Pieces

PIECES

Linda Rettstatt

Pieces

(Second Edition)

3rd Act Books

Pieces © 2008 – 1st Edition; © 2019 – 2nd Edition

Linda Rettstatt – All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design: Linda Rettstatt

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

What are they saying about Pieces?

Have you ever wondered, ‘Who am I… really?’ Claire Hutchings asks herself this question when a recurring nightmare gives her the feeling she must have been adopted. The more she tries to explain the dream, the more she discovers the puzzle pieces don’t add up. Something is missing. This is a real page turner. The suspense is so gripping, I promise you, you’ll not be able to set this book down.

This superbly complex suspense will keep you turning pages as Claire puts the pieces of the puzzle together to discover her true identity.

—JoEllen Conger

www.congerbooks.com

~ * ~

Linda Rettstatt is a master at creating a beautiful, warm inspirational story filled with rich well-developed characters, intricate, exciting plot lines, and romance that will leave you sighing with happiness, along with a dash of humor that will have you laughing out loud. Don’t miss out on reading this book—your heart will never be the same.

—Suzanne M. Hurley

www.suzannemhurley.com

~ * ~

Ms. Rettstatt has crafted a wonderful, poignant tale in Pieces. I felt Claire’s emotions as she delved into the past. Each chapter is filled with suspense and well-kept secrets as Claire uncovers bits of the mystery of who she is, both literally and figuratively. Pieces engages the reader with suspenseful narration and graphic storytelling. This is an amazing, beautifully written novel. Don’t miss it.

—Mallary Mitchell

www.mallarymitchell.us

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the Hennessey and Rettstatt families. These are my roots, buried deep in the rich history of Ireland, England, Prussia/Germany, and Pennsylvania. The foundation upon which I stand was built by coal miners, soldiers, railroaders, and homemakers—faithful men and women who worked always for the sake of a better life for the next generation.

This book is about family, and the importance of knowing the place from which we come. I thank my family—those who gave me life, those who nurtured that life, and those who continue to share in this amazing adventure that is my life—especially my sister, Peggy Kautz.

Chapter One

Claire gazed around at the darkness behind her. Above she could see blue sky, dotted with billowy clouds, reflecting in the dark water at her feet. The outline of her shadow partially blocked the light. She stretched out her hand. Then, as always, it happened, the sensation of falling. She found herself in dank water as smoke filled the air around her. The blue sky disappeared in a grey haze.

Passersby failed to see her as the scrambled amid the smoke and noise. One figure particularly troubled her. The face was not clear, but the shape appeared to be that of a woman with long, flowing hair bent over her for only a brief moment, then gone. Claire heard a distant sound she could not identify, like the sound of a car backfiring. She called out, but her cries were unheard. She tried to stand, but her feet slipped in the watery sludge that surrounded her.

Bathed in sweat, panting for air, arms flailing against the sensation of falling, Claire awakened. The voice calling out for help was her own. Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to free herself from the damp sheets tangled around her trembling body. It took her several hours to recover and she didn’t sleep again until daylight began to break.

The nightmare had been recurring for the past year. She’d tried everything—limiting caffeine and sugar consumption, not getting overly tired, psychotherapy, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, sleeping pills, even journaling about the nightmare. The journaling yielded three identical accounts, with no pattern to its occurrence. It would sneak up on her randomly, disrupt her sleep and leave her shaken for the better part of the next day.

Last week she’d made an appointment with yet another therapist, after spending a night of terror and getting only two hours’ sleep after daybreak.

This was her sixth therapist in a year. One therapist directed her to sit and breathe while he said reassuring things to her inner child and hugged her from behind. It left her wanting to take a long, hot shower. Another therapist theorized about repressed anger and made her beat the crap out of a stuffed trash bag with an inflated rubber bat. She had to admit that was fun but didn’t see the relevance.

The therapist who told her she was everyone in her dream irritated her with the interpretation, and she never returned for follow-up. Why the hell would I ignore my own cries for help and leave myself abandoned in that dark place?

The other two were probably good therapists, but not for her. One of these had suggested a psychiatric evaluation, but Claire refused, insisting she wasn’t crazy. She didn’t do odd things or have suicidal or homicidal thoughts, though she wanted to cheerfully strangle the therapist at that moment. She wasn’t sad or depressed, angry or grieving. She just had this recurring nightmare.

This latest therapist had been recommended by her physician. Maybe this time, Claire thought. Maybe this one will actually have an answer.

Stepping into the elevator, Claire decided that if the therapist suggested meditation, psychodrama, or any kind of creepy body contact, she was leaving and she damned well wasn’t paying for the session. She didn’t even care anymore if the therapist could explain the nightmare. She just wanted someone to make it stop.

The elevator groaned to a halt on the fourth floor and Claire stepped off, checking the directory on the wall for Suite 412. She stopped, then turned to look for a restroom, hating the way she felt—like she was seven years old and going to the dentist for the first time. Her insides quaked, and she had to pee. She wished she had someone’s hand to hold for reassurance, someone to say, This isn’t going to hurt a bit. It’ll be over before you know it, and I’ll be waiting right here for you.

As she washed her hands, Claire avoided meeting her eyes in the mirror. She could so easily talk herself into getting right back on that elevator. The restroom door whooshed closed behind her as she headed down the long hall to Suite 412.

The brass plate on the door read: Genevieve Headlee, Ph.D., Psychologist. Claire was struck by the irony in the name Headlee and thought, Headlee the Headshrinker, laughing nervously as she stepped inside the office. Humor had always been her salvation and, often, her downfall.

She walked up to the sliding glass window and waited for the receptionist on the other side to hang up the phone. The window slid open. Hi, you must be Claire. I’m Brenda. Would you fill out these forms and sign where they’re highlighted, then bring them back to me? she asked, handing Claire a clipboard and a pen.

Claire walked to a chair in the far corner of the small, empty waiting room, put her purse on the floor and completed the paperwork. Why do they need to know that I had a tonsillectomy when I was ten? She obediently filled in all the blanks, then gave the clipboard and her medical insurance card to the receptionist and returned to her seat. She glanced at her watch—ten minutes before her appointment, enough time to run to the restroom again and to get a drink of water. Nerves had turned her mouth to sand.

As she returned to the waiting room, a young woman exited and rushed past her with head lowered, dabbing her eyes.

Oh, shit, Claire thought, this is probably one of those touchy-feely therapists who doesn’t think she’s done her job if she hasn’t brought you to tears.

Before she could turn and run, the door between the waiting room and the inner sanctum opened. A woman smiled and said, Claire? You may come in, directing her into a large, private office.

The woman was Claire’s height, slender, with ash brown hair streaked by strands of gray. Glasses hung from a gold chain around her neck, and she was casually dressed in beige slacks and a black silk blouse. Claire noticed that her face was open, friendly. Well, she doesn’t look scary. She looks like the lady who sells perfume at Gordon’s.

Furnished with two over-stuffed chairs and a matching beige sofa backing a large oak desk, the office had the feel of a comfortable living room. A small, round table separated the chairs and held a dish of individually wrapped mints, a box of tissues, and two glasses of water. Dimly lit lamps flanked the sofa, creating a soothing atmosphere. The scent of spice wafted from a saucer of potpourri on a side table.

The therapist closed the door and turned, extending her right hand. I’m Genevieve Headlee. Most of my clients call me Gen. Please, sit anywhere you’d like. She gathered up a notepad and pen from the desk.

Claire chose the sofa, placing her jacket and purse next to her. She was breathing in short, quick breaths and would soon have to take in a deep breath that would undoubtedly draw a questioning look from the therapist. She shifted as she breathed, trying to disguise the sharp intake, then exhaled slowly.

Gen took a seat opposite Claire in one of the chairs. She put on her glasses and held the papers in front of her that Claire had filled out.

It’s nice to meet you, Claire. I see you’ve been to other therapists, so you already know the drill. I’ll be asking questions and taking notes for the first session to get to know more about you.

Gen removed her glasses, made eye contact, and asked, Do you have any questions for me before we get started?

Uh, no, none that I can think of. Well, one question. Have you helped people interpret dreams? I mean, if someone’s having a recurring nightmare... Have you helped make it stop?

Is that what brought you here?

Yes and, as you can see, I’ve been to several other therapists. and no one’s been able to help. I don’t want to waste your time or mine if you don’t think you can help me.

Gen nodded. I see. Here’s what I believe about dreams and nightmares. I think they often represent something in our subconscious mind that’s trying to surface, something we don’t know that we know, if that makes sense. I’ve worked with patients who had recurring dreams, and we were able to figure out what was going on underneath the dream. Sometimes it’s a matter of making a simple connection between the symbolism in the dream and… She placed one hand in front of her, palm up. A life event or a subconscious fear, she said, turning her other palm up in front of her.

So, a nightmare may be my mind trying to tell me something I know, but don’t remember?

Yes, that’s possible. I need to get more information about you and about the nightmare before I can make a determination. You do know this could take more than a few sessions.

I know. I’m sorry if I seem impatient. This has been going on for over a year, and I need for it to stop. I’m a little anxious, but Dr. Clymer recommended you. She felt tears brim her eyes. I’m exhausted, and I’m desperate.

Gen reached over and put a hand on Claire’s arm. I know this has to be unnerving, especially if you’ve tried therapy several times without relief. Tell you what—if you feel, after three sessions, that I’m not helping you, then we can discuss other options. How does that sound?

Okay. Claire reached for a tissue from the box on the table. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re a good therapist.

Claire, it’s okay. Gen smiled, then settled back into her chair, pen poised, glasses back in place. Why don’t you begin by telling me about the nightmare and anything else you’d like me to know about you? I’ll try to keep my note taking to a minimum and, if it’s distracting for you, I can use a recorder. Just let me know.

Claire relaxed and the tension in her shoulders eased. She started right off describing the nightmare, finding Gen’s calm, steady gaze comforting and encouraging.

When Claire finished, Gen asked questions about the nightmare—its frequency, when it first began, and, on a scale of one to ten, how troubling it was. Gen raised one eyebrow when Claire rated it at eleven.

Claire continued with the story of her life, or at least her rehearsed version of it—her parents, sister, where she’d grown up, high school, college, work, marriage, divorce. Gen scribbled a note now and then, looking away only briefly, keeping her focus on Claire.

When Gen stopped her to say their time was up, Claire glanced at her watch with surprise and saw she’d been talking for almost an hour and a half.

Do you want to make another appointment? Gen asked, once again lowering her glasses.

Claire took in a deep breath and let it out. Do you think you can help me? Can you make the nightmare go away?

I don’t know. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I don’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep. I do think you and I can come to an understanding of the nightmare. Once that happens, I would expect it to stop.

Though it sounded a bit like a treasure hunt, Claire said, Okay, I’ll make another appointment.

As she walked to the door, Claire stopped and turned. Dr. Headlee, Gen... Am I going crazy?

Gen smiled and hugged her notebook to her chest. I don’t really like that word. It’s been misused. I think you’re troubled, and we need to get to the bottom of what’s troubling you. The nightmare seems to hold the key.

Claire liked Gen’s calm manner and casual approach. She was already looking forward to her next appointment.

Tucking the appointment card into her wallet, Claire exited into the hallway. She stopped at the water fountain for a drink and, as she bent down, saw her reflection in the water swirling around the silver bowl. She pulled up abruptly, reminded of the nightmare.

Once outside, she turned on her cell phone and listened to two messages. The first was from her mother, reminding her about dinner that evening. The second was from her best friend, Kim. She decided she’d better head across town before traffic got too heavy. Her mother always had dinner on the table promptly at six and would be upset if Claire was late.

Claire drove with the top down on her Mini convertible. The car had been a consolation gift to herself after her divorce.

She made the drive in record time and pulled into a parking space across from the building entrance with eight minutes to spare. Her return call to Kim went straight to voice mail and Claire left a message that she would call after she got home. Her parents always started getting fidgety around eight-thirty and were ready for bed by nine, so she knew it wouldn’t be a late night.

Even though she had a key to the apartment, she rang the buzzer. One time she’d used the key and her mother nearly had a heart attack, thinking someone was breaking in.

Her mother opened the door, then turned back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, You didn’t answer your cell phone. You know I hate to leave messages. I called your office, and they said you left early. Where were you? I was worried.

Claire picked a piece of lettuce from the salad. I had some errands to run. I guess I didn’t hear it ring. You know how noisy it can be downtown at this time of day. Hi, Papa. How are you feeling today? Claire asked, crossing into the living room to kiss her father on the forehead.

Henry Vanderfelt had been a tall, strapping man once upon a time. His health had been failing over the past year, and he was moving slower, breathing harder, his back bent with age. He had emphysema and a heart condition, not a good combination.

Goot, sweetheart, I’m goot, he said with his slight Dutch accent.

Her mother’s accent was barely noticeable now, but her father had maintained his, and it thickened when he got excited. Claire often thought he worked at keeping it as a way of staying connected to his Dutch heritage, of which he was very proud. Both he and Sonja had been born in the Netherlands.

Claire excused herself to the bathroom to wash her hands. She looked into the mirror, wondering if her face betrayed the lie she’d told about where she had been. She hoped her parents didn’t ask any more questions.

Dinner was pleasant until her mother started on the have you been out with any nice young men lately speech. Claire changed the subject.

After dinner, as Claire was helping her mother with the dishes—Sonja refused to use the dishwasher, insisting it was not economical, and you couldn’t be sure things were scrubbed clean—Sonja asked if she would be there the same time next week.

Claire thought for a moment and, remembering her next appointment with Dr. Headlee, asked if they could make it another night because she had to work late next Tuesday.

Sonja made a ‘tsk’ sound. But we always have dinner together on Tuesday. You know that.

Claire placed her right hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. I know, Mom, but it’s work. I have a big project I’m working on, and there are other people’s schedules to consider, too. She squeezed her fingers together until they hurt.

Sonja finished wiping the plate dry. Well, I suppose so. Just this once. So, you’ll come on Wednesday then?

Promising she would be there, Claire kissed her mother and said goodnight to her father.

On her drive home, she wondered how her mother’s rigid view of life might have affected her. She tended to be very organized and kept to a schedule. Is that such a bad thing, though? She often thought her mother’s need to control little things was the result of the upheaval she must have experienced each time the family relocated.

It was a little past nine when she walked into her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her keys into the basket on the sofa table. She skimmed through the mail—nothing important. She picked up her cell and speed dialed Kim, who answered on the second ring.

Hi. It’s me. Just got home. Yeah, Tuesday night dinner with the folks. Wouldn’t want to miss it, Claire said more sharply than intended. A twinge of guilt at the tone of sarcasm in her voice stabbed at her chest. She did love her parents, even if her mother drove her crazy at times.

Kim laughed. I know what you mean. I was calling to see if you were free this weekend. I was thinking about taking a road trip. The weather is supposed to be perfect.

Claire could already see them cruising through the mountains with the top down, their hair blowing, not a care in the world. She needed a trip.

Sounds great. Where are you thinking of going? she asked while she tried to unwrap a Hershey’s chocolate kiss with one hand.

I’m thinking Atlantic City—the beach, the slots, the nightlife. What do you say?

I say I’d better do some laundry. She paused. I saw a new therapist today.

Why do you torture yourself with these therapists?

It’s less torture than the damned nightmare. Besides, I like this one. I think she might be able to help me.

I hope so. This has been going on far too long. I wish there was something I could do.

You’re doing it. It’ll be good to get away for a few days. I can probably cut out from the office around two if you want to get an early start on Friday.

I’m there. Should I pick you up at the office or at your place? Kim asked.

Yeah, right. Like we’re going in your car. That is, unless you’ve gotten a can opener. I’ll be at your place by two fifteen with the top down. You bring the sunscreen and a cooler.

Great! I’ll call and make reservations. Anywhere in particular you’d like to stay? Kim asked.

I trust your judgment. Just keep it reasonable and a place either right on the Boardwalk or one that runs a shuttle. I don’t like walking around there much at night. It gets kind of creepy.

You’re such a baby. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. See you Friday.

Claire loved road trips. She figured it must have something to do with the way her father made each of their many moves seem like an adventure. Plus, she looked forward to time with Kim.

Other than the therapists, Kim and Ethan, her two best friends, were the only ones who knew about the recurring nightmare.

Kim and Claire had been friends since their student days at the University of Pittsburgh. They hit it off immediately, meeting in an English Lit class. Claire was new to Pittsburgh and hadn’t made many friends yet. Kim had come as a refugee from Viet Nam. She’d quickly learned English, but had some difficulty understanding Shakespeare. Claire offered her help and they became study partners. This grew into a friendship that had now spanned fourteen years.

Claire checked her voicemail, made note of calls to return the next day, poured herself a glass of skim milk, and headed for the shower. She prayed she would be able to sleep.

Chapter Two

Friday morning dragged by, beginning with a staff meeting Claire thought would never end and didn’t seem to have a focus. She skipped lunch to finish ad sketches for a client and sent them off with the courier, before hurrying from the office at two o’clock.

Her fingers rapped anxiously on the steering wheel as she made her way through stop-and-go traffic. She pulled to the curb to find Kim sitting on the stoop, pointing to her watch.

I know, I’m late. Traffic is a bear. Everybody in town’s heading out early. We probably won’t get to Atlantic City until midnight, Claire complained as Kim plunked a cooler on the back seat.

Want to figure out a Plan B? Kim asked. I’m flexible.

No, let’s go. It’s too late to cancel the reservation. We can sleep tonight and have the whole day tomorrow and tomorrow night for fun. We don’t have to head back until late afternoon on Sunday, do we?

Nope. My folks are keeping Justin until Monday.

To avoid the jammed parkway, Claire took a few detours that added miles but subtracted minutes. Traffic thinned once they passed through the ticket gate and onto the Pennsylvania turnpike.

As they crested the mountain summit, the temperature and humidity dropped. The air smelled fresh and clean, devoid of exhaust fumes and the garbage odors that hung in the alleyways of the city. The sky was cerulean, dotted with clouds resembling cotton candy. Lush, green pine forests blanketed the mountainsides. Claire set the cruise control for seventy miles per hour—five over the posted limit.

It’s a beautiful day for this drive, Claire shouted.

How about some music? Kim yelled back, reaching for the CD player and cranking up the volume.

The wind whipped around them and made conversation impossible. Claire was happy to focus on the road and the music, let it take her mind off everything else for a while.

They stopped outside of Harrisburg to grab a bite to eat and use the restroom. Claire put the top up before they got back on the road. If things went well, meaning if Claire wasn’t stopped for speeding, she could get them to Atlantic City by nine thirty, ten at the latest.

Kim had booked a room at the Hard Rock casino, right on the Boardwalk and about equal distance to all of the other casinos.

Claire was always a little nervous about handing her keys