All the Little Pieces

‘So how was your sister? What happened last night?’ Jarrod called out from the bathroom, trying on a new subject.

Her stomach flip-flopped. She’d rather debate how best to treat Maggie’s emotional issues. But before she could answer, the anchor was back on TV, struggling to contain a mega-watt smile behind a concerned frown, all set to deliver the tragic, breaking news coming out of a wetlands preserve in western Palm Beach County.

16 (#ulink_85784e9d-461d-543e-9690-a2489ca1a4af)

A field reporter in a yellow rain slicker stood before a cluster of flashing police cruisers. ‘Trudi, I’m at the Grassy Waters Preserve, a nature preserve and park in West Palm Beach, where a few hours ago a couple out walking one of the nature trails made a grisly discovery. The nude body of a woman was found in the water, right off this path behind me. Because of the tropical storm, the Preserve didn’t have many visitors over the weekend, and that might be a blessing, as it could have been a child who made this discovery. Police have confirmed that the body is that of eighteen-year-old Desiree Jenners of Wellington, who was reported missing Saturday night by her family. Detectives are not releasing details on the cause of death, other than to say that the body had been in the canal less than a day, and that this is, in fact, a homicide investigation.’

Faith clenched the sheets beside her.

‘Desiree was last seen leaving the Wal-Mart where she worked with a white male believed to be her ex-boyfriend, Owen Walsh. Detectives with the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office are asking the public for help in locating Walsh, who has an extensive criminal record and an outstanding warrant out of Miami-Dade County. If you have any information about the disappearance of Desiree Jenners or the whereabouts of twenty-five-year-old Owen Walsh, please contact the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office.’

It was like watching a horror movie: she wanted to throw the covers over her head so she wouldn’t have to see what she knew was coming next. But she had to know. She had to. She twisted the sheets around and around her wrists, so that they bound her to the bed.

The split-screen picture of a smiling Asian girl and her dog and the mug shot of a stocky, brooding redhead appeared on the screen then with the names DESIREE JENNERS and OWEN WALSH. Faith exhaled and fell back into the pillows. The emotional roller coaster had recovered from another drop. But as quickly as it had come on, the feeling of relief was palliated by the realization that she’d been checking Internet newsfeeds all day and had seen nothing about any missing girls in Florida. Nothing at all. Not even the mention of this girl Desiree, who had apparently gone missing for several days before her body was found.

Were all missing people reported missing? And did all persons who were reported missing make it on the news? She knew the answer: obviously not. Just as every crime didn’t make the news, neither did a report on every person who didn’t come home. Newscasts would be two hours long and newspapers would be a lot thicker.

If pretty, unimportant Desiree Jenners from the upscale town of Wellington didn’t make the news when she went missing, why would the disappearance of a tattooed, pierced, probable drug addict raise eyebrows? The answer was, it likely wouldn’t. Ignorantly believing no news was good news, Faith had kept wishing all day long for tomorrow to get here so that she could know for sure that the stranger from last night was fine.

The smiling anchor was back, along with the weatherman who wanted to talk about the beautiful weather pattern that was finally moving into South Florida. Faith watched as he and the anchor chatted cozily about what they would be doing outside with all this newfound sunshine. Now she understood that no news was simply that – no news. It didn’t mean the girl from last night was safe; it didn’t mean she wasn’t. What it meant was that Faith would probably never know what had happened to her.

Jarrod walked out of the bathroom at that moment and she unwrapped her sweaty hands from the tangle of sheets and turned off the TV and her bedside light.

She’d never know who the girl was, or where she came from, or why she was out there, barefoot and limping in the rain with those men.

17 (#ulink_fca69252-343b-58c5-a9be-d3a9d7d9a06e)

‘So was Charity surprised?’ Jarrod asked as he turned off his light and climbed into bed.

Faith nodded somberly, her thoughts still on Desiree’s smiling face alongside that of the man who had likely murdered her and left her body to rot in the water. ‘Yes,’ she answered softly.

‘Why’d you come home last night? Everything OK?’

She could tell by the hesitant yet cheery way he’d asked the question what he was really worried about – that she’d maybe popped back without warning to see if he was home alone. That she still didn’t trust him after all these months.

‘Charity and I had words so I left.’

‘A fight?’

‘No, just words. She was all smushy with Nick and that was hard to watch, considering what an ass he’s been to her. There was no room at the inn, anyway: T-Bone and Gator and God knows who else were camping out on the couch; I wasn’t in the mood for a slumber party. And I had things to do at the bakery.’

She’d decided not to bare her soul about the argument with her sister. She didn’t want Jarrod throwing verbal darts at her for the next however-many Christmases they were together. She’d navigate the relationship with Charity by herself.

‘Have you talked to her today?’

‘We texted.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘It will be.’

She didn’t want to talk or explain any more tonight. She’d relived it too many times in her head already. She just wanted the day to be over. Octavius was gone, but the breezy weather remained. Through the crack in the drapes, a sliver of light shone on the ceiling. She watched the shadows of the palm fronds dance about, writhing in the wind. She could hear them rustling outside her window. It reminded her of the cane stalks and she shut her eyes and rolled over on her side.

‘Was everybody drunk at this party?’ Jarrod asked quietly.

He was a skilled litigator, ensnaring many a witness with his cleverly worded questions. She knew where he was going, what he was really trying to ask. ‘No,’ she replied simply.

He moved closer to her in the bed, wrapping his arms around her cozily, spooning her body. He was only wearing underwear. He kissed the back of her neck. ‘I missed you last night,’ he said softly. His warm hands rubbed her outer thigh, pushing her nightie up, feeling the curve of her hip and the softness of her waist. His fingers delicately traced a line from her belly button up to the fold of skin underneath her breasts, then back down again. Up, and back down. Each time his fingers ventured a little bit further in each direction, tugging at her panties, sliding them down inch-by-inch off her hips.

Before Sandra, she loved having sex with Jarrod. When he looked at her a certain way, with his head cocked, his piercing green eyes saying things she once thought were only meant for her to understand, he could make her wet from across a crowded room. He was mischievously handsome, with tousled sandy-blond curls to go with those magnetic eyes, defined cheekbones, a boyish, broad grin. Physically he hadn’t changed much from the days of playing college baseball: he still had the V-shaped body of an athlete, his muscular chest hairless and cut in all the right places. He ran several times a week and went to the gym. But it was his sultry, smooth charm that Faith had always found made him even more attractive – the appetizer to the physical entrée. It was an honest charm – he made friends easily and won over juries because he was the successful, handsome and all-around great guy that most people couldn’t believe they had the incredibly good fortune of being friends with. He could be sexy on a phone without trying when he was asking what her plans were for dinner. He could make her do things in bed she shouldn’t want to do.

They were supposed to be OK after the affair. It was out in the open. It was over. It was a mistake. It was time to move on and get back to where they’d been. And that included making love with the passion and intensity and frequency that they used to.

Her panties were off now. His hand had moved up over her breast, cupping it in his hand, his fingers caressing her erect nipple as his tongue found her ear. She could feel his penis through his underwear, hard against her naked buttocks. He gently flipped her over on her back and climbed on top of her, his mouth finding her breasts as his hand slipped between her thighs.

Her body still wanted him. When he touched her, physically she still responded. The problem was her brain – it couldn’t seem to get past the betrayal and her own stupidity in not seeing it coming long before the dirty details of his three-month affair were divulged to her on the phone by his lover. She hoped that would happen in a matter of time, that the brain and body would reconcile on the same sexual plane that they used to exist on. She hoped that in time, if she physically forced it, she would love him the way she used to. She knew that other women in the same situation withheld sex as a form of punishment, but when she had made the decision to stay in the marriage she had also decided that wouldn’t be her. She wouldn’t be a bitter wife waiting to passively-aggressively express her anger in the bedroom. She would, in fact, be the opposite. She would do what he wanted when he wanted sexually to show him what a great wife she was, what a great wife she always was, what he had almost lost forever when he screwed that bitch. Her body was the compliant traitor. In the meantime, her brain could go somewhere else for twenty minutes.

She grabbed the curls on both sides of his head with her hands and pulled him up off her breasts, pulling his face close to hers, holding it inches from her own. She couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, if he was watching hers or if they were closed. She wondered if he ever wondered what she was thinking. She felt his warm breath on her skin, his lips parted, his mouth waiting for her to make the next move.

‘I love you,’ he said then.

The grandfather clock began to chime downstairs. Tomorrow was finally here.

She pulled his head down, putting his mouth to hers and silencing him, as her body arched into his, like it had done so many times before.

18 (#ulink_edaad399-9a07-5c7f-b49c-342707eb4a59)

Two weeks later Nick was out.

Actually, since the bank had initiated foreclosure proceedings and no one had done anything to stop them, eviction was imminent, so Charity and the kids were out, too. Charity, however, didn’t want to be out with her husband. According to the order of protection, she didn’t want to be within five hundred feet of Nicholas Lavecki.

He’d hit her. She’d hit him first, but he’d hit her back, and that’s what finally did it. After a night out drinking with the Nicknames, Nick had passed out on the futon and Charity had gone through his cell, something she probably should’ve done months, even years, before. Nick didn’t lock his phone or try to hide it; she’d never looked because she didn’t want to see for herself what everyone else knew was going on.

While Nick was passed out, Charity cleaned house. She read the texts from the multiple women and saw the pictures. Then she went looking and found the gambling chits in his sock drawer, and the credit card statements from the Visa card she never knew he had – most of the charges were made at bars and strip clubs. They were drowning in debt.

When he came to, she had out the Louisville Slugger. She’d finished off a bottle of wine herself. She got in one round, and then Big Mitts got in his. Kamilla called the cops. Both of them went to jail – which is where Charity had called her from. It was the first time they had spoken since the birthday party. Charity got out first, thanks to Faith, who’d wired the bond money. And Charity got the first restraining order, thanks to Faith who’d hired the defense attorney. When she got back home from the hearing she saw the Notice of Eviction taped to her front door. That’s when she found out she was going to be homeless.

Her sister was in no state to put her life back together. All she could do was cry and count down the days she had left in the duplex while her three kids tried to figure out what to do about dinner.

Numerous times over the years Faith had asked Charity to come stay with her, but that was not an option now, for a number of reasons. In order for Charity to successfully break away from Nick and her life in Sebring she needed a long-term plan, not a short-term solution. Emotionally she was weak: Nick had gutted her self-esteem, so that she was unable to see a future without someone in it supporting her – that someone being him. So from the moment she stepped away from her old life she had to be invested in her future – emotionally, physically, and financially – not camping out on her sister’s couch, irritating her brother-in-law, wallowing in self-pity, biding time till Nick came calling. She needed her own life and she needed to see she could be successful at running it. With Vivian’s help, Faith found a modest, three-bedroom apartment in Coral Springs near the bakery and within walking distance of the middle and elementary schools. Their mom agreed to give Charity her old Jetta, as the bank was going to repossess Charity’s mini-van once they found it. She set Charity up to work at Sweet Sisters when the kids were in school, and found a low-cost daycare down the street from the bakery for the little one.

And she footed the bill for it all, on the understanding that Charity would be responsible for at least a portion of her monthly bills until she got on her feet, however long that took. All she had left to do was physically get her sister down to South Florida before Nick came back around. The day after wiring the bail money, she drove to Sebring, rented a small U-Haul and in a single morning she and Kamilla packed up the kitchen, the kids’ stuff, and Charity’s closet, loaded everything in the U-Haul, and headed back down to Coral Springs, with Charity following right behind her. She took the Turnpike up and back, avoiding 441 and the rural back roads. With any luck, she would never have to drive on them ever again.

Faith was a month shy of her nineteenth birthday when she’d left home for college. She had never returned. Oh, she’d gone back for Thanksgiving and Christmas and summer breaks, but she never boomeranged back to the nest after graduation, like most of her friends had. But when she’d walked out the door of her childhood home in Miami Shores that sweltering August morning in 2001, she had no idea that she wouldn’t be back. She probably wouldn’t have left if she had, because the thought of leaving her home and her family forever would have been too overwhelming; even though she was aching for independence at that age, she was still a homebody. On that day Charity was sitting at the breakfast bar in sweatpants and a Nirvana T-shirt eating a bowl of Captain Crunch, watching Faith load the car. Their mom couldn’t get off work, so Vivian’s parents were taking them both up to UF. Once the last bag had been thrown in the trunk and she’d reclaimed her favorite jeans from the back of Charity’s closet, she’d returned to the kitchen, patted her sister down for anything else of hers that she might’ve tried to ‘borrow’, kissed her goodbye, and … that was it. There was no fanfare. No mopey tears or drawn-out clutching, lamenting when the two of them would be together again. She’d just driven off, hand waving out the window, watching in the side-view mirror as her house and her mother and her sister got smaller, never understanding at the time how nothing would ever be the same. Because she had no idea she wouldn’t be back. She was looking forward to the future, not missing the past as it waved goodbye to her.