The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

I understand that one plus one equals two, and two is more than one. My math skills far outreach addition. But more doesn’t always equal love.

There’s a cactus outside my bedroom window that’s drinking up all the water in the desert. The cactus thrives while I have chapped lips. It’s a selfish cactus, which I guess is the nature of a cactus. It’s built to suck up water. I can’t blame it for doing what nature intended it to do. In truth, though, I wish I could chop it down. But since it’s so prickly, no one can touch it. I suddenly feel bad for the cactus, because it didn’t choose to be this way. It just is this way. And then I think I shouldn’t be so hard on my sister, Hannah.

Complex Math Problem: How do you solve the messes you can’t see? In other words—Is fitting in just covering up who you really are in hopes that people don’t notice?

I am no longer a whole number. I carry a decimal now. Each box in my room is just a reminder of my remainder. The problem is, I can’t figure out if I’m less than or more than I was before. I know I’m not the same.

After the first Sunday we attended church here, I had a nightmare about the statue. I haven’t gone close to Jesus since.

“The whole world is one big container. Everyone’s a hostage. That’s life.”

Color places her hand on my arm. “They just teach us lies in high school anyway. You’re not missing out.” “I’m pretty sure it’s the same at my house,” I say.

Ainsworth is my dad’s last name. I am made up of all things Dad. But he doesn’t matter anymore. That’s what Mom said twelve years ago when I asked her where Dad went. I was four. “He doesn’t matter anymore.” Those were her exact words. But I’m made up of all of his matter. I have his hair and his eyes and his skin. Complex Math Problem: If Dad doesn’t matter, and I’m made up of him, do I matter?

“What did one algebra book say to the other?” Amit asks. “What?” “Don’t bother me. I’ve got my own problems.”

Complex Math Problem: When one broken piece joins together with another broken piece, is it considered whole again, even if the edges don’t match up perfectly?

trust is handing over a piece of your heart to someone and believing they’ll hold it as delicately as you do.

“Perfection is overrated,” Color says. “What’s the fun in that? It’s our holes that make us interesting.”

I wish I could help him. But I’m the girl who got pregnant and hid it, who kept Amit secretly locked in my heart for no one to know. The truth is clearly not my specialty.

“I knew it wouldn’t last. Everything crumbles.”

“She told me to get used to it. She told me that being a parent meant being perpetually afraid that something might happen to the one thing you don’t want to lose. That every day you’ll worry and think about this possibility to the point of madness, until all that’s left is to throw your hands up and have faith that it’s all going to be OK.”

“Faith and bullshit wear the same clothes. It’s impossible to know which is which.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” she says eventually. “There is always another way, or the universe wouldn’t have created a right and left side.” I’ve never met anyone more confusing and brilliant at the same time.

“You know what’s odd, Moss?” “What?” I smile. “Every other number.”

Complex Math Problem: If the whole world is lying, does truth really exist?

Shade in the desert is as abundant as truth is in this world of liars.

That’s the plight of women—no matter how miraculous we are, we still have to live in a world governed by men’s standards.

Why is it so easy to want love for other people but not to accept it for ourselves?

And right now, somehow, time and borders don’t seem to exist. It isn’t a new year or a new day or a new minute. It just is. We just are. With all of us together, infinity forms out of nothing.

Forget my theory about lying. Everyone is still lying, but here’s a more important statement—you can’t experience truth without paying the consequence. It is unavoidable. That is why people lie. They lie for love, and they lie because in most cases, the truth hurts more.

Memories are just a mind manipulation to keep you tethered to something that’s no longer there. Free yourself and let it go.”

“Amit told me about a woman in India named Amma. She sits in this temple all day, and people come from all over the world to see her.” “Why?” “So she can hug them.” “Why does she hug people, Esther?” Jesús whispers. Here is a notable thing about love. I’ve realized it isn’t as complex as people make it out to be. “Because people don’t understand that love is that simple,” I say. “You’ve felt love that simple?” With my hand pressed to Jesús’s cheek, I change my theory. Maybe love isn’t lying. Maybe people just like to complicate things. Because the truth is that the best kind of love is simple. But because we’re not perfect humans, we mess it up. “Yes,” I say.