The Missing Pieces of Us

by Fleur McDonald

  Craig wasn’t the type to beg. Yeah, he was as soft as a marshmallow on the inside and had always been tender and loving to her. But he’d never begged before. It was completely out of character for him: he was a strong, silent type who gave the impression to the outside world that he didn’t care about much. His words sent waves of emotion through her—how lovely it was to be wanted.

  She waivered . . . just for a moment, but fear of rejection overwhelmed every other feeling. She didn’t know what to tell him. She’d need to pick up her things, but she wasn’t ready to go back to the house, to see him again. Staying strong and not changing her mind were easy when she didn’t have to see him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, surprised by the prickle in her nose. Why would she even contemplate crying over a man?

  Get yourself together, the Tamperer told her.

  He might really love you, the Tam said. He might help you. You know, he didn’t have the easiest childhood either.

  At least his parents loved him, said the Tamperer. Your own parents kicked you out, and then Matt replaced you. You’re fucked up, and Craig deserves better.

  Her mind replayed the night when she’d been thrown out of her house. The fierce hatred in her dad’s voice, the rage in his eyes, and the way his hands had made those sharp, threatening movements. All of this coming after the calmness he’d portrayed when she’d first come home. That had been Evan through and through: a quiet white-hot anger, then pure fury.

  Shit, what time is it? Her eyes flicked to the clock on her office wall: 8.24.

  She did a quick breathing exercise, then made a coffee and walked out into the dimly lit shop. She loved being in here before it opened, when everything was neat and tidy, in order and clean. The soft cotton and linen shirts appealed to her, with their crisp, clean lines and subtle colours, as did the plain skirts and pants. Anything with a classic look. She would prefer to return the bright colours, lace tops and ripped pants to the warehouse, but they were popular with the teenage girls.

  That thought made her wonder what had happened with Adele and Skye. Why hadn’t they come into the shop after school? Still it was so lucky they hadn’t been there to watch her learn of her father’s death.

  Speaking of which . . . Tamara forced herself away from the clothes racks and went back to the counter to write a list of the pros and cons for going to Evan’s funeral. But when she stared at the empty page, she realised it represented exactly how she was feeling about his loss. She had no feelings, one way or the other.

  What did she feel about Angela, though?

  If Tamara was fair, even though her mum had done a terrible job of protecting her from Evan, Angela hadn’t been cruel.

  Another memory surfaced: Tamara’s ninth birthday. No one had remembered it. As she walked out of school that afternoon, trying not to cry, she heard her mum calling her name. Angela was sitting inside her car at the gate, wearing a wide smile. She waved Tamara towards her and told her to hop in. They drove to a little café on the Swan River, where they ate ice-cream and drank iced chocolate.

  At the end of their private party, Angela pulled out a present and pushed it across the table.

  ‘For me?’ Tamara asked, disbelieving.

  The small square-shaped box was wrapped in pink paper and tied with a pink bow. It was like nothing Tamara had ever seen.

  ‘You’ll have to hide it, Tam,’ her mum said, without smiling. ‘Just like you can’t tell him we’ve had our own little celebration. Everything about today is our secret, okay?’ Reaching across the table, Angela gripped her hand so tightly that her fingers left an imprint.

  Tamara held her breath as she pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the red velvet box. Inside lay a silver necklace with a heart charm. Transfixed, Tamara picked it up and let the coolness of the chain run through her fingers.

  Then she saw it—her name engraved on the heart.

  Standing beside the register in her store, Tamara wondered how she could have forgotten for so long. What happened to that necklace? Maybe she’d hocked it. Ah, no, that wasn’t right. She’d dropped it in a rubbish bin, on the street, as she walked along aimlessly, trying to work out where she would sleep that night.

  Her dad hadn’t cared. Her mum hadn’t followed her.

  But now Angela was back in her life, extending an olive branch. Doctor Kerr would probably have told Tamara that this was an opportunity to get closure. Going to her dad’s funeral might help with that, although it would be tough.

  She’d also need to get her things from Craig’s place and talk to him—help him to understand why they needed to break up. She imagined him sitting in the lounge room by himself, Whiskey at his feet, staring into space. He’d done that when his mother had died. Not moving, not talking, not drinking. Sitting and staring.

  Slowly, Tamara put down the pen and walked towards the front of the shop, where a grey skirt hung on a mannequin. Unclipping it, she took it off and checked the size. It would fit. And a top? She knew every piece of clothing within the four walls of the shop. There was a deep purple cross-over blouse on the sale rack. Paired with the grey skirt, it would be fine to wear to a funeral.

  Chapter 8

  At Dean’s insistence, Lauren had rung her dermatologist’s clinic first thing in the morning. She’d asked for an appointment as soon as possible, and the receptionist had told her that there had been a cancellation at ten: ‘Can you pop in then, love? Otherwise you might need to wait another month for your regular appointment.’ Lauren had checked with Hamilton, who’d given her the go-ahead, and now here she was at the clinic.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been five months since our last appointment,’ Michelle said as she led Lauren down the brightly lit passageway towards her office. ‘Next minute it will be Christmas again!’

  ‘I hope not,’ Lauren said. ‘I’ve only just recovered from the last one.’

  She’d been seeing Michelle for more than ten years and they had a professional relationship, but it was hard not to know a little of each other’s personal lives given they had been patient and doctor for so long.

  Michelle got out her magnifier. ‘So, why did you call to make an earlier appointment? I’m guessing you’ve got a concern.’

  ‘Oh, it’s probably nothing. Dean wants you to check a pimple on the back of my right arm.’

  ‘Okay, slip your shirt off and put your arms up—you know the drill.’

  With gentle hands, Michelle ran the magnified lens over Lauren’s skin. Wanting to distract herself while Michelle concentrated in silence, Lauren looked around the room. Nothing had changed much since her last visit—the photos of Michelle’s husband and kids sat in the same spot on the desk, and bookshelves still lined the far wall. The fake green plant sat in the same corner.

  ‘How long have you had this for?’ Michelle asked.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. I was vaguely aware of it for a week or so, but didn’t take much notice until Dean pointed it out.’ Lauren paused. ‘What is it?’

  There was another silence while she felt Michelle’s fingertips holding the top of her arm. ‘Um, I’ll have to wait for the pathology report before I can tell you anything. With your history—you know, all the basal cell carcinomas I’ve removed—I don’t want to do a biopsy. I’ll just cut it out. I can do it now, if you’ve got time?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Jump up onto the bed and lie on your side. I’ll give you a local. I don’t think you’ll even need stitches with this.’

  Up on the bed, Lauren felt the prick of the needle and tried hard not to jump. Needles didn’t bother her the way they did some people, but they always stung a little. Funny, she thought, Dean hated needles—so much so that he avoided going to the doctor in case he needed a blood test—but the kids were all like her.

  ‘How’s your family history research coming along?’ Michelle asked as she bent over Lauren’s arm, her voice muffled behind the mask an
d her gloved fingers sticky against Lauren’s skin.

  ‘Good. I’ve traced Dean’s family back to the early 1800s—it’s so interesting! His great-great-great grandfather was distantly related to the Duke of Wellington. I’m still working on Dad’s side: I’m missing a few pieces of the puzzle there.’

  ‘Can you feel that?’

  A small amount of pressure on her arm, but no pain.

  ‘Nope.’

  There was a rustle of Michelle’s gown and a clink of instruments on the tray. ‘How interesting to hear you call it a puzzle. I guess that’s exactly what it is.’

  ‘Absolutely, I’m always looking for the missing pieces.’

  ‘And what about your birth family?’

  Lauren took a deep breath. ‘I still can’t get past the fact that it’s not fair to search for my biological parents while my mum and dad are alive. It probably sounds strange—’

  ‘Not at all. They brought you up. I’d imagine it might seem ungrateful if you try to find the woman who gave birth to you, even though she didn’t raise you.’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ Lauren said. She focused on the plastic plant in the corner as the pressure increased. She’d had this done many times before, so she knew what to expect, but it still didn’t feel great.

  ‘Have you talked to them about it, though? Maybe there’s no need to worry,’ said Michelle.

  Lauren paused, not sure how to word her answer. ‘I haven’t,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t want to hurt them. They’re old. It seems better to wait until . . .’ Her voice faded as she realised that if she did that, there was a chance her birth mother would be dead too.

  She tried to put herself in Connie’s position. She’d loved and raised Lauren from the moment they’d brought her home. She’d been the one who cleaned up Lauren’s vomit, wiped her bum, been at prize night and everything in between. Could she understand Lauren’s need to learn where she’d come from?

  ‘You know, it’s not about getting a new mum,’ Lauren finally said as Michelle put on the bandage. ‘It’s about finding out who made me. My genes and that sort of thing. Some days the need to find her is overwhelming, and on others it’s not there at all. That’s probably the main reason I haven’t bothered Mum and Dad with it yet. Well, that and disrupting everyone’s lives. Such an upheaval.’

  ‘I can only imagine. Have you thought about explaining it in those words?’

  ‘No,’ Lauren said quietly. ‘It’s really only occurred to me right now that this is the reason I need to meet her. If she’s still alive. Maybe she has recurring skin cancers too.’

  ‘Well, have you wondered what you’d do if you found out that she was dead? How would you feel to have a name and a family history, but not a person to talk to? You can sit up now.’

  Lauren swung her body around and sat up. ‘I’ve gone over it in my head a million times, and I can’t give you an answer.’

  Michelle gave her a reassuring nod, then put the sample into a bottle and labelled it. ‘I’ll send this off now, and we’ll get the results in a couple of days. Keep your arm dry for the next forty-eight hours, then you can remove the dressing. I’ll call you with the results.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Michelle.’

  Michelle smiled. ‘Take care, Lauren. It was good to see you. I hope you can find a way to work through everything.’

  When Lauren walked into the kindy classroom just after 11.30 am, the children were absorbed in tracing dotted letters. The first thing she noticed was Dirk’s absence. ‘Was there a phone call or note?’ she asked Joy.

  ‘Haven’t heard a word. And we can’t ring, can we?’

  ‘Not on the first day. If he’s away for a week without us hearing anything, I could make a phone call and ask what’s going on.’ Lauren shrugged, trying to ignore her worry. ‘Other than that, there’s not much else we can do.’

  During lunchbreak, Lauren flopped into a comfy chair in the staffroom, pulled out her phone and checked her messages. ‘Loved last night, babe!’ Dean had texted two hours ago. She laughed to herself.

  From across the room, a harassed-looking teacher called out to her, ‘Would you mind doing my yard duty in the quadrangle? I need to tutor one of my Year Twelves before an assessment next week.’

  ‘Sure, no worries.’ Lauren got up and stretched, then tucked her arms back in quickly as the bandage pulled her skin. Fishing around in her handbag, she found an apple and took it out to eat in the sunshine.

  As she walked to the quadrangle, Lauren realised that this would be a good opportunity for her to check on Skye. She hadn’t seen her this morning before she’d left for school, which was uncharacteristic. Maybe Skye was hanging around with a different group—that would explain her strange behaviour lately. More than likely, though, Skye’s group would be sitting together as usual, all staring at their phones. Probably texting each other instead of talking face to face.

  Lauren had to walk to the back of the quadrangle to find Skye’s group. They were leaning against the school fence, half hidden by a hedge. If Lauren hadn’t been looking for them, she would probably have missed the group. What were they doing all the way out there? How strange—they usually hung around the pine tree near the side entrance. Then she realised that Skye wasn’t with them. Now that was even stranger, although maybe her daughter had just gone to the toilet.

  She’d have loved to go over and chat, but they were probably like Skye, not wanting to be spoken to by adults—especially a teacher. These girls were so different to the kindy kids, who would seek attention from Lauren and Joy at every opportunity. Earlier in the year, Dirk had always wanted to show them his bugs. Every recess he’d found slaters or ants and brought them back to the classroom, a look of pleasure on his face. Lauren had joked that he might become an entomologist when he grew up.

  For about the thirtieth time, she wondered why he was away. Did it have anything to do with her speaking with Zoe the day before? She hoped not.

  Blinking, she looked back at the group of girls. Adele straightened her shoulders and flicked her hair as if trying to get someone’s attention—a boy’s, perhaps. It didn’t seem possible that they were all fourteen already. Surely it had only been a few short years since their mothers had held them as babies for the first time. Now here they were on the cusp of adulthood. They had the bodies of women, but not the maturity to handle them.

  A little pang of love formed in Lauren’s chest. They were good kids with the world at their feet. They were smart and growing up in a time that celebrated rather than denigrated women. She hoped they’d all succeed in whatever they chose to do.

  One girl dug into her bag and held up an item of clothing. From where Lauren was, it looked like a t-shirt. The girl showed it off, holding it against her body before placing it on the ground. Another item came from her bag, and then another.

  Jasmine grabbed a light-blue shirt from the pile. Looking around, she slipped off her school shirt and put it on, testing to see if it fitted her properly. A bout of laughter erupted from near the hedge, and Lauren saw Jasmine, still wearing the non-uniform top, standing up and dancing in time to silent music. A few moments later, she flopped back onto the ground with a grin while the other girls cheered.

  God knows what they’re doing, Lauren thought.

  Lunchbreaks had certainly changed since she’d first started teaching. Fran had always said that the way to keep kids out of mischief was to occupy them with swings and slippery dips and games. But that was for kindy and primary children: teenagers were a different breed. Especially this generation, who loved their smartphones and talked more through social media than they did to one another.

  Lauren had spoken to Skye more than once about the dangers of Facebook and Twitter. Then, a few weeks ago, Dean had told her about two newer social media sites, Instagram and Snapchat, which allowed you to send photos that were automatically deleted ten seconds after they’d been opened. It sounded awful. When Lauren and Dean had asked Skye about it, she’d denied having the ap
p on her phone. And because Skye kept her phone password-protected and within easy reach at all times, even when she was sleeping, there was no way of checking. Of course, Skye had brushed off their concerns with the innocent enthusiasm of a teenager: ‘It’ll never happen to me.’

  Watching Skye’s friends, Lauren hoped that it wouldn’t happen to any of them.

  She heard someone calling her name and turned around. Joy was walking towards her, holding out a message slip. ‘Zoe just rang to explain that Dirk’s sick.’

  ‘Oh, great, thanks. But I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.’

  ‘No, me neither,’ said Joy. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go set up the easels again, but let’s talk more later.’ When Lauren nodded, she hurried off.

  Glancing back at the girls, Lauren noticed Skye running across the grass to meet them. God! She’d forgotten she was even looking for Skye; Dirk had taken over again. Lauren focused on her daughter now. She was red-faced and her hair was untidy, and she greeted Adele and the others with an embarrassed wave.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Lauren heard Adele call out. Skye answered, but Lauren only heard Adele’s response: a high, disbelieving pitch. Had Skye just done something against the rules?

  The bell rang. Damn. She had to get back to the classroom.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ squealed Adele as she looked at the silver stud at the top of Skye’s ear. ‘You didn’t? Oh, wow, your mum’s going to kill you.’

  Skye reached up to touch it. ‘She won’t notice. Too busy.’

  Last night, Billy had surprised her by calling around midnight and saying a lot of sexy things. They’d talked about piercings, and he’d said that studs in the top of the ear were really wild. His last girlfriend had one. ‘Makes you look like you don’t give a fuck about society. Rebellious. That’s really attractive,’ he’d whispered into Skye’s ear, his deep voice sending shockwaves of desire through her.

  She hadn’t slept much after that, and she’d got up early, packing a change of casual clothes and racing out the door without seeing anyone. Just before her final morning class had ended, Skye had asked to go to the toilet. With a shudder of apprehension, she’d glanced over her shoulder as she slipped through the gate and out onto the road. She was sure someone would pull up a car next to her and ask why she wasn’t in school.