The Pieces We Keep(77)

He scratched the skin at the edge of his cast and simply said, “I know.”

When it came to Jack, she was becoming one of those old Chatty Cathy dolls that spewed the same few sentences over and over.

With an internal sigh, she pulled up the covers, leaving the sheet loose enough for his feet to burrow free. He used to sleep cocoon-style, blankets drawn snugly under his chin. These days he required more space, as though ensuring the option to escape.

“Just one more day till the weekend,” she reminded him.

“Yep.”

“You know, on Saturday, Tess and Grace wanted to join us for a picnic. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” he said, but nothing else.

Audra nodded. “Good.” She smiled and kissed his forehead. “Sleep well,” she told him, consciously opting against bidding, Sweet dreams. It would be enough to see him rest through the night without an episode of terror. After three straight weeks, one could only hope.

She clicked off the nightstand lamp. The hall’s gentle beam cast shadows over Jack’s face, giving a glimpse of his future stages. Junior high. High school. College.

Life was suddenly moving too fast.

Needing to slow it down, she sat on the side of his bed. She stroked the fine strands of his hair, and an ache throbbed beneath her ribs. It was the area where loss tended to settle. Saying good-bye ten years from now would be difficult enough; she couldn’t fathom the day coming sooner.

At this very minute, a private investigator could be hunched over a computer, gathering any dirt possible to strengthen the case against her. He wouldn’t have to dig far. Laws in Oregon might traditionally favor the mother; but what about one with no current income? Depending on the court date, her offer in Boston could easily vanish. As for her last job, the timing of her resignation, within days of being put on leave, looked like she’d been allowed to save face while actually being fired.

It wouldn’t be tough to believe. After all, she was the woman who had gone on a rant before an entire neighborhood. A woman who rarely heard from her own parents. A woman who, in the beginning, never wanted to be a mother. Yet now, faced with a chance of losing that privilege, she could think of nothing she wanted more.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” Jack’s groggy question alerted her of the tears slipping down her cheeks.

She wiped them away and smiled. “Nothing, baby. I’m just tired. Just very, very tired.”

Between his heavy blinks, he peered at her with eyes of a bottomless depth. Old-soul eyes. That’s what a nurse in the maternity ward had called them. Even as a baby, Jack had scarcely cried. He was too busy gazing around in a serene yet eager way, as if reacquainting himself with his surroundings.

She had forgotten about that. The recollection had been buried in the shuffle of life’s more pressing issues, none of which mattered now.

“Is it because you’re sad,” he said after a pause, “from your fight with Grandma and Grandpa?”

Oh, boy.

She had brought this on herself, of course. Confronting Robert while Jack sat there in the car was a reactionary mistake with a long ripple of consequences.

“I guess we’re all kind of sad about that,” she admitted. “But we’re trying to work it out.”

“It’s about the BB gun, isn’t it? ’Cause if it is, I really don’t need one.”

Why hadn’t she connected that before? She should have, in order to prevent Jack from feeling responsible. “The BB gun has nothing to do with it. And you’ve done nothing wrong. I promise.”

Relief passed over his face, but just a thin shade. “You ... still love each other, don’t you?”

Although odds of reconciling had become immeasurably remote, she was mindful in choosing her words.

“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, just like kids do. In our hearts, we still care about each other. The most important thing is, we all love you very much.” She touched his round nose with her finger. “Okeydokey?”

He smiled halfway and nodded.

“Good. Now, close your eyes and get some rest.”

She stroked his head again until he drifted into a peaceful sleep. As his breathing rose and fell, ebbing him further from wakefulness, she caught the gaze of a man. Captain America stared from the Avengers poster across the room. The same character was plastered across Jack’s latest backpack.

A hero, she realized, of World War Two.

Her attention moved to the model planes in the corner. She’d always attributed Jack’s fascination with bombers and other aircraft to his stuffed 747, a favorite gift from his third birthday. But what if it was the other way around? Maybe the plush toy had become his favorite because of interest that already existed.