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The Pieces We Keep(19)

By:Kristina McMorris


“What about the innocent people? What about-”

“No one,” he said gruffly, “is innocent in war. Especially not a German.”

When she winced at his reply, he let out a breath. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, “It’s been a tiring day. Run along now. Get some sleep while I finish up.”

With the option of his aid eliminated, sleep would not come easily. But she tendered a nod all the same.





9


Moist air seeped from under the door like the passing of a secret. One hand on the knob, Audra rapped twice before opening the door an inch. On the other side Jack sat soaking in her tub. He tended to stay in until he wrinkled into a prune.

“Time to fish you out, buddy. Ten more minutes, okay?”

“ ’Kay.”

The soft sounds of his splashing were a welcomed comfort. Peaceful and relaxing, they were the precise opposite of her day from the start. She should have known the refrigerator leak was a sign to stay tucked beneath the covers. just talk to Jack about it.

Tess’s suggestion from that morning had seemed simple enough. But then Audra would see the drawings, each tacked to the walls of her mind, and wondered what frightened her more: crafting the wrong questions or what his answers might be?

She continued down the hall in her faded sweats. Their two-bedroom apartment was located in West Linn, a tree-lined suburb of Portland. Aside from new roofing, the complex was showing its age, as evidenced by the creaking footsteps from neighbors upstairs. The tradeoff was a decent rent that preserved Audra’s savings.

Life insurance and wills had long been on her and Devon’s to-do list, but naively without urgency. Neither of them had planned for an undetected brain aneurysm to rupture while he jogged on a treadmil at the gym. The symptoms had been there, of course, as they often were with disasters. From extramarital affairs to climate change, red flags were obvious in hindsight. As a doctor, albeit for animals, Audra should have seen them waving sooner. The memory loss, the headaches. On his final morning, he’d even mentioned a strain in vision. Are you surprised? she’d teased, given his long night of analyzing marketing data, to which he had laughed.

There was so much they had both taken for granted.

Through the open window in Jack’s room came a cool evening breeze. A fleet of model planes swayed on strings pinned to the ceiling. An Avengers poster rustled over the desk.

As Audra gathered a trail of dirty clothes, a van zoomed by, too fast in a neighborhood with kids. She set the laundry on the foot of Jack’s bed and went over to shut the window. The vibrant sky gave her pause. Feathery strips of clouds floated in a sea of purple and pink.

Lured by the springtime hues, she let her eyelids fall. Suddenly she was on their old back deck, the air scented with fresh-cut grass. Devon had insisted on a weekend of camping, but in their own backyard. They made s’mores with a portable gas stove. Jack told ghost stories without including a single ghost, instead starring SpongeBob or ninja warriors. And at midnight, when lightning cracked and a downpour pummeled their tent, they voted two to one to “rough it” by sleeping in the house....

Audra broke from the memory. She shoved the window closed.

This was the reason they needed to move, whether to Boston or elsewhere. Downsizing to this apartment, thought to be a solution, had amounted to a bandage. Ten months here and still the surroundings formed a trap.

Turning, she noticed a stray sock peeking from under the bed skirt. She reached down and uncovered a book. Its sturdy tan covers were spiral bound with thick black wire. At the title, recognition set in: PIECES OF ME.

Jack’s kindergarten teacher had given him the scrapbook following Devon’s death. She suggested it might help, providing an outlet for Jack’s feelings. The non-lined pages could double as a journal. He could write, scribble, draw.

Audra’s thoughts again circled back to the pictures from school. Her son wasn’t disturbed. She knew this. Yet doubts had managed to slink into her mind. Flushing them out would be easier if only she could confirm the violent drawings were a fluke.

She knelt down on the woven rug. To encourage him to use the journal, she’d initially assured him that books like this were private, to be read by no one else. Her cracking it open would betray that understanding.

But then ... as his mother, wasn’t she obligated to look?

“Mom?”

She dropped the book onto her lap and raised her head to see him over the bed. Jack stood in the doorway in his Scooby-Doo pajamas. His hair was mussed and damp, a terrier caught in the rain.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

The therapist’s card flashed in her mind. Trust. A prerequisite for healing.