Indivisible

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “It isn’t Sarge, is it?”

  “Sarge is fine. I just wanted to …” He spread his hands. “I don’t know what I wanted, tell you the truth.”

  He was obviously hurting. “You want to come in?”

  “No.” His smile was thin. “Thanks, Piper. You take care.”

  He started for his car.

  “Jonah?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “She’d want you to call.”

  His eyes narrowed pensively. “I don’t think so.”

  As helpless as she’d felt with Tia lost on the mountain, she watched him drive away. Once again, there was nothing to do—except pray?

  Jonah climbed the steps and hunched into the chair on his porch. Despite the damp cold, he didn’t go inside. Neither Enola nor Sarge would matter. He’d down the bottle and not stop until he’d saturated every cell.

  Funny thing, alcohol. It made some erudite, others contrite. Too many took it straight to their fists. Some could take it little by little, even work a buzz and walk away. To him it called from a hollow in a bottomless well, the voice of a siren in the drowning deeps.

  Same with love, it seemed. Most people moved in and out of relationships with the same ease they left a half-empty glass on the bar. He would lick the rim and sides if that was all there was left for him, then wait, hoping for a refill that might never come.

  His extended affair with booze had probably been an attempt to sacrifice his life for the life taken. Had his affair with Tia been the same? He acknowledged a self-destructive streak. But the longing he felt for her, the connection he’d experienced with her seemed like his one sure chance at survival.

  He closed his eyes, then looked down at his shaking hands. His mother’s heart might stop, and she didn’t want him there. He’d apprised his brother, Pete, who’d said, “Keep me posted,” which meant, “Let me know if she dies.” Neither faked an affection they didn’t feel.

  Pete had taken him aside at their dad’s funeral and said, “Stan Westfall did whatever he intended to and nothing else. If you think Mom’s any different, you never learned anything.”

  Jonah dropped his head back against the chair and ached for Tia. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks, but stunned by the experience in the shed, he’d staggered to the one person who’d understood. He clenched his hands, hearing the bottle’s sibilant song. He could call Jay, reaffirm their mutual commitment to sobriety. Or he could toast his mother’s health in a tribute worthy of Chief Stan Westfall, pillar and legend.

  A single scratch sounded on the door behind him. He stood and opened it, letting Enola pass by. He looked inside and caressed the bottle with his eyes. The smell of drink permeated his nightmares. He’d hated it, hated the smell of himself as it had seeped from his pores.

  He jerked the door closed and returned to his seat, lowering his face to his hands. He watched through his fingers as Enola disappeared, then emerged from the shadowed edges of the yard beyond the circle of porch light. He would have risen to let her back inside, but she came to a stop beside him with a measured stare.

  He waited. Normally he didn’t make lengthy eye contact, not wanting her to feel challenged. But something in her stillness, in the way she didn’t move past, caught and held him. Carefully he let his arm slide down the side of the chair, his hand dangling.

  Almost imperceptibly she extended her nose, taking his scent. He had not before offered his unclosed hand, but she stretched and tucked her nose under the edge of his palm. An inexpressible joy bloomed inside. Centimeter by centimeter, he slid his hand over her face and worked his fingers into the stiff fur of her forehead.

  In all that time they had not lost eye contact. As he slid his palm over the side of her face, he hoped, truly hoped, the wild would not call her back.

  Tia had gotten in around four in the morning and caught a few hours of ragged sleep. She showered, tamed her hair with finishing lotion and left it to air dry. Hoping the latest address she had for Reba was current, she got directions from the motel clerk.

  Gangly palms graced some of the yards in Reba’s nicely manicured neighborhood. All seemed to have a citrus tree in the front, lemon, orange, even a few grapefruit. Minor variations differentiated the ranch-style bungalows with pools in the backyards and tall plank fences. Tia pulled up to the slate blue and blond brick home and parked in the lollipop shade of an orange tree.

  She didn’t know whether or not her sister worked outside the home. Their three kids were still young, and Mark would have a solid income. She had known him a little, but after he and Reba had started dating, she didn’t see him much. Reba rarely brought him to the house, and was there any wonder why?

  Closing her eyes, Tia wondered if she could get out of the car. What if Mark answered and said Reba had told him to never, ever allow her sister through the door? What if Reba answered and did the same? Only one way to find out.

  The inner door was angled halfway to the wall, and the screen allowed a view into the front room and hallway. Reba called out when she rang, “You know you can just come in.”

  No, she definitely didn’t know that. But she went in. The screen snapped shut behind her. Unwilling to advance under false pretenses, Tia stood there and looked left and right. The room had a south-of-the-border flair she would never have imagined Reba choosing, and yet she had pulled it off wonderfully. Clay pots in the corner held black mesquite branches and another sort that spiraled up like knobby, gray smoke.

  The couch was upholstered in sage green suede with a red, gold, orange, and black serape tossed over the back. The red side chairs flanking it had legs made of what looked like webbed stovepipe cactus skeletons. A slice of petrified wood formed the low tabletop where two big-wheeled trucks and a stuffed dog waited for playtime.

  With quick steps, Reba strode in, her silky blond hair straight to her midback, highlighted to diminish most of the red tones, her clear blue eyes registering shock, if not dismay. “Oh. I thought you were Mom here early.”

  “Nope.” Tia formed a tentative smile.

  “I never noticed how much you look like her. Now that you’re older, I guess it shows.”

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted.”

  “No. I mean Mom’s going to watch the kids while Mark and I—What am I saying? I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “I was eighteen when you left.” In spite of her efforts, her voice cracked.

  “Yeah,” Reba said faintly.

  “But you. No one would know you’ve had three kids.”

  Reba flushed. “Four actually. Robbie was born three months ago.”

  Stunned, Tia masked the pain of not being informed. “You’ve lost the weight.”

  “Running after the others. I meant to send an announcement. Actually, Mom did them for me since my hands were full.”

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m … I’m glad to see you.”

  “Maybe.” Tia’s smile twisted. “Maybe not so much.”

  “No, really. Sit down.”

  “I know you’re busy.”

  “Always. You know how it is, running here and there and someone needing something every minute.” Tia smiled as though she knew.

  “But what are you doing here?” Reba slid the hair behind her ear, a simple yet elegant gesture.

  And now it came to it. “I wanted to ask your forgiveness.”

  Reba searched her face, then looked down at her hands. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I apologized then and understood why you couldn’t accept it. If anything, I understand more now. But …”

  Reba looked down. “I don’t want to dredge it up.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” Tia pushed up from the couch. “Then I’ll go. I need to tell Mom—”

  “How is Jonah?”

  Tia swallowed. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not together anymore?”


  “We’ve never been.”

  Reba shot her a disbelieving look.

  Tia tipped her head. “Did you think we were?”

  Reba’s eyes widened. “Why would I think anything else?”

  Tia’s breath made a slow escape. “Mom thinks so too?”

  “We don’t talk about you.”

  She was truly dead to them.

  “So all this time …” Jonah had been right. They neither knew nor cared what she’d sacrificed.

  Reba’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Tia.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  Reba stood up. “I suggested Mom ask you to watch the store.”

  Tia stared. She’d been certain it was her mother’s ultimate punishment. But Reba knew how she’d wanted to break free. As much as she couldn’t bear to leave Redford now, she’d yearned for a fresh start back then, a place where she’d stand or fall on her own merit. To be loved and accepted as she was.

  Reba spread her hands. “I thought—”

  Footsteps approached, and Mark, lean and blond, appeared with a fussy baby sucking his fist. Mark smiled at her without recognition. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s ready to eat.”

  Reba turned. “You remember Tia, Mark?”

  A jolt of recognition. “Oh. Wow. Yeah, of course.”

  “I’ll let you go.” Tia turned for the door. “Mom lives three blocks away?”

  “Yes, but—” Robbie’s fussing intensified, and Reba took him from her husband. “She’ll be here any—”

  The door opened, and Tia faced her mother.

  “Good Lord.” Stella actually pressed her hand to her breast.

  For a horrible moment, Tia almost laughed. She could hardly have been more poorly received by them all if she’d arrived on cloven hooves.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not staying. I wanted to say you’ll need to find someone else to run the store. I’m not a shop girl anymore.”

  Her mother let the screen close behind her. “What are you?”

  “A counselor.”

  Stella expelled her breath. “What could you possibly know that would help someone?”

  Tia looked away, deflecting the pain. “I learned a little getting my degrees.”

  “Degrees?”

  “Believe it or not.” Her mother could not argue her academics. How she must have leaped at the chance to make her brighter daughter a shopkeeper. Reba’s request.

  Stella’s brows rose and fell. “If I’m selling the store, I’ll be selling the house as well.”

  Tia’s heart sank. The mortgage payments she’d made for her parents these nine years were far below the escalated prices she’d find now. And with the house in their name, she had established no credit of her own. Even if Piper moved with her, what could they afford? “Would you like me to list it?”

  “Your father will handle it.”

  Robbie started to wail.

  “I’m sorry. I need to feed him.” Reba gave her a rueful look.

  “Go take care of the baby,” Stella said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Her tone set Tia’s teeth on edge, and for the first time she did not envy her sister. “There’s nothing to take care of. I just wanted you to know.” Tia moved toward the door like an animal scenting freedom. She had hoped for at least a glimpse of her father, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He marched to Mother’s drum.

  She had already checked out of the motel. Now there was nothing between her and the road—a road to upheaval. She had not realized how dependent she’d been, how even from a distance with no real contact, she’d still been controlled like a marionette on their strings. Never again. She had broken down the cage and she—would—fly.

  Twenty-Three

  If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.

  —MOTHER TERESA

  As the morning rush passed, Piper cleaned out the case in preparation for the lunch offerings in the oven. Hopefully, since Tia hadn’t called, the visit was going well. Thinking about a happy reunion made her fish her phone from her pocket. She speed-dialed and said, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Piper!” She then hollered to the side, “Reg, Archie. It’s Piper. I’m putting you on speaker, honey. How are you? Where are you?”

  “Redford, Colorado. I’m a baker.”

  “A baker! How nice.”

  She could hear the smile, but her mother had no clue how nice it was. “At first I had to make only the same old things, but now Sarge—he owns the bakery—lets me run a daily special, so I get to try out all kinds of things.”

  “Well, isn’t that just great. Did you hear that? Daddy wants to know when you’re coming home.”

  “Where’s home?” She heard a room full of laughter.

  “We’re in Dallas.”

  “I’m kind of settled in here. I’ve made some friends, and I really like my job.”

  “You just always were a curious kitten. You know we’d have you in the business.”

  “If I didn’t throw up?”

  Again the laughter. Piper ached. One day they could all be laughing behind bars.

  Her mother’s tone sobered. “Are you doing all right? Do you need any money?”

  “I’m earning enough.”

  “We’re pretty flush right now. Uncle Archie—”

  “Don’t tell me, Mom. I just wanted to say I love you. I love you all.” And she wished, how she wished they were not who they were. “Bye now. Be careful, okay?”

  She wanted to say stop it, stop it all.

  “Good-bye, sweetheart,” her dad called. The others chimed in.

  “You just let us know if there’s anything you need,” her mother said.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  The ache passed when Miles came in and stood before the counter. She looked up into his goofy face. “Did you leave me those candles?”

  He turned and stared at the board. “You made lemon curd tarts today.”

  “You liked them best when we baked.”

  “They were tied for first with the oat nut muffins with cranberry glaze.”

  “I’ll bake those tomorrow.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Did you like them?”

  “I like how nutty we made them, and the golden raisins did go well with the cranberry.”

  “The candles. Did you like the candles?”

  “I like them very much, Miles. I put them in my room, on my dresser. Tia lent me candle holders.”

  “They smell nicer than other candles, but they burn faster. Beeswax is softer than paraffin. It melts at a lower temperature. You have to tell me when they’re gone.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  He looked at her. She looked back.

  “Do you want a lemon tart?”

  “I want to not be what I am.”

  She could almost feel her heart swelling and breaking inside her. “Have you tried?”

  “Phobias don’t just go away.”

  “Not by themselves. But maybe it’s like baking. You have to start somewhere.”

  His larynx rose and fell. “I’ll have a lemon tart.”

  She slipped on a glove, grabbed a tissue, and handed one over. “You know what I like? You’re a compulsive truth teller. Like me.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Everyone wants to be with you. I see how they look at you. That guy who sells cars looks at you like you’re a juicy steak he wants to gobble up.”

  Piper laughed. “Doesn’t he just.”

  “He doesn’t tell the truth.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  “Miles. There might be things you can do to get over it. Tia’s a therapist. Maybe she could help.”

  He lowered his chin and shook his head. “I’ve tried.”

  “Some of the things I’ve tried have not turned out. But I keep tryi
ng.”

  “It’s not the same to make a stringy goat-cheese roll. That doesn’t hurt people.”

  “Unless they have to eat it.”

  He didn’t laugh, just sighed.

  “All I know is the dough has to rise,” she said. “If you bake it before it’s ready, it won’t turn out. But if you wait too long, the holes get too big.”

  He gave her a slow blink, then went to a table with his tart—just as the police chief came in. Miles could hardly bolt right in front of him, but he didn’t even try.

  Jonah slid him a glance, then came to the counter, looking even more ragged than yesterday.

  “Are you all right? It seemed like you needed to talk last night.”

  He paused, then shrugged. “My mother had a heart attack.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “It could have been worse. They’ve cleaned things up now.”

  “Tia will wish she’d been there.”

  “Don’t bring it up, okay?”

  “Why not?”

  “Please. She’s dealing with things her own way.”

  And maybe that was the problem in a nutshell. “Can I get you something?”

  “Bear claw. Coffee. To go.”

  Jonah carried his bag to the table where Miles sat.

  Miles slumped like an old stuffed bear. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “There’s still the matter of restitution.”

  Miles looked up at him, then to where she watched, then back. “You’re not taking me to jail?”

  Jonah stared at him. “Take care of it yourself, and we won’t have to talk again.”

  A timer rang, and Piper hurried to the kitchen. When she came back, neither man was there. Tucked beside the register, she found an envelope with Tia’s name. Inside, ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Four more hours, Tia estimated, and she would be home. They hadn’t discussed details, but she supposed she could live in the house until it sold. She told them she’d be counseling, but she would need to fulfill the licensing requirements, complete an internship of supervised experience, pass the NCE, and of course find a place to work—or start her own practice.

  Her hands clenched the wheel. Even if she had a doctorate—an MD in brain surgery—her mother still would have said, “What could you possibly know that would help someone?”