Pieces of my Heart

by Jamie Canosa

  Six-thirty? I had to be at work in half-an-hour. “I can’t. I have to go. I’m gonna be late.”

  “Late?”

  “For work. I have to go home and get my uniform and—”

  “Alright. Alright.” Climbing to his feet with a level of grace I couldn’t hope to achieve, Caulder offered me a hand up. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, he headed for the kitchen while I tugged on my shoes and dug through the closet for my coat. Of all days to be running late, it had to be the one that I was working with Stew.

  “Wait.” Caulder caught me frantically searching my coat pockets for the car keys that didn’t seem to be in there. “You might need these.”

  Of course they weren’t in there. Because Caulder still had them. Snagging them from his grasp, I grumbled a thank you, not really sure I should be thanking him for effectively kidnapping me for the past twelve hours. Not that I was complaining. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept that soundly. On the floor of all places.

  “And this.” A large muffin sat perched on the palm of his hand like a peace offering.

  Stuffing the keys in my pocket—where they belonged—I snagged the treat and sniffed. Mmm, banana. My favorite.

  Mornings were the worst. After sitting untouched all night, it took three tries to get my stupid car to start. When it did, I looked up long enough to see Caulder standing in the door, shaking his head at me.

  ***

  “You’re late.” Stew was a hefty man with thinning black hair that he grew long in a failed attempt to cover up his receding hairline.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I got stuck—”

  “I don’t need apologies or excuses. I need an employee who can get her butt to work on time.”

  “It won’t happen again. I promise.” Ducking behind the counter, I snagged an apron from the wall and pinned my nametag to it before slipping it over my head.

  I’d been in such a rush I hadn’t bothered with a coat. And I’d left my keys in the car. Crime wasn’t a big problem in that part of town and if someone wanted my car badly enough they were willing to steal it, good luck to them.

  The way Stewart continued to grumble to himself, you’d think I was hours late instead of . . . I sneaked a peek at the clock on the register. Wow, a whopping four minutes.

  The place was deserted, so I rinsed out the washcloth and set to wiping counters. There was no downtime when you worked with Stew. If there wasn’t something to do, you found something. Or he’d find something for you.

  I’d moved on to the display case and was wiping invisible crumbs from the racks when the door chimed signaling at least a temporary reprieve from the mind-numbing boredom.

  “Oh. Shit.” I looked up to find Jeff standing just inside the door, looking none too happy to see me. And behind him, surrounded by a crowd of rowdy football players was . . . Oh. Shit.

  “Well, lookie here.” Doug hushed his posse long enough to garner their attention and send it all my way. “If it isn’t Jade Carlson.”

  “You’re back.” Way to state the obvious.

  Doug had left town shortly after graduation and I hadn’t seen him since. I heard he was playing second string for some university that obviously had some kind of large dog for its mascot, judging by the enormous paw print stamped on the front of the hoodie he was wearing.

  “Got back last night. Decided to visit for Homecoming. Not that you’d know what that is.” Several of the guys—obviously a year or two younger than us because they were still sporting high school jerseys—laughed. “When’d you get back? Oh, no, wait . . . You never left this crap-heap, did you? Still living in that same rundown, should-be-condemned apartment with your mama? But that’s you, Jade, isn’t it? Townie extraordinaire. Born here. Live here. Probably gonna die here. You ain’t goin—”

  “Enough, man. Lay off her.” Jeff stepped up to the counter and I moved my attention to him.

  “Can I get you something?” The boss-man was still watching this fiasco, after all.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “I think I’ll get something,” Doug said, demanding my undivided attention, despite that fact that what I really wanted to do was tell him where he could shove his mocha latte.

  I could feel Stewart watching me as I fumbled around, trying to ignore Doug’s continuing jabs.

  “You know how much that girl cost me in scholarships? I missed the entire end of my senior season because of that stunt her and her loser boyfriend pulled.”

  My entire body locked up and I set the cup down too hard, sloshing the contents over the top.

  “Shut up, Doug. You’re being an ass.”

  I glanced at Jeff as I snapped on the plastic lid and the pity in his eyes was almost worse than Doug’s cruel words. Plastering on a smile, I took his beverage to the counter and tried to picture what his face looked like when Kiernan had gotten through with him.

  “That’ll be four-seventy-five.” I held back the ‘douchebag’ on the tip of my tongue for the sake of my job.

  Doug reached for the cup, but at the last moment, his wrist flicked, knocking it onto its side and dumping the scalding hot contents across the counter and down the front of my pants.

  “Oops. The cup stuck.”

  Bullshit. He did that on purpose. I knew it. Doug knew it. And from the scowl firmly etched on Jeff’s face, he knew it, too.

  “You alright, Jade?” Jeff grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and handed them to me.

  “Yeah.” Pulling the material away from my scorched flesh, I dabbed at the sopping material. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there.” Stew shoved an empty cup at me. “Get the man another drink.”

  Right. Sure. Because I wasn’t the one with polyester melting onto her legs.

  I nearly crushed the Styrofoam in my fist, listening to Doug and his buddies snickering behind my back as I waddled around recreating his order. And I was sorely tempted to throw the entire thing in his face when Stewart told him it was on the house.

  “Have a nice life.” Doug shot me a self-satisfied smirk and I took a step back just in case he decided to go for round two. “If that’s what you can call it.”

  As the others headed for the door, pushing and shoving the whole way, Jeff hung back. The moment they were out of earshot, he caught my eye and leaned over the counter. “He’s just pissed because he’s failing three classes.” A conspiratorial grin curved his lips and he surprised me with a wink. “See ya around, Jade.”

  I had to admit, it helped a little knowing Doug was as dumb as ever. But his IQ—or lack thereof—did nothing for the continuing burn on my thighs.

  “Do you mind if I . . .?” I pointed toward the bathrooms and Stewart huffed.

  “Go get cleaned up. And don’t come back without a fresh rag. If that counter had been properly cleaned, the cup wouldn’t have stuck.”

  Stuck, my ass.

  Securing the lock, I unbuttoned my pants and slowly peeled them off to survey the damage. It wasn’t so bad. My thighs were a bright fiery red color. Fairly close to matching my face. But otherwise, no damage to my skin. We kept a first aid kit under the sink, and I dug through it for the After Burn spray. It went on ice cold and stung like a mother, but after a couple minutes it began to numb away the pain.

  My pants, luckily, were black, so as the stain began to dry it was becoming unnoticeable. I’d wash them at home before my next shift, but for the time being, I held them under the hand dryer for several minutes. By the time I was done, they looked good as new. Even my legs were starting to return to their normal coloring. With one more spritz of After Burn, I redressed and went out to face Stewart, fresh rag in hand.

  The remainder of my shift was spent scrubbing counters, tables, floors, machines . . . and toilets. Definitely should have thrown the latte in his face.

  ***

  I stood outside my door, trying really hard not to stress-out, but I was me, so . . . yeah. Tearing my
fingers from my mouth, I frowned at the shredded mess. I was beginning to look like a human chew toy.

  I could hear the buzz of the television and I’d seen her car parked outside, so I knew Mom was home. And it was still early, so I was guessing she’d be lucid enough to hold a conversation, though some small, cowardly part of me almost hoped she wouldn’t be. An even smaller, more naïve part of me hoped she wouldn’t have to be. That she’d gotten her act together and sent Michael packing all on her own. But not even that part had dared to believe there would be a hot lunch laid out for me when I walked through the door.

  “Where have you been?” Mom was rummaging through a drawer in the kitchen, but my eyes were glued to the two plates of spaghetti sitting on the table and the array of dirty pots and pans in the sink, lending credit to the fact that she had, in fact, cooked the meal.

  “At work.” For a moment, I thought she might ask where I’d spent the night. A question I wasn’t sure I had an acceptable answer to.

  She didn’t. “Oh.”

  “Where’s Michael?” Hope was such a fragile thing.

  “Making a grocery run.” It could be crushed with just a few words. “I made lunch.”

  I could see that. The question was . . . why? The closest Mom ever came to ‘cooking’ was tossing a TV dinner in the microwave. I was fairly certain I knew the answer. And I didn’t like it.

  This wasn’t an apology. I could still smell the alcohol on her breath. See the beer cans lined up on the counter. This was a bribe. She really thought a bowl of pasta was going to make me okay with her drinking again and having Michael there. That this would make us even, somehow. Erase any trace of guilt she might harbor over the situation. Mom logic.

  But if there was guilt . . . then there might still be a chance to turn this around. I couldn’t let her assuage it and move on, believing everything was alright this way. Not if I wanted anything to change. To go back to the way it was before.

  “I thought Michael was only staying the night.”

  “Change of plans. Are you going to eat or not?”

  “Yeah. I just . . .” If I ate that pasta, I was accepting her peace offering. I was essentially telling her everything was okay when it wasn’t. It would be the end of the discussion. Inching toward the table, I refused to take a seat. The food actually smelled good and if I got any closer, I might not have been able to keep myself from devouring it. “I think maybe we should talk before—”

  Her face went hard in an instant. “You’re telling me I just spent the past hour preparing a meal for you and you’re not going to eat it?”

  Was that what I said? It’s not what I’d meant to say. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  The table shook with the force of her steps as she crossed the room. “Fine. You don’t want it?” She scooped up my plate. “Don’t eat it.”

  “Please, Mom. I didn’t mean—” Before I could explain, she dumped the contents of the first home-cooked meal she’d ever made me into the trash. My heart broke. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  It didn’t matter that my voice stuck in my throat, she wouldn’t have heard me anyway. Flinging herself down in a chair, she dug into her own food with abandon, completely dismissing my presence.

  Why did I always do this to myself? Why did I always have to mess everything up? There were so few good things in my life and one comes along and I just throw it in the trash. At least she was trying. At least she’d cared enough to try to make it up to me. And I’d spit at it.

  I was a miserable human being, and that was entirely my fault.

  “Just so you know,” she spoke to the table, “your father’s going to be around for a while. You might as well get used to it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Choking back the sob threatening to tear free, I ran down the hall, collapsing onto my bed.

  It was times like this when it was easy to understand why she hated me so much.

  I hated me, too.

  Five

  “You didn’t buy it. I bought it!” I blinked awake, staring dazedly around my dark room, slowly tuning in to the sound of my mother’s shrill voice. “Whose money do you think that is you’re spending?”

  “Screw you, Lyn. I—”

  “Sat on your fat, lazy ass! That’s all you did. That’s all you’ve ever done!”

  “Watch your mouth, you stupid whore, or I’ll . . .”

  Scrambling out of bed, I threw open my door and found myself standing in the hallway, the center of everyone’s attention. I kind of wished I was wearing something black and badass. Maybe leather. But my fuzzy polar bear pajamas were going to have to do.

  “Don’t yell at her.” I took pride in the fact that my voice didn’t shake nearly as bad as the hands I had tucked away behind me, out of sight.

  I don’t really know what I was thinking. Michael was a big guy. Thin and lean thanks to his predominantly liquid diet, but still big. If he meant to do either of us any harm, there wasn’t a whole lot me and my arctic army were going to be able to do to stop him.

  Michael’s lip curled in disgust. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “No.” Oh, crap. Now would be a really good time to grow a backbone. One made of steel. “Maybe . . . Maybe you should go.”

  “Excuse me?” It wasn’t the look of shock on Michael’s face that put a damper on my rising pride and rooted me to the spot. It was the blatant rage on my mother’s. “Who the hell do you think you are? This is my home!”

  “But he . . .” I was stunned speechless. I’d gone out there, stood up to him, to help her. “I heard you . . .”

  “Why don’t you try minding your own goddamn business for a change?”

  “I . . .” I really didn’t know what to say.

  “Get out of here! No one asked for your help. No one wants your help. No one wants you. Looking at you makes me sick.”

  I was the one who felt nauseous when Michael chuckled behind her. Tucking tail, I threw myself back into my room and slammed the door shut.

  “What do you want from me, Lyn?” Michael barked.

  “Why don’t you try getting a job, you lazy piece of shit. You only owe me eighteen years of child support!”

  “Child support, my ass. You only got yourself knocked up to keep me around in the first place.”

  “I got myself knocked up? That’s rich. Obviously I caused that disaster all by myself. I’m a goddamn miracle worker. You stupid ass. You only ruined my whole damn life.”

  That ‘disaster’ they were talking about was me.

  Mrs. Parks had tried to tell me once that the things my mother said while drunk weren’t true. That she only said them to hurt me because she was hurting. But she wasn’t saying these things to me. She wasn’t saying them to intentionally hurt me. She was saying them because they were true. They were both speaking the unfiltered truth. Neither of my parents ever wanted me.

  They still didn’t want me.

  Curling my knees to my chest, I pulled the pillow over my head and did my best to shut them out.

  ***

  Some kind of rap music blared in the parking lot, the steady pumping bass, rattling my windows. The loud clomping of someone traipsing up the stairs. The steady hum of the television. All of these sounds were normal to me. Almost soothing in their familiarity. But, there was a new sound. The deep, rumbling of a man’s voice inside our home, coming through the paper thin walls, burrowing its way into my brain. No matter how loud she got, I could always tune my mother’s drunken rants out. Those, too, had become almost soothing when they weren’t aimed at me, a sign that everything was as expected. But Michael was like a wrench thrown into an already faulty machine. He clogged my brain and sent it careening out of control.

  The sound of his voice grated on my nerves, rubbing away at them like sandpaper. I was constantly on edge, wincing each time he raised his voice, analyzing every word, every nuance. Exactly the way I’d done with my mother my entire life. Only now it was worse. Now, I didn’t have to be involved for an
explosion to occur. She was the bomb and he was the fuse. And the match. They could rock my world all on their own and there was nothing I could do to avoid it. Just duck and cover and try to prepare.

  The smooth material of the sheet clung to my face, making it difficult to breathe. The air was thick and humid from my exhalations. Something crashed that sounded like glass and I pulled the blanket tighter around me.

  The explosions were endless. Loud voices. Angry words. Horrible names. It felt like living in a battleground. I couldn’t understand it. Michael I got, to a degree. He had nowhere else to go. But my mother? To listen to her scream at him, you’d think she hated the man. And yet, he continued to live in our home, providing not a single contribution.

  There was a thud against the wall behind me that may or may not have been a body, making me flinch, and the shouts turned to moans. Even worse to listen to than the endless fighting.

  My head buzzed with song lyrics, quotes from books I’d read, memories. Anything to tune them out. My fingers ached with the white knuckled grip I held onto my pillow with. I wasn’t in danger. No one was coming into my room to hurt me. I doubted anyone even remembered I was there. Still, my body and mind reacted as though I were. I cowered and hid and tried to convince myself that everything was alright. But it wasn’t. Each altercation, each interaction between them was a step in the wrong direction. Down a path that could only lead to dark and painful things. And like it or not, I was along for the ride.

  I was halfway through a song that had been popular when I was in middle school when I heard the front door slam. It was after three in the afternoon. Way too late for Mom to be running errands. Definitely late enough for her to be totally—

  Jumping out of bed, my foot got wrapped in the sheets and I nearly landed face first on the floor. I hopped around for balance until I was able to free myself and lunged for the bedroom door, racing down the hallway to the kitchen where the window had a clear view of the parking lot just in time to see Mom and Michael bump off each other as they blundered down the sidewalk, past her car, and around the corner. Wherever they were headed, at least they weren’t dumb enough to drive.