The Pieces We Keep(104)
On the other hand, maybe he had just been busy.
The swirling thoughts were making Audra neurotic. At some point, couldn’t sleep deprivation literally make a person insane?
She readjusted her bed pillow and rolled onto her other side. She wished her brain had an off switch. Tess and Grace had come by to steal Jack for an afternoon outing, first to a bookstore, then to ice cream, allowing her a much-needed nap. But now here she was, on a quiet Saturday, and her body wide awake.
Finally she gave up.
Needing an activity, she went to the kitchen for a snack. She had just reached the fridge when the phone started to ring. The cordless was missing from the charger.
“Fabulous.”
The ring trilled again and she froze, listening to trace its location. It was in ... Jack’s room. She jetted in there, and on the fourth ring she found the phone on his dresser—right where she had left it. She was definitely losing her mind.
“Hello,” she answered, and was relieved the person hadn’t hung up.
“Hi, Audra, it’s Russ. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Her relief ended there.
“No, not at all.”
“Great. Because I have good news for you.”
For a blissful instant Audra imagined that the case had been dropped, that the other attorney had convinced Robert and Meredith to withdraw the petition. But then Russ announced, “Our court date has been set.”
Audra’s silence must have communicated her failure to view the development as “good,” since Russ went on to elaborate. “The ‘housekeeping’ hearing will be in Just two months. Depending on how it goes, there’s still a chance you could keep your plans in Boston.”
All things considered, that chance wasn’t a strong one, but she aimed for optimism. “You’re right. It’s possible.”
“Would you like to hear the details? Or I can e-mail them over.”
“Um, now is fine. Let me write them down.” She went to Jack’s desk and snagged a pen from the plastic cup that held markers and kid scissors.
“Are you ready?” Russ asked.
“Almost. Just need some paper.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
She opened the top drawer of the desk to discover a chaotic mound of old homework. The first two sheets were writing assignments with Super Job stickers at the top. She opted for a half sheet of pink paper—just a library notice from the school. She flipped to the blank side and said, “All right. Go ahead.”
Russ rattled off dates and times and locations. When she had finished transcribing, she read them back for confirmation.
“I’ll be in touch with more soon,” he said, and she thanked him before they hung up.
A court date.
A judge.
This was actually happening.
She sat on the foot of Jack’s bed, letting the handset tumble free. The page, though, remained in her hand. She gazed at the note unseeing.
After a while she folded the paper half, putting the thought away, and a printed word leapt out at her: OVERDUE.
It was an overdue notice for a book, checked out by Jack in March. According to the warning, if it wasn’t returned by the third week of June, he would owe the school a replacement fee. The final due date was this coming Thursday, the last day of the school year.
What book would he have kept for three months?
She unfolded the note to read the title: Incredible Moments of World War II.
Any book about war would be intended for older students—unless it contained only snapshots of the glorified aspects: Rosie the Riveters, victory parades, and patriotic banners.
Then she remembered. She had seen a book in Jack’s closet. Last weekend, while scrounging for his helmet, she’d spotted an oversized paperback among his things. It was just before she’d stepped on the shreds of paper....
As the elements collected in her mind, an indescribable dread seeped through her. The world went portentously still, an eerie calm that precedes disaster.
Audra flung open the closet. She tore through the piles of clothes and toys. Beneath the tattered box of Monopoly was the book she recalled, edges worn and corners curled. A scrap of paper dangled from the inside pages.
She flipped to that section, where various photographs had been cut out. He had never done such a thing before, destroying a book like that. What use would he have for the pictures? As a second grader, he’d have no school projects involving world war. Even if he did, the principal would have mentioned it during their last—
Suddenly it came to her.
The journal.
She hurried to kneel by his bed and pulled out the book. PIECES OF ME. The title accurately described a life once whole, now shattered into jagged parts.
She leafed through the collages she had already seen, the comic strips and candy wrappers, the magazine ads featuring families. This time she noted that the cruise ship was bound for Europe, and recognized the symbolism of the Eiffel Tower as the heart of the continent. She had gained a new perspective on these images, but they still fit the equation, just in a different way.