7. “Piece by Piece” - Kelly Clarkson
“Piece by Piece” - Kelly Clarkson
Walker
My mum is dating someone. It’s the first thing I notice when she opens the door.
Even the look of shock and then delight at finding me on her front steps can’t hide the fact that she is in a relationship and it’s new.
Of course, they’re usually new—not because she’s scared of commitment, but because they never last long enough to reach that stage.
Her hair is several inches shorter than the last time I saw her, over a year ago when we met up in London. She’s gotten a blowout within the past few days, and there are new diamonds in her ears. The never-fail trifecta.
“You look great, Mum,” I say as she pulls me into the house and into her arms.
She smells like cloves and citrus, a scent that doesn’t jive with her personality. A new perfume then, too. She’s more hibiscus and ylang-ylang. The powder-blue shorts set she’s wearing sets off her tanned limbs like she belongs on the runway.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” she says. “We have so much catching up to do. You’ll stay for dinner?”
I start to protest, but seeing the hope in her eyes, I don’t have the heart to refuse her. “Sure. But I won’t be here for long. I’m doing research for my dissertation.”
“Come to the kitchen, and you can tell me all about it.” She leads the way to the back of the house. Even though I lived here most of my life, it feels strange to be back, like I’m a ghost haunting my former residence.
The kitchen is huge and still much the way I remember it.
My mum is obsessed with copper. The whole arched ceiling is made from ornamental copper plating.
Spanning the entire length of the twelve-foot island in the center of the room is a pot rack that holds close to one hundred copper pots and pans.
Copper tureens, vases, bowls, and canisters fill every available shelf in the otherwise creamy-white kitchen.
The only difference is the addition of tons of new technology.
“Alexa, play something relaxing,” she says as soon as we cross the threshold. Music immediately begins streaming from hidden speakers around the room.
I take a glass from the cupboard on my left and walk to the refrigerator to fill it with water. “Mum, what the heck is this?” A large screen stares back at me from the door of the fridge, showing that it’s 3:34 p.m., partly sunny outside, and that the Piano Guys are playing “Michael Meets Mozart.”
“That’s a smart fridge.” She leans against the island. “Isn’t it cool?”
“What’s wrong with a normal fridge?” I frown and take a sip of water. I tap the screen, and a fish-eye view of the contents behind the door pops up. I jerk backward.
“This one shows you what’s inside!”
I slowly turn to face her. “So does opening the door.”
“It also gives recipe suggestions based on what you already have.”
“Mum.” I set my water onto the counter. “You have a chef.”
She sighs and brushes her dark hair over her shoulder. “ Carino, what’s actually bugging you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I just don’t like all of this AI stuff. What if the government uses it to spy on you?”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Why would the queen care what I am doing in my kitchen?”
“That’s not the point. You don’t know who’s watching you. It’s creepy.”
“You worry too much.” She smiles and pats the barstool next to her. “Come. Tell me about this research project you’re working on. For your dissertation, you said?”
I carry my water around the island and sit down, choosing to ignore the screen, which has a direct view of my face.
The sooner I can get out of here with Mum’s card, the better.
“I’m researching G.R. Huntington.” She has no idea who this is, so I move on.
“The Archives hold lots of information about his life and works, so I will be conducting my research there.”
“My brilliant ninita.” She strokes my hair. “Always so hungry for information.”
“Is there any chance you still have your membership to the Archives?” I say, holding my breath.
Realization hits her eyes. The light in them dims, and her smile fades. “Yes, I’m sure I have it somewhere,” she says quietly, and hops off her stool.
“Mum,” I call after her, wanting to assure her that I would have come to see her regardless, but she doesn’t turn around. Her footsteps grow fainter as she goes to retrieve the card.
Damn it. Only here ten minutes and already screwing this up.
I drain my water and get up to refill it, averting my eyes from the crazy-ass fridge screen.
They land instead on a man’s watch lying on the counter next to the fridge.
It’s a gold Rolex, and it looks just like the one my dad used to wear when I was a kid .
Nausea churns in my belly like a tornado. What is it doing here? The new boyfriend . He must have one like it. I pick it up, the metal cold and heavy in my hand, and flip it over. Engraved on the back are the words Every day, around the clock, never forget that you are our rock.
I drop my glass. It shatters on the ceramic tile floor, water splashing up my legs. I toss the watch back onto the counter like it’s hot metal, then pull a glass shard out of my sock. Fuckity fuck.
Moving carefully, I reach for the roll of kitchen paper in the cupboard under the sink. My mum comes back before I have a chance to start mopping up the mess.
She gasps when she sees it. “What happened?”
“I dropped a glass.”
“Oh dear.” She bends to help me. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I say through my teeth. The room is tilting, and I reach out a hand to steady myself.
We get the water mopped up and the glass dumped into the bin. She fills a fresh glass and sets it in front of me.
I lock my feet on the bottom rung of the stool. “Why is Dad’s watch here?”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks at me. “Where?”
“On your kitchen counter, Mum.” I nod to where it’s lying beside a copper vase of flowers. “I know it’s his, so don’t pretend otherwise.”
She doesn’t even bother glancing at it. “Walker, please don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m simply asking for an explanation.”
“Promise you won’t get upset.”
“Why would I get upset?” My jaw locks into place. “Do you have something to tell me that I’m not going to like?”
She bows her head, and her hair falls forward like a curtain, blocking me from seeing the emotions that are ever present on her face. She fiddles with a dish cloth, wiping small circles on the marble countertop in front of her. “Your father and I started seeing each other again.”
Something snaps inside me. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Walker, please.” She lifts her head and looks at me, those dark brown eyes pleading with me to understand. “He’s changed.”
I bark out a laugh. “Changed? How many times has he used that line on you?”
“He—”
“How many times will it take for you to see that that’s exactly what it is—a line?”
“Can you please try to understand?” she says.
I stand up. My stool rocks backward but doesn’t tip over. “How could you possibly trust him again after everything he did?”
I will never forget the sunshine that day, the way it glinted off the hood of his car like it was mocking us.
The sound of his suitcase wheels on the flagstones.
He still had one of those older ones, the kind you had to tip backward to roll.
I can see it hitting the edge of a stone, temporarily jerking him to a stop until he yanked it loose and kept going.
My heart leapt when it happened, just a tiny skip of hope that crashed as soon as he kept walking.
“He’s sorry for everything that happened back then, carino. He’s different, too.” Her voice becomes more wheedling the longer she talks about him.
I can still hear the way she screamed as she stood in the doorway, yelling at him to never come back. My ten-year-old brain didn’t understand what I was witnessing from my upstairs bedroom window, but I knew what the universal sign of a suitcase and screaming match meant.
“How many times is it now? Six? Seven? Or are there more I don’t know about?”
“Don’t do this, Walker.” She tosses the cloth into the sink and walks over to the smart fridge, opening the door and grabbing a blackberry water. I still don’t see what makes it “smarter” than a normal appliance.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” I say.
She twists off the cap and guzzles half the bottle before speaking. “I didn’t think you were sticking around long enough to see much of anything.”
Ouch. I fully deserved that. “Mum.” I soften my voice. “You know he’s just going to do it again.”
She stares at me as she screws the lid back onto the bottle. Then she lifts her thin shoulders and drops them again, like the whole thing is of little consequence. “He might.” She nods. “But he might also not. And that, carino, is what I’m choosing to believe in.”
I steeple my hands together over my nose, searching for the words to make her see reason. “How can you not remember what it was like? The tears, all the brie and crackers, the drama ?”
Sparks flash in her dark eyes. “I know I put you through a lot, but I am still your mother.” Her accent is growing thicker as her temper rises.
“He cheated on you, Mum! That’s what he does!” I don’t care about placating her anymore. I need to stop her from making another terrible decision. “How many times is it going to take for you to see that once a cheater, always a cheater?”
Tears are rolling down her cheeks, but she doesn’t bother brushing them away. They plink onto the marble like raindrops. When she looks up at me, there’s a sad lift at the corners of her lips. “How did my daughter grow up so bitter? Don’t you know that people can change?”
“People never change,” I say. “Who we are is who we are.”
“He makes me happy, okay?” She wipes her face with the back of her hand. “He makes me laugh.” She shrugs, her smile growing more wistful. “I love him. I’ve always loved him, carino.”
I feel sick. It’s a tale as old as time. Only this one has been told so many times, she should have it memorized by now. I certainly do.
Once upon a time, a beautiful and dramatic Spaniard fell quickly, deeply, and passionately in love.
Like clockwork, he breaks her heart, which leads to her becoming quickly, deeply, and passionately depressed.
The hero of the story usually changes, except in the case of my father.
Then the exact same story gets told on repeat.
Her heart has been broken so many times, it’s like a repaired clock—it never ticks the same way again.
“Is he here?” I ask through clenched teeth.
She shakes her head. “He’s on a business trip.” She won’t meet my eyes, but we’re both thinking the same thing. Business trips are never just business. She lifts her chin and slides something across the counter to me. “I think this is what you were looking for?”
It’s her membership card to the Archives, the same one I used until the day I turned sixteen and could apply for my own. It also expired seven years ago. My heart bottoms out.
She must read the disappointment on my face, because she says, “This is what you need, no?”
“It is, but it expired, just like mine.” I lift my shoulders in a hopeless gesture.
“Then we’ll get them renewed,” she says with determination.
“It takes several weeks for that. I was planning to be back in Oxford by then.”
Tiny furrows form in her brow, and my heart cracks open at her desperation to help me even when I’ve been so cold to her.
“It’s okay, Mum. I’ll figure something out.”
Her face brightens in a smile, and she walks around the counter to stroke my hair. “I know you will, my beautiful, brilliant daughter. I cannot believe you’re home!” She pulls me into her. I relish the comfort of her arms around me. I’ve missed her and didn’t even know it .
We eat dinner together, and it’s almost like old times. Neither of us mentions Dad again or why I left two years ago. I fill her in on my studies at St. Anne’s, which she pretends to be interested in, bless her, but I can tell it bores her to tears.
I choose not to think about how her heart will get broken this time, maybe as soon as Dad comes back from his “business trip.” I also choose not to think about the fact that my last hope of getting into the Archives tomorrow is dashed. I have no choice but to wait until I’m issued a new card.
I should have called them ahead of time, asked to fill out the renewal application online or via email or over the goddamn phone. I should have visited their website to make sure the policy hadn’t changed. I should have been more prepared, checked more boxes, done more things.
The should-haves could eat me alive.
My mum hands me the keys for my car and gives me a kiss. “Come back before you leave.” She’s remembering the last time, when I sent her a goodbye text from my first-class seat en route to Oxford.
“I will,” I promise, and walk through the garage door to my car.
My phone buzzes from inside my bag. I wait until I’m seated before pulling it out. There’s a text notification from Dr. Riordan on my screen, but when I unlock it, the last app I used is still open. I’m staring at the selfie Lux snapped in my mum’s driveway. That feels like an entire lifetime ago.
My thumb hovers over the back button, but I hesitate. I am out of options. I can hide in my giant house for the next two or three weeks, getting absolutely nowhere with my research. Or I can face my demons and try one last option.
I press call.
She answers after the fifth ring, when I’m about to hang up. “This is Lux—you’d better not be spamming me,” she says in a singsong .
“Lux, it’s me.” Then, afraid she won’t recognize my voice, I add, “Walker.”
“Oh. Em. Gee. I should’ve bet money that you’d call. I could be rich!”
I cock a brow in the dark of my car and shake my head. Last chance to change my mind. “So rich,” I say.
She cackles at this. If I were to bet on anything, it’d be on the fact that she’s already three sheets to the wind. Her laughter continues. At least she’s amusing one of us.
“Lux?”
Her laughter dies down.
“I was wondering.” I take a deep breath. “Is your offer still open?”