All the Little Pieces

‘You was mad yesterday,’ Maggie said slowly, as if she wasn’t sure she should proceed. As if there was another thought floating around in her head and she was toying with throwing it out there by testing the temperature. ‘Really, really mad …’

Faith swallowed hard. Perhaps it was the guilt hangover that was making her paranoid. Maggie had been asleep the whole time in the back seat – she’d checked on her. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, hoping to disguise the anxiousness in her voice. ‘Are you talking about at Aunt Charity’s? When we had to leave Aunt Charity’s? What are you talking about?’

Maggie squirmed in her shoes uncomfortably and looked around the gym.

‘Yes, I was mad at Aunt Charity’s,’ said Faith. ‘My feelings were hurt, the same way yours were when Melanie called you a name you didn’t like. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I don’t like it when you’re mad,’ Maggie said, her eyes wide and tearing up, her lip puffing. ‘You’re scary, Mommy.’

But before Faith could pull her close to ask her what she meant by that, the tears were gone and she was off running, squealing with delight as she dove into the ball pit face-first.

15 (#ulink_321d1e32-b2d1-58da-97b4-0c693d4d001f)

She was in bed when she heard the rumble of Jarrod’s garage door opening, followed by the chirp of the alarm being unset and the slam of the door. Then the rattle of pots being manhandled and cabinets opening and closing. The ding of the microwave. A plate clinking when it hit the sink.

‘It’s me!’ Jarrod finally called out, in case Faith was hiding in a closet, frying pan in hand, waiting to give it to the ballsy burglar who was busy fixing himself a snack before heading upstairs to raid the jewelry box.

‘Hey there, honey,’ he said with a smile as he came into the bedroom eating a Yodel a few minutes later. He walked over to the bed and kissed the top of her head.

‘Hi, yourself,’ she replied, muting the TV. ‘It’s almost eleven. You’ve had a long day.’

‘Did you get my text?’

She nodded.

‘We wrapped twenty minutes ago.’

‘Did they settle?’

He nodded. ‘The wife broke. She was what was holding everything up. She wanted the beach condo in Hollywood and my client didn’t want to let it go. But money always talks; he stroked Mrs Valez numero uno a check for three hundred thousand, signed over the house and half the pension, and that was it.’

‘Oh,’ she replied softly. ‘Is there a number two waiting in the wings?’

‘We’ll see,’ Jarrod answered charily, realizing too late that he had walked into the wrong neighborhood. He was a divorce attorney with a practice that thrived on the break-up of relationships and sometimes he forgot how his flippant comments could sting. ‘How was your day?’ he asked, stripping off his tie, trying his best to turn around and get out of the conversation.

‘It was OK. How many years was this one?’

‘Sixteen. No kids, though.’

She nodded absently, watching TV that had no sound. Faith had often wondered if there was a number in marriage that a couple could make it to where they were finally safe from divorce. A buoy to swim for. Ten? Twenty? Fifty years? After Jarrod left the PD’s office for what was supposed to be the civil practice of family law, she realized that no number was magical, no marriage was safe, and that there was nothing civil about divorce: when someone wanted out, they could be as emotionally ruthless and cold as the gun-toting stranger who wanted your watch. Before Jarrod began to dismember relationships for a living, Faith was a much more romantic person, a naïve person, believing in forever and always. She used to think that she and Jarrod would be different from other couples, that they wouldn’t have to rally back from the stresses that put more than 50 per cent of marriages under because they wouldn’t put themselves in a position that required a rally. She used to think that if she just observed her vows, if she did all the things she promised she would, that one person alone could hold the whole marriage together. When his intern, Sandra, called crying and distraught last year, two days after the firm’s Christmas party, she’d guilelessly thought it was a wrong number, that Sandra had somehow dialed her boss’s house by mistake – maybe a butt dial or she had hit the wrong name in her contacts. She kept telling her to calm down and speak slowly, even soothingly calling her ‘honey’ because she was having a tough time understanding what the girl was saying, which turned out to be quite true – she had a tough time understanding how her husband could sleep with his twenty-four-year-old law school intern when everything about their marriage had looked and felt perfect to her. It was like living on a sinkhole – the ground had given way that morning without warning, and in a five-minute conversation it had swallowed life as she knew it whole. There was no proverbial crack in the dam, no pre-existing, marriage-threatening conditions that were exploited by a sexy intern on a mission to snag herself an associate’s position and maybe a husband of her own. Even Jarrod couldn’t offer an explanation for why he’d cheated – only an apology. He kept promising her their buoy was still out there, somewhere, but she couldn’t see it.

‘We’re good,’ Jarrod said kissing her on the head again. ‘No worries.’

She nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I had something downstairs. I see you went to Pasquale’s.’

‘I picked up a stuffed shell for you. Maggie had ice cream.’

Jarrod shook his head and went into the closet to change. Ice cream for dinner usually meant a red-light day.

The news at eleven started and she turned on the volume as the comely anchor excitedly started to list the night’s upcoming top stories. The Explorer was back parked in the garage, the laundry was cleaned and put away, and UPS would be delivering her cell and her purse by 10:30 the next morning. This was it – the last newscast of the day to assure her that everything not only looked like it had yesterday before she had left for her sister’s, but that everything was actually OK.

‘A fiery crash on I95 kills three people on their way home from a Christian retreat and shuts down lanes on I95. We also have a breaking story that is coming to us live out of Loxahatchee. The body of a young woman has been found in a canal in western Palm Beach County …’

Faith sat up. So did every hair on her body. Her heart clenched.

‘So how was Maggie today?’ Jarrod was back, standing in front of her and blocking the television while he removed his cufflinks. ‘Do I want to ask?’

‘Red light.’

‘I figured.’

Behind him, the anchor started talking about the doomed retreat.

‘What happened?’ Jarrod asked.

‘She ran outside of the classroom; shoved a girl; wouldn’t stay in time-out – take your pick.’

He frowned and blew out a measured breath. ‘Did you call Dr Michelson?’

‘We’re seeing him Thursday.’

‘The therapy’s not working.’

‘I wouldn’t say that; it takes time.’

‘If medicine will make her better …’ he started.

‘Not till she’s seven.’

‘What is with that number, Faith?’

They’d had this conversation before. He knew her answer, but continued to ask the question, hoping she’d come around. Hoping that, as she saw Maggie fall behind academically and socially and watched her emotional outbursts grow worse, she’d ease up on the anti-drug stance. While Jarrod was well intentioned in his belief that medicating Maggie would help her be like the other kids, there was no guarantee it would. No one knew exactly what was wrong with her yet, much less how to fix her.

‘Her brain is still developing and she hasn’t even been officially diagnosed with ADD. Putting her on psychotropic drugs right now to chill her out would be to make life easier for us, not her.’

‘You took psych back in college, Faith. Medicines are always being tweaked and improved; maybe things have changed.’

‘Her issues are difficult for the people who have to work with her all day long, so you don’t have to worry about it. I didn’t complain about my day or hers; I simply told you what happened.’ She tried not to sound abrupt.

‘They’ll ask her to leave St Andrews. That one was a favor.’

‘Then we’ll leave.’

He sighed and walked into the bathroom. She had won. Again. It didn’t make her feel good.

She watched him go. Since the affair, he gave in to her on most everything, especially on matters that concerned what was best for Maggie. Other men might buy their wives expensive jewelry or a car to say they were sorry for cheating. Her present was control. And an acquiescent husband.