Breaking Glass Page 4

  I force my breathing to calm and pull away.

  “Was it one of those nightmares again? I thought you stopped having those.”

  My heart speeds up again. I want to run. I want to run.

  I want to drink.

  “I’m okay, Dad,” I finally manage to say. “It happens sometimes, but not as much as—you know—when it happened. I’m kind of used to it, I guess.”

  He stands, pats my head, and then steps back and stares at me for a beat before he speaks. “The doctor tells me that these things are normal after a trauma. And you’ve just been through another…” He stops, the words that almost slipped out trapped safely behind his teeth. “Get some sleep. You sure you don’t want me to help you onto the daybed?”

  I meet his gaze, questions sizzling on my tongue. The ones I’ll never ask.

  Why? Why did she do it?

  Dad looks so earnest. So concerned.

  Yet no words have ever been spoken between us about what caused my mother to drink every afternoon—and drive her car off the road into the Riverton Gorge with her nine-year-old son strapped into the backseat.

  I feign sleep and listen to his slippered feet retreat to the hall, back to the world beyond this room.

  And now I can’t stand it anymore. Dad’s study has become the inside of Mom’s car as we sailed over the embankment and plunged into the Gorge, dark waters rising to my eyes, filling my mouth and throat. The pressurized silence as Mom’s hair floated free from its binding in slow motion, like the sea anemones I’d seen at the aquarium.

  I wait a half hour until the house noises go silent. Until I’m certain Dad has gone back to sleep. Grabbing the crutches, I throw them over my lap and wheel myself into the kitchen.

  Dad’s stash is in the pantry. He thinks I don’t know that he’s never tossed out the contents of Mom’s well-stocked bar, the rows of Absolut lined up like my collection of tin soldiers. He’s hidden the treasure trove behind a few massive bags of barbecue charcoal. Over the years I’ve been refilling them with water.

  I can’t imagine why he keeps them.

  A shrine to Mom? A test for me?

  I raise myself gingerly onto the crutches, appalled how tough it is to balance, even with my workout regimen. I hobble into the dark pantry, careful not to scrape the crutches or fall. I’m shaky; the need for the liquor’s cold warmth calls out from deep inside my bones, drowning out the shame I feel as I reach for what killed my mother and almost killed me eight years ago.

  I find the bottle I’ve marked as having the purest undiluted vodka. I’ve only turned to the pantry as a last resort, so there’s plenty to last me.

  Uncapping the bottle, I take a swallow, knowing how the liquid will dull my mind, slow my reflexes and make balancing on these crutches an Olympic challenge. But I’ve run marathons after downing half a bottle. And won.

  Then

  The next day at school, Susannah was wearing an identical black T-shirt, this time with white cargo pants and flip-flops. Her toenails were painted black; though I tried not to stare at her feet, I couldn’t help but notice there were tiny words painted on each nail. Her hair was piled high on her head and it took all my strength not to reach over and pull out the contraption that held it all there, so it would tumble around her shoulders in a shimmering waterfall of curls.

  Her T-shirt had the same tiny word “laugh”, which was now joined by two other words, “and the…”

  “Is that a time released T-shirt?” I asked, and was treated to a Mona Lisa smirk.

  She pointed her foot and wiggled her toes. “Look.”

  I leaned in closer and read the message on her toenails. “…world laughs with you. Weep, and you weep alone.”

  “Is that your motto?”

  “Yep,” she said, already bent over a box of found material, from which we were all expected, under the reptile gaze of Mr. Wallace, to create a self-portrait that was both breathtakingly original and meaningful.

  “It’s mine, too.”

  I stared miserably out the window, pondering the exact number of crows that perched on the telephone pole, trying not to think that my self-portrait should be a rusting old car at the bottom of the Gorge.

  By the time I’d snapped out of my reverie, Susannah had constructed a figure with a protruding rib cage and outstretched arms entirely from tiny bits of windshield glass and a coat hanger.

  “Is that a portrait of me?” I asked, smiling. “You know, Jeremy Glass?”

  Susannah slanted her head, dead serious. “You’re a real kidder, aren’t you? Where’s yours?”

  “I’m still thinking.” I said, actually wondering why this sunshiny girl was making a portrait of herself with broken glass. “I guess I’ll do a running shoe. That’s what I am. A runner.”

  She smiled, then said, “Aren’t we all?” Returning to her efforts, so deeply engrossed in her work that she didn’t even notice when the bell rang.

  When I think of Susannah, this is how I like to see her—deep in concentration, her brow furrowed. I wonder if art for her is like running is for me, an escape from the dark things that always threaten to black out the sun.

  Now

  The sharp edge of my panic dulls. I’m ready to face Susannah’s treasure hunt now.

  I hobble unsteadily to the back door and peer out. A black void looms beyond the three steps from the stoop to the driveway and the oak tree beyond. Navigating the steps with crutches is a skill I’ve yet to master. Doing so with a half-bottle of vodka sloshing through my veins is a whole other level of challenge.

  But I have to know if there really is a message in the animation, or if Susannah is just playing with me. Why would she send me animations and not get in touch? Anger flares unexpectedly.

  She’s abandoned me in my time of need.

  Where the hell is she? I have to know.

  One precarious step, two steps, three. My sneaker touches asphalt a few seconds before the rubber crutch tips catch up with it. I’m still standing.

  I pause, mustering the courage to cross the dark driveway to the old oak tree that was so clearly the one in the animation. I imagine the air rushing by my face as I run, muscles pumping as the pavement purrs beneath my rubber soles. The ground slants. It’s the longest few yards I’ve ever faced. Longer than the final leg of the marathon I’d run last summer, gripped by fever and violent stomach cramps.

  Across the dark gulf of pavement, I reach the tree. My tree. I wonder if the animation is a map to guide me here. But why?

  I’m at the base of the tree, moonlight falling on its tangled roots. The night wind nips at my T-shirt and flaps my pajama pants. Ragged clouds frame the moon’s taunting smile. A few raindrops fall. My shattered leg registers nothing, only the steady ache from within the crushed bone, pounding its ominous drumbeat.

  The vodka is wearing off and I’m hit by a wave of exhaustion. If I could run, I’d sprint back into the house and crawl under the covers. But coming out here is a commitment. Now I have to follow through.

  I glance up to the second-floor windows. Dad’s room is still dark. The wind kicks up. Cold rain slaps the driveway, plastering my hair to my scalp. Gingerly, I lower myself until I am sitting on my butt, the scaffolded leg jutting out like a bridge to nowhere. Rain muddies the place where the growth of moss has been disturbed not so long ago.

  Using the tip of my crutch as a spade, I loosen the dirt. The rubber tip bonks something hard. Swiveling, I dig with both hands and feel the corner of what appears to be a box or something.

  Rain slams me with repeated thuds. Muddy water fills the hole I’ve made as I pull a cigar box out of the ground. Though the colorful paper label has nearly disintegrated, I recognize the box as the one from Susannah’s animation. I open it. There’s nothing inside except a plastic baggie with a photo of Ryan sealed within. Someone has defaced it with markers and Wite-Out to give him long eyelashes and a mouthful of Dracula teeth. There’s a strip of paper in Susannah’s neat printing that reads:

&nbs
p; Ryan has secrets, too.

  I close the box, let the rain wash away the grime, and tuck it under my arm. My mind revs, but then stalls. It’s as oversaturated as my T-shirt, unable to process the fact that the box in Susannah’s video link actually exists.

  Water eddies down the slope, pooling around my butt. Cold liquid streams off the metal contraption holding my leg together. I feel nothing but a vague burning itch as I laboriously make my way back inside the house.

  C H A P T E R

  f i v e

  Now

  I wake to quiet. Slivers of light creep across the clothes and papers strewn around my floor. I’m sprawled on the daybed, naked save for the strip of sheet draped over my privates like in a Renaissance nude. I don’t remember peeling off my soaked clothes or where I’d put them. My head vibrates like a rhapsody played on steel drums. My leg thrums, the swelling skin between the pins hot to my touch.

  Dad has left my daily fix of Vicodin on the mini-fridge with a glass of water, a banana, and a bowl of dry cereal. There is a carton of milk inside.

  I dress and chase down the two pills with gulps of water before the grumble of pain becomes a scream. I settle on the bed and wait for the Vikes to kick in and keep the gnawing pain at bay.

  Watching my chest rise and fall, I imagine Susannah wiping my brow with a cold compress. What I really need right now is a nurse. A very pretty nurse.

  My thoughts skim through lazy fields of memory and imagination. Susannah cavorts through the tall grass flinging flowers at me. My stomach rumbles. I’m starved.

  But I’d rather drink before the golden memories turn ugly, grow fangs and bite me.

  I consider reaching for the few remaining dregs of vodka in the canteen above my head, but nix that idea. Too much effort. The Vicodin will have to do.

  Hours drift by. If I don’t move too much, the numbing haze of my meds masks the grinding gears in my leg well enough that I’m almost comfortable. I reach for the Civil War history book on the night table. Mandatory reading for some, guilty pleasure for me. My thoughts flow back to a different age as I pore over battle trivia and primary documents. At first, I think the rapping at my door is artillery fire. The book flies from my hands.

  “Dude! It’s me!” says a muffled voice through the closed door. “The back door was open. Can I come in?”

  Ryan. “This isn’t a good time,” I call out weakly. My leg slowly heats like a sausage on a spit. I realize it’s been hours since I last took a painkiller. There’s an aching heaviness between my ribs. My hands are like weights at the ends of my arms.

  “You in there, Jer?” Ryan calls through the door.

  I try to answer, but before I have the chance, the door bursts open. Ryan peers at me, arms folded. “Dude. You look like crap.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up. I was just sitting around wondering if I really do look as shitty as I feel.”

  “Sorry.” Ryan smiles and sets a box on the night table. “The guys and I thought you’d like the complete set of Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary. To kill the time while you recuperate, you know?”

  My gaze flits to the boxed set of DVDs on the table. I’m kind of touched they picked something I’d really like. Normally my heart would leap at such a treasure. But it can’t even muster a flutter. “Cool. Tell them thanks.”

  Ryan slants his head. “You must really feel like turd if even Ken Burns can’t get a rise out of you.”

  I prop my back against the wall. The words fly out before I even realize I thought them. “How hard did you look for her? Did you go back there?”

  Ryan’s shoulders slump. He plops heavily into Dad’s recliner and sighs. “Me and some of the guys went back to Reservoir Road a couple of days later and walked up and down along the shore. Then the searchers and their dogs came. There’s no sign of her. What else do you want me to do?”

  There’s a cold lump in my throat. I consider the photo of Ryan, defaced to make him look like a bloodsucker. I can’t fathom what Susannah is trying to say, but one thing is clear. She was furious. I can’t say I blame her.

  “You’re the one that’s supposed to care.” I close my eyes briefly, then open them and meet Ryan’s wounded gaze. “If anything happened to her, it’s our fault. You know that, right?”

  Ryan scowls, his brow furrowed. “That’s completely and totally nuts. You’re all doped up and you’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m making perfect sense. You fucked with her head and I helped you do it.”

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “C’mon. This is the painkillers talking, dude, not you.”

  Something stirs beneath the damp sludge of my stupor and shoots to the surface. “Just leave, okay?” I say coldly.

  “What is this shit, Jeremy? What’s gotten into you?”

  “Too much Vicodin and not enough vodka.”

  Ryan stands, his hands balling into fists. “I didn’t ask you to follow us that night. If you hadn’t stuck your nose into my business you wouldn’t be in this—”

  “Is that what you think I’m pissed about? Myself?” I grab the closest thing to me, the Civil War tome I’d dropped, and in a sudden burst of strength fling it at him. Yeah. I’m fucked for life. But it’s my own fault and I can’t throw a goddamned book at myself. Ryan makes an easier target. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Ryan ducks. The book sails past him and falls at the feet of the girl who stands in my doorway, her mouth falling open.

  It’s Marisa, the girl who works for Susannah’s mother.

  “Enjoy the Ken Burns marathon.” Ryan brushes past Marisa and stomps out.

  “This is a bad time,” she says in her softly accented voice.

  “Yeah.” I say, overwhelmed by the slicing agony that knifes up my leg.

  “I should go.”

  But Marisa doesn’t leave. She stands in the doorway, the Civil War book at her feet. Her arms are full of more books.

  “That would be a good idea,” I say.

  I’m feeling lame for lashing out at Ryan. He’s probably still in shock. Reasonable Jeremy never yells. Reasonable Jeremy is always in control. Reasonable Jeremy is happy in his role as human doormat and Enabler-in-Chief.

  “Your father asked me to speak to your teachers. You, uh, have a good chunk of AP Calculus to catch up on.”

  “So, you’re working for him now?”

  “I go where the money is,” Marisa says curtly.

  “Great,” I say. “I should have known. AP-fucking-Calculus. The Holy Grail. It wasn’t my idea to take it, but Dad figured it would better my scholarship chances. I’ll never catch up at this point.”

  Marisa looks down, her tiny face lost in the dark curls. “I can help, if you like.”

  Not wanting to insult her, I try to smile, but sour thoughts tug my mouth into a sneer. “It’s not worth your time.”

  She raises her chin and there’s the barest glimmer of a challenge in her coal-black eyes. “I’m very good at math. I took AP Calc last year. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Marisa whirls around and leaves. The upended Civil War book rests exactly where it landed.

  I stare at the empty door, then grope for the Vicodin. I pop four of them in my mouth, gulp down the last of the water, settle back, and wait for the lava flow in my leg to cool.

  It’s Dad’s turn to host poker night. Once a month, he and his buddies gather at one of their homes for their raucous, drunken, testosterone-laden card game. I remember Mom used to have an aversion to poker night and always hid in her bedroom. Because of that, I thought it was some kind of terrible man ritual until I started to realize it was kind of fun. I got to sneak some rum into my bottle of cola and slink off with my booty, unnoticed.

  But tonight, I dread it. And the thing I dread the most is facing Patrick Morgan and his pretend pity.

  The men set up in the dining room and I listen to their laughter, the pain in my leg intensifying with each passing minute. I swallow two Vicodins and have managed to immerse myself in a
book about Revolutionary war hero Nathan Hale when I look up to see Patrick Morgan standing in the doorway to Dad’s study.

  “Jeremy, my boy!” he booms with a broad, cheery grin, liquor fumes radiating from him in waves. I lick my lips, thinking how much I could use a swig of whatever’s sloshing around in his stomach.

  He’s holding a basket brimming with snack foods and candy. “Celia knows you have a sweet tooth, so we thought these goodies might help you convalesce.”

  He strides into the room, places the basket on Dad’s messy desk, and pulls up a chair next to my wheelchair. “So,” he asks softly, his grin vanishing, “How are you feeling, Jeremy? How’s the leg?”

  “Kind of busted up, but okay, I guess, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Jeremy, you’ve known me your whole life. You are permitted to call me Patrick. In fact, I insist.”

  “Okay, Patrick.” I stare at him, without any idea of what I should say. Patrick Morgan always manages to render me speechless, his burning blue eyes and shock of movie star grey hair making him seem larger than life.

  “Good book?” he asks.

  “Um, yeah, if you like reading about tragic heroes who died senselessly.”

  “Hmmm,” says, Patrick, suddenly lost in thought. “You, on the other hand, are a pretty lucky guy. You could have been flattened by that truck, Jeremy.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I neglect to mention that Susannah wasn’t as lucky, since she hasn’t been seen or heard from since that night, which was now over two weeks ago.

  Patrick Morgan stares at me, and it’s as if his eyes can cut through the layers of my silence like scalpels. “Ryan misses you, but I understand if you’re not up for company these days.”

  I glance at my leg, which still throbs despite the Vicodininduced veil of numbness settling over it. “I’m sorry if I’ve been kind of rude to Ryan. But I’ve been in a bit of pain. It’s hard to be sociable.”

  “Ryan is your best friend. You don’t have to do anything.” The eyes don’t leave me, like a knife pressed against my throat. I gasp for air, the room suddenly stuffy and close.