Page 65 of Fragments of the Lost
These fragments of a lost life are not just that—they’re pieces that belong to me, to Max, to everyone who knew him. We are connected through the moments.
The knife in Max’s hand, where it had been in Caleb’s before, and mine before that. Everything connected.
“So he was here at some point,” I say, nodding to the knife. The space feels claustrophobic, and haunted.
Max frowns, opens his mouth, then shuts it because we hear the car engine rumbling in front of the house, but there’s no window from the attic space to see who it is.
“Go,” he says, his eyes wide, as I scramble past him through the entrance.
Max is out right behind me, sliding the bookcase back into position, both of us heading out the blue door toward the steps.
“Wait,” I say. I turn back and dive onto my knees, reaching for the box under the bed that I had forgotten, with the pictures of his father—the things Caleb was searching through. Max stands at the entrance waiting, but he’s mumblingCome on come on come onin an endless string, even as we’re on our way down the steps.
I frantically take the steps to the second floor, then turn to Max above and whisper, “Shut the door.”
I slow to a tiptoe on the first-floor steps, listening.
It’s Eve. I know it’s Eve because there’s a rhythm to her steps, something I can picture in my head, in time to the noise outside. Max grabs my hand and yanks me around the corner of the kitchen just as Eve slides the key into the lock. I am so grateful that Max locked the door behind us, so there’s no evidence. We go straight for the garage door—unlocking it and pulling it open just as the front door opens.
I ease the garage door slowly shut, keeping my hand on the knob, and I listen. We’re standing in the pitch dark, the roller shades pulled down over the garage windows. I hear Eve drop her keys on the entryway table, and I decide it’s now or never.
I slide Caleb’s old key into the door, and slowly, slowly slide the lock back into place. I press my ear to the door and hear her steps enter the kitchen. I stop breathing. Max stopsbreathing.
She pulls open a drawer, and another, and another. She opens the fridge. I think maybe she’s making lunch, and I know we’re trapped. There’s no way out until she leaves.
I stand silently in the middle of the garage as my eyes slowly adjust to the dark, the only light coming from the edges of the shades and the strip under the garage door. Max sits on a rolled-up carpet, places his face in his hands, and waits. The rolled-up carpet comes into focus, the slivers of light from the corner of the window shade illuminating the maroon around the edges.
There’s a whole row of them, and I see they’re all bound with plastic wrap. I look around the cluttered area, and the rest of the scene comes into focus. Boxes. Caleb’s boxes. As if waiting for a moving truck, or a dumpster.
All these things I’ve sorted through and labeled—and for what? It sits in the dark of the garage now, shoved into corners, out of sight.
Behind the boxes are a few suitcases, but they don’t look familiar. Maybe they’re Mia’s, or Eve’s. I gently tug on the zipper of the nearest one, and see men’s clothes inside. But they don’t look like Caleb’s. I wonder if they once belonged to Sean, if he neglected to take everything, if Eve was tasked with sorting through the fragments of the life he left behind as well.
Behind Max, there are items sitting on a toolbox that must’ve once belonged to either Caleb or Sean—forgotten, abandoned, along with the people they left behind. Some are familiar: the letter opener, an assorted collection of electronics. Things taken from the boxes I’ve packed. They’ve been sorted through, reordered, mostly Caleb’s personal items.
Some items, though, I don’t recognize, and I assume they must belong to Sean. That this is the assortment of things of value, to be resold. There’s a phone, with the back removed, wires exposed. A man’s wedding band. Maybe left behind when they split, a ring on the bedside table, a last goodbye. Or thrown at her feet in a rage, when she kicked him out.
And there, underneath, is one more item. I can’t see it well in the dark, but my hands move over the surface, feeling the circular item, the chain attached, until it makes a small sound.
I stand straight, jerk back.
Max has stood, as if sensing something lingering in the air, in this room. I feel him approach as my hand releases the item.
He picks it up and holds it to the light, and I see a broken pocket watch that looks vaguely familiar. It belongs to a man, but it’s not Caleb’s. I’ve seen this before, heard the sound of this chain moving whenever he entered a room. The broken chain slides through Max’s fingers, and it sounds faintly like music, and I know exactly who this belongs to.
This silver pocket watch with the broken chain belongs to Sean. There are certain things I know about Sean’s pocket watch. I know I’ve never seen him without it. I know it makes the faintest sound, like a tag on a cat’s collar, announcing his entrance before his booming voice.
Listen to your mother, Caleb—
Take some responsibility in the family—
I’d roll my eyes while Caleb’s shoulders would tighten, and I could feel him bristling. Imagined the words he had said to Sean:What do you do with the money, Sean? You’re not my father.There was something weighty and solid between their interactions, and I couldn’t quite crack it. The truth was, I hadn’t really tried. I let him say nothing about it:Just leave it, Jessa.I never pushed.
Sean had a tendency to open and close the pocket watch in his hand, when debating what to say. He did it a lot, whenever Caleb would talk. As if weighing his choices:Say something; let it go; cut deep; swipe shallow.
And I know it probably broke in a fight with Caleb.
I know because it all matches up now—the broken chain, and Caleb’s face, and what came after.
