Missing Pieces. Heather Gudenkauf
fatigue and her shoulders ached. She should go up to bed, be with her husband. But her mind was buzzing with questions and she knew that sleep wasn’t going to come anytime soon. Why hadn’t he ever told her that he’d changed his name? Sarah felt as if she had unearthed a relic from Jack’s past, a broken shard of who he once was. It’s just a name, she reminded herself. It doesn’t mean anything. But it wasn’t so much about the name. It was the fact that he had lied to her about it.
And why hadn’t he ever told her that he and Celia had dated? Did he think she would judge him? Did he think she would be jealous of Celia, a woman he hadn’t seen in twenty years? And why had he been dodging her questions all day?
Through the window a sliver of moon appeared and a thin light spilled into the kitchen. The thrum of rain on the roof ceased and the only sounds were the creaks and groans of an old house at night. The unfamiliar settling and sighing of a house she did not know. Sarah suddenly felt cold and exposed, and despite her irritation with Jack she didn’t want to be alone. The questions could wait until morning.
She picked up her laptop, moved to the living room and paused at the wall filled with family pictures, her eyes landing once again on the photo of Jack’s father in his military uniform and then on the picture of the two women. Though Jack looked so much like his father, upon a second look Sarah was sure that the woman in the photo with Julia was Jack’s mother.
She crept up the steep stairs and tentatively opened a door to make sure that it was the correct room and was relieved to see their suitcases lined up against one wall. Too tired to change into her pajamas, she peeled off her pants and climbed into bed next to Jack. He didn’t even stir.
Coming here Sarah realized just how little she knew about her husband’s life before they met. She didn’t know the name of his first-grade teacher, what his birthday parties were like, if he went to church. She hadn’t even known his real last name.
In the dark, she shivered beneath the blankets and listened to the slow, even breaths of her husband, felt the rise and fall of his chest. Sarah thought back to when Jack had asked her to marry him. How thoroughly certain she was that they belonged together, that every minute of her life, every experience, had led her to him. She thought they were soul mates, fated for each other. Now, she couldn’t help but question their life together. Had it all been based on lies?
Hurt prickled behind her eyes and she pressed her face into Jack’s slumbering form. Who are you really? she wanted to ask him. He knew the best and the worst of her, and she thought she knew the same about him.
BEFORE SHE EVEN opened her eyes, Sarah felt warm sunshine on her face. The sheets still had the crispness of laundry hung on a line, and for a moment she basked in the tranquillity of morning, allowing herself to forget for a moment the chaos and uncertainty of the day before.
She wanted to talk to Jack privately before they left for the hospital, about what she had learned from Hal last night, about why he had lied to her for all these years and about why he now seemed to be evading her. She lifted her head and turned to the side, but the space next to her was empty.
Stiff jointed and achy, she climbed out of bed and looked around the bedroom that Jack slept in as a teenager. She was hoping to find some clues, some insights into his childhood, into the life he led before he met her. There were no athletic trophies on the bookshelf and no bulletin board plastered with photos and mementos. She picked up a few random books from the bookshelf and riffled through the pages. There were no carnation corsages pressed between the pages, no concert stubs or baseball tickets. Of course, it had been over twenty-five years since Jack had lived here. Julia and Hal had most likely redecorated years ago and used this as a room for guests.
A small oak desk sat in the corner of the room and she pulled out the drawers, each empty except for a few stray paper clips and ballpoint pens. Instead of clothing, the tall dresser held neatly folded tablecloths and bed linens. She opened the closet door to find it empty except for two heavy winter coats hanging from the metal bar and a shoe box with Jack’s name on it on the top shelf. Jack pushed open the door. “How’d you sleep?” he asked.
Startled, she closed the closet door and turned to face him. “Okay,” she answered. But she hadn’t slept well at all. For what felt like hours she had lain next to him in the dark, tossing and turning, her mind racing with questions, restless about how to confront Jack. Where would she even start, and how would Jack react?
She searched for the words, knowing she had to be careful or Jack would shut her down in an instant. “Last night, Hal told me your real last name is Tierney,” she blurted, unable to mask the accusation in her voice. “Is that true?”
Jack looked at her blankly. “You knew that,” he said. “I told you that after we started dating.”
Sarah shook her head. She would remember if Jack had told her. “No, you didn’t.”
“Of course I did. You must have forgotten.”
“Jack,” she said more firmly, and he sighed in frustration.
“You already know this, Sarah. After Amy and I went to live with Hal and Julia, we had our name legally changed to Quinlan. I was fifteen, Amy was eleven. Hal and Julia became our legal guardians and they were all the family we had left in the world. It just seemed easier.”
Maybe she was overreacting about the name change, but that still didn’t explain why he had kept it from her.
“Hal also told me that you and Celia dated in high school. Why didn’t you tell me these things? Why the secrecy?”
“Sarah, there are no secrets!” Jack exclaimed, his face reddening. “Celia and I hung out when we were young. Hell, I hung out with a lot of people. It’s a small town.” Jack grabbed his watch from the dresser. “I really can’t deal with this right now. Why can’t you just drop it?”
“I’m not trying to fight with you,” Sarah said quietly. “I’m just trying to understand.”
Jack sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to fight, either. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you. I really thought I had. And me and Celia, it was nothing, just kid stuff.” He reached for her hand and she reluctantly took it. His skin felt warm, reassuring. “Hal’s downstairs waiting to go to the hospital. Are you ready?”
They drove to the hospital separately, with Hal and Jack in the truck and Sarah following behind, alone, in the rental car. The rain-washed fields glittered with moisture and puffy white clouds moved leisurely across the blue sky. It was a beautiful morning, but still Sarah felt uneasy, off balance. The highway was lined with wooden telephone poles that reminded Sarah of crucifixes where sharp-eyed hawks and hook-beaked shrikes perched in wait.
Jack was confident he had told her about changing his last name, but she racked her memory. No, she would have remembered if he told her, she was sure of it. As for Celia, what had Hal said? That they were inseparable? That certainly sounded like more than just hanging out. She was so engrossed in her thoughts she lost sight of Hal’s truck and pressed on the accelerator in hopes of catching up.
When Sarah finally pulled into the parking lot, she could see Jack and Hal already entering the hospital. She knew that Hal was anxious to check on Julia and she felt childish for being disappointed that they hadn’t waited for her.
Sarah waited for the excruciatingly slow elevator and when she stepped out onto the fifth-floor landing Jack and Hal were nowhere to be seen. Sarah caught sight of Celia, hands full, heading down the hall toward Julia’s room, and Sarah hurried to catch up with her.
“Good morning,” Sarah said breathlessly as she pushed Julia’s door open for Celia.
“Good morning,” Celia said, looking well rested and refreshed. Sarah saw Celia with new eyes now that she knew she and Jack were once an item. She was beautiful. Slim and fit. Her black curls were pulled back from her face and she was perfectly put together in sharply creased khakis and a neatly pressed