Every Missing Piece

by Melanie Conklin

  I bury my face in my hands.

  After a long silence, Stan says, “They did act a bit strange when we visited.”

  I look up. He’s got his thinking face on.

  “We shouldn’t feed into her anxiety,” Mom says quietly, as though speaking softly will make it hurt less for me to hear it. I know I’m not supposed to blow things out of proportion, but this is different. This is real.

  Stan makes a small noise of disagreement. “Actually, it’s been proven that people with higher levels of anxiety are better at spotting trouble and reacting to it,” he says in his Encyclopedia Stan way, which makes me want to hug him. “People with anxiety tend to have higher IQs, too, which makes sense, because evolution usually serves a purpose. All that aside, I would say that there was definitely something odd about the whole situation. Especially when John charged in with his shotgun. For a second there, I thought I was toast.”

  Mom looks momentarily dazed and says, “Thank you for sharing this with us, Maddy. Let me talk to John, okay? We’ll make sure everything is all right and see if they need any help with anything. I’m sure everything is fine.”

  My stomach has been busy tying itself into knots, but when she smiles, it loosens.

  Maybe this time will be different.

  24

  EASTER

  Usually on Easter morning I go straight to Mom’s room and jump on her bed to wake her up. It’s tradition. This year, I don’t fling the door open and run inside without asking. Instead, I knock and wait outside in my pajamas, another Easter tradition.

  After a minute or so, Mom opens the door in her robe. Stan is behind her, yawning as he nestles his glasses into place. He’s wearing sweats, which technically qualify as pajamas.

  “Ready?” Mom asks.

  I can’t help smiling. Cress might call our tradition a little-kid thing, too, but I don’t care. The egg hunt is one of my favorite things we do all year.

  “On the count of three,” Mom says.

  “One, two, three, go!” It sounds different with Stan counting, too, but I dash downstairs ahead of them and start grabbing plastic Easter eggs. They are everywhere. Jammed between the couch cushions. Perched inside the lampshades. I collect as many as I can while Mom and Stan do the same thing. We all know how the eggs got there, but we don’t say a thing.

  Soon the eggs are harder to find.

  “There should be forty-two,” Mom calls out.

  We count our hoards and discover we’ve already found them all, as well as all the Easter baskets. It goes a lot faster with three people hunting. We gather at the dining table and open our eggs to see what we got. I crush the coin count with nearly five dollars in quarters. There are chocolate eggs and malted-milk eggs and gumballs shaped like eggs.

  Stan beams the whole time.

  There’s an Easter basket for him, too. It looks stiff and new, compared to my faded and battered basket with its broken twine poking out the sides. Watching Stan, I feel this weird mix of happiness and embarrassment. I’m careful not to look into his eyes so I don’t feel one hundred percent awkward. It’s easier if I pretend it’s only me and Mom.

  “I love you,” I text Dad.

  When our stomachs start growling for real food instead of chocolate and candy, Mom pops into the kitchen and comes back with our dyed eggs and a set of bowls.

  “Grab the salt and pepper, would you, Maddy? Stan, we could use some juice, too.”

  Stan piles his candy into his basket and grabs our drinks while Mom and I get ready for the Easter egg battle. Once we’re all seated at the dining table, we choose our eggs and prepare to battle. Each battle consists of one person holding their egg steady while the other person taps their egg against it. You have to tap pretty hard, until one of the eggshells cracks. That person loses. The winner goes on to play another round, until there is only one egg left.

  Since Dad died, Mom and I have done multiple rounds and kept track of the score. This year, there is a third player, so there will be a champion again.

  Stan catches on quickly. He takes forever selecting his egg, tapping them with his fingertips to test for strength. A thick shell with no cracks is critical for success. He wins his duel with Mom and so do I, which leaves me versus Stan for the final round.

  “I hereby challenge you to a duel,” he says, offering me the pointy end of his egg, which is where the shell is the strongest.

  I tap my egg against his. Nothing happens.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he says.

  I tap harder. Still nothing.

  Mom claps, cheering us on.

  I really smack our eggs together, and there’s a crack.

  “Cheezits.” My egg has broken.

  We peel the eggs and eat them with salt and pepper. My favorite is the egg white. I’m not the biggest fan of the yolks. They pile up on the edge of my plate.

  “You going to eat those?” Stan asks.

  When I shake my head, he rescues my abandoned egg yolks and eats them.

  “I can’t believe you like the yolks,” I say. “They’re so gross.”

  Mom gives me a look.

  I raise arms in protest. “What? They taste like a fart in your mouth!”

  Stan laughs hard, wiping at his eyes. “That would be the sulfur,” he says. “Eggs are high in sulfur, but only certain people can really smell it.”

  That’s twice in two days that he’s defended me. A warm feeling fills me up. I think maybe it’s more of the barrier melting away.

  I turn to Mom. “Did you talk to Mr. Jessup?”

  “I did. He said Kelsey and Eric are new to the area and he’s helping them get on their feet before they move into their own place. They’re regular people who are down on their luck.”

  “But that picture—”

  “Lots of people have Carolina sweatshirts,” Mom says.

  “But it’s the same one! There’s a tear by the second a. You have to call him back.”

  Mom sighs. “I hear you, Maddy, but I’m not hassling John on Easter.”

  Yes, it’s Easter, but while we’re hunting for candy and battling with eggshells, something bad could happen to Eric. Kelsey could take off with him. They could leave like Mr. Jessup said. Or Mr. Holcomb could find them. Mom isn’t thinking of those things, though. She doesn’t understand how important this picture is. And Cress still hasn’t texted me back.

  We use the leftover hard-boiled eggs to make deviled eggs for the pig pickin’ happening later today. We have one every Easter, as well as the Fourth of July and Labor Day. The location rotates around the neighborhood. This time, it’s in our court.

  A pig pickin’ isn’t any old picnic. It’s an all-day thing. The truck pulls up at ten in the morning, its brakes squealing, and the men from the neighborhood association wrestle the smoker to the ground. The pig will have already been cooking all night. After they unload the smoker, they set up tables in the middle of the court. Stan goes to help. I watch from my window as he walks up our long driveway to the cul-de-sac, which I can barely see thanks to the trees that are filling in. By the time May arrives, you won’t be able to see our house from the road.

  While I watch, this waiting feeling builds up inside me. It presses against my heart in a way that doesn’t feel good, even though it’s plenty familiar. It is the sense of impending doom.

  That’s when I remember what we forgot.

  “Mom!” I run into the hall. “Mom! Mom!”

  Mom’s feet pad quickly to the base of the stairs. “What is it?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

  “We forgot to do safety checks.”

  She relaxes. “Okay. Let’s do them now.”

  We start outside like usual, only I can hear the men in the court, and for some reason that gets under my skin. We check the dryer grate and the windows and trim a few branches off the forsythia bushes. Inside, we follow my checklist. Everything is safe and secure, but I don’t feel better, and I know I won’t until I decide what to do about that photo of Mr. Holcom
b. No matter what Mom says, I know what I saw. That sweatshirt is the same one Eric has.

  Mom brushes the bangs from my eyes and says, “Hey, bug. I know it was different this morning having Stan here for the egg hunt, but he loved it so much.”

  “I know.”

  Like I said, Stan is a great guy. I just can’t get that picture of Robert Holcomb out of my mind. All this time, I’d thought he was a good guy, too.

  “Can you help me with the potato salad?” Mom says. “I have to get the pies in the oven. Once everyone starts showing up, I won’t get anything else done. I wonder if Jessamyn is bringing her brownies this year. Yum!”

  I swallow hard. The party starts in a couple of hours.

  Everyone comes to the pig pickin’. The whole neighborhood shows up, like it’s some kind of giant family reunion. We stay up until the sun fades and the sky fills with bats and flying insects. Something magical happens when the adults are all busy eating and chatting. The kids roam wild. We play manhunt in other people’s backyards and hop fences like it’s totally normal. There are people we only see a few times a year at these parties, and that’s it. But everyone always comes. Including the Jessups. And this year, maybe Eric and Kelsey, too.

  25

  BAG IN THE HOLE

  Waiting is the worst. While the court fills up with people and laughter, I wait for Eric to show up. I’m so nervous, I keep dropping things. First Mom’s napkin holder, then a platter of sweet corn. Luckily, the corn wasn’t shucked, so the husks protect it.

  Mom doesn’t say another word about that photograph, but there’s no way she’s forgotten. She’s staying cool, calm, and collected, even if that’s not the way she feels inside. “Fake it till you make it,” she says. I’ve tried pretending I’m okay, but I can never get my insides to match my outsides.

  The Jessups finally arrive, but only their family, which makes me think Eric might not be coming. Part of me is relieved because I don’t know if I’m ready to face him again, knowing what I know about him. Still, the part of me that needs him to be okay is worried.

  I’m so distracted that I drift a little too close to Diesel while he’s playing cornhole. He has a blue beanbag in his hand, and if he can’t land it on the cornhole board, he won’t get any points. He tosses the beanbag in his hand, making it flip each time. Flip, thwap. Flip, thwap.

  Suddenly he stops and turns to me. “You here to thank me?”

  “What for?”

  “Your bike, duh.”

  I’m so confused, I don’t say anything.

  “Aw, you gave her bike back?” Devin says while Donny sticks his tongue out.

  My face gets hot, and I remember to be mad. “Why would I thank you for giving back something you stole from me?”

  Diesel’s nostrils flare. “You really are clueless.”

  “I am not. I know that you’re a big, mean jerk.”

  Diesel hefts the beanbag, and for a second I think he’s going to nail me with it, but then he turns back to the cornhole board and tosses a perfect bag in the hole. That’s worth three points and is darn near impossible to do. Diesel hoots as Devin and Donny start whining about how he always beats them, so I turn and walk away. I got the last word in, but it feels like Diesel still won somehow. No matter how much I hate him, the fact that Cress likes him makes me wonder.

  If he isn’t evil, why would he steal my bike?

  Most of the adults are gathered around the folding tables, which are chock-full of baked beans, macaroni salads, barbecue potato chips, coleslaw, and brownies. The air is smoky and sweet with pork. I grab a paper plate and load up, even though I’m not that hungry. I wish Cress was here. Even if she was nice to Diesel, at least we could hang out together.

  While I’m nibbling on my pork sandwich, a scuffle breaks out on the other side of the folding tables. At first I think it’s just a couple of guys goofing off the way grown-ups do at these things, putting each other in headlocks like they’re in middle school again.

  Then I hear Mr. Jessup shout.

  He shoves some guy, who stumbles back, almost falling over. The guy straightens up and I get a major case of the creepy-crawlies. His dark hair is going gray. His skin is tan. He is the older, angrier version of the man in my photograph. He is the man from the TV.

  Billy Holcomb’s dad.

  The air turns to sludge. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  Right then, I hear Mom exclaim from behind me. She’s facing our house, so she doesn’t see the fight yet. I reach for her arm, but her attention is on something else.

  “Shailene, is that you?” Mom says.

  I turn around expecting to see another one of mom’s labor-and-delivery patients, but instead it’s Kelsey and Eric. Eric is a mess, his blue hair sweaty, his fingers and T-shirt red with mud. He must’ve been working on his booby traps again. Kelsey looks like a deer in headlights, ready to bolt. She’s wearing those same ratty jean shorts and the green Lucky T-shirt. Her eyes meet mine. There is a zing between us, and I know that she knows that I know.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Mom’s voice is warm honey. “I didn’t recognize you at first with that dark hair. It’s me, Sarah. Sarah Gaines? Or rather, Evans when you knew me, Wachowski now. I haven’t seen you in ages. What are you doing here?”

  Kelsey hesitates. Eric is pale as a sheet, his eyes fixed on the men arguing behind us.

  “Mom, that’s him,” I say, even though they can hear me, too.

  She glances at me. “Who?”

  “Eric—the boy I told you about. Billy.”

  “Maddy—”

  “They’re the ones staying down at Mr. Jessup’s trailer.”

  Mom looks at Kelsey and Eric in confusion. The shouting behind us grows louder, loud enough for Mom to notice. She cranes her neck. “What on earth—”

  Kelsey leaps forward and my heart almost flies out of my chest, but all she does is catch Mom’s hand so that Mom turns back. “Look, Sarah. We’re in trouble. It’s too complicated to explain right now, but we have to get out of here. If he sees us, we’re done for.”

  Mom’s mouth is a small round O.

  She looks between me and Kelsey. “You’re staying at John’s place? He said he was helping out an old friend. I didn’t realize—”

  By the tables, Billy’s dad shouts again. “You’d best tell me where they are, John! The police came to my house. They took my guns.” His handsome face twists with rage. Mr. Jessup has him by his shirtfront. Other people try to pull them apart, but Mr. Jessup is too strong.

  “There’s nothing here for you, Bob,” Mr. Jessup says. “Get out or we’ll call the police.”

  “I don’t care what some piece of paper says,” Mr. Holcomb spits. “He’s my son. Mine.”

  Mom watches this and nods slowly. “Maddy, take Shailene and—just take them to the house, will you? Quick now.”

  All I can think is that if Eric is Billy Holcomb, then Kelsey is the one who’s hiding him, and the last thing I want is to take her to our house.

  Mom bends so her face is close to mine. “I need you to trust me. Go. Now.”

  The fire in my chest burns so hot I can’t think straight.

  Stan rushes past us, toward the fight. The shouting gets louder.

  “Maddy,” Mom says. “Now.”

  Eric looks at me, his eyes wide enough to show straight through to his soul, and I know that even if I don’t understand, we have to go. I take his hand and run, across the court, down our long driveway, to the safety of our house, hidden by the trees.

  26

  RIGHT AND WRONG

  Inside, Eric and Kelsey retreat to the living room sofa while we wait for whatever comes next. I don’t know what to say to them, so I don’t say anything, but my thoughts are on fire. That was Billy Holcomb’s dad in our court. Robert Holcomb, also known as Bob, who Mr. Jessup was so afraid of that he came running with his shotgun when he thought the guy was around.

  All of this means that I’m right, but instead of relief, my st
omach is filled with dread.

  “I’m sorry I wanted to come here,” Eric mutters, his voice choked.

  Kelsey turns his chin. “Look at my face. Do I look mad?”

  He shakes his head, and she pulls him to her side. Surprisingly, he lets her.

  It feels like we’re waiting outside the principal’s office. All of us know someone is in trouble, but we’re not sure who it is yet, and we don’t want to find out.

  Finally, after what feels like hours, Mom walks in, her hands full of aluminum pans and serving spoons. “Maddy, can you go help Stan with the rest of our things?”

  I want to stay and hear what she says, but it’s no time to argue.

  I help Stan collect our stuff from the court along with Mr. Jessup, who comes inside to talk to Kelsey and Eric. They go out on the back deck so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see them through the window as I wash dishes. Mr. Jessup talks first. Soon Kelsey starts crying. My pulse picks up, watching as she bends her head and weeps. Then Mr. Jessup does the most surprising thing—he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. He pulls Eric into the hug, too, and they stand like that for a minute, until Kelsey pulls away.

  Mr. Jessup says something else and she nods.

  They come back into the house, looking as skittish as outdoor cats. “Thanks for the help, Sarah,” Kelsey says in a flat, reluctant voice.

  “Of course,” Mom says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help sooner.”

  Mr. Jessup pulls his cap off and rubs a hand over his bald head. “Sorry I wasn’t straight with you, Sarah. I figured the fewer people knew, the better.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” Mom waves for Kelsey to take a seat. “First things first, let’s get you something to eat. You look like you’re liable to fall out.”

  Kelsey glances at Mr. Jessup, who nods, and she and Eric take seats at our little breakfast table. Kelsey’s eyes are tired and red. She rests her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do,” she says. “We can’t go back to the trailer now.”

  “That’s easy,” Mom says. “You’re staying with us.”