Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel)

by Laura Anderson Kurk

  The drive yesterday to the Copper River Retreat seemed to take twice as long as it had the first time. Like the road had turned to taffy and stretched under the Beetle’s wheels. Sometimes, when I’m really nervous, I see distortions of scenery. Even the trees looked like cartoons.

  I’d had to meet with Miranda first. She hugged me like an old friend and asked me about school. As we talked, we walked and, before I knew it, we were standing at the doorway of a room full of couches and soft chairs. “Wow,” I’d said. “This is fancy.” It was such a stupid thing to say.

  Miranda smiled sympathetically. “She’s by the window, there.” She pointed. “See her?”

  I hadn’t noticed her until she pointed her out. Mom looked nice and kind of shiny from all the sun coming through the glass. She looked like the same mom I’d shared secrets with so long ago. The one who once woke me up in the middle of the night and bundled me in the car so we could drive to the moon. I couldn’t move.

  “Where could I find a restroom?” I murmured to Miranda.

  Her features tightened for a fraction of a second, like she wanted to encourage me or assure me, but couldn’t. No one could promise everything would be okay when your mom spent her days sitting by a window in a place like this. “Down the hall. First door on the left. Be sure you lock the door.”

  I nodded my thanks and followed through on the fake bathroom need. “And, Meg,” she called. “When you’re ready, just go right on in to visit with her for about thirty minutes. I’ll come back for you then.”

  When I did return, Mom had moved to a chair closer to the door. One with a view of the restroom I’d used. She smiled and stood as I came near and I smiled, too, and went directly into her waiting arms. “Mom,” I said. She smoothed my hair and straightened my collar. And she held on for as long as I let her.

  We sat and talked, carefully avoiding the list of triggers her doctor had provided me ahead of time. Nothing of guns. Not a word about tense situations. Don’t mention any of the recent acts of violence in other schools. I had to step around the landmines.

  “Someday,” she’d started and then paused, lining up her words just right. Was it her medication that made her a bit slower? “Someday I’ll tell you everything and I’ll properly apologize to you. I’ll make up for lost time. Someday.”

  “I know, Mom.” I patted her leg steadily. I think I did that the whole time we talked. I had trouble organizing my thoughts. I knew this time was critically important for both of us and that intimidated me.

  “Remember my painting in the Carnegie called Love?” she’d said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember that day at the beach and how happy we were?”

  “I do.” I smiled at her. Her brow relaxed as she pictured that painting in her mind. Love had hung in the Carnegie Museum for the last five years. She’d painted it from a photograph she’d taken of Wyatt and me playing on the beach. I was probably two, dressed in a white sundress that blew in the wind. Wyatt would have been five, and he knelt next to me working on a sand castle.

  The waiting room we were in had filled up with families as we talked. I guess every Copper River resident had requested visitors. Mom reached for me and held both my hands. “We’re almost out of time. My doctor says I’ll be with you and Dad in Chapin by June.”

  My heart squeezed tight. “I can’t wait, Mom.”

  “I know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered, looking left and right like she was sharing a state secret she didn’t want overheard.

  “Nothing’s wrong with you,” I said. “You’re just depressed.”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean yes and no. It’s called kairos grief.”

  I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head, waiting for her explanation.

  “It means that my grief is more about trying to find meaning in this world without Wyatt—not about marking anniversaries and feeling better after each one. This place is giving me permission to find the meaning in my own time.”

  I hugged her then and she pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t stop writing,” she said. “Your letters keep me going.”

  It was an oddly satisfying idea to feel bereft as I left my mother this time. We only feel bereft when we’re deprived of something meaningful.

  I’d headed straight for the Carnegie, circled the parking lot to find a place for the Beetle, and fast-walked to the room where Love waited for me. Sitting on the bench in front of the painting, I lined up my phone’s camera to snap a picture.

  As soon as we got the all clear on the plane to use devices, I pulled up that picture and stared at it, touching Wyatt’s face. I couldn’t wait to show Henry. Henry, meet my mom, Adele. This is what her soul looks like.

  ***

  When we landed and I powered up my phone again, I had a text from Dad—Welcome home. Henry begged me to let him pick you up. He’ll be there when you land. And a corresponding text from Henry—Can’t wait to see your face. I’m in baggage claim.

  I literally could not walk fast enough.

  He was next to the carousel, arms out wide, laughing. “Welcome home.” He tucked me tight against him.

  In the truck, somewhere between Casper and Chapin, Henry turned introspective. “It’s hard for me to put this into words,” he said, bringing my hand up to his mouth and pressing his lips on my palm for a long moment.

  “What?”

  “Remember the time you said you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

  “I say that a lot…but, yes.” I stared at him, watching how the lines around his eyes deepened when he struggled for words.

  “You’re not doing that anymore. You’ve stopped living like tragedy is around every corner.”

  I rubbed my thumb back and forth across my bottom lip, thinking. “Maybe.”

  “It’s like this part of you that I’ve tried to make sense of…finally makes sense. You’re in very sharp focus for me.”

  We breathed together, our chests rising in unison. I stayed still, afraid that if I moved or spoke, the moment would end and he wouldn’t explain what he meant.

  “Here it is,” he said. “The first part of you that I fell in love with was this compassion you have for everyone. Now what blows me to smithereens is your strength. Do you see?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not strong. Wyatt called me a glass girl because I spent half my time crying and the other half worrying. He knew I was fragile.”

  He looked at me incredulously. “I know you loved Wyatt and I’m not trying to change who he was to you. But maybe he called you that because he knew you were strong.” His sigh wasn’t heavy. It just signaled that he’d figured something out…and that something relieved any doubt. “He just never got around to explaining himself.”

  “Well, I’m not who I was then. I’m not even the same person I was last night.”

  Henry smiled a perfect, understanding smile. “Me, neither. I would say that probably means we’re “becoming mature,” except I’m pretty sure that’s just life. We’re all constantly changing.” He took my hand again. “Here’s something to remember, though. It’ll change the way you think of yourself, maybe. Glass fibers are strong.” He chuckled. “Huh? Didn’t know that did you?”

  “What do you mean they’re strong?”

  “A pane of glass is weak because it’s been forced into an unnatural shape. But the fibers making up the pane are strong. Like, stronger than steel.”

  I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat and glanced out my window. Wyoming was flying by and it looked more like home than Pennsylvania.

  “If that were true, it would be amazing. They’d find a way to make tools out of glass.”

  He glanced over at me, eyebrows raised. “You know they do make tools out of glass, don’t you?”

  “Oh.”

  “Slaten will get around to this toward the end of the semester, I think,” he said. “Glass is strong and fragile. It’s a barrier with a clear view of what it’s protecting us from. It
’s beautiful, but transparent. That’s you. You can believe Wyatt felt the same way.”

  To suddenly believe I was the strong one would change everything. I pressed my hand against my heart, worried he could see my chest beating. I looked down at my phone, scrolling through pictures.

  Last night, I’d taken a picture of Wyatt’s senior portrait that hung in Catherine’s guest room. I touched it, zooming it for Henry, and handed him my phone. In the picture, Wyatt sat on the porch of an old abandoned house in a questionable part of Pittsburgh where he’d volunteered to help with construction projects for the needy. It’s where he’d insisted on having his senior photos done. I didn’t understand it then, but now I knew it was just part of Wyatt’s nature. Willing to get involved.

  Henry’s gaze shifted back and forth between the road and the picture. “You have his eyes.”

  I looked at Wyatt’s eyes in the picture, knowing they saw so much in such a short life. “I hope so.”

  ***

  In Chapin, we swung by the bookstore. I wanted to pick up a Frost collection so I could read “Home Burial” on paper instead of online. Thanet and Annie were busy stocking the week’s new shipment of magazines, and they both stood and stretched when they saw us.

  “Thank God, a distraction,” Thanet said. “I’ve been staring at women’s magazine covers for an hour.” He smiled wickedly at Henry. “I now know the top five outdoor spots to get it on, according to a survey of hot college women.”

  Annie walked by and swatted Thanet in the back. “Stop that or you’ll shelve picture books from now on.”

  She stopped next to me and air-kissed my cheek. “We’ve missed you. You should pick up extra hours next week so we can catch up.”

  “I will,” I said. “And I’m not leaving here today without a paperback copy of Frost’s complete works.”

  “Empty threats,” Thanet said, but he shifted and glanced through the titles on the poetry shelf next to him, pulling a book out. “Holt’s 1979 edition okay?”

  I tried to pay, but Annie pushed my money away. “No one buys Frost anymore. I sell ninety-five percent smut and five percent local history.”

  “Who buys smut in this town?” Henry said.

  “You’d be surprised.” Annie leaned against the counter like she wanted to spill names, but then she thought better of it and waved us on. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Meg.”

  Henry parked in my driveway and carried my things into my bedroom. Gathering me in for a long, I missed you kiss, he melted my insides. “I’m guessing you’ll work on your paper the rest of the weekend, since it’s due next Friday.”

  “Hey, I’ve had some things going on,” I said. “Plus, I haven’t heard you talking about finishing yours yet.”

  He chuckled, his mouth right next to my ear, and it made my legs feel like gelatin. “I’m writing it tonight. In between calvings.”

  “Call me every thirty minutes or so?”

  “You know it.”

  ***

  An hour later, showered, brushed, and in warm pajamas, I sat in my bed with the Frost book opened to “Home Burial.” My heart in my throat, I read it a third time just to make sure. I grabbed my laptop and started an email to Mr. Landmann—Dear Mr. Landmann, I know it’s late notice but I need you to assign me a different poem. Sincerely, Meg Kavanagh.

  FORTY-ONE

  I sat on my hands in the bed, warming them and waiting for Mr. Landmann’s response. He’ll respond in twenty breaths. He’ll respond the next time the neighbor’s dog barks. He’ll respond when I say…now. Only he didn’t.

  I picked the book up again and let my eyes scan the page. He’ll respond when I finish a fourth reading. I focused on the lines that had caused my heart to skip when I read them the first time.

  I do think, though, you overdo it a little.

  What was it brought you up to think it the thing

  To take your mother-loss of a first child

  So inconsolably—in the face of love.

  You’d think his memory might be satisfied—

  This poem—this ode to grief—was about my family. It was my mother who pushed us to be quiet about that day. It was my father who tried to understand, but just tracked mud all over the place. It wasn’t just about burying a child at home. It was about burying a home. That was something else entirely.

  My laptop dinged and highlighted a message received from Mr. Landmann—Remind me what poem you drew.

  I responded simply—“Home Burial.”

  This time his response came quickly like a gasp or an apology—Would you mind calling me at this number?

  I’d never been asked by a teacher to call his cell. This was highly suspect. Despite that, I dialed the number he’d sent and waited for him to answer.

  “Meg,” he sighed. “I’ll understand completely if you want me to assign a different poem, but I’d like to talk to you for a second before we make that decision.”

  “Okay,” I said, frustrated with his seeming lack of empathy. I’d thought better of him.

  I heard him take a deep breath. “You know, there’s a great deal of tragedy and unhappiness on this earth and it touches every family to one degree or another. No one is immune, despite appearances.”

  I waited impatiently for him to come to the conclusion that he should give me a different poem—like “Hug O’ War” by Silverstein. Or, heck, anything by Silverstein.

  “Do you think you’re brave or fragile?” he said.

  I shook my head and stared at the phone in shock. Had he been in the truck with Henry and me today?

  “I think that has nothing to do with what I’m requesting.”

  “It has everything to do with it,” he said. “‘Courage is not the towering oak that sees storms come and go; it is the fragile blossom that opens in the snow.’ Alice Swaim wrote that.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “It’s nice. But can you just give me a different poem?”

  “Do you believe that, Meg?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That courage is a blossom that opens in the snow.” He spoke in a hushed tone now.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “It’s okay to feel fragile in the face of fear or pain. It’s not okay to be paralyzed by it. Courage is when you open up and do what you’re meant to do even though you’re scared.”

  I heard the sound of a desk chair squeaking. Maybe he was turning it side to side.

  “There are an infinite number of ways that this world can hurt us,” he continued. “No two heartaches are exactly alike and no one can articulate the heartache of someone else. But I will tell you something I learned the hard way as a young man. Sometimes the best way to heal is to share our pain with others—others who care about us. Let them divide it up so that we have just a little less to suffer.”

  “I know that. I’ve learned that, too. I’ve shared with Henry—”

  “But,” he interrupted. “What if the things you have to say about grief reached into the heart of someone sitting in our class and made a difference? What if, by sharing what you know, you help your friends share their own pain?”

  I needed time to think. I didn’t want him to sound so convincing.

  “Meg, if you are adamant that you need a different poem, I will respect that. My heartfelt advice to you, though, is that you keep it. You use what has torn your heart to shreds and you write it. Enlighten us. Teach us. It’s what great writers feel compelled to do, you know? They never even think there’s another option. And I’ve seen this year that you are a great writer. You’re talented, and it’s coming from a place where these other kids in class have never been. You know about things that elude the rest of us.”

  I was silent. I couldn’t form a rational argument for switching poems anymore.

  He seemed to sense that I might be reconsidering. “One more thing,” he said. “Frost himself said, ‘Nothing can make injustice just but mercy.’”

  I smiled at the irony of the conversation the universe
was having with me. Mercy.

  “I’ve been learning in the last few weeks that I get to control how I deal with my memories,” I said. “Maybe the most in-control thing I can do is to share them.” But man, did that realization ever make me mad.

  “We want to hear your story, Meg. We all do.”

  After several false starts, I felt it, like a switch flipped and my heart began pouring out everything I understood about the poem. The words that had wanted expression for the last year found an opening and tumbled out faster than I could write.

  Finally, when the storm settled, I leaned back into my pillow. I fell asleep almost instantly and, at some point in the night, I felt my dad taking my book and laptop away. He turned out my light and settled me deeper into my quilt. “I’m glad you’re home,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  ***

  On Friday, the day of my presentation, Henry drove me to school. I’d been nervous all week and he wanted to help. Mr. Landmann raised an eyebrow at me when we walked in, and I smiled and nodded. He smiled back, put his hand over his heart, and started the presentations. He called every name before mine and I sat patiently while friends spoke.

  Finally, he called on me. “Meg,” he said softly. “Are you ready?”

  I stood slowly and walked to the front of the class with my paper in its gray plastic cover. I gathered myself behind the shaky old metal podium, and tried to breathe normally for a second while I pretended to find my place. Without any introduction, I read the poem. And it truly is a beautiful poem—really heart wrenching and sweet and emotional and devastating. I glanced around as I read and noticed that people were actually listening to it. The poem sounded like it could be any of our parents talking, just two everyday people having an everyday fight. But, the point was, this was no everyday fight. It was a fight I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. A fight that I’d witnessed in my very own home.

  “This,” I said, “the saddest of Frost’s poems, details the tragic burial of a home after the burial of a son.” A few throats were cleared after I said this. The moment was not lost on the kids who’d searched for information about my brother. I paused and glanced at Henry to steady myself. Then I dove right into the deep end.