Little Broken Things

by Nicole Baart

  His family was paramount to him. Loud and raucous, Cruz family gatherings were a riot of languages, laughter, and food. Tamales and Antonio Cruz’s famous beans that had been slow-cooked for hours and then refried with garlic and lots of queso fresco. But Walker’s mother, Ama, made sure there was plenty of dried cassava chips, kokonte, and her favorite fried plantain cakes. There was no such thing as a dinner around the table; instead meals were served buffet-style, standing up and sitting down, draped over counters with half-shouted conversations volleyed around the small eat-in kitchen of the Cruzes’ modest Murrieta home. And, unlike the Sanford family, no topic was off-limits. They argued about religion and politics, music and art. Once, Quinn had watched as her father-in-law smacked Ariel, Walker’s sixteen-year-old sister, upside the head for coming home with a hickey. It was good-natured, more or less, but Quinn had blushed crimson at the fact that Antonio had drawn attention to it at all. The Sanfords would never.

  Quinn worked hard to accept and understand her in-laws. She wished sometimes that Walker made more of an effort with her family.

  “Are you accusing Nora of kidnapping?” she asked quietly.

  Walker reached for the mug of coffee that Quinn was cupping absently between her palms. She handed it over and passed him the cream. He gave her a hard look, his jaw set in an uncharacteristically stern line. “We need to call the cops, hon.”

  “No.” Quinn was surprised by her own vehemence. “I promised Nora I’d keep her safe. That I wouldn’t tell anyone Lucy was staying with us.” Her mouth hadn’t promised anything, but her heart had.

  Walker shook his head.

  “A couple days. Give me a couple days to sort this out.”

  “Have you called Nora? Demanded more information?”

  Quinn had dialed her number a dozen times, maybe more. Nora refused to answer. And she wouldn’t respond to Quinn’s texts, either. “Of course,” she said. “Nora’s not a bad person. She would never do anything to harm Lucy, or any child for that matter. I’m sure of it. I trust her, Walker. She wouldn’t do something like this without a very good reason.”

  “I’m not so sure of that …” Walker trailed off, eyebrows arching slightly as he gaped over Quinn’s shoulder. Then he smiled wide. “Well, good morning, sunshine.”

  Quinn whipped around. Lucy was standing in the doorframe of the guest room, her mop of bright hair exploding from her head as if she had stuck her finger in an electrical socket. She was trailing the car blanket behind her and dancing lightly, hopping from foot to foot.

  “Come on,” Walker said, sliding off his chair and motioning that Lucy should follow. “The bathroom is this way.”

  She dragged the blanket after her as she ran, scooting into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her without a backward glance.

  Walker spun toward Quinn. “Who is Lucy?” he asked quietly.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already told you what I know.”

  “Have you looked at that child? Really looked at her?” Walker crossed the space between them in a few strides, his stare direct, insistent.

  “It was dark.” Quinn fumbled over her words. “Last night, I mean. And she wouldn’t look at me.”

  “Quinn, look again.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Walker ran a hand through his hair and caught it at the top of his head. It would stay like that if he let it, a ’fro so impressive he sometimes got a thumbs-up from strangers on the street. But the movement made Quinn’s breath catch because his knuckles were white, the line between his eyebrows deep. “What?” she asked again.

  “Her eyes,” Walker said, almost apologetically. “They’re kind of unmistakable.”

  The truth was so simple and so devastating that Quinn felt her knees buckle. “But …” But what? It was astonishing. Unforgivable. A miracle. A blow. How could Nora keep such a secret?

  Betrayal was a blade so thin it pierced Quinn clean through. She was hurt and angry and awed all at once, but what threatened to undo her was the way that her life was about to shift on the sand of Nora’s lie.

  Lucy changed everything.

  Thursday

  8:17 a.m.

  Quinn

  I know who she is.

  Nora

  Just keep her safe, Q.

  Quinn

  How could you?

  Nora

  Promise me.

  Quinn

  I don’t know if I can ever forgive you.

  NORA

  NORA HAD DRESSED the part. Her pixie cut was freshly washed and smoothed away from her forehead, her long, angled bangs sleek and tucked neatly behind one ear. But there were already wisps escaping her careful combing and her makeup looked as if she had put it on in the dark. Faint smudges under her eyes hinted at the fact that she had pulled up in front of her apartment at just past 2:00 a.m. and spent the remainder of the night (morning?) pacing the floor. She was wound so tight she feared her ribs might snap beneath the pressure.

  Throwing her phone into the depths of her messenger bag, Nora tugged the strap over her jade-colored silk blouse. Then she took a deep breath and stepped out of her car, locking the doors behind her with a decisive click. Her heels and pencil skirt were uncomfortable and unfamiliar. She stumbled a little on the curb and teetered as she tried to regain her balance. It felt glaringly obvious that she preferred Chucks and thrift store T-shirts. That she had recently cut her hair to remove the tangled dreadlocks she had spent three years growing. Nora felt like a bad actress playing a part so poorly it was downright painful to witness.

  But what choice did she have? She and Tiffany had intentionally flicked the cornerstone in their house of cards and it was falling down all around them. The only thing they could do now was try to run for cover. And that’s exactly what they were doing.

  The morning sun was warming the pavement as Nora wound her way past patio tables under a cheerful yellow awning and around the arching bird fountain at the center of the plaza. She was grateful that she only had to walk a block and a half to the cafe near the edge of the pedestrian park in her heels. They were already pinching her toes.

  When she and Tiffany had first moved to Rochester, they used to drive downtown just to walk around. It was all so unfamiliar to them, so urban—though the Midwestern city they now called home was hardly a cosmopolitan destination. But there was always something going on, something to do. Once they happened upon an orchestra concert with crowds of people lined up in lawn chairs. Another time they discovered an old painted piano propped up against an unassuming brick wall. It was in tune, sort of, and they had laughed as they played “Chopsticks” together. Badly. Bea’s Cafe became a favorite when a local told them it had the best root beer in town. Obviously, they would have both preferred a real beer, but they followed his directions out of the city proper. The place seemed like a dive, but after one visit they agreed that the little retro diner had the friendliest owners and the best root beer floats in all of Minnesota. Maybe the world. Because, of course, they had never seen the world.

  Everlee loved those floats.

  That was later, much later, and the years between seemed like pearls on a strand to Nora. She and Tiffany had treated Everlee as almost an accessory in the beginning. She was so small they could swaddle her in a long, stretchy cloth like a papoose and carry her strapped to their chests or backs wherever they wanted to go. As she got older, the girl toddled along beside them, holding Tiffany’s pinky in one hand and Nora’s in the other. She was more often than not suspended between them on her tippy toes as she babbled and giggled and loved everything life had to offer with an abandon that seemed at once reckless and gorgeous.

  But those were the good times. Nora didn’t have to remind herself of that. The shadow of their lives together was always there, black and brooding, peeking out from behind every corner. There were just as many afternoons that Nora got off work and went home only to find Everlee alone in the yard, barefoot and dirty, hungry because she hadn’t ea
ten all day. Nora would take her inside, bathe her in the kitchen sink because the bathtub was chipped and disgusting, and make her pancakes. Only after the little girl was settled on the couch watching Frozen for the fiftieth time would Nora go in search of Tiffany. Often she was passed out in her room. One time, she was nowhere to be found at all.

  Donovan had come into their lives when Everlee was four. And at first, Nora rejoiced. Now the thought chilled her to the bone. In spite of the heat and the sun warming her back, she stifled a shiver.

  The cafe was tucked between a steakhouse and a bank, a narrow building that overlooked a tiny slice of the promenade. It was the sort of “blink and you miss it” place that was well known by the locals and overlooked by visitors. In other words, it was the perfect place to meet. It didn’t hurt that the bank was right next door.

  Nora bought a sparkling water at the counter and took a menu, ostensibly to pick out the perfect breakfast item, though she had no intention of staying that long. Even if she did have time to order something, she’d never eat it—her stomach was clenched like a fist. Easing onto a bench near the end of a row of small tables, Nora tried to look calm as she prepared to wait.

  She had hardly crossed her legs when someone leaned over her.

  “I thought you’d never come.”

  Nora jerked at the sound as Tiffany whipped herself onto the bench beside her. Their hips bumped and Nora could feel the nervous energy flash between them like a spark. They had always been intense. Thelma and Louise, Laverne and Shirley, Elsa and Anna. BFFs forever and honorary sisters whose bond was thicker than blood. Why did some relationships feel inevitable? Inescapable? Nora’s love for Tiffany defied description, but it was layered with history, secrets, and something that felt almost maternal. Nora knew that Tiffany needed her. It was a powerful, humbling, devastating truth.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” Nora whispered. “Where did you come from?”

  Tiffany motioned toward the back of the cafe. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “You’re never on time.”

  She laughed at that, a deep-throated, unhappy sound that made a few people glance up. Tiffany’s long dark hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing a pair of artfully distressed jeans, the holes so gaping they were almost indecent. Her tank top was bohemian, her bra strap bright orange. Even without the siren call of the tan curve of her thighs or the traffic-cone-colored strap that kept slipping off her shoulder in warning, Tiffany was arresting. Angular and attractive in a disconcerting way. Nora had put her finger on it years ago—it was the way that you could not tear your eyes away from Tiffany even as you felt that you should. That you must.

  “Stop drawing attention to yourself,” Nora whispered, flicking Tiffany’s arm in warning.

  “That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?” Tiff sounded bored, but her leg was twitching up and down, swishing against the fabric of Nora’s skirt. “As if anyone here would give us a second look.” She paused for a moment, soaking in Nora’s outfit and her carefully coiffed hair. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something stale. “What’s all this for?”

  “To blend in.” Nora lifted a shoulder self-consciously. “I didn’t want to stand out.”

  “You stand out wherever you go,” Tiffany told her. She assessed the pencil skirt, the heels, nodding as she did so. “It works for you. I’d buy it. Though I have to say, you look an awful lot like JJ with your hair slicked back like that.”

  Nora recoiled as if she had been slapped. Was Tiffany trying to hurt her? To throw who they were and what they had done in her face? “How could you—”

  “Nora Sanford,” Tiffany cut in before she could go on, sweeping her hand in front of her to indicate Nora’s enticing future, “high-powered lawyer for the people, taking up the cause of the poor and disenfranchised. You’ll have judges eating out of your hand.”

  “Would have,” Nora said quietly. She didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Tiffany’s brown eyes. They could be like this sometimes. Biting. Harsh. So real with each other it felt almost cruel. Nora had learned early on that compliments and kindness made Tiffany flush, and not in a happy way. She found warmth deeply alarming. And Nora had adapted over the years to be exactly the sort of friend that Tiffany needed her to be. Not many people would understand the way they loved—gritty and jagged and without artifice. But this was different. Their lives were about to forever change.

  “I’m sorry.” Nora expelled regret with a hard breath between her teeth. It wasn’t fair to remind Tiffany of all that she had given up—that they had given up. Not now. “I know you’re—”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Tiffany interrupted.

  Nora wanted to talk, to ask Tiffany why she had brought up JJ after all this time. It had been years since Tiffany had said his name, and wasn’t that something? But they didn’t have time. It would have to wait. “Okay,” Nora said, shelving her questions for later. “I’ve been thinking about it. Two thousand isn’t nearly enough. It’s not going to get you very far and—”

  “It’s fine.” The words were crisp, final.

  “But—”

  “Come on.” Tiffany was already walking away, the glances of cafe patrons trailing in her wake.

  Nora gathered her bag and her untouched bottle of Perrier and followed.

  Tiffany had stopped just outside and was rooting around in her purse as if looking for a pack of smokes. She had officially kicked the habit a couple years ago, but it didn’t stop her from buying the occasional pack and stress smoking. “Some people eat their feelings,” she once told Nora. “I smoke mine.” But Tiffany must have run out because she came up empty-handed and scowling.

  “I’m out,” she said. “Why don’t you make the withdrawal? I’m going to hit up the corner store. Meet you there in ten.”

  “I thought we were going to do this together.”

  “We don’t have to. It’s a joint account, but we can make deposits and withdrawals independently.” Tiffany buzzed with irritation, with a sense of urgency that Nora didn’t understand.

  “I know, but …”

  “We’re in a hurry, right?”

  For some reason, Nora’s stomach lurched. Her palms were clammy, her heartbeat weak and fluttering in her chest like a moth. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. “What happened?” she whispered.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Are you sure?” Nora reached out to Tiffany but let her hand drop before she could make contact. Tiffany had never been much for physical contact.

  “Just get the money, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

  “Fine.” Nora agreed because she didn’t know what else to do. She would wait until they met up at the corner store to pepper Tiffany with questions, to insist that her friend share why she looked so haunted. But when Nora turned away, Tiffany stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  The embrace was fierce and awkward, and Tiffany held her just a heartbeat too long. “Everlee is fine, right?”

  “Yes, she’s with my sister,” Nora said reassuringly, though she had texted Tiffany no less than three times over the course of the long night to tell her so.

  “Thank you.” Tiffany’s words were muffled and faint. “For everything.” And then, before Nora could say anything more, Tiffany spun on her heel and took off down the sidewalk.

  Nora wavered for a moment, torn between the desire to follow Tiffany and the necessity of their errand. In the end, she decided to do what they had come to do. A few minutes wouldn’t change anything.

  The door to the bank was ten feet tall and solid glass, but it swiveled open at the lightest touch. Nora tensed as the air-conditioning washed over her sun-warmed skin. She stood for a moment in the foyer, taking in the marble floors and perfectly appointed black walnut counters where attractive tellers in sharp suits waited to assist customers. Most were busy helping other people, but one woman caught Nora’s eye and smiled encouragingly.

  “Hello,” Nora said, striding forwa
rd with more confidence than she felt. “I’d like to make a withdrawal.”

  As the teller counted out the bills, Nora couldn’t help feeling like she was doing something wrong. But that wasn’t true at all. She and Tiffany had opened the joint bank account all those years ago for one reason and one reason only: Everlee. This was where they squirreled away all that they could spare: the change they collected in a plastic ice-cream bucket (it always amounted to much more than they guessed it would), every paltry Christmas bonus, and what little they managed to save from their paychecks. Tiffany was unemployed almost as much as she was able to hold down a job, and Nora suspected there was probably some drug money hidden in their modest bank account, too. Nothing terribly serious. Usually prescription pills for ten bucks a pop that Tiff peddled to harried moms at the park. And that was Tiffany Barnes in a nutshell: trying to be a good mother but unloading Vicodin while her daughter squealed in the baby swing. Then saving that very money for Everlee’s future. Or a portion of it, anyway.

  Nora pretended not to know. And what did that make her? An enabler. But more than that, too, and her mouth went dry at the thought of just how much guilt rested on her shoulders.

  We tried, she told herself. We tried so hard.

  At least they had the account.

  Somehow, it had all added up. They had saved just over $2,000, and though Nora knew that amount was peanuts, she was proud of what they had done. She dreamed about using it someday for Everlee’s college tuition. Or to help her put a down payment on a home. God forbid they ever needed to tap it for emergency reasons or were tempted to withdraw just to help make ends meet. That’s exactly why they had set up the account in downtown Rochester instead of the little hamlet fifteen miles out of the city where they found the farmhouse to rent. Because it was harder to access; it required intentionality. And they had refused to link any cards to the account. Deposits and withdrawals all had to be made in paper and in person. Until today, there had never been a withdrawal.