Little Pieces of Me, page 1
Dedication
To my parents, Kathy and Randy,
for giving me (mostly) their best pieces
Epigraph
I am made and remade continually.
—VIRGINIA WOOLF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Also by Alison Hammer
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Now
FORTY-THREE YEARS AGO TODAY, MY DAD GOT WHAT HE CLAIMED was the best birthday present of his life: a screaming redhead with bright blue eyes who would grow up to share his love for puns. It doesn’t seem right to celebrate a birthday without him.
If I had my way, I’d sleep through this whole day and skip ahead to tomorrow. But one of my closest friends, who I love dearly most of the time, thinks he knows what’s best for me. And what was acceptable last year won’t fly now that Dad has been gone almost two years. Which is why I’m sitting at Dublin’s, my neighborhood bar, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.
“You’re supposed to be happy,” Maks says from the barstool next to mine. “There’s a reason people say happy birthday—not sad and lonely and depressed birthday.”
“And you’re supposed to be at work,” I say, sidestepping the issue of my day of birth.
“Pfft,” he says, dismissing the thought, as if a regular paycheck and insurance weren’t a big deal. Since I was laid off three weeks ago, I’ve gotten a new appreciation for things I used to take for granted. “Work is for the horses,” Maks says. “There are more important things.”
I don’t feel like getting into a debate over linguistics, so I don’t tell him the saying is actually “for the birds.” Instead, I give him an if you say so smile and take a sip of the drink I’ve been nursing for the last half hour.
“I’m serious,” Maks says. He pouts, and I smile. It’s easy to picture him as a kid, wearing the same distressed jeans and a black band T-shirt, his Ukrainian accent the only thing keeping him from fitting right in.
He takes a sip of his whiskey ginger and turns to me, ready with another attempt to cheer me up. “Did you know the birthday song was written by a kindergarten teacher back in the eighteen hundreds?”
“You told me that last year on my birthday,” I remind him. “And the year before that.”
He makes a show of rolling his eyes and turns back to the TV, where the commercial break is over, and Maury Povich is about to reveal the paternity of a young boy.
Maks instantly perks up. “Scarlett!” he calls to our favorite bartender, frantically pointing toward the TV.
The bar is relatively empty between the lunch and after-work crowds, so Scarlett obliges and turns up the volume. Maks takes my hand in his, gripping it as if he has stakes in the results.
“In the case of four-year-old Jason,” Maury Povich says as he opens the telltale envelope. “Victor”—dramatic pause—“you are not the father.”
“I knew it,” Maks says, pumping our fists in victory. My smile breaks free and I have to laugh at his enthusiasm. Reality TV—even the most unreal kind—has always been Maks’s guilty pleasure.
Scarlett mutes the TV again as a phone number comes on-screen, inviting viewers to call if they want to determine the paternal status of someone in their family. I wonder if people know they can get the same results at home with a little spit, a test tube, and a postage stamp. Although they’d miss out on the circus sideshow and whatever compensation they get for airing their dirty laundry on national TV.
“Would you ever go on a show like that?” Scarlett asks, glancing behind her at the TV. Light from the window reflects off her nose ring, casting tiny rainbows on the bar.
“I unfortunately know who my father is,” Maks says. His eyes dart toward mine, as if hearing the word “father” will undo me. But I’m stronger than he gives me credit for.
“I took one of those DNA tests a few years back,” I tell Scarlett. Maks looks pleasantly surprised that I’ve joined in the conversation.
“Find anything interesting?” she asks.
“Only that there’s a genetic reason I think cilantro tastes like soap. Other than that, I’m a full-bred Jew. Ninety-nine-point-five percent Ashkenazi, and point-five percent Eastern European.”
“No Irish?” She gestures toward my curly red hair, which has always been my most defining feature.
“Only on St. Patrick’s Day,” I say, twirling a strand around my finger.
Maks’s ears perk up at the opportunity to rattle off more useless trivia, like the charming human Wikipedia he is.
“It’s actually a common misconception that the Irish have a monopoly on red hair,” he says. “In twentieth-century Europe, red hair was synonymous with Jews. Most of Shakespeare’s Jewish characters had red hair—and Judas is almost always a redhead in Italian art.”
Scarlett nods in mock interest. After the great tomato debate last summer, she learned that sometimes it’s best not to engage.
The bells on the front door chime as Margaux, the other half of my best-friend duo, walks in. Her arrival plays right into Maks’s hands.
“Now this one got the DNA surprise of a lifetime,” he says, pointing toward Margaux.
“It’s rude to point,” she says before wrapping me in a hug, then taking the barstool to my left.
“Hey, facts are facts,” Maks says. He turns back to Scarlett and explains. “Turns out our little Francophile is zero percent French, which makes the ‘aux’ ending of her name ironic, don’t you think?”
“So ironic,” Margaux says, brushing her smooth black hair behind her ears.
I laugh, remembering the day she found out that only half of her family history was accurate. While Margaux had always known she had a mixture of European and African ancestry, she’d been told the European part was French. But it turned out the white man her great-grandmother had scandalously fallen in love with in the French Quarter of New Orleans had roots in Belfast, not Bordeaux.
We drank so much wine that night—French, of course—as we had a deep discussion about the significance of identity, who and what defines us. Margaux had always been proud of her French ancestry and had attributed her impeccable style and love of wine and cheese to that heritage.
The way I saw it, she was the same person she always had been, no matter what cultures collided to create her. The specifics of her DNA didn’t change who she was. If anything, it gave her a more interesting story to tell.
“Where’s Jeff?” Margaux asks, looking around the bar.
“He’s meeting us later at the restaurant,” I say, hoping he’s able to get out of work on time. I twirl my engagement ring, missing him. He’s been working so hard lately, putting everything into his presentation for a potential client. If it goes well, he’ll be the lead candidate to take over when his boss retires next year.
Scarlett sets a glass of white wine in front of Margaux. “Looks like you could use this,” she says.
I glance at my best friend, who does look like she’s had a day. Her lawyer uniform—a pencil skirt and blouse—is as crisp as ever, but the brightness is gone from her deep brown eyes. She looks defeated.
“How was work?” I ask.
“Ugh,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about it. How’s your birthday been so far?”
“Ugh,” I tell her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
We laugh and clink our glasses.
TWO AND A half drinks later, I hear the Jaws theme song coming from my phone. Maks raises an eyebrow, daring me to answer. I send the call to voicemail, not wanting to put a damper on the day now that I’ve actually started to enjoy myself.
“Was that Mommy Dearest?” he asks, a mischievous grin on his face. He knows exactly who it is—he’s the one who programmed the ringtone for her.
I nod and put my phone back down on the bar. “I don’t feel like talking.”
“Hey, it’s your birthday,” Maks says.
“And she’s the one who gave birth to you,” Margaux counters.
“Not by choice,” I remind her.
I may have been my dad’s greatest gift, but I was my mom’s nightmare come to life. They were in college when she got pregnant, and thanks to my impending arrival, she had to drop out of school and her sorority. They got married, then had me. My twin sisters weren’t born until thirteen years later, when my parents actually wanted a family.
The phone rings again, and before I can get to it, Maks picks it up.
“Elizabeth!” he says into the phone. The cheer in his voice is genuine—for some reason the two of them adore each other. “She’s right here.”
I reach for the phone, but Maks isn’t ready to give it up. He nods as if she can see him, then laughs a little too loudly before saying, “Oh, girl, you don’t have to tell me.”
“Give it,” I say, wrestling the phone from his grasp. “Hi, Mom.”
“Paigey,” she says, using my dad’s nickname for me. “Happy birthday, darling.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, trying to sound sincere.
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m reminded how hard it is for us to communicate without having Dad in the middle. I wonder if she’s thinking about him, too.
“Did you get my gift?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “But I got an email about a delivery—I’ll pick it up when I get home.”
“Okay, then.” She sounds disappointed, but not as disappointed as she’d be if I told her the truth.
“Hey, Mom—thanks for calling, but I’ve got to run,” I tell her. “I don’t want to be late—we’re meeting Jeff for dinner across the street. But I’ll see you next weekend.”
“Right,” she says. “Next weekend. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
I hang up, wishing I’d put my phone in my purse and out of Maks’s reach.
“You opened the present before we left your apartment,” Maks says, confused.
Margaux frowns. “You didn’t like it?”
“No,” I tell her. “But you will. More of your anti-aging cream.”
Maks groans. “Why don’t you just tell her you don’t like the stuff?”
“It’s too late for that,” I tell him.
Three years ago, the first time my mom bought me a jar of the ridiculously expensive anti-aging cream, I accidentally told her I liked it. Now, she buys it for me every chance she gets. At least it doesn’t go to waste, thanks to Margaux.
“Your mom is more understanding than you give her credit for,” Maks says.
Instead of answering, I drain the last of my drink. Maks makes it sound easy—but he’s never been a daughter. And he’s never had Elizabeth Meyer as his mother.
Chapter Two
Now
THE PATIO AT CARMINE’S IS CROWDED. IT SEEMS HALF OF CHICAGO had the same idea to dine al fresco and take advantage of the break in the July heat wave.
Jeff is already seated when I walk in, flanked by Maks and Margaux. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. I’d always imagined myself marrying someone Jewish, with brown hair and brown eyes like my dad, but Jeff is as un-Jewish as a man can get, with his angular features, blond hair, and blue-gray eyes.
“There’s the birthday girl!”
Half the restaurant turns toward the source of the loud, obnoxious voice at the same time I do. Ross, Jeff’s college roommate, current coworker, and dinner-party crasher.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I make a beeline for Jeff, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with all the strangers I feel staring.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as he stands to give me a hug. “He asked what I was doing tonight.”
“You didn’t have to invite him,” I whisper back.
Jeff gives me a kiss to keep up appearances, even though Ross is socially clueless and Margaux and Maks know exactly what I’m thinking.
“He invited himself.” Jeff’s breath tickles my ear, and I smile, even though I’m less than happy about our change in plans.
It’s not unusual for Jeff to bring along a stray—it’s a side effect of his being a genuinely good guy who puts others’ feelings first. Although I would think that he’d put my feelings first on my birthday.
He knew I didn’t want to celebrate at all this year. I caved only when he said it could be a small group, just my closest friends. And that does not include Ross, whose only redeeming quality is the fact that he’s the one who dragged Jeff out to the bar on the night we met almost two years ago.
I hadn’t wanted to go out that night, either. It had barely been a month since my dad’s accident, and I was still in a fog of grief. But my two best friends showed up uninvited and went full intervention on me. Margaux turned on the shower while Maks dug through my closet for an outfit he deemed acceptable.
An hour later, we were at Four Farthings, one of our go-to bars for karaoke night. Maks had just finished butchering a Shania Twain song when a preppy man with blond hair and an electric smile took the small stage. He started singing “Friends in Low Places,” and I couldn’t look away. His voice wasn’t anything special, but there was something about his easy confidence that made me smile—which I hadn’t done in the past thirty-three days.
The bar was packed, but he found my face in the crowd and couldn’t seem to look away, either. By the end of the song, it felt like it was just the two of us standing there. Everyone else disappeared as he stepped off the stage and walked right up to me.
He offered to buy me a drink, and I said yes. Two hours and three drinks later, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere quieter, and I said yes. Six months after that, he asked if I wanted to do the whole forever thing, and again, I said yes.
I’m not usually the type to move so quickly, but like they say, when it’s right, it’s right. And it felt right with Jeff from the first moment we spoke.
“What do you think, Paige?” Margaux asks, jolting me out of my memories.
“Sorry?”
“Do you want the calamari grilled or fried?”
“Let’s get one of each,” I say. The grilled is my favorite, but I know Maks likes it fried.
“What she said,” Margaux tells our waiter, who smiles before walking away to put in our appetizers.
Ross picks up his glass to make a toast, and I wonder if I’ve been too hard on the guy.
“Cheers,” he says. “To the future Mrs. Parker.”
My face falls as I look at Jeff, who lifts his hands in defense. “Don’t look at me,” he says. “You know I’m okay with you keeping your last name.”
“He doesn’t really mean that,” Ross says.
“Oh, but he does,” Jeff says. His voice sounds firm and almost convincing.
“I’m just saying, it’s traditional for the woman to take the man’s last name,” Ross says. He adjusts the Windsor knot in his tie, and I wonder if it’s a power move or a sign of insecurity.
“It was traditional,” Margaux says, getting her lawyer on. “But women are allowed to vote now, too.”
Ross laughs, dismissing Margaux, which only fuels her fire. “Paige doesn’t have to change her name if she doesn’t want to,” she says.
“And she’s not going to,” Maks says, jumping in. “Would you want your initials to be PP?”
I can’t help but laugh, grateful for my best friends and my understanding fiancé.
When I found out Jeff’s last name the morning after our first “date,” I told him I wouldn’t be able to take his name if we ever got married. At the time, I was joking. Never in a million years had I thought I’d end up marrying what I thought was just a one-night stand. Being single was as much a part of my identity as my name, and I couldn’t imagine changing either.
It had been more than a decade since my last serious relationship, and I’d honestly stopped looking for anything meaningful. I wasn’t sad about my single status. Quite the opposite, really. We had big plans to be like the Golden Girls—Maks was our Sophia, and Margaux and I fought over who got to be Blanche.
If Jeff was a Golden Girl, he’d be Dorothy. The responsible one with a good head on his shoulders.
“Enough,” Jeff says. “We didn’t invite you guys here to fight over whether or not Paige changes her last name—which she’s not going to, by the way. We invited you to celebrate her birthday.”
