Hidden Pieces

by Paula Stokes

  “Fuh-freezing.” I tug on my earlobes with my fingers, rub my hands back and forth across the tender skin.

  “Me too. But you got this,” Holden says. “Just keep moving. Just focus on how good it’s going to feel to get into a nice warm bath.”

  “Oh God. Heaven.” I plod up the trail in my waterlogged socks, trying not to focus on the fact that my feet are also starting to go numb.

  Slowly, Holden and I ascend the cliff. I feel a momentary burst of relief when the top comes into view, but then I remember how much farther we still have to walk. All the way across to the Sea Cliff and then down Penguin Hill. Wait, not Penguin. What is the name? Shit. Why can’t I remember it?

  I stumble without warning, windmilling my arms to keep from falling on my face. My head is feeling cloudy again. I sink to my knees in the middle of the trail. “I just need to rest for a few minutes,” I say. “I just need—”

  I can’t even finish the sentence. The dirt beneath the fabric of my wet jeans is dry, and compared to the water it feels so incredibly warm. I lower myself to the ground completely and sprawl out on the soil. I just need to sleep. I hear Holden saying something, but I can’t make out the words. Whatever he’s trying to tell me is going to have to wait. Just a little rest. Just a few minutes. Just a few . . .

  Twenty-Nine

  December 24

  I WAKE UP WARM BENEATH an electric blanket. Holden is sitting on the edge of the bed, a thin book closed around one of his hands. “Jesus Christ.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I was just about to call 911.”

  I rub my temples with my fingertips. “What happened?”

  “You passed out at the top of the trail.”

  “I vaguely remember dropping to my knees in the dirt.” I push up on my elbows and look around. “I’m at your apartment? How did I get here?”

  “I carried you, mostly.”

  My eyes widen. Holden’s not weak, but I’m five foot eight and weigh about 120, and my waterlogged clothes probably added at least ten pounds.

  “I see you,” he says. “Trying to figure out how my scrawny ass got you here. You don’t have to be a Captain America super-soldier to carry a girl. I do landscaping in the summer, remember. It builds up your strength.”

  Sitting up, I cover my chest with one hand as I glance around the small room. The floor is a mess of books. Some of them have ripped or missing covers. I bet Holden got them from the Goodwill in Tillamook. There’s a desk here with more books and a handful of sketches scattered across the top of it—some of them are trees, some oceans, some just free-form designs. One corner of the floor is covered with a plastic drop cloth. An empty easel sits on it.

  My eyes flick back to Holden, and to the book he’s holding. “Were you reading?”

  “I was reading to you actually.”

  “Reading what?”

  “The Metamorphosis.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “A traveling salesman who randomly wakes up one day as a cockroach. His family is grossed out by him, so they lock him in his room and eventually he dies.”

  “Uplifting.” I swallow back a yawn. “Super-disappointed that didn’t make it into my dreams.”

  He shrugs. “There’s something about it I find soothing.”

  “Speaking of soothing, this blanket is pure heaven.” I lie back down and pull the cover up to my chin. “Why am I wearing your boxer shorts?”

  “I had to get you out of your wet clothes to start warming you, but I didn’t want you to wake up and feel all exposed or whatever.”

  “Thanks.” I peek under the covers again. “They’re surprisingly comfortable. What time is it?”

  “A little past four a.m.,” Holden says.

  “Holy shit!” My heart thrums in my chest. “I’ve been asleep for four hours?”

  “More than three, anyway. It took a while to get home.”

  “I need to get to the police station.” My brain is still foggy, and it takes me a few seconds to calculate how much time has passed since I got my latest message. Too long. Unknown could have already gone after someone else. Sliding out from beneath the covers, I haul myself to my feet. My knees start to buckle, and Holden has to grab me around the middle to keep me from face-planting on his bedroom floor.

  “Whoa,” he says. “Slow down. You’re recovering from hypothermia, Embry. You might need to go to the hospital.”

  “That’s not happening.” Mom has health insurance for the two of us, but it has a high deductible and doesn’t cover everything. I think of that stack of bills on the back of the couch. “I just need my clothes and I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Oh. Um. We generally wash and dry stuff at my grandparents’ house. There are washers and dryers in the basement of the building, but I didn’t want to leave you alone long enough to go down there. I can run them down now or if you’re in a hurry I can loan you some stuff of mine.”

  I nod. “If I could borrow stuff from you, that’d be great.”

  Holden rummages in his closet and comes back with a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved Henley. “I’d say you could borrow my coat, but the smell would probably kill you.”

  “It’s only a couple blocks,” I say. “This’ll work.”

  Holden pulls a ball of white fabric out of his pocket. “And these.”

  “Dry socks. Oh my God,” I say. “Thank you. My feet are still cold. I don’t suppose you have a pair of shoes I could wear.”

  “What size are you?”

  “Eight, but I don’t care if they’re too big. I just need them for the walk home.”

  “I think that’s about what my mom wears. Hang on.” Holden disappears and returns in a couple of minutes holding a pink-and-black pair of tennis shoes. “She’s an eight and a half, and she won’t care if you borrow these. You get dressed and I’ll put your wet clothes in a plastic bag.”

  Holden shuts the door behind him and I quickly change, trying not to notice how much the Henley smells like him. The pants are too long, and I have to roll the waistband a couple of times until the cuffs don’t drag on the floor. The socks are longer and thicker than any socks I’ve ever worn, but they feel amazing on my feet and legs.

  I take a moment to consider my reflection in the mirror on his dresser. My face is bright pink. I’m not sure if it’s from being out in the cold or under the warm blanket or what. My hair is a tangled mess. I spend about thirty seconds trying to finger comb it before I give up. I squeeze the excess water from it and then just let it hang.

  I duck out of the bedroom, half expecting Holden to be lurking right outside in the hallway, but he’s in the living room.

  “Before I forget.” He hands me a Ziploc bag with my phone, the battery, and about fifteen small silica gel packets, the kind you get in vitamins and bottles of ibuprofen.

  “My phone! How did you get it?”

  “I was looking at it when you dived into the Pot Hole. I don’t know if it’ll ever work again, but give it a few hours and then put the battery back in and try to turn it on.”

  I shake the baggie. “Silica gel?”

  “Yep, companies use it to soak up moisture. When it comes to phones, it’s like rice, but better. And without the mess. I always save the packets because I use them to keep some of my tools from rusting during the rainy season.”

  “Thanks. I guess if it doesn’t work I’m going to be without a phone for a while.”

  “Do you want me to give you a ride to the police station?”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course. They’re going to need to get a statement from me anyway after you tell them the truth. Maybe they’ll be willing to radio my mom and have her come in so she can take it.”

  I nod. It’s just as depressing to think about Holden being blamed for the fire as it is to think about Mom and me. But seeing Julia so close to death the other day clarified things. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure no one else gets hurt. I just hope it’s not too late.

  A f
ew minutes later, I hop onto the back of Holden’s motorcycle and we head to Tillamook. The ride reminds me of the ride to Lincoln City to get Plan B—two people who screwed up big-time and just want things to go back to the way they were.

  Holden pulls the bike into a parking spot behind the police station. I dismount and unclip the chinstrap of my helmet. Above my head, clouds swirl. A few flakes of snow twist and flutter in the fluorescent parking lot lights.

  “I can’t remember the last time it snowed,” Holden says. He loops both helmets over one of the handlebars.

  Normally snow is a magical thing to me, but right now I’m just exhausted—physically and mentally. I yawn. “I can’t remember the last time I was awake this early.”

  “You ready to do this?” Holden studies me with his dark blue eyes.

  “Nope,” I say. “But I’m ready for this all to be over.”

  “Fair enough.” He takes my hands in his and squeezes them gently. Bending close, he brushes his lips against mine. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

  “Together,” I agree.

  We stroll hand in hand across the parking lot and into the warm police station. Holden and I stride up to the window, where he asks the desk sergeant if his mom is around.

  “Officer Hassler is out on patrol right now,” the desk sergeant says. “She should be back to the station around six, unless she gets delayed on a call.”

  It’s only an hour from now, but that feels like a lifetime. “This can’t wait,” I say. “We need to make a report.”

  The sergeant looks back and forth from Holden to me. “A report about what?”

  I take in a deep breath. “Someone has been blackmailing me. I think they may have tried to kill one of my friends.”

  The sergeant’s eyes widen slightly. He tells me to have a seat and that a uniformed officer named McKenna will be out to take my statement in a few minutes. I know just the guy he’s talking about because Officer McKenna once stopped Julia for going fifty-five in a thirty-five when I was in the car with her, and she managed to flirt her way out of a ticket.

  I take a seat in a hard plastic chair just inside the front door to the station. Holden paces back and forth with his hands jammed into his pockets. Officer McKenna strolls out into the lobby about ten minutes later, a laptop computer under his arm. He’s put on a few pounds and grown a mustache since he stopped Julia last year, so now he looks a little like the overweight guy from Mall Cop. I fight the urge to flinch when he gives me a firm but sweaty handshake.

  “Ms. Woods, is it?” he asks. “Follow me, please.”

  “Embry is fine,” I say. “And Holden is coming too. He’s also involved.”

  McKenna nods. “Hi, Holden. Come on back.”

  We follow Officer McKenna past a big open area with several desks to a narrow hallway at the back of the station. He unlocks a door that leads into a small room with a table and four chairs. I haven’t even decided where to sit when another cop ducks his head in the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But are you Embry Woods?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mom is Claire Woods?”

  “Yeah. Why?” My voice shakes. Next to me, Holden rests a hand on my lower back.

  The officer glances at Holden. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I need you to come with me.”

  “Too late,” I say. “Just tell me what’s going on. Holden can hear too.”

  “What is it, Hutchens?” McKenna says. “I was just getting ready to take a statement from her.”

  “Claire Woods is at Tillamook General. She’s been shot.”

  Thirty

  MY HEAD GOES CLOUDY. Officer Hutchens reaches out and grabs me as I start to wobble. “Steady,” he says. “Take a breath.” He keeps talking, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. His words are soft and soothing, but they get scrambled up in my brain.

  “She’s alive?” I ask. Please please please.

  “Yes,” he says. “According to the dispatcher, the woman who owns the Shop-a-Lot was out for an early morning run and found your mom bleeding on the side of the road. She was responsive when the paramedics arrived. That’s all I know. I can take you guys to the hospital in my car.”

  I nod rapidly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll meet you over there,” Holden says, grabbing my hand. “I’m here no matter what, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I squeeze his fingers. A tear falls, grazing the curve of my cheek on its way down to the floor. Wiping the remnants away, I follow Officer Hutchens out to his police cruiser. Outside, it’s begun to snow, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel the cold air. All I feel is the thudding of my heartbeat, my chest tightening like a drum as I once again imagine what life would be like without my mom.

  Hutchens unlocks the passenger-side door for me. Under any other circumstances, I’d find the inside of a police car interesting, but right now everything is a blur. I fumble for the seat belt and struggle to click the buckle into place with my shaking hands.

  Hutchens blasts the heat as he pulls away from the curb. When we reach the edge of the parking lot, he hits the siren and turns onto the street that leads to Tillamook General. He races around the corners almost as fast as Julia does in her car. I have a million questions, but Hutchens wouldn’t be able to hear me over the siren, and my voice is stuck deep down in my throat anyway. I can hardly breathe. I just keep imagining my mom bleeding on the side of the road. I glance at the clock on the dash. It reads 5:38. Why was she even outside this early? Vaguely I remember her saying something about going to work early to finish up the holiday cookie orders.

  I turn toward the side window and blink away tears. My hands curl into fists, my fingernails digging crescent-moon impressions into the flesh of my palms. As snowflakes batter the glass, my fear morphs into something like rage.

  Unknown has crossed a line.

  When we arrive at the emergency room, a nurse tells us that my mother is still being evaluated and that it’ll be a while before I can see her. I turn to Hutchens. “Do you know what happened? Do they have any idea who shot her?”

  “My partner took a report from Ms. Morales, the owner of the Shop-a-Lot, but I haven’t talked to her yet. I’ll be the one interviewing your mother once she’s able to answer some questions.”

  If she’s able to answer some questions, he means.

  The emergency room doors slide open and Holden steps into the waiting area, his dark hair flecked with snow. He hurries over to me. “Any news?”

  “Not yet.”

  The three of us sit side by side in the ER waiting room. My phone is burning a hole in my purse. I want to grab it and send a million scathing texts to Unknown. The nerve of someone hurting my mom after all she’s been through. What kind of monster does that? But then I remember my phone is in a Ziploc full of silica gel. There’s no way it’s dry already.

  So instead I bottle up my rage and fear as I watch the small flat-screen TV mounted up on the wall. It’s a cable news station reporting on international headlines. All the top stories are tragedies—a nuclear spill in Japan, an earthquake in Italy, a car bombing in Syria. I don’t want to know about any of that. How does the world even keep going with so much pain and tragedy everywhere?

  I glance over at Holden. He’s staring intently at the TV. We might be similar in a lot of ways, but we’re different too. Holden never hides from the truth. He takes in the violence without saying anything, his jaw tightening as the news anchor tallies up the casualties.

  Hutchens taps one of his scuffed black shoes against the hospital’s tiled floor. He flips through a nature magazine and then a brochure titled “You and Your Blood Sugar.” Hopping up from his seat, he says, “I’m going to go see if we can get an update.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I say, trying to unsee the image of a beautiful Gothic church crumbling to pieces in the Italian quake.

  We’re quickly rebuffed by the registration clerk, who tells us that as soon as my mom’s init
ial evaluation is done, a nurse or doctor will be out to retrieve me. “Try not to worry,” she says. “If she weren’t in stable condition, someone would have come to get you already.”

  “Super-reassuring.” I sigh.

  “Hang in there.” Hutchens turns back toward our seats, slowing to check out a pair of brightly colored fish swimming in a glass aquarium.

  “You don’t have to stay with us,” I tell him. “I appreciate the ride here, but Holden can take me home. You can go do whatever else you need to, if you want.”

  “Well, I’ve got to wait and take a statement from your mom, but I haven’t eaten much this shift, so maybe I’ll run down and see if the cafeteria is open.”

  “Take your time,” I say.

  “You want me to bring you anything?”

  I shake my head violently. I don’t remember the last time I ate, but I’m completely full—full of fear and anger and shame and regret. There’s no room for anything else right now.

  After Hutchens disappears, I walk a lap around the waiting area. There are five other people besides Holden and me. Three of them look like patients—an older woman with an oxygen canister, a man with a red nose clutching a box of Kleenex, and a girl a few years older than me who is sprawled out on her side across several chairs. She’s wrapped in a plain white blanket that probably belongs to the hospital. I remember watching the nurses pile those blankets on top of my mom after her surgery.

  I flip through the sparse selection of magazines, but there is absolutely nothing here that would interest anyone under the age of thirty. I end up plunking down in front of the fish tank, watching the bubbles from the filter push through the gravel on the bottom of the tank and float up through a small ceramic castle.

  Holden comes to sit next to me. “This is a beautiful setup,” he says. “And I think these are saltwater fish.”

  “They are.” I’m not sure how I know. I just do.

  “Embry Woods?” a sharp voice asks.

  I hop up from my chair. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  A woman wearing dark green scrubs with a name badge hooked to the breast pocket is standing in the doorway that leads from the waiting room to the ER. She gestures to me. Come on back, hon,” she says, tucking a pen into the back of her silvery-gray bun. “I’m Margaret, your mom’s nurse.”