Pieces of Me

by Hart, Natalie

  It’s not like that anymore.

  In the kitchen, I wash up the dishes from cooking. It doesn’t need to be done straight away, but I don’t want to sit next to him while he’s like this.

  Adam puts his plate to one side and stands up. I tense, wondering whether the noise of the cutlery scraping the bottom of the sink was too loud, but he goes to the fridge to get a beer. I say nothing, but as he closes the fridge door he sees me look.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, but… Are you sure you want another beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  I continue to wash the dishes, but then I can’t help myself. I speak again.

  “Have you called Kate?”

  I see the small muscle at the side of his jaw twinge.

  “No. Why?”

  “Just… Because of what day it is.”

  He puts the beer down on the sideboard so hard I think the bottle might crack. He raises his hand and rubs his fingers against his brow, leaving pale pressure marks when he takes his hand away.

  “Did you ever think that maybe Kate wants the world to leave her the fuck alone today? That maybe she doesn’t need the reminder?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “It’s just…” He looks up. There is a hardness to his eyes. A stranger stares out at me.

  “What, Emma? It’s just what?”

  “It’s just that I think Dave would like it if you still checked in on them once in a while.”

  There. I’ve done it again. Adam takes a step forwards and pushes me hard. I smell the alcohol on his breath as the back of my head hits the wall, sending a photo frame with a picture of us on the Incline smashing to the ground. I taste blood in my mouth from where my teeth are knocked shut over my tongue. For a moment I am not at home in my kitchen with my husband. I am in Iraq, being pushed against that blast wall, a forearm across my neck, another man’s face too close to mine.

  Then I am in Colorado again and it is Adam’s face shouting at me. I watch his mouth move and hear his words, but I feel like my brain is shrouded in cotton wool. My ears are swimming in the water of the Tigris. This is happening to someone else. This is not Adam. It is not me.

  “Don’t fucking talk to me about Dave. You have no idea. No fucking idea!” the man who is Adam yells. His eyebrows are low. His face is contorted. Spit flies out of his mouth and lands by the woman’s foot.

  “Adam!” she shouts. “Stop!” His fist is raised.

  In this movie of us, time slows down. His fist is already moving when our eyes lock. There is a flicker of recognition and for the smallest fraction of a second we both remember who we are. Who we used to be before everything broke. His eyebrows lift and his mouth begins to form a silent “o”.

  Then time speeds up again and his fist slams into the wall by the side of my head. I think I scream. He pulls his hand away and his knuckles have split from the force.

  “Fuck,” he shouts. “Fuck!”

  My legs give way and I slide slowly down the wall until I am sat among the shattered glass of the photo frame on the kitchen floor. I try to take a breath but my throat has tightened, so it is more like a gasp as I suck in air. Exhaling is just as difficult and the gasps turn into sobs.

  Then Adam too is sinking and now he is sat, legs out in front of him, back leaning against the kitchen cupboard. The blood from his knuckles seeps into the dark fabric of his jeans. His hands are shaking. He looks from his fist to me, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. He is no longer the cold angry stranger, but Adam. Scared. Vulnerable.

  We stare at each other. My throat loosens and I swallow and try to take slow, deep breaths. A weight descends so heavily upon me that it is as if I am being pushed into the ground. It is the knowledge that we are broken beyond repair.

  I struggle to clear the white noise, my ears ringing from the explosion of us. Adam shakes his head, his eyes still wide.

  “How did we get this bad?” he asks, looking again and again between his trembling hands and my face. “How did I get this bad?”

  I try to move. Each motion is an effort. My heavy limbs are weak and useless and I think I might be sick. Eventually I manage to crawl amid the broken glass and across the kitchen floor.

  Adam’s whole body is trembling now. His head leans back against the kitchen cupboard. His skin is clammy and pale. Tears run down his cheeks. When I reach him, I lie down. I curl up on the floor with my head in his lap. I take his bloodied hand and hold the palm against my face.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “But we can’t do this anymore.”

  64

  He does not cry when I tell him I am leaving. He knew it was coming, we both did. I wanted to save him, but I couldn’t. He needs to figure out a way to save himself.

  He does not cry when I tell him I am leaving, but part of me wishes that he would. I wish that there was a part of us still strong enough to fight for this. To break the pattern. To be normal. But that is not how war works.

  Perhaps the end was written from the beginning, but we were blinded by the romance of the battle. Conflict will always call to people like us. Even as we watch our comrades and loved ones get chewed up, spat out, destroyed. Even though we know it will destroy us too, eventually. Even though it already has. But this time I want it to be different.

  He is sat on the sofa when I tell him. I sit beside him as he slowly flexes the fingers of his bandaged hand. It is late afternoon and the sun is low in the sky. The first snow of winter settles lightly on the ground.

  “Kabul?” he asks. I told him about Anna’s offer eventually, in the days after what happened in the kitchen. Everything came out then.

  “No, nowhere like that. Not now. Not yet,” I say.

  “Then where?”

  “England.”

  “England? To do what?”

  “I’ve got a job with a refugee support organisation, working on their youth programme. They have a lot of young Iraqis on the scheme.”

  “Of course, got to get that Iraq kick somehow,” he says. I am too tired to argue, so I don’t reply. He speaks again. “I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s still one of the things I love most about you, the way you always want to help people. I’m… I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you help me.”

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  He opens and closes his hand, working the tendons.

  “Where… Where will you stay?”

  “With my mum to begin with. After that, I don’t know.”

  He nods.

  “I think it will be good for me,” I say. “There’s stuff I want to work through with her. And Rebecca. Get to know them again… Give them a chance to know me.”

  “It sounds like it will be good for you,” he says.

  “I hope so.”

  He rubs a hand round the back of his neck.

  “Em, there’s something else… I’m sorry that you didn’t feel you could tell me about what happened in Baghdad.”

  “About the guy who attacked me?”

  He nods again.

  “That wasn’t your fault, Adam. It was me. I thought I was protecting you by not saying anything.”

  “I know the feeling,” he says.

  “It didn’t work out great for either of us, did it?”

  “Not really,” he replies.

  We sit in silence a little longer and then I stand up, folding and unfolding a small piece of paper in my hand.

  “Adam, I got this number… In case you change your mind about speaking to someone.”

  I do not expect him to reach out and take it, but he does. He examines the piece of paper. The phone number. The doctor’s name.

  “I’ll miss you, Em,” he says.

  “I’ll miss you too. Try to look after yourself, Adam.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I am at the airport now. My old rucksack is over my shoulder and my passport in my hand. I stand at the gate, waiting to board, and my nostrils fill with the familiar
smells of disinfectant and cheap airport carpet. My phone beeps and for a moment I let myself hope that it is him, but it is my mother.

  Darling, I hope you got to the airport okay. Let us know your flight is on time. Rebecca will be there to bring you home xx

  I switch off my phone and hand my boarding pass to the flight attendant stood waiting by the scanner. I look at my watch. I called Adam’s brothers before I left because I knew he wouldn’t. Michael arrives tomorrow. Chad should be getting to the house about an hour from now.

  I walk down the connecting bridge, surrounded by the hum of other travellers. Just before I step onto the plane, I close my eyes, open my lungs for one long breath and hear my father’s voice.

  Yes, there it is, you can keep going now.

  Acknowledgements

  The story of this novel began long before any of its words were written, in Barnett’s of Wadhurst bookshop, where I walked in aged thirteen and asked for a job. Since that day the influence of bookshop owner Richard Hardy-Smith has shaped who I am as a writer and a person. The bookshop was, and still is, a home for me. I cannot describe my happiness at finally having my own novel on the shelves that I organised for the next six years. Richard, thank you for your love and patience.

  The first words of Pieces of Me were born at the Under the Volcano writing workshop in the town of Tepoztlán, Mexico. I have been visiting this magical town since I was eighteen and it has always found a way to draw me back when I have needed it most. I would like to thank UTV founder Magda Bogin for her unwavering support and wisdom in helping me to develop the manuscript and Owen Sheers, whose words during that retreat made me decide it was a book worth writing. Thank you also to Rebecca Levi and Kavita Bedford for sharing quesadillas and writing dreams, and to Alejandra Quiroz Vargas, my Mexican sister. Ale, your love and generosity know no limits and I hope we will still be having pozole parties together when we are old.

  Many people’s feedback helped shape the novel as it grew, but I would like to give particular thanks to fellow writers Jon Stapley and Jill Germanacos. Jon, our writing and pub sessions were legendary. Jill, thank you for talking me out of pressing delete.

  From awkward teenage poetry to debut novel, Jennie Worthley has believed in me through every part of this writing journey and helped me through more crises than I care to remember. Amy Cormack, Sarah Karmali and Megan Richmond have been here for a lifetime of helping me to celebrate the successes and push through the lows. Elba Rodriguez was the best workout and wine partner I could have asked for. Ivon Pezer always kept me smiling. Thank you all.

  I have tried as far as possible to be accurate in my portrayal of life in both Iraq and the USA and many people have helped with that. Any inaccuracies in the book are entirely my own. I would like to thank everyone I met during my time in Iraq, the USA and beyond; a whole mix of nationalities, military and civilian, people who left and people who stayed behind. You have all helped make this novel what it is. Special thanks for help on this manuscript go to Emily Gucwa Duff, Robert Yick, Arianna Dini, Theo Bell and Kate Davies. Kate, thank you for your friendship and guidance both in Baghdad and in life.

  I have worked on this novel in many corners of the world. Iraq, Tunisia, Mexico, the US, the UK, Germany, Spain and even on a small sailboat crossing the Atlantic (that’s a story for another time). Throughout my travels I have met so many people who have inspired and encouraged me. To name you all would take another book, but I hold you in my heart. Thank you.

  This dream would not have become a reality without my wonderful agent Ella Diamond Kahn, who immediately shared my vision for the novel. Her unwavering support and optimism have been a reassurance throughout this process and I am grateful to have such a passionate champion of my writing. Thank you also to the London Book Fair’s Write Stuff competition for bringing us together.

  Thank you to my editor Lauren Parsons for her expertise and all of her excitement for the novel. I will be forever grateful to Lauren and all of the Legend Press team for helping me to launch this story into the world. I am so happy to be on this journey with you.

  To my family, I put you through a lot, I know, but you deal with it all with love and humour and I am so thankful for that. Dad, you always get the worst bits, thank you for helping me through them. Mum, thank you for encouraging me to dream big. Charlie and Alice, I love you both and I’m sorry, I never did figure out that word count.

  To James, the life of love and adventure that we are building together means everything to me. You have taught me about courage and perseverance and I am eternally grateful to have you by my side. Tomorrow we will do beautiful things.

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