All the Lovely Pieces Read online

  Adam wants a baby so bad. It’s my fault he doesn’t have a child already. The son he searches for. I don’t know why he still loves me. His face has even learned to hide the disgust he must feel when he looks at me now.

  My face can’t hide it. Even through the distorted pieces of the broken reflection, my appearance nauseates me.

  I lost him. It’s my fault he’s missing.

  I need air, but the windows in this room are boarded up. My pearly-white skin tone has turned almost gray. Years without sunlight have my nerve endings tingling so bad that I scratch my flesh raw, but the light makes my skin burn, so I stay in here, shielded from the outside.

  Adam brings me vitamins. Says I need them.

  I want to do what’s best for the baby, but the capsules are too big. They hurt to swallow.

  Everything hurts to swallow. All my food is pureed, mashed into unrecognizable slop on a ten-karat-gold-rimmed plate. I cry trying to eat, the scar tissue on my throat making even the smallest bites torture. I want to go back to a liquid diet, but Adam says it’s not healthy.

  It takes me so long to eat that the food is cold and crusting on the plate by the time I’m done. Adam stays with me until the last bite.

  When he is home.

  When he travels, he buys me the loveliest scarves from all over the world. He says they will look beautiful. They will hide the ugly act of hate I wear across my neck.

  I touch the scar, and tears burn my eyes.

  My baby will never hear my voice. The moment he comes into the world, he won’t hear it and know I’m his mother. He will never hear me sing him to sleep.

  Never again will I perform on the opera stage.

  The place where I met Adam. My first lead performance.

  Adam was in the front row that night. Most men like him—rich, powerful, successful—sat in the expensive box seats. Not Adam. He brought me flowers after the performance and then came every night, sitting in the same front-row seat, his eyes never leaving me.

  He’d never hear me sing again. No one would.

  The bedroom door opens, and Adam enters, carrying a new mirror. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says.

  The baby moves at the sound of Adam’s voice. Three violent kicks. The shape of the tiny foot pressing through my skin and the fabric of the expensive silk nightgown. These soft, delicate fabrics are all I wear. They don’t itch my skin like everything else does, and Adam makes sure to buy the softest ones. He’s so good to me. He saved me.

  Continues to save me.

  But he refuses to acknowledge the baby. Too many miscarriages have him doubting me . . . I can tell. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up by believing this pregnancy could finally give him back a son.

  He’s still in his suit. It’s after eight, but this is early for him. Some nights he stays at the office long past midnight. His technology company has the best minds working on a way to give me back my voice. Adam is a genius, and I trust in his ability to pull off the miracle, but it’s taking so long . . .

  I touch his back as he leans around me to replace the broken mirror with the new one. Scratchy wool prickles the pads of my fingertips. He smells like rain today. I can always tell the weather by the way the scent of the outside world lingers on his clothes, his hair, his skin.

  “Try not to break this one so fast, okay?” he says.

  The acrylic claims to be shatterproof. I’m determined to prove it wrong, but I nod.

  Behind me, Adam brushes my hair away from my neck and places a gentle kiss along my collarbone.

  He turns my chair to face him and takes my hands. He kisses both palms. His lips soft.

  I stare at the top of his head, his dark, gelled hair showing no sign of aging. He’s gorgeous. He can have any woman he wants. He wants me.

  I don’t understand.

  Standing, he draws me to my feet and leads the way to the four-poster bed.

  I’m so lucky to have this life—the beautiful mansion, the luxuries, and the future with him.

  I lie on the bed and watch him undress. He unbuttons his white dress shirt, freeing it from his black, neatly pressed, impeccably lint-free pants. He removes his shirt and drapes it over the back of the vanity chair. Next, the pants . . . then socks . . . then underwear.

  His body is strong, sculpted, masculine. His touch is soft, compassionate, healing. And his gaze as he lies next to me is deceptively loving. I know it can’t be real, and I don’t know why he continues to pretend. But I gratefully accept it and don’t question him.

  Yes, I’m the lucky one.

  Michael

  There are pictures of kids on milk cartons. Mom says it’s because they’re missing.

  When I eat my cereal—the gross, healthy one Mom buys—I like to read about them. In the pictures, they’re all smiling. They look happy. Mom says the pictures were taken before they were kidnapped. That makes sense.

  I bet wherever they are, they’re not smiling anymore.

  I wonder if they’re eating cereal somewhere, staring at their own faces.

  I don’t know what I’d do if I ever saw mine. Probably hide it from Mom. And I’d never tell anyone it’s me.

  “Don’t read those,” Mom says, taking the milk carton and putting it back in the fridge.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s depressing,” she says. “Hurry and finish eating so we aren’t late for school.”

  She doesn’t like sending me to school, but I don’t know why. The teachers are nice there. They smile a lot and hug me whenever I’m nervous. They wear nice clothes, and they smell nice.

  Some days Mom doesn’t get dressed. She wears her pajamas all day, and sometimes she doesn’t smell very good. But I don’t tell her that. I try not to tell her things that might hurt her feelings.

  And I never tell her things that might get me in trouble.

  Like once, when I was in her room, I found a knife under her pillow. I guess she’s scared of monsters too. She’s scared of a lot of things. I don’t tell her about the dead bird I saw in the school playground or about how some older boys poked at it with a stick. She might think I did it too. Then I’d get in trouble, and she might not let me go to school again.

  I like school. I feel safe there.

  Drew

  The psychiatrist moved the couch. Only by a few feet, but enough that the early-morning sun makes it difficult to see as it filters in through the slits of the open blind. I move a fraction of an inch, draping my body over the arm, leaning forward slightly to find that spot where the window frame blocks the glare. Old books stacked everywhere are to blame for the stale, musty smell in the air, and the fan rotating in the corner does nothing to cool the cramped space.

  Dr. Collins takes a seat across from me in a chair that looks as old as he is. What used to be brown leather is now just faded, cracked fabric that maintains the shape of his ass when he gets up. His green, itchy-looking sweater contradicts his need for comfort. He crosses one leg over the other.

  Slippers. Hardly professional, but it’s his office. His home. And I won’t be filling out a patient survey. It’s taken me years to get to this point. Desperately needing answers and seeking him out. Finding him wasn’t easy.

  No current website. No online presence. Almost as if he didn’t want to be found.

  But he’d slipped up. He’d kept a landline. And, lucky for me, there were only 172 Henry P. Collinses in the US phone directory.

  “Before we start, I want to reiterate what I said last week,” he says. “I’m no longer officially practicing. I see a few patients now and then, but I can’t prescribe medication . . .”

  “I’m not here for drugs.” No more drugs. Never again. Unlike before, this time my paranoia is the only thing keeping Michael and me safe.

  “Okay. Well, if you just need someone to talk to, I’m here to listen and offer some advice. Coffee?” he asks, getting up to pour himself a cup.

  Can’t he see I’m jittery enough? “No, thank you.” I scan his office, fighting the urge to leave. I shouldn’t be talking to anyone. Especially not this trained psychotherapist.

  I read the title of the book on the doctor’s desk. Inside the Evil Mind. His book. His theories. I’ve read it.

  It gave me little comfort.

  “So, last time, we talked about the accident that started your blackouts. The one that killed your husband.”

  A lie, backed by the fake death certificate I carry. One I try hard not to produce—adding more fraud to my list of sins is something I’m trying to avoid. “Yes.”

  “Have you ever heard of survivor’s guilt?”

  I shake my head, even though there’s a chapter about it in another one of his books.

  “It’s completely normal for people in a near-death experience to take on a high level of guilt after the death of a loved one, and, over the years, if the grieving process is severe enough, it can manifest into unusual behavior. Like your blackouts.”

  The body’s way of protecting itself. “The loss of time scares me. I feel responsible.”

  His head bobs up and down. He’s thrilled that I’ve confirmed his theory. “For the death of your husband.”

  I wish. My life would be so much easier if Adam were dead. In my darkest thoughts, I’ll be responsible for stealing his last breath.

  “Was anyone else harmed that night?” He pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

  I nod.

  “Another loved one?”

  I hated her. Hated every last inch of perfection. “She was part of our family.” She’d replaced me. “I didn’t like her.”

  “The guilt can be even stronger in those cases. Our feelings about a person in life don’t change because they are gone. When someone hurts us, their death doesn’t provide the closure we seek for those unresolved feelings.”

  He thinks I’m talking about hurt feelings?

  I’m talking about a slit throat.

  “It’s never too late to say sorry or offer forgiveness.”

  Isn’t it?

  “Saying the words out loud, even now, can help ease some of what you’re suffering through from lack of closure.” He’s staring at me.

  “I don’t believe in the afterlife.”

  “It’s not about them. It’s about you. Whether you believe their spirit lingers or not, you’re still here. You’re the one needing the closure. Try it.”

  Jesus. My voice seems to have vanished, but a small sound escapes my throat. “I’m sorry and I forgive you.” I’m not even sure where to look when I utter the pointless lies. I stare at my folded hands on my lap.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  The bitch who stole my life. “Catherine.” I’m not sorry she’s dead. I know killing her must have been the only choice I had. I’m not a bad person.

  “Good,” the doctor says. “Another way to relieve survivor’s guilt is by remembering the life the person had. Thinking about the good times can actually have a positive effect on grief.” He sips his coffee and winces, setting the mug aside. “Why don’t you close your eyes and think about the first time you met your husband? Remember the way you felt, the little details that stick with you.”

  Every detail sticks with me from my life with Adam. Every last one plays on repeat in my mind, except how I escaped him.

  I want to ask him if we can skip ahead, but he’s staring at me expectantly again.

  I hate doing things his way, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve had any control over my life, so I close my eyes.

  I met Adam standing in the rain outside the arrivals gate at Sea-Tac, praying my latest paintings were safe in the carry case. The ominous scattered raindrops collecting on the black canvas and slowly soaking through made my heart plummet. I was home on a break from my fine arts studies at Cooper Union in New York, and my plan of attack included stalking the owner of an art gallery in the Capitol Hill district. I’d sent him snapshots of my latest collection, and he’d absently agreed to view them. “Not complete shit, but no promises” had been his exact words, but I was eager to jump on any chance to have my work considered for a showing.

  As long as the damn things survived the trip.

  My mother was picking me up, and not seeing her at the bag carousel was a little disconcerting, though it did give me more time to adjust to being “home.”

  I checked my phone, but there were no messages from her, so I scanned the row of cars again.

  I zipped my thin jacket higher, but it did nothing to shield my sun-kissed skin from the blasts of cool wind. Strands of wet hair threatened to whip my eyes out as I continued to scan the row of cars waiting at arrivals.

  Come on, Mom! Pick any other day to be late.

  “Drew?” A man to my right touched my shoulder, and my body froze.

  Admittedly, I’m shorter than average at five foot two, but the towering height of the man next to me had me craning to see his face. Seemingly oblivious to the rain, he smiled as though the weather couldn’t touch him.

  “Yeah. Who are you?” I asked as he picked up my small suitcase from the wet ground. I didn’t care about the clothes inside getting wet; I was just desperate to keep the paintings dry. I suddenly wished I hadn’t sold the expensive leather carrier my parents had sent me for my birthday to buy three of these cheaper ones for myself and two for my art school friends.

  Visions of paint dripping down the canvas, destroying hours of soul-searching work, had me rethinking my values a little.

  “I’m Adam. Your dad couldn’t get away from the office, so he asked me to pick you up. Sorry I’m late.”

  My father was a corporate lawyer for C2 Technologies, and my mother said he’d been working around the clock lately, so I’d hoped to avoid him as much as possible . . . avoid the two of them together.

  “Drew, you okay?”

  “You work for my dad?” I knew all of his staff and colleagues. I didn’t recognize Adam.

  He grinned and nodded. “I work with Grant. Would you like to call him?” He extended a cell phone.

  I stared at it. No, I didn’t want to call him. I’d barely spoken to him in years.

  “My mother was supposed to be picking me up.”

  “Your mom’s not . . . feeling great today.”

  My blood ran cold. That meant one of two things, and I found myself hoping she was a big, drunken mess somewhere.

  “Drew?”

  “Okay, yes. I’ll go with you.”

  “Great. I’m parked just over here.”

  I followed him to a black Escalade, where he opened the trunk and put the suitcase in. I reached for the passenger-side door handle the moment he did. The warmth of his large palm covering my damp, cold, paint splatter–speckled hand sent a shock of electricity coursing through my arm. His hand was rougher than I’d expected—in a good way. Most men who looked like Adam had soft, desk-job hands. His hand was different. Hard, strong, and pleasantly rough.

  I shiver now thinking about those hands.

  Odd how my attraction to those same qualities had quickly turned to fear.

  Behind the appeal, Adam’s touch was dangerous. That brief, unintentional contact had my spine tingling, setting off a fight-or-flight instinct. And, in hindsight, I might have chosen both.

  I pulled my hand away, allowing him to open the door, and climbed in quickly, resisting the urge to check the paintings. I was private about my art, and most men like Adam didn’t understand creative expression.

  I set the carrier between my feet on the floor and tried to wipe the dampness from my cheeks and forehead. I didn’t wear makeup, so at least there was no fear of running mascara or smeared lipstick. But a quick glance in the side mirror told me my hair was too far gone for saving.

  “Your flight was okay?” he asked, starting the car. The engine purred to life, and another flick of a switch had his seat sliding forward just a fraction of an inch and the steering wheel rising a little higher.

  He looked even taller seated, and the thick, muscular thighs straining against the expensive fabric of his charcoal dress pants stole my focus for a moment. When he adjusted the mirror to run a hand quickly through his damp hair and over his face, I forgot the question. Inside the small space, his steely, cool-scented cologne swirled around in my head, in direct contrast to the warmness radiating from his aura. I was instantly attracted to everything about this stranger, even though he personified the type of man I’d sworn I didn’t want. Maybe it was because I wanted to believe that his outside appearance didn’t reflect everything he was. That there were layers to him.

  In one way, I’d been right.

  He caught my stare in my silence, and I turned my gaze away.

  Right: he’d asked about the flight. “Uneventful,” I said. The plane had hit turbulence on its descent into the Seattle area, but I actually didn’t mind the bumpy ride—there was something exciting about it, in a slightly morbid sort of way.

  “I always hope for turbulence. Makes things more exciting,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat there with my mouth open.

  “Home for the summer?”

  “Four weeks.” If my attempts to persuade the Herman Gallery to display my prints on commission failed, I’d be changing my flight for an earlier one back to New York. Being in Seattle was unsettling. As though I believed danger existed only here. That on the other side of the country I was safe.

  “So, your father tells me you’re an art major,” Adam said, pulling out into traffic.

  “Yes.” The fact that my father had told this guy anything about me was somewhat surprising. Last time I was home, some of his employees had been shocked to learn he even had a daughter.

  Adam glanced at my hands. “Painting, I assume?”

  I nodded, rubbing at a stubborn blue spot on my thumb and trying to hide my unpainted nails. I hadn’t bothered with any cosmetics in years. And the tiniest bit of debutante left in me chose that moment to raise her head and make me wish for a pale lip gloss at least. A brush . . . anything.

  “What kind of art do you do?”

  “Abstract expressionism, mostly . . .” He had no idea what I was talking about—I could tell, despite his nod.

  “The only work I’m familiar with is The Scream, by Robert Munch,” he said.