Some of the Parts

by Hannah Barnaby

  He is smiling as he drives away, and I know I did a good thing because the wind kicks up and the trees wave their branches, rubbing their leaves into whispers.

  Walking into the taxidermy show feels like a dream in which I have forgotten how to walk and I have to think through the steps one by one. There is a surprisingly large crowd, probably because there isn’t much else going on in Molton on a Saturday morning. Small children cower behind their mothers, hiding from the foxes and possums and squirrels that appear to be preparing to leap at them.

  I see Mel before she sees me. She is standing to the side of her display at the far end of the hall, her eyebrows squinched together in a worried way. There is a crowd in front of her but she is looking over their heads, toward the door.

  Looking for her parents. Knowing they won’t appear.

  Some families don’t work even when everyone’s still around.

  I stop next to a huge falcon mounted on a tree branch and holding a snake in its beak. I watch Mel for a minute, my eyes locked on her, and hers on the entrance.

  The man standing behind the table—the creator of this entry, I assume—coughs.

  “Is that snake poisonous?” I ask him.

  He grins eagerly. “Not anymore!”

  “Thank you,” I say, and head for Mel, passing through the rows of installations. Most are small and straightforward, animals as they looked before they were dead, doing normal animal things in normal animal ways.

  Mel’s contribution is very, very different.

  The raccoon we retrieved from the side of the road is mounted on a huge cat, brandishing a sword, his furry mask the perfect complement to the black hat on his head and the cape flying out from behind him as the cat rears up and prepares to run. Chipmunks and moles dressed as tiny townspeople stand reverently before him, and a Spanish village is painted on the backdrop behind them, model houses with tile roofs peppering the landscape.

  When Mel sees me, she smiles a smile that I can’t quite read. Relief, I guess, mixed with pride. Before I can say anything, she hugs me and then seizes my hand. Her fingers are like a clamp.

  “Can you stay until the judging?” she asks brightly. She looks amped, almost deranged with glee.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What? Of course, I’m just—it’s just exciting, y’know, to be here!” She sounds utterly insane, and I’m just about to ask her if she took some of her mother’s pharmaceuticals when she tucks her arm around my shoulders and drops her voice into my ear. “The judges are, like, undercover this year. So I’m trying to sound enthusiastic. Too much?”

  “A little,” I tell her. Honesty. It helps, in small doses.

  “What is she doing here?”

  I turn and see Amy pushing a cart loaded with baked goods and some very familiar-looking coffee dispensers across the room. She is wearing a pink-and-green apron and a huge smile, one that is much less complex than Mel’s. And Cranky Andy is right behind her.

  “Great,” Mel says. “Common Grounds is ruined forever.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and march back between the display tables so swiftly that Amy actually takes a step backward when she sees me coming. She looks away, looks behind me, searching for some way out of the conversation that’s about to happen. I can feel her fear like crackling rays shooting out of her body, leaping to mine, and I receive it without flinching.

  “Don’t,” she says.

  “Don’t what?” I ask innocently. “Don’t buy a cookie?”

  Cranky Andy turns from the table where he’s arranging the little placards that identify the different kinds of coffee. They are hand-lettered with fancy calligraphy. Either Martha has talents I never suspected, or Andy’s been expanding his skill set. “Oh, hey,” he says. “We’re not quite set up yet.”

  The way he says this, as if I’m nothing more than any other customer, is far more infuriating to me than the fact that Amy is working with him. But not as infuriating as what happens next.

  Amy places her hand on Cranky Andy’s arm gently, as if it’s something valuable, and says, “I think Tallie wanted to talk to me. But”—she glares at me—“I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.”

  “Huh.” Cranky Andy looks like he couldn’t care less.

  “We used to be friends,” Amy tells him.

  “Oh,” I say, “but it was so much more than that, wasn’t it, Amy?” I have adopted some of Mel’s false cheer, and it echoes in my voice like an off-key instrument. “We might have become family.”

  Her face gets pale as a full moon.

  “Amy and my brother were in love,” I announce. “High school sweethearts, until—well, you know.”

  “Stop it,” Amy hisses.

  “It’s hard for her to talk about it,” I tell Andy.

  He is frozen in place, a huge tray of croissants shielding him from whatever is about to happen. The blood is singing in my ears, rising like a crescendo, and before she can get away, I lock Amy’s arms with my hands and hold her there. I make her stand there so she can never say she didn’t hear what I say next.

  “Maybe I did make him out to be better than he was. Maybe I’m remembering him all wrong. But on his worst day, he deserved way more than you.”

  She’s trying not to flinch, she’s looking right at me, and I see it, an almost invisible flick of her eyes that tells me she knows I’m right. I take my hands off of her, and in that one motion I say goodbye to the friend I thought she was.

  Maybe we’re all wrong about each other, I think as I walk back to Mel’s Zorro. Maybe all we have is our own version of the stories we wrote, the things we said to each other, the fights we had, the jokes, the sleepovers, the ballet recitals, the day we met. All of it. Maybe we never would have agreed on how any of it happened.

  Mel is waiting expectantly, a thousand questions written on her face.

  So I ask, “What’s the opposite of scud?”

  Mel thinks for a moment. “Darling,” she says. And then she goes back to stand next to her raccoon Zorro, and I take what few steps there are between me and the back exit.

  —

  The house is quiet when Dad and I get home. The driveway is empty, which means that Mom either went somewhere on her own—a sign, perhaps, that Dad’s family-repair project is working—or sold her car and is hiding out somewhere. Probably the former. I hope she’s not parked in front of that Victorian again. She’s in danger of getting arrested for stalking a house.

  Dad explains that he has some work to do in the basement. I assure him that I can handle his absence, trying to keep a straight face. I count his footsteps, match them to the number of stairs, and when I know he’s at the bottom, I do a browser check in the study. All of the home-improvement tutorials have been replaced with searches about “talking to your teen” and “grieving” and “healing” and “how your marriage can survive the loss of a child.” Dad is in full-on research mode. I can feel my freedom dwindling. He’s preparing his case for Red Circle Day, and he knows too much. In four days we are supposed to walk into Dr. Blankenbaker’s office for the verdict to be handed down. Dr. B. has become like an oracle, the one with the magic answer. Will Mom be on my side? Does she want to stay anymore or has Dad convinced her that I need to be saved?

  Her journal doesn’t offer much new material at first, just some weakly written statements about how she appreciates Dad’s efforts but she isn’t ready to let go yet. But then there’s this.

  I feel betrayed by a stranger. This person, whoever he is, asked to make contact with me and never did. How could he do that? Is he just toying with me? Is he flaunting the fact that he is alive and my little boy isn’t? I am going to call Life Choice tomorrow and file a complaint.

  So Dad hasn’t told her yet about my unsanctioned activities, about Gerald. Makes sense—he didn’t want her getting in touch with Life Choice in the first place. He likes controlling the variables, holding on to my secret until just the right moment. But if Dad read Mom�
�s journal like I do, he would realize that all this time he’s taking to formulate his plan is only making it harder to begin. Or maybe he knows that the plan is the only perfect part of the process. Once you set the plan in motion, things get messy, full of holes and unexpected trouble.

  Maybe that’s why I haven’t left town yet.

  Maybe Dad and I have more in common than either one of us wants to admit.

  But I can’t give up now. I owe this to Nate, to see this through, to find as much of him as I can. It seemed so simple at first. The revelation that Nate had not really left after all, that he had just been redistributed, like jigsaw pieces separated from the puzzle box. That I could find him. That the barriers—death and guilt and the whole stupid world—would vaporize and fade. It all seemed possible. And I don’t want to give up.

  He found a way to get me to the ceiling, once.

  So I prepare. I write a note to my parents explaining that I have to leave for a little while and that they should not worry but I know they will anyway and I’m sorry for that.

  For that, I will say I am sorry now.

  For the rest, Nate deserves the first apology. My parents can wait their turn.

  After my note is written and folded and sealed, I fire up my computer and send an email to SparkleCat76. Dad took my computer but I have my school laptop—I’m not supposed to bring it home but the rules are getting easier to break. My shaking hands make it difficult to type, but I manage to tell her that I will be in Boston this week and I would be so honored if she would allow me to share her story. An in-depth profile, all about her. She won’t be able to resist.

  I give her my phone number.

  Text me your address, I tell her, and I’ll come to you.

  I refuse to worry about how I will explain that I am not my mother. Maybe someone who calls herself SparkleCat76 lacks a firm enough grip on reality to notice. Or maybe she’ll have just enough kindness to talk to me about the boy who allowed her to stay alive.

  After I send the message, I think about what else I should do before I leave. I’ve withdrawn most of the money from Nate’s bank account, enough for the bus from Molton to Worcester and the train from there to Boston, enough for some meals and some cab rides. I will buy a map of Boston so I don’t have to use my phone to find my way around. I will ply Jennifer with flattery and the promise of sympathy from strangers, which is its own kind of currency for people like her. Like Margaret, the legendary liar. But not like me.

  And I will find his heart.

  I do not let myself think about all of the other possibilities. That Nate’s heart went somewhere else. That whoever got it isn’t even alive anymore. That Dr. Fikri’s group of patients will not be where they are supposed to be. That I will be caught and dragged back home before I even get to Boston to find out.

  I do not let myself think these things, but they are all around me anyway. I wander through the house, feeling it tilt and rock like an unmoored boat. In the kitchen, the red circle on the calendar shouts at me and I have to look at it. Four days away.

  On Monday, when my parents leave for work, I will watch them go. I will gather my things and walk to the door and step out toward something new, my own escape, a girl Houdini. I have called it a plan but even I know (though I suppress the words) that it’s not a plan—it’s the pushing of a rock down a steep hill, and once the rock is tumbling, it will go where it likes.

  I just hope I can keep it in sight.

  I hope I don’t disappear.

  Suddenly the risk of running away without anyone knowing why seems like it could erase me altogether.

  I text Chase:

  meet me @ atm next to cg tmrw 10 am

  sunday 10/12

  The next morning Dad knocks quietly on my door and invites me to come to church with them—part of his repair work on the family—but at the risk of it being used against me later I tell him that I’d rather not. He doesn’t argue.

  I have at least an hour, more if Mom and Dad go to the parish hall after Mass for coffee and cookies. I picture them there, standing in a corner together, hands huddled around the chipped, ancient mugs that the church offers every week. Then I draw them out into the crowd, paint smiles on their faces, give them things to say.

  There, I tell them. You’re okay.

  The wind tickles my cheeks on the ride to the bank, and rattles the leaves on the trees. The sun fights the chill in the air but there is no denying it. Fall cannot hold the battleground for long. Chase is standing outside the bank, shoulders hunched against the cold, a skateboard tucked under one arm.

  “New wheels?” I ask, leaning my bike against the bank’s brick wall.

  “Old ones,” he says. “I think my dad forgot I had this. Not ideal for the weather, but he won’t let me drive. So.”

  Dr. Abbott has Chase on his own version of parole. He calls at random times and Chase has to answer his phone or Dr. Abbott adds two weeks to his sentence. If he brings home any grade lower than an A−, he gets two more weeks. Misses his eight o’clock curfew? Two more weeks.

  “Doesn’t he care what you do before eight o’clock?” I asked when Chase told me the terms of his punishment.

  Chase shrugged. “I think this is more about asserting his control, y’know? Twisting these particular screws. And it’s not as if he’s ever home before then. Who’s going to keep me out of trouble? My mother?”

  It makes me sad that Chase knows already that he can’t depend on his parents. I mean, I can’t depend on mine either, at the moment. But I could before. And some part of me assumes that I will again, someday. After this is all over.

  I use Nate’s card to unlock the door into the ATM, and Chase follows me inside to get warm. The flourescent lights are giving me a headache but I finish the transaction and stuff the cash and the receipt in the front pocket of my backpack. Chase and I head back outside.

  “There’s thirty-four dollars left,” he says. He must have been peeking over my shoulder at the screen. “Want to come back tomorrow and get the rest?”

  I shake my head. “I should leave a little something.”

  I feel a bit like I did before I fainted in school, so I try to glide smoothly over to the bench in front of the bank, but I trip on the uneven pavement and lurch to it instead.

  “Are you okay?” Chase asks.

  “I’m fine!” I snap.

  He puts his hands up like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Okay, okay. Just asking.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m just…That question. I’m sick of it.”

  “Understandable.”

  I laugh, even though it makes my head hurt more. “Why are you so reasonable all the time?”

  “Fear of conflict.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Are you afraid there’s a Mr. Hyde behind my Dr. Jekyll?”

  I’m afraid of all kinds of things. All the words I want to say pour into my mind like water into an empty bowl. You don’t know me. I’m a mess. Why haven’t you tried to kiss me? But the words just float, and my mouth can’t shape them.

  “What do you want to hear?” he asks.

  “Did you look for me?” I ask him. “Because of who I am? The girl whose brother died?”

  “No. I’ve never looked for anyone from the binder. Most people aren’t as interesting as you expect them to be.” He touches his fingers to his hair, and my heart twists, and he says, “But I found you anyway.”

  Through the front window of Common Grounds, I see Martha and Andy behind the counter. A world I used to inhabit, preserved behind the glass. “Did you feel sorry for me?”

  Chase puts his hands in his pockets—they want to get out, I can see them struggling, but he keeps them trapped. “I talked to you because it seemed like a sign, like there was some message I was supposed to understand. And then I kept talking to you because…because you’re you.”

  We both watch his feet take one step toward me and then our faces lift, line up, dare each other to touch. Something inflates in
my chest, pressing against my heart, something slippery and fragile that will explode if we continue poking it, and then all our secrets will come flying out.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  And we could leave it at that. But we don’t.

  “What are you going to do with the money?” Chase asks.

  “I’m going to Boston.” The wind tries to steal the words, drown them out. But I’ve said them and now they’re true.

  “Why Boston?” He asks the question, but his voice is flat. The question is a formality. He knows why.

  “I want to see where they took Nate. Retrace his steps.”

  And he knows this isn’t exactly the truth—not the whole truth, but the hole truth—but he doesn’t call me out. Instead, he says, “I’m coming with you.”

  “What about your father?”

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and waves it in the air. “As long as there’s cell reception, we should be okay.”

  “And the GPS?”

  He wakes the phone up, makes a few screen trails with his finger, and puts it away again. “Taken care of. I don’t think my dad actually knows how to use it anyway. But I can always tell him it got turned off by accident.”

  “He won’t believe you,” I point out.

  Chase shrugs. “What’s another two weeks on my sentence? There are thousands of biographies just waiting to be read.”

  “Okay,” I say again.

  And I say, “Thank you.”

  And I say, “We leave tomorrow.”

  The clouds dip and swirl above us, and I watch Chase get smaller as he rolls away, and I pray for enough time to finish this.

  monday 10/13

  I don’t wake up because I never fell asleep. I lay in my room all night, listening to the sounds in the house, holding my anticipation like a bird in a cage. Paying attention. Not wanting to miss anything.