If I Break #4 Shattered Pieces

by Portia Moore

  “Don’t stop,” she begs me, and I don’t. I take her in every way I can think of, and dare her to forget me. I know she won’t, and when we’re done and she’s recovering, she turns on her side towards me and I trace my name on her back marking her.

  Lauren

  I thought it was a dream. I swore it was. Last night was hazy and confusing, yet wonderfully amazing like tasting a bite of your old favorite food and remembering how good it was. How could I have been so stupid? I knew Chris was acting strange last night, but with the alcohol and my emotions, it was hard to see clearly. Why didn’t he say anything? Cal has never pretended to be Chris, but Cal has always been a mystery—my very own enigma. Seeing the look on Chris’s face now, I feel terrible. Guilt bleeds through my soul as I look at him, his expression a mixture of anger and confusion.

  “I-I’m not sure but… I think Cal was here last night…”

  “What happened?” Chris asks, and I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice steady and his expression free from what he’s feeling. I save him the effort by gluing my eyes to my lap as the guilt consumes me. I sift through my thoughts of what happened last night—dancing, kissing, talking and making love. My face flushes.

  “I had too much to drink. I can’t recall everything, but I remember you being different—not bad different—just different.” He lets out a frustrated breath and runs his hands over his head. I’m not making this situation any better. “He never said it was him, so I thought the whole time he was you.” He didn’t say it with his words, but as I focus on the little moments I shared with him, I believe now he was telling me in other ways.

  “Well, this is just great. It seems as if both he and the other guy are parading around pretending to be me.” Frustration and anger radiate off of him.

  “How could no one realize that it wasn’t me? Weren’t Aidan and Hillary there too? Have we started to all just blur together to everyone that we seem as if we’re the same person?” His voice raises, but I know it comes more from hurt than anger.

  “We were all drinking, Chris. Aidan was entertaining Hillary…” I try to plead with him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” I’m on the verge of tears spilling, my hangover colliding with shock. He tilts his head up slightly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Why would he pretend to be me? Since when does he do that?” he mumbles, and that’s the question that makes my heart speed up. This is not normal Cal behavior— it seems beneath him—at least I thought that’s what he would think. I am surprised that I didn’t realize it and for me, it changes everything. Did I know it? That question is even scarier to answer. I was not exactly myself last night but, I should have realized something was off about him.

  “I need to talk to Helen.” He mumbles and stands from the bed. The air of easiness that he had less than twenty-four hours ago is long gone, and the weight of the world back on his shoulders.

  “Chris,” I call to him before he heads to the bathroom. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” He asks with defiance in his tone that reminds me of Collin. I swallow hard, unsure of how to answer. “That’s what I thought,” and with that, he shuts the door and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

  “I can’t believe he tricked us like that!” Hillary laughs, as if the seriousness of the situation hasn’t exactly sank in yet—as if she hasn’t been on the same roller coaster with me. I’m going over my to do list for the gallery opening which is in less than two weeks and my thoughts are cluttered. Memories are making their way to the forefront of my mind that have been dormant, or so I’ve tried to keep them that way.

  “You know, I thought something was a little off. I never imagined Chris to be a dancer and the way he was all over you…” She helps me look at the wallpaper samples for an accent wall for the upstairs of the gallery.

  “I should have known.” I grimace.

  “I like these two the most,” she says making an x on her two choices. They’re a little bolder than I wanted to go but nothing about Hillary is subtle. “You were out of it. We went out to drink and have fun, and I mean it’s not like he morphed into a guy with a different face. You know why I think this is all ridiculous—he’s the same person! I can’t believe how guilty he makes you feel about this. It’s a load of shit,” she declares with a hand on her hip.

  “They all look the same, and you can’t help it if they confuse you. Chris is more Old Navy while Cal’s more Armani and Collin has his metrosexual thing happening. But at the end of the day, they are the same person. And if anyone should be offended, shouldn’t it be Cal? He was the first.” She shrugs moving her attention over to the bio files of each artist who will be at the opening.

  “Oooh, he’s so hot!” she squeals eyeing one artist that was recommended to me from one of my old classmates. He’s a photographer and has a growing Instagram following.

  “Yeah, his work is hotter,” I tell her dryly and she scoffs at me.

  “Please get out of this funk. You’ve got your hubby back even if it’s Fifty Shades of bat shit crazy,” she jokes giving me a nudge. “I’ve been really into blonds lately,” she says grinning at the artist like a Cheshire cat. I snatch the picture from her.

  “Focus please.” I beg her pointing to the stack of bios I called her over to upload on our social media accounts.

  “On what? Your domestic woes or this boring stuff?” She points to the papers. “You guys are rich. Why don’t you just hire someone to do this?” she whines.

  “Because I hired you, remember?” I remind her with a grin and she pouts.

  “Oh, yeah I forgot,” she says. Hillary has been temping, and working at this new club. She has a degree in marketing but seems hell-bent on not making any use of it right now. Even though she hides behind her brash mouth and childish tantrums, she’s extremely intelligent and has taught me a lot about social media, analytics, and things that I’ve obviously gotten left behind in early 2000 about.

  “You need to take a picture for the website,” she reminds me. I comb my hands though my hair.

  “I did that already.”

  “Yeah, we need a picture where you don’t look like someone’s librarian.”

  “It has to be professional,” I retort back. I don’t look like a librarian.

  “Yeah, but you’re opening a gallery which you’re marketing to be hip, chic, and cool. It’s not boring, old and stuffy which your picture implies.”

  I pull up the picture I sent her. I’m wearing an oversized green sweater and my hair is in curls.

  “Wear a black sweater that’s showing a little cleavage, straighten your hair, and it wouldn’t hurt to throw on some mascara. Also I’m going to get you a new photographer. You look like you’re taking your high school yearbook picture in this one.”

  “Fine,” I tell her and she claps her hands excitedly then walks toward me and swings her arm around my shoulder.

  “You know I love you, right?” she asks, a genuine smile on her face.

  “I know.”

  “So I’ve been wanting to ask you something, but I was thinking it might be too sensitive right now. But you know me and since we’re on the subject…” I frown already preparing myself for the worst. “I took a peek at the picture under the big blanket.”

  “I wasn’t exactly hiding it.” Not from her at least.

  “I think it’s amazing.”

  “You do?” I ask, surprised and she nods enthusiastically.

  “Yes, when are you going to be finished with it?”

  “I don’t really have a set date. It’s been more for therapy if anything.”

  “I think it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The emotion bleeds off it, and you know I’m not an emotional person.” I’m surprised because she’s not, and she’s never been that interested in art—unless it’s of a hot guy—though I guess this one has three hot guys on it.

  “Wow, thanks Hillary,” I tell her unable to fight my growing smile.

&nb
sp; “You think you could be finished before the opening?” she asks hesitantly and my smile drops.

  “Oh no. I can’t show it there,” I tell her as if she’s lost her mind.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s so personal.”

  “Lauren, it’s amazing and I think it could be a breakout piece for you. I know you. You love art, not just showcasing it. You have to do it.” I cross my arms, and shake my head.

  “Things are different now. That piece is the first thing I’ve been able to come close to finishing completely and I can’t show it.”

  “Come on! It’s too good to be kept hidden in your office, and if we’re going to buy into this whole mental illness being legit thing, wouldn’t this be a great piece to further the cause?” she argues and my heartbeat starts to accelerate. I rub my temples to ease the headache that is coming on.

  “No not this one.” I say quietly.

  She looks at me, and her perfectly arched blond brows furrow together. “If you don’t want to include your inspiration or what it’s about, you don’t have to.”

  “People aren’t blind, Hillary. They’ll know it’s my husband.”

  “But they won’t get what it means.”

  I shake my head. “A lot of people from Crestfield Corp will be here. It’s not a good idea,” I tell her adamantly.

  “He’s the president of the company’s son. Who cares what they think. I’m sure they’ve put the pieces together, Lauren.”

  “He doesn’t even know I did this,” I say quietly, feeling the guilt creep up my neck. She twists her long French braid around her finger.

  “Well, ask him or them. I can see the work you put into this, and it deserves to be seen,” she urges. “Can you just think about it?”

  I grip the back of my neck and glance over at the portrait. The hours it took, the memories and feelings I fought with spilling out onto the canvas.

  “Pleeaseee.” She begs, her hands in prayer position. I look at her skeptically.

  “Lauren, you deserve this,” she says. The solemnity in her voice catches me off guard.

  “I’ll think about it,” I mutter and she squeals in delight.

  If only I was as excited about having this conversation with Chris as she seems to be at me having it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chris

  I look at the white envelope I found taped to the steering wheel in my car. The message on it simple:

  We need to talk

  —Cal

  Now in Helen’s hand, she is examining it thoroughly as if it was an essay written instead of a simple sentence. A request or a demand—I keep bouncing back and forth between which it is and what it means. Helen finally lifts her head and turns her attention to me setting down the note beside her. She interlaces her fingers and looks almost past me as if she’s contemplating something.

  “Okay Christopher, before we begin, I want to show you something.” She picks up the remote and turns on the flat-screen TV on her wall.

  “Are we watching another testimonial?” At first, it was interesting watching videos of other people with DID share what their experience has been like. The hardest part was listening to how their family members cope with it. Seeing the sacrifices everyone has to make makes me feel guilty.

  “Not today,” she says, and I look up and see myself on the screen.

  “Are we on?” The moment I hear the voice I know it’s not me. It’s him. He lets out a deep sigh and leans over his knees.

  “It’s me. The guy you think made your life a living hell, right?” He laughs. “Well if you think that, you’re fucking delusional. Without me, Caylen and Lauren wouldn’t be in your life. You’d probably be married to that stuck-up bitch Jenna.”

  “Cal, come on. You said you’d be nice.” I hear Helen’s voice in the background. He rolls his eyes and huffs.

  “Okay, let me get straight to the point. I want to do right by Lauren. I left her once because I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted her to have someone better than me,” he says solemnly.

  “Well not better—because let’s be honest it doesn’t get any better than this—but more responsible, reliable. Someone who didn’t have the shitload of baggage we do.” He shrugs. “I never wanted Lauren to know you. It always seemed like everything in life came so easy for you. I thought you’d be easier for her to love than me,” he continues. It’s so strange to watch a recording of myself and not recognize my voice or remember saying the words, but to see it, to watch it myself really hits me and makes it all so real.

  “I’ve been trying to fix things for her. Make things right, and give her everything she deserves. She doesn’t deserve us fighting against each other. Telling her to pick and choose all the time. Confusing the hell out of Caylen when she gets older. You are the responsible one. The selfless one. You could be a good dad. But God, sometimes you’re a fucking pussy, man,” he says with a groan.

  He’s such an asshole.

  “I mean you are, and I can’t leave my girls with someone who acts like a pussy. I want to give her something she always wanted. I sure as hell can’t do it by myself. But maybe both of us together. We can give her the Prince Charming she deserves,” he says. “Helen and I have been talking, and I’m starting to think maybe this integration thing won’t suck ass completely. So what do you say, Chris? You in or you going to pussy out?” he asks cockily.

  I don’t care what he says, I’m not a pussy. The video goes blank and my eyes dart to Helen. She’s quiet, obviously waiting for me to respond.

  “When did you take that video?” I ask her, trying to suppress the anger I feel coursing through me. She must be reading me correctly because her eyes dart away from mine, as if the second away suppresses any guilt she has.

  “It was one of your first sessions…” I shake my head as realization comes over me and I shake my head in disbelief.

  “I remember that day! It was when I felt like I blanked out and lost time and you lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you, Chris. I just didn’t inform you of what happened because I wasn’t sure what to make of it and I had to honor his request.”

  “Honor his request? What about me, Helen? What about my requests?”

  “I understand why you would feel upset, but you’re missing the bigger picture, Christopher. He’s offering you an olive branch,” she explains as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I cover my face with my hands.

  “And what—I’m just supposed to accept with open arms? Now he’s ready to play nice and I just go along with it because that’s what I’m supposed to do? I just go along with the program because it’s not like I have a choice right? What about my choice, Helen?” By the time I finish my sentence, I realize my voice has gotten louder than I wanted it to, but Helen hasn’t even flinched.

  “You always have a choice, Chris. You don’t have to make a decision right now. No one can make you do anything…” she continues but then she leans forward in her seat and her eyes narrow on mine, studying me.

  “And why now? What’s changed so much all of a sudden that he’s become a team player and not a selfish asshole?” I ask through a laugh.

  “I don’t know,” she says evenly, and I can’t help but wonder what use has she been to me. Yeah, she’s taught me more about my condition than I knew previously but anyone could have done that. I still feel like I’m back to square one.

  “I don’t think this is working,” I tell her with my mind made up. I stand up from my seat.

  “I can help you talk to him.” Our eyes meet and I try to read her eyes.

  “Why now?”

  “Because he’s obviously susceptible to it. You can ask him all that I don’t have the answers for.”

  I look toward the door and back at Helen. I imagine how satisfying it’d be to just walk out and leave her sitting here. It’s what I want to do, but I know it’s not helping anyone—not myself or my family. I glance over at the screen that my face is frozen on. His
face… it all blurs together. We’ve talked about co-consciousness in our sessions, communicating with them… it all seemed impossible at the time—surreal even—but the air in here is different now. The way my heart has begun to race and my muscles have tensed makes this all different. In the tape he’s how I imagined him to be—smug and arrogant.

  “Can you play it again?” I watch him, his mannerisms, and it hits me hard that this guy is really me. I’m on that TV, but it’s not me. Is this how it is for Lauren? Because I’m confused, and my emotions are all over the place. I ask her to play it again, trying to get used to the fact that it’s me. Hearing his message has an eeriness to it times ten. But there is something that I recognize in both of us—in our eyes and our expressions—everything changes when we talk about Lauren.

  “What would I have to do?” I ask her keeping my eyes on the screen. She turns off the video.

  “Hypnosis therapy.”

  “Ha.” I clasp my hands together and slouch back in my seat. The thought of Helen playing in my mind doesn’t give me any comfort.

  “Contrary to what many believe, hypnosis doesn’t allow me to control you or learn all of your secrets. It’s a state of focused concentration. My only role is to be your guide.” I wipe my hand across my face. At this point I can’t think of anything I have to lose.

  “Okay,” I nod. A glimmer of a smile shows on her face as she approves of my response.

  “I want you to relax, Chris.” We’ve moved to a different office, and Helen is not behind her desk but in an upholstered chair across from me. The lights are dim, and there’s some type of candle burning.

  “I am,” I try and assure her but my heart is beating fast and my body feels stiff.

  “I’d like you to take a deep breath for three counts and then push out the air for five.” I do as she says and after about the fifth time, my heart rate starts to slow down.

  “Feel your muscles relax, and your thoughts leave your mind, and focus in on my voice,” her voice is calm and low and a different tone from what it usually is.