Every Missing Piece

by Melanie Conklin

  “Well, actually. Quite a lot about you.”

  “What?”

  “Go on. Open it,” Mom says with a smile.

  I do, and inside I find a journal that starts on the day of the Greek Festival. The day Stan and I first met. Every entry is about the things we’ve done together, the times our field trips fell flat—like the ropes course—and the times we clicked, like the night at the observatory. There are also notes on things I like (vanilla ice cream, churros, corn dogs, painting with my fingers, and collecting leaves and acorns) and things I don’t like (heights, chocolate ice cream, rainbow sprinkles, getting lost, and sitting still for too long).

  I can’t believe Stan kept track of all of this.

  I can’t believe he noticed.

  His cheeks are pink with embarrassment. He clears his throat, picking at the edge of his hospital blanket. “I haven’t been a dad before,” he says. “I wanted to get it right.”

  That’s when the puzzle rearranges, and I see that it’s not the same puzzle at all. Not anymore. It’s a new puzzle, and in this one, Stan fits perfectly. With one simple turn, he drops right into place. It’s not fair that Dad is gone, but there is this new life right in front of me.

  “I’m sorry about what I said,” I blurt. “About you not being my real dad.”

  “I know,” Stan says. “From what I’ve read, that’s a perfectly normal reaction to this kind of life change, but I’m glad we’re friends now.”

  “Not friends,” I say. “Family.”

  He smiles. “I like the sound of that.”

  47

  NEXT

  It’s weird to go back to the regular world after something huge has happened, but that is what we do. It’s the only thing you can do, really. Billy isn’t living with us anymore. Mr. Jessup helped him and his mom move into their new place over the last few days.

  Their whole future is ahead of them.

  As I get ready for the Living Museum, Stan is still in the hospital. He’s going to get discharged anytime now. His leg is healing well, but the doctors want to be sure. You can’t be too careful with an arterial graft, according to Stan. After two days in the hospital, he’s become an expert on the anatomy of the human thigh.

  I finish putting on my outfit: Dad’s old flannel, dirty jeans (his were always dirty), brown work boots, his hard hat and reflective vest. The surveyor’s stand is folded up in my book bag, and the models I’ve made of his level and compass are waiting in the art room at school. I use Mom’s brown eyeliner to draw on a big goofy mustache, using Dad’s photo as a guide.

  I laugh, thinking of how happy Mom was when he shaved it off—but suddenly I can’t remember what he looked like without the mustache in my photo.

  This empty feeling hits my stomach. It feels like Dad’s leaving me, or that maybe he’s already gone. I grab my phone, fingers fumbling, and text him.

  “I got your stuff from the attic, and I’m supposed to act like you, but I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I—”

  My phone hiccups. It does this sometimes, when I use voice-to-text.

  After a second, the screen unfreezes and the words fill in on their own.

  “—I love you.”

  Most people would probably say it’s a fluke, but that’s not what this is.

  This is a message from Dad.

  I read the text over and over. Then I sling my book bag over my shoulder and head downstairs so Mom can take me to school.

  It’s strange walking into the gym dressed as Dad, but everyone else is dressed up, too. There are kids in white beards, kids in suits and sparkly leotards. There’s even an astronaut with a big white helmet on, and every other kind of outfit you can imagine.

  Everyone has a red plastic cup. We’re supposed to hold the cup out and the grown-ups give us their spare change to hear a story about the person we’re dressed up as.

  It’s a museum, but alive. A living museum.

  The gym vibrates with voices and laughter. Everywhere you look, people are smiling.

  As I cross the springy wood floor looking for the rest of my class, Miss Rivera hurries up to me. She’s dressed very differently—in a satiny two-piece suit with lace trim and a feathered cap. Her shiny black hair is tied back in a bun beneath the cap. She makes a quick bow.

  “Greetings, fair student,” she says. “From what era do you hail?”

  “The twenty-first century.”

  “Excellent. I am from the 1660s, when women were first allowed to take the stage in England. Did you know that until then, it was illegal for women to perform?”

  “No.”

  “Now you do.” She smiles and rests a hand on my shoulder. “All set for today?” There’s concern in her eyes, but for once it doesn’t feel like a judgment. More like love.

  “I think so. I have my speech.” I hold up my notecards.

  She gives me a thumbs-up and starts to leave, then spins back around and says, more quietly amid the din of the gymnasium, so that only I can hear, “Thank you, Maddy.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m auditioning for the Greensboro Players Theatre next week. Wish me luck!”

  She hurries off and I turn to find myself face-to-face with the astronaut I saw earlier. Cress is next to him in her Katherine Johnson costume. He lifts his visor. Diesel’s face appears.

  “I’m her astronaut,” he says. “John Glenn.”

  Cress smiles, her braces gleaming. “I saved his life.”

  Diesel blushes red.

  “Where’s Billy?” I ask. “Didn’t he come with you?”

  Cress points. “He’s over there.”

  I turn to look. Billy is there, looking about as comfortable as a crab in a crab trap, standing with Cress’s parents and Mr. Jessup and Shailene, who is fussing with Billy’s black bow tie. I can’t tell who he is, exactly. Is that an old telephone?

  He sees me and waves. Then he walks over to us.

  He’s wearing a dress jacket and the black bow tie and shiny black shoes, but what’s interesting is that there’s an old phone cord wrapped all around him.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  He gives me that half grin of his. “Alexander Graham Bell. He invented the telephone. I think I might like to invent stuff, too.” He stares at my face. “Nice mustache.”

  My cheeks go hot. “Thanks.”

  He looks at me, and I get that buzzing feeling in my chest again.

  “I miss Frankie,” he says.

  “Even her SBDs?”

  He laughs. “No, not those.”

  “How’s your new place?”

  “It’s good,” he says with another big smile. “Mom said we can get a dog soon.”

  He and Diesel start arguing about what kind of dog he should get, and as we all stand there talking, I see Mom on her way into the gym. She’s pushing a wheelchair—and Stan is in it! His pale face is flushed, but in a good way. My family.

  I wave, and they wave back.

  For a split second, everything tilts, and I can feel the future rushing at us. I don’t know what’s next, but whatever it is, good or bad, I know we’ll face it together.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As a child, I often wondered what it would be like to find a missing person. The idea both excited and terrified me. What would happen if I saw a child from one of those missing persons notices? Would I be able to help? Would anyone listen to me? Those are the questions that led me to Maddy’s story, and I am eternally grateful to everyone who helped me tell it.

  First, thank you to everyone who works in support of domestic abuse survivors. I spoke with many advocates in various fields, and their generous insights are what allowed me t
o portray these families with any degree of authenticity or accuracy. Any faults that persist are mine and mine alone.

  Thank you to Marisa White, vice principal of North Johnston Middle School of Johnston County, North Carolina; Camilla Hicks, North Carolina licensed social worker; Jeana Lungwitz, JD, clinical professor and supporting attorney for the Domestic Violence Clinic at the University of Texas School of Law (and Daniel Graver for connecting us); Yolanda Smith, licensed paralegal in North Carolina (and Kim Freund Graver, Meredith Kincaid, and Nora Sullivan for connecting us); Dr. Laurie B. Levine, PhD, marriage and family therapist and former Domestic Violence Agency clinical director; Ingrid L. Eubanks, North Carolina licensed attorney; and the clerks at the Guilford County, North Carolina, General Court of Justice, District Court Division.

  This story took on many forms before it found the right one, and I’m so grateful to Tracey Keevan for always believing in these characters and in what I had to say. It’s rare that someone else understands what I’m trying to do and tells me to go for it. That faith and patience allowed me to find the very best version of this story and make it shine. Thank you also to Esther Cajahuaringa, Christine Collins, Phil Buchanan, Christine Saunders, Dina Sherman, and the entire Disney Hyperion team.

  To my agent, Elena Giovinazzo: Your unwavering faith and support means everything. I love being a part of the Pippin team! Thank you also to Holly McGhee, Larissa Helena, Ashley Valentine, and everyone at Pippin Properties, Inc.

  Writing is a team sport, and I am grateful to have many wonderful and supportive friends. Thank you to Jenn Bishop for an insightful early read, Lindsay Eager for helping me decipher my own words, Peter Knapp for supporting this book when it was still five stories stuck together, Laura Shovan for steadfast friendship, Leatrice McKinney and her grandmother for the “I love you” texts, Lois Sepahban for the hugs, Rebecca Sutton for the cheers, Heidi Heilig, Leah Henderson, Colten Hibbs, Sarah Lemon, Hay Farris, the #mgbetareaders, Fight Me, Words Bookstore in Maplewood, New Jersey, the South Orange Public Library and Keisha Miller, and my Novel Bites: Michelle, Barbara, Christine (and Imy!), Bridget, Melissa, Romaine, and Léana.

  To my sister: Thank you for everything. You are the kindest, most helpful person I know and I’m lucky that you’re stuck with me for life.

  To my parents: You have always believed in me, so I have always believed, too. Thank you for that gift, and for giving it to my children as well.

  To Andrew: You didn’t want to be thanked, so of course I’m thanking you! Thank you for getting me through the ugly parts with love and patience.

  To Perry and Alec: Thank you for the creative swears, and for being as excited about this book as I am. It’s your book, too.

  To Charlotte: Thank you for the kisses.

  This book was brought to you by my favorite tracks played on repeat, including: “Cosmic Love” by Florence and the Machine, “Running Up That Hill” by Meg Myers, “Midnight City” by M83, “Die Young” by Sylvan Esso, “Got You (Where I Want You)” by the Flys, everything Chvrches, “La marcheuse” by Christine and the Queens, and “Bike Dream” by Rostam, among others.

  For anyone in the United States who is experiencing domestic violence, seeking resources or information, or questioning unhealthy aspects of their relationship, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is available 24/7 at 1-800-799-7233 or TTY 1-800-787-3224.