All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  My patchwork would be stitched together with late-night text sessions about bad band names or making Romeo and Juliet moderately comprehensible. Pivotal moments, I like to tell her, but minus my declaration of being in love with her, I’ve kept the mention of life-defining people to myself. Lennon was my life-defining person. And now she’s gone.

  I’m sprawled on the bed, facing the lamp, debating turning it on, then off a few times like she does. Maybe I’d feel connected to her, because she could be doing the exact same thing. She could be giving the light switch at Willow Recovery Center the royal treatment of fifty-five rituals of five. I brush the thought off as ridiculous, though, and as soon as I do that, the screen of my phone illuminates with a gentle vibration.

  There’s a message from an unknown number.

  Borrowing a phone so don’t reply, just to be safe. I miss you. Play the gig and you can show me videos when I bust out of here. You can do it, Kyler.…XOXO, Lennon

  Don’t reply.

  Telling me not to reply equates to torture, but I don’t want to risk getting her in trouble.

  To obey, I’m forced to either sit on my fingers or find something else to do, so I set the phone down and head to my desk. I used to write every day, all the time, but since she left, my muse is gone, or maybe it’s hibernating. Some of the thick paper remains from Jacob and me building airplanes, so I grab a sheet and place my pen on its surface.

  The words come fast, so rushed, that the sides of my hands and fingers get stained with blue ink that has no chance to dry before I drag my fingers to form the next sentence.

  The night is blinded by your wonder,

  So it steals you from my grasp,

  These walls we’ve built came tumbling down,

  Our wills were caving fast.

  So wash away the world we’ve built,

  But please don’t let them break you,

  Brace yourself, you gotta fight,

  Don’t let the thoughts control you.

  There’s a knock at my door followed by a swoosh of air as my mother, who doesn’t wait for a response, enters the room. In her hands, an offering: peanut butter cookies and milk. My favorite. My vision grazes the paper, which I slide underneath a stack. I’ll decide later if they’ll make the lyrical cut or if they’re hipster coffee coasters.

  My mom comes closer, sets the plate of cookies and the mug of milk next to me. “Mind if I stay for a minute?”

  I nod. “Be my guest.”

  She smooths her hands over her jeans and turns to sit on the edge of my bed. I take a cookie and dip it into the milk. She brought it in a mug, which is perfect because the cookies always fit.

  Before I take another bite, I hold up my half cookie. “Thank you for the baked goods.”

  “I’m a little worried about you, sunshine.”

  Sunshine. Her nickname for me since childhood and a surefire indicator we’re about to embark on a journey of serious conversation. The cookies were bribery, so I’d allow our talk to happen.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I assure her. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” she says, shaking her head.

  Any resolve I had to argue that I am, in fact, fine dissipates. It’s exhausting to pretend, anyway, so I look at my mom. “Fine. I’m not fine. Josh thinks I’m an asshole capable of doing something like that to Lennon. I don’t know how to prove I didn’t.”

  “Well, maybe it’s best you leave it alone, Kyler, at least for the time being. Josh is navigating unfamiliar waters, and he’s only doing what he thinks is right for his child.” Her face softens, but she doesn’t pause. “I’d do the same for you, sunshine. Believe me, you’re young, and so full of questions about life, about yourself, about this girl. I know sometimes it must feel to you like she’s the only person in the world, and that’s fine, but I’m not sure it’s worth poking an angry bear over.”

  “It’s worth being mauled by an angry bear over.” My appetite for the cookies is waning. I’d better eat fast. “We’re talking about my upstanding reputation,” I add, trying to crack a joke. “I hate that anyone thinks I’d do that to her.”

  “Anyone who thinks you’d do such a thing isn’t someone you want on your side, anyway.”

  She’s right with one major exception. Josh. I want Josh on my side.

  “I know you’re feeling out of sorts, sunshine. I remember my first love, Thomas. He was a linebacker on the high school football team, a real charmer, and when we broke up, I wasn’t so sure the pain would ever end. I cried myself to sleep for weeks.”

  “Not to lessen your experience, Mom, but remember who you’re talking to. I’m not Mae,” I point out. “Zero chance I’m crying myself to sleep. But I miss her.” I find myself clenching my jaw. “I miss her and I won’t apologize for it and we didn’t break up,” I say flatly. “Her wicked stepsister framed me for a crime I did not commit, then her father whisked her away to some treatment facility and cut off any contact with her.”

  She speaks quickly to oblige me. “I know you didn’t break up per se, but you’re still apart.” She stops and folds her hands together. “When I went to Paris, when you were little, I learned this. When the French miss someone they say, ‘Tu me manques,’ which translates to ‘You are missing from me.’ That kind of pain runs far deeper than we all want to recognize.”

  I smirk at her. “You sure you didn’t see that on Facebook, Mom? I’ve seen that on Facebook.”

  She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile behind it. “It’s on Facebook because it’s true.”

  “Totally. Must be.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re still you. My point is, when someone is taken from you with no justification or reasonable cause, it’s worse. But there is a justification here, sweetie, and that’s what I’m trying to make you see.”

  “Nothing justifies keeping two people apart who want to be together.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I shove the last morsel of my cookie in my mouth and nod. “Go for it.”

  “You love her? Do you really love her?”

  I nod.

  “Then I want you to think about that girl, your Lennon. Bless her heart. She lost everything. Poor thing must be traumatized, and I want you to be careful.”

  “We’re all traumatized, Mom. There’s no need for me to be careful with Lennon. She’s a lot less fragile and a lot more awesome than you’re giving her credit for.”

  She rises to her feet, her socks shuffling across the bamboo floors. When she gets close enough, she extends her hand to the left side of my face. Mom only does this when I’m upset or she’s had a glass of wine and is taking a walk down memory lane. I don’t mean to, but I grimace. “I have to worry about you, because we both know you won’t worry about yourself.”

  “If you’re so worried, then help me,” I plead. “Can’t you talk to Josh or something? Tell him to be reasonable?”

  “I know right now being away from her feels unbearable. I know that. But sometimes, the best thing you can do is give things time. You care about this girl. Give her the time she needs to recover. She’s smart enough to love you. I believe she’ll find her way back to you. Be patient. Try not to create unnecessary tension.” She pats my knee. “Take my word for it.”

  Be patient.

  Two words that feel impossible.

  FACT: TRYING TO REASON WITH A MIDDLE-AGED MAN IS

  VERY SIMILAR TO TRYING TO DEAL WITH A PETULANT TODDLER.

  MY PERKS COME WITH ONE ultimate, cruel caveat. Whereas, every other patient at Willow Recovery Center is offered family visits, cell phones, and internet access, I’m afforded but one. Courtesy of my father. Petra, the liaison between the doctors and patients—sorry, clients, as Willow likes to say—in our wing advised me yesterday that my dad thinks it’s best for me not to have access to social media. I informed Petra that I think it’s best for me not to have access to my dad. But Jacob, he was another story. Dr. Linderman mentioned he was upset when I left, which was
why he wanted to send his cape. I owed him a visit, so here I sit, with Jacob’s cape folded on my nightstand.

  I can’t say there’s any special interest in seeing my dad, because the only person I want to see more than Jacob is Kyler, but he’s better equipped for my absence than Jake and I can’t ignore that, so after Cecilia and I had breakfast this morning, I showered and even put makeup on. I want to show my dad this is unnecessary. I don’t need to be here. I want to show him I can function again. As long as I never have to return to Bel Air Learning Academy.

  I’m resting on my bed, gazing at my paper plane, when Jacob races into the room, his black cape sailing behind him, clutching an airplane of his own instead of his camera. Held high above his head, it swerves and dives through the air.

  This is accompanied by airplane noises that come to an abrupt halt a foot away from me. “Lennon!” Jacob exclaims. “I miss you!”

  “I miss you, too, bud.”

  He sets the plane down on my bed and races to throw his arms around me. I hug him back and wish I could just keep him tucked away with me. “How’s being a hero coming along?” I ask him.

  Claire and my dad enter the room, and even with Jacob’s little arms around my neck, I feel a twinge of anger when I see my father’s face.

  Jacob unlatches his limbs from my neck and peers at me intently. “It’s going okay, but I need a sidekick and Andi isn’t great.”

  I bite back a laugh. “Right. That makes sense.”

  “Is this your room?” he wants to know.

  “Yep. Not as nice as my room at home,” I lie, “but it does the trick.”

  Claire smiles. Her heels click on the tile floor as she takes a seat on one of the two small armchairs. She reaches in her large purse and pulls out a Ziploc bag filled with Lego pieces. “Jacob, here you go.” Jacob eagerly retrieves the Lego pieces and makes himself comfortable on my bed.

  “I’m going to build you something, Lennon.”

  I smile. “Thanks, Jake.”

  Claire clears her throat. “Lennon, sweetie, there’s something your daddy and I wanted to talk to you about.”

  My dad stiffens his spine.

  Uh-oh.

  My stomach flips before Claire comprehends the expression on my face and hurries over to touch my shoulder. “Oh no! It’s nothing bad.”

  I shake my head and look fixedly at my father.

  Claire sucks in a breath. “You are under no obligation, but my agent thought it may be a valuable idea if we could use my platform to raise awareness about OCD when you’re back home. Kind of like damage control, I suppose.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

  This is what Claire says to me when she repeats herself:

  “My agent, Dan, he thinks having you move in with us, despite the dire circumstances, could work to our advantage. I mean, it’s a wonderful opportunity to promote awareness. Help people like you. Perhaps an interview or an event like that. You shouldn’t be ashamed of yourself, Lennon.”

  I can’t, knowing Claire, imagine she doesn’t believe what she’s saying. She’s not hurtful by any measure, and I think she thinks it would help. Yet I gawk at her. Speechless. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be me. A nightmare that was wholly mine for so long. Only a handful of people knew of my OCD until the incident at school. It was a secret I struggled every day to keep, because more and more it defined me, so it’s not something I want to go on national television to talk about after being torn up and humiliated at school.

  People fear things they don’t know, and I’m a human version of some complex mathematical equation that only a few people ever truly understand.

  Kyler was the first new person, medical professionals aside, that I’d spoken to about my OCD in ages. He’s good at the math of me.

  “I’m not sure I’d want to do that,” I tell Claire honestly. I decide not to tell her that I’m sure I don’t.

  She seems disappointed, picking at her cuticles, but she forces a tender look. “Well, it’s not anything you need to decide now. But it’s an option. It may help bring understanding to your peers. Maybe we can talk about it with Dr. Waxman at our family therapy session next week.”

  “I don’t want understanding from them,” I cut in. “I’m absolutely not going back to that school.”

  My dad blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Never again,” I say in case he didn’t hear me the first time. “I don’t care if I need home schooling or a two-hour bus ride to attend a different school. I’d rather die than go back to Bel Air Learning Academy.”

  Dad’s face falls. “That’s extreme, Bug. We were talking to some of the officials at the school, they mentioned putting you on an individualized plan, making sure there was someone you could talk to once a week. A school of such caliber can offer you better resources.”

  “By making me more of an outcast than I am already?”

  “Lennon,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that’s not what I meant. We’re trying to help you.”

  Jacob finishes his Lego masterpiece, which looks like a large tower. He holds it out proudly. “It’s a trophy.”

  I force a grin, despite my irritation with my father. “It’s perfect, Jake, thanks.”

  The bed shifts as he leaves it. He has the Lego tower in one hand and his plane in the other, and he marches to my desk to place them both down. “Jacob,” I warn, my eyes darting to the side. “Don’t mess up my stuff.”

  His finger dances along the edges of my folded plane. “I won’t,” he says. “I know the cold in your brain makes you need things a certain way. I really like your plane. You did a great job.”

  I return my attention to my father, gritting my teeth because I want to scream at him. “Forget learning plans and school counselors. I’m not going back there. You can’t make me.”

  This is absurd. He could make me. But he won’t. “We can talk about this later.”

  “Let’s talk about it now, Dad,” I say. “I mean, you want me to feel normal, but you’ve taken away the first person I’ve ever felt normal with, and now this. They told me you decided I couldn’t have my phone or internet access.” I glare at him. “I can’t even text him.”

  Jacob is staring out the window, probably wishing he could escape the conversation. My dad scowls. “We’re not having this discussion, Lennon.”

  “We’re not not speaking about it, Dad. If you feel that strongly about it, you should be prepared to defend your actions.”

  “There’s a more appropriate time to have this talk. This isn’t it.”

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, time is in short supply. Since you had me locked up, there are certain times for visitors, so when would be a good time to talk about it?”

  Claire looks uneasy. She’s chewing her lower lip, running through her options. Does she defuse the situation, or does she remove Jacob before this heated conversation turns into full-on war? Maternal instincts must kick in, because she grabs Jacob by the elbow. “Jake, your mama is hungry. Why don’t we go get something to eat real fast so Lennon and your daddy can talk? I saw a taco place not far from here.”

  Jacob looks at me. “I don’t want to go.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” I say.

  Wordlessly, he rises to his feet and grabs Claire’s hand, leaving his paper airplane behind.

  I wait long enough for the door to swing shut behind them before I look at my dad to deliver what I hope will be an Oscar-winning speech.

  “Dad, please don’t do this. Don’t keep him from me.”

  I’m not presented the opportunity to say more than that before he interrupts. “Lennon. You have a lot on your plate. You’re young, you lost your mother, you struggle with this”—he pauses—“this thing in your mind I’m trying to understand. You’re my daughter. You’re so much like your mom and I feel the need to protect you, bug. I’m sorry if that includes telling you things you don’t want to hear, but I don’t think access to social media, or quite fra
nkly your cell phone, is a positive option for you right now.”

  “He didn’t do what you think he did,” I say.

  Dad rises from the bed and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You claim he isn’t the one who shared your confidential medical records with your entire school,” he says. “Who do you propose did something like that?”

  I give him a look like he’s a fool. “Is that a trick question?”

  Dad’s eyebrows draw together, pointing into a V at the bridge of his nose. “You can’t honestly be asking me to believe Andrea did this.”

  “You can’t honestly not believe it. She hates me, Dad.”

  “Andrea is a lot of things,” my dad says. “She’s uptight and spoiled and entitled, but she is not a terrible person, Lennon. She has issues of her own, and I’d like to think I’ve known her long enough that I can say she wouldn’t do that to someone. Her exterior is hard, but she has a heart.”

  I. Am. Speechless. This can’t be happening. I refuse to believe my dad is that blind to something so obvious.

  He’s looking at me, and I know he must register the expression of shock on my face, because I can feel my mouth gaping open, and I’m sure my eyes are giant orbs shooting lasers of disbelief.

  “I—I—I don’t even know what to say. I can’t believe you think he did this.”

  “That kid, Lennon, is nothing but trouble. His father is a first-class prick who I tolerate for Claire’s sake. His son is the kind who struggles with authority. He’s an angry, damaged young man.”

  I feel my bottom lip tremble. My eyes well with tears. “He’s not like that at all,” I tell my dad. “You’re not even close. He’s smart and funny and talented and kind, and he may be a lot of things, Dad, but he’s not a monster. News flash: Everyone is damaged. And if they’re not, it’s because they don’t have a pulse.”

  My father’s shoulders heave. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he says.

  “I can handle no social media. I just want to talk to him. There’s a lot of schools.” My mind is spinning, unable to keep thoughts in any comprehensible order, so they’re tumbling out in mumbled chaos. My heart rate is accelerating. I’m gripped with fear. If I can’t talk to him…“Why can’t you send me to a different school? There’s public school, I can go there.”