Every Little Piece of Me

by Amy Jones

  ALSO BY AMY JONES

  We’re All in This Together (2016)

  What Boys Like (2009)

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Jones

  McClelland & Stewart and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House Canada Limited.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data is available upon request

  ISBN: 9780771050671

  Ebook ISBN 9780771050695

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, social media handles, companies, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The epigraph from Anne Carson is taken from her preface “Tragedy:

  A Curious Art Form,” which appears in Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides (New York Review of Books, 2006). Copyright © 2006 by Anne Carson.

  Reprinted by permission of United Talent Agency.

  “Piece of Me” Words and Music by Christian Karlsson, Pontus Winnberg and Klas

  Ahlund Copyright © 2007 by Crosstown Songs UK Ltd. and Universal Music

  Publishing MGB Scandinavia AB. All Rights for Crosstown Songs UK Ltd.

  Administered by Music Of Windswept. All Rights for Universal Music Publishing

  MGB Scandinavia AB in the U.S. and Canada Administered by. Universal Music—MGB Songs International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC.

  Text and cover design by Kelly Hill

  Cover images: woman © Jeff Bergen/Getty Images; flare effect © I am Kulz/Shutterstock; frame © Milos Djapovic / Shutterstock; texture © Here/Shutterstock.

  Typeset in Berling by M&S, Toronto

  McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v5.3.2

  a

  For my husband, Andrew F. Sullivan, who lived with me while I wrote this book and somehow still wanted to marry me.

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Amy Jones

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Mags: November 2014

  Part One

  Ava: March 2009

  Mags: January 2009

  Ava: June 2009

  Mags: May 2009

  Ava: June 2010

  Mags: August 2010

  Ava: January 2012

  Mags: January 2012

  Part Two

  Ava: March 2013

  Mags: July 2013

  Ava: June 2014

  Mags: February 2014

  Ava: June 2014

  Mags: July 2014

  Part Three

  Ava: November 2014

  Mags: February 2015

  Ava: February 2015

  Mags: Friday, 6:34 p.m.

  Ava: Friday, 9:08 p.m.

  Mags: Saturday, 10:56 a.m.

  Ava: Saturday, 4:30 p.m.

  Mags: Sunday, 8:30 a.m.

  Ava: Sunday, 11:56 a.m.

  Mags: Sunday, 4:45 p.m.

  Ava: Monday, 12:34 a.m.

  Acknowledgements

  Discussion Questions for Every Little Piece of Me

  Why does tragedy exist?

  Because you are full of rage.

  Why are you full of rage?

  Because you are full of grief.

  — ANNE CARSON

  You want a piece of me?

  — BRITNEY SPEARS

  Mags

  November 2014

  “Barometer”

  Mags hadn’t expected the club to be so crowded. The band’s previous shows in New York had been sparsely attended. But Align Above’s new album had dropped a few weeks before, and tonight there was an electricity in the air, something that she couldn’t explain. In the green room she drank half a fifth of whiskey and smoked three joints before stumbling on stage in a haze, her body hot and cold at the same time, her skin sweaty and goose-pimpled.

  “I’m fine,” she told Emiko, her manager, who held Mags’s face in both her hands and stared into her eyes like she was trying to see into the future. “This is what I need. This is what I do.”

  She sang. She knows she must have, because people were cheering—so many people, the audience a big blur of colour in front of her, pulsing with vague outlines of human forms. Adrift, she locked eyes with a beautiful Asian boy while she was singing “Barometer”—a song she had written about Sam, so new she had only ever played it live once before—and she was surprised to see that he was singing along, gazing at her with such naked adoration that it made her shiver. “You will rise, I will rise, we will rise, like a barometer,” she sang, and his mouth moved with hers, almost as though he was claiming her voice somehow, making the words his own in a way that momentarily startled her, her hand dropping from the mic, her voice fading out before the end of the line.

  After the show, she found him in the hallway outside the green room, waiting for her. He was just a kid, a scruffy teenager with doe eyes and expensive sneakers, a forelock of hair sweeping down across his brow. But she could feel the relentless pull of the pit, that gaping maw of a comedown she ran from at the end of every show, so she pressed herself up against him, the contours of his body meeting hers in a way that was familiar and yet unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s shoes.

  “Do you have somewhere we could go?” she asked, lips inches from his ear, which fluttered almost imperceptibly as she breathed against it.

  “I have my own place,” he said, and she could feel the newness of those words in his mouth, how good it felt for him to say them.

  They were in the Uber by the time she started second-guessing herself, realizing too late he wasn’t even close to what she wanted. But it wasn’t until they got to his apartment and she saw all the video cameras that she knew she’d made a huge mistake.

  “I’m not a pervert or a weirdo, I swear,” he said, his doe eyes clouding over with worry as she inched toward the door. “It’s this stupid reality show I’m on. They leave the cameras set up all the time.”

  “Reality show?” Mags was sobering up, and all she could see were blinking lights, red and green and blue, cables tangling across the floor like tussling snakes. She suddenly felt as though the entire world was watching her, as if they could see through the eye of the lens right into the depths of her soul.

  “They’re not on right now, I promise,” the boy said. “See?” He picked up a cable attached to a camera and showed her the dangling end. Mags realized the blinking lights were all in her head. “There’s a schedule. They’re only on when the crew is here.”

  Mags stepped toward the camera tentatively, as if it were a wild animal she wanted to feed from her hand. She touched the top of the lens, which was coated with a fine layer of dust, and blew the dust away gently. “That doesn’t seem very real,” she said.

  The boy laughed nervously. “It’s not,” he said. “There’s nothing real about reality television, trust me.”

  She moved around the room, feeling the boy’s eyes on her. At least the reality show explained the apartment—sparsely but tastefully furnished, with high ceilings and exposed brick, a pool table at one end of the
living room and an entire row of expensive guitars lining the opposite wall. She wandered over and picked one up, strumming it before realizing it was a vintage Gibson Les Paul Standard Sunburst. And it was signed.

  “Eric Clapton,” the boy said, shrugging. “I got it at an auction last year.”

  Mags ran her fingers over the strings. It probably cost more than all of Align Above’s equipment combined. But the boy didn’t seem to care—he hadn’t rushed over to grab it from her, hadn’t kept it under lock and key. “Do you actually play this?” she asked.

  “What’s the point of a guitar if you don’t play it?” He took it from her and began strumming softly. Oh no, thought Mags, please don’t. But then he started singing, his voice soft and earnest, and she could do nothing but sit there, helplessly listening, not knowing whether she should laugh or cry. At least it wasn’t one of her songs—from what she could tell, it was something he had written himself, probably during a period when he was listening to a lot of melancholy stuff, Bon Iver or The National. When he stopped singing, she smiled at him, and before he could launch into his next number, she kissed him, the guitar pressed between them, the strings mashed up against her belly.

  Later, Mags got up from the boy’s bed in the dark and walked naked to the bathroom, keeping the water cool as she splashed it over her face, avoiding her own red eyes in the mirror. Walked back through the apartment, head jumbled, running her hands over the exposed brick, heading toward the balcony to see those lights of Tribeca, wondering what it must be like to live here, to live this life.

  Before Mags made it halfway across the living room she saw her, through the glass doors of the balcony—a woman wearing only a T-shirt and underwear, climbing up onto the parapet, her pale skin scraping across the concrete as she stood up on the ledge. Mags grabbed a blanket from the couch, scratchy and wool but big enough to cover herself, and rushed to the balcony, the wind hurtling itself at her as she hauled open the doors, all rust and smog.

  As soon as the doors opened she realized she had no idea what to do. She tried to remember how high up they were—four storeys, five? Surely high enough.

  “Hello,” Mags said quietly.

  The woman turned to face her, and Mags realized she was still a girl, really, barely out of her teens. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Her eyes were a startling blue, her hair white-blonde and cut close to her head in a haphazard way that made Mags think she had done it herself. Her T-shirt had a picture of a fairy on it, possibly a cartoon character from a television show Mags had never seen. Even as she balanced there on the parapet, she stood with her back straight, her hand on her hip, her head angled at a perfect, fashion-model 45 degrees as she regarded Mags through mildly inquisitive eyes.

  “It’s you,” the woman said. She dragged both her hands down her thighs as though she were drying off sweaty palms. For a moment, Mags thought she was going to reach out to shake her hand, but instead she crossed her arms over her chest, cutting off the head of the cartoon fairy. “What are you doing here?”

  Mags didn’t say anything for a minute, afraid the truth might push this woman over the edge. “Are you planning on jumping?” she asked instead.

  The woman dipped her toe off the ledge, her eyes drawn to the street below. Then she pulled her toe back and turned to face Mags again. “Are you naked under that blanket?”

  Mags glanced down at her round calves and bare feet sticking out of the bottom of the blanket, which hung just above her knees. “I guess when I saw you climb up on that ledge, finding clothes wasn’t exactly my first priority.”

  Narrowing her eyes, the woman crossed her arms tighter over her chest. “You slept with Val,” she said.

  Val. Mags knew the boy’s name, but it was so much easier to think of him as “the boy,” as if he were the only one. But now. Val. She nodded.

  “Good for you. My brother loves you, you know. The show tonight was the only thing he could talk about for weeks.”

  “He’s your brother?” Mags asked.

  “We’re both adopted,” the woman said. “Everyone knows this. You know this.” She paused. “Or maybe you thought I was his girlfriend.”

  “No,” said Mags, realizing she hadn’t. But she didn’t want to talk about Val anymore. And she was sick of talking about herself. Sick of herself in all kinds of ways. Maybe just sick. “Can we get back to talking about why you’re standing on that ledge?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m going to jump,” the woman said, without drama, without pathos. I’m. Going. To. Jump.

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Very sure.” She spread her arms wide, an eagle about to take flight.

  Mags thought about all the things she could say. No. Don’t do it. You have so much to live for. But did she? How could she know? “What’s your name?” she asked instead, stalling.

  The woman stared at her, her body silhouetted against the New York skyline, backlit by the lights from a thousand different windows, a thousand different lives being lived. Then she started to laugh, a huge, aching belly laugh that Mags worried would propel her off the edge through the sheer force of its kickback. When she finally stopped laughing, she looked out over the city again. It was like a switch had flipped, and she was back to thinking about whatever it was that called to her.

  “It’s Ava,” she said. “You might be the only person in New York who doesn’t know that.”

  Mags moved toward the ledge and hoisted herself up, swinging her legs over, sitting next to Ava’s feet. “Do you smoke, Ava?” she asked.

  “Gross, no.”

  “Too bad,” said Mags. “This would be a good time to have one. You know, one last smoke before…” She gave a low, descending whistle and made a diving gesture with her hands.

  “Wait,” Ava said, balancing herself on one leg. “Isn’t smoking bad for your voice?”

  Bad for your voice. How many times had Mags heard that over the past few months? And not just about the smoking, which she had only recently taken up again, but about all the other things she had recently taken up too. As though her voice was the only part of her worth preserving, the only thing that mattered. “My husband died four months ago,” Mags said, fingering the edge of the blanket.

  “I know,” Ava said. “I read about it somewhere.”

  The back of Mags’s legs were cold against the concrete ledge. Below her, she could see a couple standing by the curb, their arms wrapped around each other as they tried to hail a cab. It seemed like such a mundane thing, standing on a street corner, going out together, going home. How little she had thought about those things when she had them. “His name was Sam. He was our bassist.”

  Ava brushed her toe against a pebble on the ledge, sending it down to the sidewalk. The couple, still locked in their embrace, didn’t notice as it landed a few feet away from them. “How did you get through it?” she asked.

  “I didn’t,” Mags said, without hesitation. “I’ve basically been drunk since the funeral.”

  “How inspiring.”

  “I’m not trying to be inspiring, I’m just telling you the truth.” Mags pulled the blanket tighter around her. “My husband died and I wanted to die too. But I didn’t. I went back to work. Because that’s what people do. Put one foot in front of the other and keep going.”

  “So you did get through it,” Ava said.

  Had she? “I’m not sure I did.”

  “You’re here, though.”

  “Yeah.” Below them, the couple disentangled, the woman laughing at something the man had said. “I don’t know. I’m not sure you ever get over something like that. It becomes a part of you. The grief will just always be a part of who you are. I’ll always be the woman whose husband died of cancer.”

  “At least you’ll be something.” Ava began swinging her leg like a pendulum over the parapet. Mags’s stomach swung with it. “I am nothing. I don’t even exist without those.” Still balanced on one leg, she turned and swept her hand back to the row of cameras standing
sentinel on the other side of the glass door. The momentum caused her to stumble, shuffling sideways on her standing foot until her swinging one found the concrete once more.

  Almost involuntarily, Mags reached out and grabbed Ava’s ankle, the skin surprisingly warm against her hand. “Will you sit down? It would make me feel a hell of a lot better.”

  “I’m the one trying to kill myself,” Ava said, lowering herself down onto the ledge. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better.”

  With Ava sitting beside her, Mags could finally see her face. Wide-set blue eyes, tiny nose, reddish cheeks. A baby. Someone whose heart could be crushed by the slightest touch, a fontanelle not yet closed over. And yet, as Mags studied her more closely, she saw the firm set of Ava’s chin, the glint of steel in her eyes, the rigidity of her fingers as she gripped the edge of the parapet. Even shivering there on the balcony, Ava was so much stronger than she first appeared. Still, something had broken through all of that.

  “You’re not nothing,” Mags said. “You can be anything you want to be.”

  Ava laughed. “Come on. Don’t sell me that line. You’re not a network executive.”

  “Sorry, I’ve never tried to talk someone down from a literal ledge before.” Mags paused. “Is it a guy?” she asked, somehow already knowing the answer.

  Ava didn’t say anything, just pulled her knees up to her chest. Along the top of her left foot, Mags could see more than a dozen cuts in varying states of healing, too perfectly spaced and measured to be anything other than purposeful. Higher up, on her shin, just above her ankle, was a much more ragged gash that appeared to be brand new.

  Ava caught Mags’s gaze and covered the top of her foot with her hand. “Can you pass me my wine?” she asked, nodding toward a glass a few feet away on the ledge. Mags passed it to her wordlessly, with a vague hope that she might drink enough to pass out. But instead, Ava took the glass and overturned it, pouring the wine over the side of the balcony.

  “What are you doing?” Mags said.