“For crying out loud. Let the man help you,” Dad says.
“You could have at least shoveled.”
Dad shrugs. “Sorry. That was always your job.”
Then
Christmas two years ago, our sophomore year, Susannah was still living with the Morgans—even after Trudy Durban tried to file an injunction to force her to move back home. Anyone could have told Trudy she’d get exactly nowhere in the county courts, that all the judges had long since sworn their allegiance to the Morgans. The injunction was, of course, denied.
According to Dad, the Morgans’ attorney threatened to have her parental rights permanently revoked for neglect and abuse, and she backed off.
But not in silence.
The following week, the surveillance camera at the ShopRite parking lot caught Trudy Durban slashing Celia Morgan’s tires. She was arrested and slapped with a hefty fine for vandalism. It was in all the local papers. Susannah thought her mother’s public humiliation was hysterically funny and relished every minute of it. Secretly, I felt bad for Trudy Durban.
But I’d never tell that to Susannah.
That Christmas, the usual bash was cancelled due to renovation work on the Morgan house, so instead they’d hosted an intimate dinner party for fifty. Dad was invited along with a date, which threw him into a desperate frenzy because he hadn’t gone on a single date since my mother died. But he managed to round up a frowzy woman from the office and showed up, freshly shaven and dressed in one of his least worn-out suits.
I was also invited along with a date. And though my heart was barely in it, I’d finally succumbed to the dubious charms of Alicia Finley, a sprinter from the girls’ track team. She was as tall as me and about as curvy as a yardstick, but she was funny. And most of all, she liked to run. Fast. She also liked to do a few other things that made her fairly appealing off the track. I can’t say I was particularly attached to her, but at least she was good company. We were quickly named the Fastest Couple in Riverton.
For his part, Ryan seemed relieved when I started dating Alicia. Susannah, on the other hand, stopped talking to me. I couldn’t figure it out. I’d thought she’d wanted me to date.
At the party, Alicia on my arm, all I could think about was how I was going to get Susannah alone and beg her to talk to me again.
And then, a miracle happened. Alicia got a phone call. Her brother had broken his arm and had to be taken to the emergency room. She needed to get home and stay with her baby sister.
And I got the chance I was hoping for.
I’d been observing Susannah all night. Watching how she smiled a lot, but was unusually quiet, other than the times I saw her whispering and laughing with Patrick Morgan.
Ryan had gone off to play Wii in the game room with some of the guys. And Susannah was nowhere in sight.
I finally found her in the indoor pool atrium. The Morgans had two pools—one for winter, one for summer. I’d made a point of avoiding them both as best I could.
I watched from behind a potted tree, trembling as she peeled off her gown, my heart hammering in a twisted drum solo, caught between panic and arousal.
I felt slimy, a total creeper, but I couldn’t look away, half-relieved and half-disappointed when I saw she wore a scanty bikini, as if she’d planned to go for a midnight swim all along.
She slipped gracefully into the water, and I held my breath waiting for her to break the surface. Waiting. Waiting.
Something was wrong.
Without thinking, I was out of my shoes, stripped down to my Jockeys, and cannonballing into the water. I swam the length of the pool, my swimming skills not developed beyond those of a nine-year-old, to where I found her at the bottom of the deep end, hair streaming like sea grass. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up to the surface.
“You idiot!” she screamed, hitting me, mascara running from her eyes like black tears. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting you to talk to me,” I sputtered, panting. She broke free of my grasp and left me treading water.
That’s when I realized I was in trouble. Frozen, my heart thumped violently inside my temples. I couldn’t breathe or get my legs to kick. Red spots clustered at the edge of my vision.
Weakly, I raked the water with my clawed hands, fruitlessly trying to paddle to the edge of the pool that was a mile away. An ocean away.
“Jeremy!” I heard her scream. “What’s the matter with you?”
Hands were pulling at me. Pulling me down to the bottom.
I couldn’t answer.
I came to, a dead weight floating at the edge of the pool. Susannah clutched at me frantically, unable to get a firm grip on my slippery skin.
I just wanted to sink like a stone and come to rest gently at the bottom.
“Help!” I heard her scream. “Somebody, help!”
I must have blacked out again, because the next thing I knew I was flat on my back on the tiles, a crowd of concerned faces peering down at me.
I woke in a bed, a towel draped around my shoulders, with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of cookies beside me. Mrs. Morgan sat on the edge, her brow furrowed with concern. Patrick Morgan stood in the doorway to the room, glaring at me.
“Drink some tea,” she said, and I dutifully obeyed, slurping down the whole thing.
I was in one of the Morgans’ many guest rooms, I realized, nestled under a mountain of soft bedding.
What the hell had I done?
“I’m sorry I ruined your party,” I murmured, so groggy I could barely keep my eyes open.
“You didn’t ruin anything, Jeremy. Everyone had already left.”
“But you did give your father quite a scare,” Patrick cut in. “Poor man is so shook up, we sent him home. You’ll stay here tonight.”
Tired. I was so tired. My eyes were slipping closed. Had they drugged my tea?
“Sleep, honey,” Celia Morgan whispered, pulling the comforter up to my chin. “It’s okay. Just sleep.”
I let my eyes close, and snuggled, cozy and warm under the covers, my breathing slow and steady. Celia Morgan adjusted my covers and I thought I could just stay like that forever, soaking in her maternal touch. Feeling safe, protected and cared for, I listened to them talk about me in hushed voices when they thought I was deep asleep.
“I think he’s still affected, Patrick.”
“Nonsense. It’s been eight years. The kid’s fine. He just never learned how to swim.”
“Teresa was my best friend. I have to take care of him. For her.”
“Teresa Glass was nuts, Celia. A total basket case. He’s been better off without her.”
I tried to cling to awareness, but I was so tired.
I never did catch Celia’s response.
During the night, I slept dreamlessly, sounder than I had in years.
I woke to darkness, the brief sensation of warm lips against my cheek.
“Susannah?” I whispered, and fell promptly back to sleep.
I woke up to Ryan sitting at the end of my bed munching on a gingerbread cookie.
“Merry Christmas, Jeremy. Your father’s here to pick you up.”
“Shit!” I said, kicking aside the covers. “What time is it?”
“It’s one in the afternoon. You slept so soundly, no one had the heart to wake you. It’s not Christmas morning—it’s already Christmas day.” He plopped a small, elaborately wrapped package on the bed in front of me. “A little something from the Morgans. And Susannah.”
I tore off the wrapping and opened the small gift box. Inside was a chain with a tiny sterling-silver lifesaving ring at the end. There was also a gift card for a hundred dollars to Sports Authority.
“The charm is from Susannah.”
I turned the charm over. On it were inscribed the words TO MY LIFESAVER.
Ryan’s tone was wooden and flat. The skin under his vibrant eyes was sunken and dark.
“Dude, didn’t you sleep?” I asked. “Where is she?”
<
br /> “I slept an hour. Susannah packed up her stuff and moved back home.”
“What? Why?”
“Damned if I know. Damned if I understand why she does anything. Fuck her.” Ryan stood and started pacing the room.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with…”
Ryan whirled on me, his face crimson. “You? Not everything is about you, Jeremy. Susannah has issues. Big-time issues. Maybe if you fucking woke up, you’d realize that.”
I rubbed my temples, a headache pounding. I noticed a fresh scratch on his cheekbone, the skin around it red and puffy. “How did that happen?”
Ryan stared at me, not even bothering to obscure the sorrow tugging at his features with a glowing smile. “I walked into the Christmas tree.”
“Give me a break. Dude, did you guys have a fight?”
Ryan looked away, his voice cracking. “No. After we fished your sorry ass out of the pool, she went to her room and started packing. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. I didn’t get the chance. I was too busy drowning.”
Now
Cars are parked down the length of Emerson Road. Hedges strung with tiny white lights line the long driveway leading to the Morgans’ palatial home.
We pull into the garage and, once again I assert my right to struggle up the two flights of stairs to the main floor without assistance. Dad shakes his head. “Sorry, Jeremy. On our own premises, it’s one thing. But it’s too much liability for the Morgans to risk.”
The Hulk nods grimly and I realize that this mammoth is going to be stuck to me all night like a wad of chewing gum. Heaven forbid I should fall—there might be litigation.
Those Morgans think of everything.
Before I can protest, The Hulk scoops me up over his shoulder and grabs my crutches with the other hand. Dad carries the wheelchair while I’m carted up the stairs like a sack of cattle feed.
Once on level ground, I refuse the wheelchair, opting for the crutches, and survey the room. The opulent space is jammed wall-to-wall with people. Constellations of tiny lights twinkle on the ceiling. A massive Christmas tree towers at the far side of the room.
Every year, the Morgans’ tree is themed to reflect the honoree. This year, I fully expect it to be decked out with miniature crutches, wheelchairs, and artificial legs.
Subtlety is not a Morgan strong suit.
The first person to ambush me is Ryan’s mother, Celia. Dressed in a red sequined jacket and matching skirt, her blonde bob as solid as a rock formation, Celia Morgan wrings her manicured hands. It’s the first time she’s seen me minus my leg, so I know what’s coming.
I’ve always liked Mrs. Morgan. Which is why she may be the last person I want to see right now. I smile sheepishly. “Hi, Mrs. Morgan.”
Her gaze drops to my bottom half and it looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “Oh, Jeremy. Poor sweet, sweet Jeremy.” She wraps her thin arms around me carefully like I might break and pats my back. “You brave, brave boy. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Morgan. Really. And I’m very happy to be here,” I lie. “Oh, and thanks for the cookies.”
Mrs. Morgan laughs and wipes her eye with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of smeared mascara. “I’m so sorry, honey. It’s just—I’ve known you all your life. I changed your diapers!”
She tries to smile through her tears, and I want to bolt out the front door, down the steps, and into the street. But, of course, that’s not happening, so instead I slam a smile onto my face and say, “It’s okay, Mrs. Morgan. I’m getting used to it.”
From the corner of my eye, I spot my dad talking with a couple. They listen intently. Every now and then, I catch them glancing at me and nodding sympathetically. I think about the canteen in my pocket and look for a place where I can sneak a drink.
Mrs. Morgan draws in a breath, pats her hair, and smiles warmly. “It’s Christmas, Jeremy, and you’re here to have fun with all your friends. People are really happy to see you, sweetheart. Go ahead and mingle.”
I want to point out that Susannah is not here, and that no one seems to miss her, least of all the Morgans given how much time she’d spent in their house. But I don’t.
Smiling people mill around me. They remark how brave I am, but no one wants to linger. My palms are sweaty on the handgrips of my crutches. I shift forward to adjust my weight. I’m an idiot for refusing the wheelchair. My leg and arms are already tired.
I contemplate crawling under a table to flee the piercing scrutiny of their gazes and decide the bathroom is a good haven. Pivoting, I change directions too quickly, then slip and tumble headlong into Marisa, scattering the tray of hors d’oeuvres she carries across the floor.
The Hulk is on the scene within seconds to plop me into the wheelchair and check that I haven’t broken anything litigation-worthy. Red-faced, Marisa kneels to clean up the mess.
“Crap,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just keep messing things up for you.” I start to lean over in the wheelchair to help, but Hulk sits me up straight.
“It’s okay, Jeremy,” she says. Smiling, she looks up, a really adorable dimple biting into one cheek. She’s wearing a white tailored shirt tucked into black pants. Her dark waves are pulled back in a severe ponytail. “You’re looking really great. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing much. Just trying to find the coordinates so I can teleport home.”
I want to ask her if she knows anything about the disappearance and reappearance of Susannah’s stuff from my room. If someone put her up to taking it. But I’ve been so rude to this girl that I don’t want her to hate or fear me any more than she probably already does. Or to think I’m totally bonkers.
Marisa smirks. “What—aren’t you having fun? Make sure you eat before you go. The food’s great. But I should get back to work before Mrs. Morgan sees me being idle.”
“Hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”
“Forget it.”
Marisa stands, the tray of ruined appetizers balanced on her palm. “Let me get you something to eat after I get rid of this junk. Head over to the table and wait for me there.”
The absence of Susannah hangs between us like fog, but I’m not sure what I want from Marisa. Help? Comfort?
Unsaid words gather in my throat. What I really need right now is a drink to wash them down. The canteen in my pocket is reassuring pressed against my chest. She turns to leave.
“One more thing,” I say.
Marisa stops and turns around to face me again, her eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
“Why am I the only person who cares that Susannah isn’t here?”
Marisa’s eyes flash with dark heat. “I miss her, too, Jeremy. But there’s not much left to do at this point, except move on.”
“What if I can’t?”
She leans over and touches my arm. “You have no choice.”
She turns to walk away again. I debate admitting my otherworldly encounters, but instead latch onto her wrist. “Do you know a guy named Derek Spake?”
A delicate crease forms between her brows. “No. Why? I really need to take care of this mess.”
Marisa is about to flit away when Mrs. Morgan intercepts us. She’s holding a plate piled high with food. She speaks into Marisa’s ear, which sends her scurrying off even faster toward the kitchen.
“Let’s get this to the table for you, honey,” Mrs. Morgan says, brightly.
Instead of following after Mrs. Morgan, I pause and watch Marisa’s ponytail bounce from side to side as she hustles to the kitchen and wonder why it is I always manage to chase this girl away. I vow to resume AP Calc lessons in earnest as soon as possible.
Mrs. Morgan deposits me at a table and leaves. My insides tense because parting the crowds like Moses with the Red Sea is Patrick Morgan, heading straight toward me.
“Jeremy,” he says, patting me hard on the back. Apparently the gesture is one of those manly things they teach you at Patriarch School. “You’re looking well. I trust yo
u’re enjoying the fête?”
I smile, thinking that fête is probably another word they teach at that school. “Yes. This is great.” His look tells me he expects more. “Quite—” I search my mental thesaurus for the right word. Grandiose? Overblown? “—impressive,” I say.
Maybe my emphasis is wrong, or maybe it’s the half-smirk I haven’t bothered to wipe off my face, because my clumsy erudition seems to offend him. Pat Morgan’s brilliant smile freezes. His eyes glaze with heat. He leans in close enough for me to smell his Ralph Lauren aftershave. Voice gruff, he whispers in my ear. Instead of the charm school valedictorian, he now sounds like one of the husbands from Mob Wives. The hand that rests lightly on my shoulder squeezes hard. “Don’t get all wise-guy on me, Jeremy Glass. I’m onto your shit. You think I don’t know about you?”
He pulls away, the bright smile gleaming, and waves to some passing guests. Then he turns back to me. The smile still lingers, but the blue eyes have gone ice-cold. “Do you really think this miserable party was my idea?” he hisses. “You think I care if you get a fake leg or if you have to hop around like a kangaroo for the rest of your life? You’re just a goddamned stupid kid who ran into the street drunk off your ass and got hit by a car. This party was Ryan and Celia’s doing. And, lucky for you, they don’t really know that you’re such a mess. That you’re your mother’s son, after all. Lucky for you they don’t know about all the dirt I’ve swept under the rug as a favor to your father and my wife.”
He stands and chuckles as if we’d just exchanged pleasantries, pats me on the back, then strides away, the crowd swallowing him whole.
I’m heating up like an ant placed under a magnifying glass in the sun. I need to get out of this hellhole. I need a drink. Now.
What was that all about?
Drinks are flowing. I spy my dad again, laughing just a little too hard at something Celia has said. She reaches to push a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead with a manicured hand. I’m wondering if it’s possible that I’ve managed to unhinge them both.
Breaking Glass Page 12