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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NORMA FOX MAZER
“Mazer is one of the best of the practitioners writing for young people today.” —The New York Times
“It’s not hard to see why Norma Fox Mazer has found a place among the most popular writers for young adults these days.” —The Washington Post Book World
A, My Name Is Ami
“A satisfying novel about the ups and downs of 12-year-old Ami’s relationship with her best friend Mia … The writing is light but consistently sensitive and realistic, as the joys and disasters of the characters flow towards a moving and memorable ending.” —School Library Journal
“The atmosphere and the girls are right on target.… An accurate slice of teenage life.” —Publishers Weekly
B, My Name Is Bunny
“[Bunny] is a likeable, true-to-life character who hates her name and wants to be a professional clown. Her friendship with Emily is the source and depth of this simple story of two teenagers learning about life … [a] story of growth and acceptance with accurate of two teenagers learning about life … [a] story of growth and acceptance with accurate and touching emotions.” —School Library Journal
C, My Name Is Cal
“Deftly sketched … Mazer’s skill in telling the reader more about Cal than he knows about himself, while narrating Cal’s unique, taciturn voice, is especially memorable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Readers will recognize themselves.” —Booklist
Dear Bill, Remember Me?
A New York Times Notable Book and a Kirkus Choice
“Highly accomplished short stories, variously funny and moving, about ordinary, contemporary girls and their relationships with mothers or boyfriends.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Eight short stories, powerful and poignant, about young women at critical points in their lives.” —The New York Times
“Stories that are varied in mood and style and alike in their excellence.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
Summer Girls, Love Boys
“Featuring female protagonists, the stories mix the bitter and the sweet of life while encompassing a variety of narrative techniques, settings, themes, and tones.… Mazer writes honestly and provocatively of human emotion and circumstances while she demonstrates her versatility as a writer.” —Booklist
Good Night, Maman
“Mazer writers with a simplicity that personalizes the history.… Direct … honest.” —Booklist, starred review
Missing Pieces
Norma Fox Mazer
ONE
The Disappearing Dude
When I was small, my mother always began my favorite story by saying, “This is the story of my life, Jessie. It starts when I was a little girl, just like you.”
Sitting on her lap and staring up into her face, I was amazed to think that my big, soft mommy had once been a child, too.
“I had a mother and a father,” my mother continued, “and everything was nice until I was nine years old. My father went fishing on a big lake, Oneida Lake, and a storm came up, and the wind blew and there were big waves.”
“How big?” I asked.
“Big, Jessie! Big! My father didn’t know how to swim, and he wasn’t wearing a life jacket. The boat went over and he drowned. Jeez!”
She always said jeez like that when she got upset. I petted her cheek and said I would never get drowned and make her sad. She hugged me close, and I snuggled in, because now the story got even sadder.
“My mother got married again,” she went on, “and you know, her husband was my stepfather, right? Well, he didn’t like me. Every day it was, ‘Maribeth, you make too much noise. Maribeth, shut your big mouth. Maribeth, you are a brat.’”
“But your mama loved you,” I said.
“Yes, she did.”
“Just like you love me.”
“Then my mother got cancer and died. Now, don’t cry,” she said quickly. “Are you going to cry?”
I shook my head hard. “You won’t die, will you, Mama?”
“Not for a long, long time, sweetie. Not till I’m an old bent lady with no teeth.” She showed me her teeth. “See how strong they are?”
“Will Aunt Zis die? Her teeth aren’t so strong.”
“She won’t die for a long, long time, either.”
“Promise?” I would sit there, my four-year-old heart beating fast, waiting to hear her promise, as if her words alone could keep her and Aunt Zis safe.
“Want me to stop, Jessie? Are you getting too upset, baby?”
“No! Keep telling.” It was a thrilling story, scarier, sadder, and much better than any of the stories Aunt Zis read me at night, which were usually about bunnies and bears.
“After my mother died, my stepfather told me he was going to move to Denver. He had a son there, from when he was married before. He didn’t want to take me with him. He didn’t exactly say that, but he told me he didn’t know how he got stuck with a fourteen-year-old girl.”
The part about Denver and the son was a little confusing, but I knew what came next. “You said, ‘I don’t want to go with you.’ And he said, ‘Well, hell, that’s fine with me, but you better find somebody to live with.’”
“You got it. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Who could I live with? I didn’t have anyone. Then—”
“I know! I know!” I sat up, excited. “Just like in a fairy tale, you remembered that your mama had an aunt!”
“And she lived in New York City. But how was I going to find her? New York City! One of the biggest cities in the whole world. Millions of people, Jessie. It was a miracle I found her. And you know what she did?”
“What?” I knew, but I wanted to hear my mother say it.
“She got right on the train and came up here. Day one, I talked to her. Day two, she was here. Day three, she said to my stepfather, ‘Go! We don’t need you.’ She rescued me. She saved my life. She didn’t have to do that, did she? She could have said, ‘Sorry. I’m not a young woman. No fourteen-year-old girls for me, either.’”
“But she didn’t say it!” I quickly kissed my mother.
“And you know something else she could have said? ‘Maribeth, you come live with me in New York City.’”
“Anybody else would have said that.” I said it before my mother could, and I got another hug for remembering.
“Aunt Zis said I didn’t need to change schools and cities and friends, besides everything else. She said I’d had enough stuff in my life, we would just live right here.”
“And so you did! Now tell me the James Wells part.”
My mother took a breath. “I was seventeen, and one day I met this guy in a record store and—”
“This guy in a record store who had a big voice, like me,” I reminded her.
“Right.”
“And beautiful eyebrows, like me.”
“What else?”
“Strong as a little horse.”
She nodded. “He worked in lots of countries, on highways and bridges. He worked in Canada, Brazil, Saudi Arabia. He had two leather jackets and a BMW. He once paid fifty dollars for a silk tie. When he got dressed up, he looked like a prince!”
“And then you got married to the prince, even though Aunt Zis didn’t want you to, so young, and you were beautiful.”
“Uh-huh. And then he wanted to buy a house, one of those brick ones with three fireplaces and three garages and three bathrooms. Don’t I wish! But I found this little old house, which is so great, and all we could afford, anyway.”
“Our hou
se,” I said with satisfaction. “And you moved in, and I was born, and I was wonderful.”
“One hundred percent right on the mark! And then one day—”
I couldn’t wait for her to say it. “James Wells said, ‘I’m going out for a while.’”
“Uh-huh. And I said, ‘Where are you going?’ And he looked at his watch and said—”
“‘Nowhere special, be back in a few hours.’” This always hit my funny bone. “Nowhere special, be back in a few hours! But he never came back and you cried for three days!”
One day I added, “Because he was James Wells, the disappearing dude.”
“Where’d you get that, you cutie? Zis,” my mother called to my aunt, “did you hear what this child just said?” She couldn’t stop laughing, and the disappearing dude became part of the story, too.
For years, my mother told me that story. For years, I loved it, and I listened, crying and laughing at all the right moments. Well, I was small. I was a child. Not that I’m an adult now, but I am fourteen, and it’s different. I don’t ask for the story anymore, and if my mother does refer to it, I hear it differently. It seems to me there’s something left out—it’s like a frame without a picture. The frame is intricate, carved, full of detail, but in the center is an emptiness. Something is missing: James Wells. Who he was, what he was like, why he left us. Why he left me.
TWO
The Tiniest Punctuation Mark in the World
I was in the attic, looking around, thinking I might find an old blouse of my mother’s that would be fun to wear to school. I sorted through boxes, opened and closed drawers, sneezing from the dust. I was ready to leave when I saw an edge of something metallic poking out of the back of a bureau drawer. I pulled at it, but it was jammed in tight. I got the pliers from the toolbox and pulled out a brass buckle engraved with the letters JW. I thought, Jessie Wells. Then I knew. JW. James Wells. I was astonished to be holding something that had belonged to him.
I went downstairs and polished the buckle and thought about James Wells choosing it, having the initials engraved, paying for it, taking it home. I imagined him fastening it to his belt, looking at himself in the mirror. I tried to see the expression on his face, but the fact was I didn’t know what he looked like. Strong as a little horse. High cheekbones, I decided, and … long hair. He’d wear a big hat, a string tie, jeans. Was that James Wells? Why not? He could be anything I wanted him to be. He could be smart or dumb. A hero or a bum. The pliers had scratched the buckle—would he be angry if he knew, or would he laugh it off?
I dropped the buckle into the pocket of my winter jacket, let it drop out of my mind. But I started noticing disappearance stories again. The summer I was ten, I’d kept a scrapbook of them. Not just people—cars, cats, and dogs qualified, too. I remember one story that impressed me. CAT DISAPPEARS FROM HOME, REAPPEARS ONE YEAR LATER IN TREE. At the time I thought maybe the cat had been in the tree the whole year, which, in cat time, would have been seven years. I’d imagined him watching for seven cat years as his humans searched for him. Cat sense of humor. Or maybe he did get lost, and it took him seven cat years to find his way home. Cat persistence. I liked that even better.
People were always disappearing. Falling out of the world. You could say my family had a talent for it. Sometimes, like James Wells, they dropped out of sight with a lie and a smile and no reasons. Sometimes they disappeared and only the reasons remained, like ribbons or flags in the wind. My mother’s father drowning because he was careless and didn’t wear a life jacket. My mother’s mother dying because, well, because she had bad luck.
Most of the people I read about in the newspapers, though, hadn’t drowned or died. They’d done a James Wells thing, spiraling out of the world like a bit of smoke that leaves no trace. Gone in cars, trains, planes, buses. Gone on foot. Blurred figures moving, always moving away, becoming smaller and finer, whittled down by distance, until at last, at the horizon, where sky met land, nothing remained but a black dot, the tiniest punctuation mark in the world.
THREE
Worlds and Anti-Worlds
Picture this: open house at my school, and my mother, in her baggy-bottom gray pants that she fills out too well and her pilly blue sweater with the cigarette burn holes, zooming in on Meadow Cowan’s mother, who is tall and thin like all the Cowans and is wearing something white and silky with big chunks of silver jewelry. It’s like watching a broad-beamed barge bearing down on a sleek sailboat. Half of me wants to yell “Watch out!” to Mrs. Cowan, and the other half of me wants to grab my mom and hug her and hold her, just keep her from making a fool of herself.
I stood there for a while, and when I couldn’t take another moment of watching her holding her elbows and talking, endlessly talking and blowing her nicotine breath into Mrs. Cowan’s face, I walked away looking for Meadow.
In the front hall near the display case, I saw Aunt Zis and Mr. Novak, my social studies teacher. I never thought of Mr. Novak as especially big, but he loomed over her. Aunt Zis has always been small, but in the past few years she’s gotten even tinier. She’s shrinking. She looked great, dressed up as if she were going to work in a fancy office. Actually, she stopped working five years ago, when she was, as Ma says, “only seventy-eight.”
I went to give her a little squeeze on the arm, but she sidestepped me. She’s funny about what she calls “public displays of affection.” She doesn’t approve. At home she hugs and kisses me all the time, but as soon as we walk out the door, nothing doing.
I finally found Meadow in the gym, with her father, watching a gymnastics exhibition. “Jessie,” she said, and she rose on her toes, as if being with her father made her so happy she was ready to float off into space.
“Hi, Med,” I said. “Hello, Dr. Cowan.” He’s a dermatologist.
He peered at me as if I’d just arrived from a distant place. “Hello … er.” I’ve seen that look before. Not a disagreeable one, only puzzled, as if he can’t quite place me. He’s absentminded. Also very fit—tall, lean, and blond, just like Meadow. They’re both runners, too. They run together every morning.
Once, after her father had given me one of those hello … er looks, I made a joke about it to Meadow. I should have known better. She flew up in my face. “He’s got a lot on his mind, Jessie! He’s busy saving people’s lives!”
“Silly me. I thought it was their complexions.” I couldn’t resist another joke.
Meadow started listing all the wonderful things her father had done: curing a man of a violent skin rash that was ruining his life; discovering that another patient was allergic to a whole spectrum of chemical substances. “That person couldn’t even get up to make her kids breakfast, she was so sick. Until my father helped her.”
“I know. I know. He’s wonderful,” I agreed. And smiled.
If I remember—and I usually do—I always agree and I always smile when Meadow and Diane, my other best friend, talk adoringly about their fathers. After all, they’re the experts. And now, leaning against the wall, half-watching Lydia Sturmer walking delicately along the balance beam, I smiled again seeing Meadow possessively hold her father’s arm and rise, rise on her toes.
Later, on the way home, I was thinking about Dr. Cowan’s “Hello … er” greeting. He’s known me as long as I’ve known Meadow, which is more than half my life, and yet he looked at me like a creature from another planet. Well, yes, he’s probably right. I am a creature from another planet. The Planet of No Fathers.
“Ma.” I leaned over the front seat. “I could not believe the way you were bending Mrs. Cowan’s ear.”
“What year?” Aunt Zis asked. She was sitting up front next to Ma. Her hearing is going a little.
“Ear, Aunt Zis, not year. Maribeth kept Meadow’s mother standing there for an hour, yakking in her ear.”
“Oh, I did not,” my mother said. “An hour? Get out! Maybe ten minutes.”
“No ten minutes, Ma! You were long-winded. You went on and on.”
“Yea
h, I love to talk. And so do you. We’re just alike. My mother was like that, too. Loved to talk. She could talk your ear off about anything.”
“Where did you get that idea, Maribeth?” Aunt Zis broke in. “She was a thinker. Like me. Like Jessie. Jessie resembles me a great deal.”
I sat back while they argued over who I was most like. I do love to talk, but I like thinking, too, letting my mind roam away on ideas. The father is driving the family home.… Next to him is his daughter. In the backseat, the mother and the aunt argue over who she takes after. The father glances at the daughter, winks. His wink says, We know who you take after.…
Mrs. Scher, my English teacher, gave me a poem to read by a famous Russian poet. “I heard this man in a poetry reading once,” she said. “Fabulous, Jessie. Beautiful words, plus ideas. I think you’re going to be intrigued by this.” The poem was called “Worlds and Anti-Worlds,” and the idea was that for everything we know of this world—for every action, every sequence of events, every moment—its opposite exists somewhere. Worlds and anti-worlds.
Imagine that James Wells hadn’t walked out that cold fall morning, saying he’d be back in a while. Imagine that my mother hadn’t asked, “Where are you going?” and he hadn’t said, looking at his watch, as if time mattered, “Nowhere special.”
Imagine, instead, that he opened the door and saw the bright fall trees, and said, “Let’s go for a ride with our baby.” And that we drove down a country road, stopping to buy ice cream, and the two of them fed me bites from their cones and wiped the drool from my chin.
Imagine that we came home and ate. Imagine us all under a light, our faces shining. We are a family and will never be anything but a family, and Aunt Zis lives with us, and we are whole and perfect, the four of us.
I like the number four. It makes something solid and strong, like a table, a chair, a box. In a box there are four sides and four walls, and inside these four walls you can always feel safe.
“I’m having the worst trouble,” Aunt Zis said suddenly. “I can’t remember what day it is.”
Missing Pieces Page 1