprised, but an undeniable relief slid across his features.

I glared at him, my pent-up anger boiling inside me. “You really are incapable of telling the truth, aren’t you?”

My truth was that even though I knew my father had moved back to Paris intent on opening my home to Sydney and Ella, it was still the best choice.

“You’re not working.” I pointed at him. “You can help during the day, take Sydney to appointments, and cook your healthy dinners.”

“And I’m just next door,” Marguerite said, squeezing Sydney’s hand as Ella danced from one side of the backyard to the other, apparently sensing our conversation had turned serious and she was safer keeping her distance.

Albert stared at Ella as he spoke, and I wondered whether he might be remembering another young girl dancing around the backyard, trying to pretend her world wasn’t falling apart.

Sydney lowered her face to her hands and shook her head. Then she lifted her gaze to mine. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You didn’t ask me to do this. I asked you.”

“Destiny’s right,” my father said. “This is where you belong.” He patted the tabletop. “Where we can all help. Whatever you need.”

This from the man who’d done the opposite when I’d needed him. Then I realized this second chance might be less about his relationship with me and more about redeeming himself for how he’d faltered during my mother’s illness.

Could the mighty Albert Jones be feeling remorse?

“This is too much,” Sydney said. “This wasn’t my intent when we came here.”

“I know that.” A sense of calm washed over me as I spoke, and I grew more sure of what I was doing with each second that passed. “You were planning to stay in Paris during treatment, right?”

Sydney went a bit pale, unmistakably blindsided by my question. “I wasn’t sure, but yes, I’d thought about it,” she said.

“Then why don’t we give this a try?” I shrugged. “If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”

But what if it did?
I thought. What if combining all our efforts was exactly what Sydney needed?

Hope slid through me.

Sydney shook her head. “I still say it’s too much.”

Marguerite gave Sydney’s hand another squeeze. “Not true.” Then she flashed the smile that had set my heart at ease for as long as I could remember. “Not true at all.”

Ella danced back to the table, stopping to lean against Sydney, who reflexively looped one arm around her daughter’s waist.

“Are we going to live with Grandpa Albert and Auntie D?” she asked.

Sydney visibly relaxed and fell quiet before she met my waiting stare, her expression growing determined.

“OK.” She nodded. “But the minute this doesn’t make sense anymore, we leave.”

After dinner, I drove Sydney and Ella back to Mrs. Leroy’s bed-and-breakfast. We loaded their belongings into their car and stopped for groceries at the Paris Market on our way back.

By the time we pulled back into the drive and burst through the front door, Marguerite had changed the linens in my parents’ old bedroom and the smaller bedroom that had once served as my grandmother’s office.

Sydney sat on the end of the bed that had once been my parents’, and I shivered, shaking off the sensation of watching my mother’s ghost.

Ella bounced through the upstairs, peering into one room after the other, until she stepped inside the old office.

Both rooms still boasted the same paint they’d had in my youth: my parents’ room a pale blue, Grandmother’s office a sensible ecru.

Stiff, brightly patterned curtains hung from the large original windows. The curtains were not much to look at, but effective on cold winter nights.

And beneath them sat large panes of glass, perfect for throwing open once the cool autumn breezes arrived, or peering through on a clear, starry night.

“Look at this,” I said to Ella, as I remembered one of my favorite hiding places from my youth and stepped into the smaller room behind her.

I crossed to the large closet door and cracked it open. The interior sat bare, much like the two rooms. Stripped clean of all signs anyone had ever lived here.

“Great place to hide,” I said, and then I shrugged. “Or put your clothes.”

Then, much to my amazement, Ella moved to stand beside me. She graced me with a wide, bright smile and slipped her hand inside mine.

Suddenly I saw how forgotten these spaces had become.

I’d lived my life around them, ignoring them, much like my memories.

Perhaps now, with the arrival of Ella and Sydney, these old spaces would get their second chance to live.

“What about school?” Marguerite asked quietly, as Ella settled in upstairs with Albert’s help, and we three women put away groceries and warmed the kettle for tea. “The end of summer’s just around the corner.”

“I thought I might homeschool,” Sydney said. “Until we know where we’ll end up permanently.”

“Nonsense.” Marguerite shook her head. “Why not have her attend Paris Elementary so you can rest, even if it’s only temporary? I’ll call Mary Beth Brooks first thing tomorrow.”

Mrs. Brooks had been the principal longer than I could remember. I had no doubt she and Marguerite would have Ella enrolled and ready to go long before the first day of school rolled around.

Sydney fell silent, her expression a tangle of surprise and confusion.

“Are you all right?” I asked, feeling concern. Was she dizzy? In pain? Feeling ill?

“I never expected you to be so generous,” she said. “Not to someone you barely know.”

Marguerite laughed. “That’s the thing about Destiny. She talks a good game, but deep inside, she’s got the same soft heart her mother had.”