All the Little Pieces - Jilliane Hoffman

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it’s a long story. By the end of the night they were … holding hands, and I couldn’t stay. I said some things that I probably shouldn’t’ve and so did she. It got heated. I took Maggie and left. I forgot my bag in her bedroom and didn’t realize it till I was halfway home; there was no way I was going back.’ She wanted to tell Vivian everything that had happened in the kitchen but feared she might break down if she did. It was hard to open the door on only one part of the night – all the ugliness that followed wanted in, too.

      ‘And you just drove home? In the middle of that crazy storm that has flooded the bank and ruined the ugly bank furniture and cancelled my brother’s flight back from Chicago – and I have to tell you as a side note that he’s driving Gus crazy – and you just drove home? What time did you leave?’

      ‘Eleven.’

      ‘Eleven? How long did it take you to get home?’

      ‘Don’t ask. I was doing thirty the whole way.’

      ‘No wonder you look like shit. You should’ve called me; I was up till three with Lyle, anyway. He had a tummy-ache. Gus slept great, though. Why do the kids always want their mommies when they gotta puke? Why’s it never Daddy?’

      Faith wanted to tell her best friend. She wanted someone to nod and tell her she was right, that she’d done the right thing by leaving, the thing they would’ve done too. She wanted to feel better. But she feared that’s not what Vivian would say. Or she might say it, but she wouldn’t think it. Vivian probably would’ve opened the door. She would’ve let the girl in and asked questions later. And she definitely would’ve called the police, even if she had been drinking, which she wouldn’t have been with her kid in the car. She would’ve told her husband Gus what happened. She wouldn’t have had Lou fix her truck. No. There were some secrets she was going to have to carry alone. Faith bit her lip. ‘Oh no. Is Lyle OK?’

      ‘Oh yeah. Too much chocolate ice cream. Thanks, Daddy. Charity … that girl,’ Vivian said with a shake of her mane. ‘She just keeps jumping back into it. I love her, but … I mean, after all you’ve done to help her and show her that there’s a life out there for her without that idiot in it, offering to let her live with you and all. You’ve got more patience than me; I’d tell her she was on her own after the eighth rescue mission. Maybe when he beats her ass she’ll finally leave.’

      ‘Jesus, Viv, I hope it doesn’t come to that.’

      ‘Me too. I mean, I love Charity, but I’m thinking that might be the only thing that gets her to see the light. You’re a saint, Faith. You’re a really good person, honey. And I’m sorry I said anything about your hair; I didn’t realize the night you’d had.’

      The tears started. So did the wave of nausea that was about to bring up her coffee. ‘I’m not feeling so hot,’ she managed before running into the bathroom.

      After reassuring Vivian she was fine through the door and that she wasn’t mad at her, she rinsed her face with cold water and stared at her image in the mirror. Like she said, the woman staring back didn’t look so hot. She was pale, her mouth and lips tensely drawn. Circles were visible under bloodshot blue eyes. Normally she would have put on a full face of makeup, but this morning it was only a touch of mascara. She’d pulled her honey-blonde hair into a ponytail this morning, not blow-drying it and styling it like she usually did. Like Vivian said, she looked like shit.

      The girl’s face was back in her head, staring at her with those crazed brown eyes. The diamond in her lip was trembling. Raindrops rolled down her face, carving pale white rivers in her dirty skin.

      Faith shook her head but the image wouldn’t go away. ‘I’m no saint, Viv,’ she whispered at the mirror, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m not a good person.’

      The woman looking back at her just kept on crying.

       13

      The playground at St Andrew’s was empty. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still a sodden, muddy mess, dotted with puddles you could sail boats in. Faith spotted the forlorn faces on a few of the preschoolers staring out the window at the slides and jungle gym, wishing either they could play on the swings or jump in the mud. Seeing as those faces belonged to boys, the wishing was probably on the side of making mud pies in the sandbox.

      She opened the door slowly so as not to take out a kid. Or let one escape. Maggie was sitting by herself playing with a My Pretty Pony. Ms Ellen, one of the volunteer moms, sat at the opposite end of the table watching her carefully while cutting out ghosts from a white sheet of paper.

      ‘Hi there, Magpie!’ Faith called out.

      Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. She was intensely trying to dress a pony in a Barbie gown. It wasn’t working and her face was growing red.

      Faith tried again and got the same reaction: none. Not even a tilt of the head to acknowledge that she’d heard her. Ms Ellen looked at Faith, smiled awkwardly and shrugged. More guilt. Faith had wanted to treat Maggie to a movie or to something special today but the time had gotten away from her. Lou had managed to fix her car, but hadn’t finished till close to six. She’d had to race here from three towns over to make it by six.

      Mrs Wackett, the preschool teacher, was hanging up Halloween decorations around the chalkboard. In her seventies with poofy, marshmallow-colored hair, she had a cherubic face that belonged in an AARP ad. She smelled like rose-scented hand lotion and always wore a bulky purple sweater that she had hand-knit herself. Always. Even when it was ninety. ‘Hi, Mrs Wackett,’ Faith said softly after Maggie still hadn’t acknowledged her. ‘How was she today?’

      The news, she could tell, wasn’t good. Mrs Wackett put her cardboard witch down and went over to the inbox on her desk. ‘She tried, Mrs Saunders,’ she began with a frown and in a disapproving voice as she looked over at the clock. It was five minutes of six. ‘But this is a very long day for her. Very, very long.’ She handed Faith a slip of paper with a traffic light on it. It was colored red. ‘We tried time-out, but she had to go to the cafeteria with Sister Margaret because she didn’t want to listen to Ms Ellen or me. She has been somewhat better since the cafeteria break; I’ve been letting her do her own thing. She’s been working on the pony for a while now. Longer than I’ve ever seen something hold her attention, so I suppose that’s good.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to be this late, Mrs Wackett. I had some car issues.’

      ‘I understand. Things happen,’ she replied, but her scowl did not match the words coming out of her mouth. It was like the audiovisual wasn’t properly synced. ‘We’re working on boundaries, like you and I have discussed, and respecting other children’s feelings, but Maggie shoved Melanie, one of the girls, and when she was reprimanded she, well, she ran out of the room – right out of the room and down the hall, heading for the exit door. One of the janitors stopped her, thank God. We simply can’t have that, Mrs Saunders; she has to be able to listen to teachers and adults. That’s why she received a red light today.’

      Faith nodded somberly. That’s why Maggie had received a red light today. The ‘get all green lights for a week and pick a toy from the treasure chest’ motivational system was obviously not working for her – she got more red than she did yellow and hadn’t seen a green since the first week of school.

      ‘Perhaps she didn’t get enough sleep?’ Mrs Wackett tried.

      God bless Mrs Wackett for continuing to try and find a simple, organic reason for why Maggie was … well, the way Maggie was. While she had been polite enough not to come out and say it – not yet anyway – Faith suspected that, like most people, Mrs Wackett attributed Maggie’s behavioral issues to bad parenting and a lack of discipline and follow-through at home. Today, though, unfortunately her question was right on target. ‘We did get home late last night,’ Faith admitted, sheepishly.

      ‘Maggie did say that she was at

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