The Pieces We Keep

PART ONE




Back on its golden hinges

The gate of Memory swings,

And my heart goes into the garden

And walks with the olden things.





–from “Memory’s Garden”

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox





1


Mid-May 2012

Portland, OR





The sound of her name, in that deep familiar timbre, swept through Audra like a winter gale. Her lungs pulled a sharp breath. Her forearms prickled. In line at the airport gate, she clutched the shoulder strap of her carry-on, a makeshift lifeline, and turned toward the voice.

“Babe, you want anything else?” the man in a floral-print shirt hollered from the coffee stand. “Andrea?”

Andrea. Not Audra.

And the man wasn’t Devon.

“Just the vanilla latte,” a woman replied from a nearby table, then resumed chatting on her phone.

For an eternal moment Audra Hughes remained frozen. She braced against the aftershock of hope, like the rush of a near car collision, when blood rages in your ears and every pore yawns open. Even now, two years after her husband’s death, she hadn’t conquered the reflex, nor the guilt. But in time she would, and today’s trip would serve as a major step, regardless of others’ opinions.

“Ma’am?” The male attendant stood at the door of the Jetway. “Are the two of you boarding?”

Audra and her son were suddenly the only passengers at the gate. She would usually make a quip, about the plane not coming to them, but her senses were still recovering. “Sorry,” she said, striding forward. “Not enough coffee.”

Truthfully, she didn’t drink the stuff; too hard on the teeth and heart. But the excuse flowed out, plausible for any Northwest native, the caffeine kings of the world. A person couldn’t walk the length of five gates at Portland Airport without hearing the turbo blast of an espresso machine.

The man scanned her boarding passes. Beep. Beep.

“Enjoy the flight.”

Audra was about to continue through the doorway when she noticed Jack hadn’t followed. The seven-year-old stood several yards away, the rolled cuffs of his jeans hanging uneven from dressing himself. Beneath his Captain America backpack and favorite gray hoodie, his hunched shoulders downplayed his sturdy form. His attention remained on a window dotted by Thursday-morning rain. The sight of their idle plane widened his slate-blue eyes, same shade and shape as Devon’s. Their hair, too, had been a perfect match, the color of sweet molasses.

If it weren’t for that rounded nose and chin, Devon’s father used to jest, you’d never know who his mom was. It was actually a fitting claim in more ways than one. And every day Jack looked more and more like Devon. Or less and less like Audra, depending on the choice of view.

“Buddy, time to scoot,” she told him.

Still entranced, he stroked his little toy plane, its silver paint worn thin from the habit. He’d been awed by aircrafts since the age of three, when Devon gave him a 747, stuffed and plush with cockpit eyes and a propeller nose.

“Jack!”

He snapped his head toward her.

“Let’s get onboard.”

She expected dazed excitement to fill his eyes; what she caught was a flash of dread. Not the common kind among kids at the dentist’s or on the day of a quiz, but the type she’d witnessed a hundred times over, from animals being led into surgery or about to be put down. A look saying they knew what was coming.

Could it be Jack sensed something wrong with the flight?

“Mom,” he said in a hush. It was the way he often spoke these days. But this time, the plea in the word leapt out and cinched Audra’s chest.

“Ma’am,” the attendant repeated, “we have to close the doors.”

If Audra missed this flight, there would be no final job interview. She was currently the top pick according to her contact, who encouraged her to bring Jack along. A smart idea. The transition would be easier if he was involved in the process. Together they’d scout out houses with plenty of acreage and top-rated schools near the brand-new animal hospital. At the facility just outside Philadelphia, everything would be shiny and flawless and unused. An empty slate.

She assessed the plane, a strong and trusted transport. Flying ranked safer than driving according to statistics.

This had become her method of reasoning: the tangible, the provable; X-rays and blood tests. Any faith in the spiritual realm—airplane premonitions included—had been buried along with Devon.

“Jack, let’s go,” she told him. “Now.”

The command prodded him forward, though only increased the pursing of his lips. She clasped his hand to hurry him onto the jet bridge. The gate door sealed, dimming the snaking tunnel. Jack tightened his hold, so snug she could feel waves of apprehension pulsing through his body.