Marisa, I repeat. The sound of her name chimes on my tongue. I remember the photo of Ryan and Spake I tucked away in my coat pocket and hope it hasn’t gone the way of most everything else I have of Susannah’s. I can’t help but wonder if Dad has gathered it all up to show Dr. Kopeck what a nut I am, or even worse, handed it over to Patrick Morgan. But I don’t want to throw any fuel on the fire, so I keep my mouth shut.
As promised, Marisa pulls up in the van and bustles about, all quicksilver efficiency. I try to meet her gaze, but she keeps hers averted, busy with the project of getting me situated. Chaz helps me to the minivan and loads the wheelchair in the back. No crutches allowed for six more days. It’s the chair for me.
God, I’m tired of being hauled around like cargo. I feel like a piece of bruised fruit. The stump sends shooting pains to my non-existent right foot, as if it wants to make sure I don’t forget how it misses the rest of itself.
Marisa’s hair is pulled back again in a neat ponytail. I study her profile as she drives, her eyes trained on the road. I note the upturn of her small nose, the dark lush lashes. She won’t look at me. I can’t blame her. I look like Frankenstein’s monster with my stitched-up face.
“You know you’re taking me to a shrink, right?” I ask, conversationally.
Voice terse, her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Under the circumstances, I think that’s about right.”
“So you think I’m cracked, too?”
“I wouldn’t say cracked,” she snaps, but her voice gradually softens. “Troubled. Who wouldn’t be with what you’ve been going through?”
I shrug and gaze out the window at the passing landscape, the snowbound hills punctured by skeletal trees. I imagine Susannah’s bones buried somewhere in the frozen muck. If Marisa knew what had transpired in my bedroom last night she’d sign the papers for my committal. I consider asking her about Susannah’s things and if she knows where everything but the Death Book has gone. Instead, I blurt. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about Derek Spake and Susannah?”
Marisa jams on the brakes at a stop sign, jerking me against the shoulder strap. She turns to me, her eyes sparking. “I have no idea who the guy is. Why do you keep harping on that? You need to cool it, Jeremy! You’ve turned the whole town upside-down with what you did Christmas Eve.”
“You were the one who brought me the damned Death Book in the first place. Don’t you want to know what really happened to Susannah?”
Marisa’s soft petal lips slip open. I catch a sliver of dainty white teeth. “I’m sorry I did. I never imagined—you just have to accept the fact that we may never know what happened to her. It’s sad and it’s tragic, but—but—”
“But what are you so damn scared of, Marisa?”
She pulls the car to the shoulder of the road and brings it to a halt, then turns to me, her small features chiseled to a sharp point. Slowly, she says, as if the only thing between me and a volcanic eruption is her clenched jaws, “I’m not scared for myself, Jeremy. I’m scared for you.”
“Why?”
She exhales and looks to the roof of the car, clearly exasperated with me. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re totally out of control, like a stampeding one-legged bull, knocking over everything in its path, stepping on toes.”
Her words scald me. “I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I just want to know what happened to her.”
She stares bleakly at the icy road beyond the windshield. “As you might have guessed, Mrs. Durban fired me and now… I’m working for the Morgans and they—by acting out like you’ve been, they feel you’ve betrayed them.”
“Oh. So that’s it.” I feel my cheeks go red. “You just need the work. Of course you can be counted on to stay quiet if you happen to know shit you shouldn’t.”
Marisa pounds the steering wheel in frustration. “I don’t know anything! I’m just trying to help you, you fucking goddamned idiot!”
I slump lower in the seat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve been the ultimate asswipe lately.”
Her lips are trembling. I’ve upset her again. Suddenly, I can’t help myself. I reach to shift the damp hairs that have broken loose from her ponytail out of her eyes, but she swipes my hand away. “Cut that out.”
“Sorry. I’m crazy, remember?”
She glares at me, and I can’t help but appreciate how tiny but fierce she is. “Keep on playing your little games and see where it gets you, Jeremy. I overheard Mr. Morgan tell Ryan that your behavior at the party was the last straw. That he wanted to pull the plug on the fundraiser for your leg, but Ryan talked him out of it.”
“Oh,” I say, drumming the dashboard. “did Ryan really stand up for me? How touching. More likely Mr. Morgan realized what a public relations fiasco it would be to pull the rug out from under a one-legged kid.”
“Jeremy,” she says softly and evenly. “Everyone knows how much you’re hurting. It’s just that you really don’t want to piss off Patrick Morgan any more than you already have. He—he has a terrible temper.”
I study her closely. “He didn’t threaten to hurt you, did he?”
She looks at me oddly. “Of course not. I only meant that you should be focusing on putting your own life back together.”
I stare down at my folded-up pant leg. The sad truth is that she may be right—that I’d rather deal with a missing girl than the missing parts of my body. And my life.
Marisa’s pity stings worse than her anger. I want to open the car door and slither home down the icy road, like the worm that I am. I’m so tired of being freight that has to be hauled from point A to point B. And I would do it, except there is still the matter of Derek Spake.
I pull out the photograph of Ryan and Spake I’ve been carrying around with me and look at it again. “This was in my gym bag. You didn’t put it there, by any chance?”
“What? I didn’t stick anything in your gym bag. Why would I do that?”
I hand her the photo. “Know the guys in the orange circles?”
She takes the photo from my hand and studies it. Her brow furrows and she taps on her teeth with a fingernail. “Well, that’s Ryan, obviously. And the other guy—hmm…” She peers more closely at the photo and her mouth falls open. “Wait a minute. I think I have seen this guy somewhere. Let me think.”
“At a track meet?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t go to those.”
I wait while she scans her memories, then looks at the photo again. “It’s him. The guy from that day.” Then she looks at her watch. “Shit. We’re going to be late for your appointment. Not good.”
Marisa pulls back onto the road. More landscape slips by before she speaks again. “I don’t know if I should tell you this. If I’m just throwing gasoline on a raging fire.”
“What do you mean?”
She smiles sadly. “This could all be nothing. A dead end. And if by fueling your,” she pauses and air-quotes the words, “investigation I’m just making things worse.”
“You’re afraid you’re aiding and abetting a madman?”
“I don’t think you’re a madman, Jeremy. Just someone who’s,” she turns to me and smiles slightly, “a bit lost.”
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” I say gruffly. “Just spit it out.”
She shakes her head and sighs. “Fine. Do with it what you want. Just promise you’ll keep your head, okay?”
“Okay. I promise.”
“Well,” she starts. “I was working one Saturday afternoon at the Durbans’.” She continues, her soft accent and the van’s rickety motion soothing my jangled nerves somehow, and I realize that I like hearing her speak. That I like watching her as well—the way her lips shape her words, the way her hair bobs when she wants to emphasize a particular point.
“Papa dropped me off, so there was no car in the driveway. Mrs. Durban had me going through boxes of papers in the basement she wanted to dispose of. What a mess. That woman hasn’t t
hrown away anything for the past ten years. And she has crude handmade crosses everywhere. I’m Catholic, but to tell you the truth it makes me nervous.”
Marisa stops to wet her lips. Her voice quavers as she continues. “At about four-thirty, a car screeched into the driveway. There’s a pretty good view from the basement window so I stood on a chair and peered out. I didn’t recognize the car, but it barely stopped long enough for Susannah to stumble out. This guy got out of the car and followed her, but she shoved him. Somehow she managed to get into the house and slam the door. He kept banging on it and calling her name.”
“How long ago was this?”
“This past October, I think. Anyway, the guy storms back to his car and peels off. Susannah’s sobbing hysterically. It doesn’t stop. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore, so I go upstairs and find her at the kitchen table. I asked her what happened. She looks up and tells me ‘nothing.’ Nothing happened. Then she added that if anything did happen, ‘what did it matter, since the Morgans control everything?’”
“That’s weird. Do you—do you think maybe he—”
“Raped her? I wondered. It could have been anything. But, I’ll tell you one thing—I’ve never seen her so upset. And this was that guy.”
I stare at my knuckles and wonder if I’m missing something. “Did you ask her what Derek Spake had to do with the Morgans?”
Marisa nods and answers softly. “All she said was, ‘One day, I’ll tell you everything, Marisa. But not today.’”
“Do you think Ryan knew about this? Maybe it had something to do with that drug bust that sort of went away.” I swallow and peer at the photo with her. This leads me to think about my own blood alcohol report, which has also magically vanished. It seems that anything remotely inconvenient for the House of Morgan simply disappears.
I’m starting to wonder if Susannah fits in that category as well.
Marisa shakes her head, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. We pull into the parking lot of the professional building and she slides the van into a spot, then turns to me. “I don’t know, Jeremy,” she says softly. “But I’ll tell you one thing. In this town, it’s safer to let the dead rest. Or you could end up joining them.”
She gets out of the car and tugs the wheelchair out from the back, rolls it over to the passenger side, then guides me down from the van’s high seat. I feel the strength of her tiny body as she helps me ease into the chair.
Shame washes over me. I want her to touch me. But I should be the one sweeping her into my arms. Sorrowfully, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do that to a girl.
Self-pity is crowded out by a cresting wave of anger. I’m disabled, but I’m still alive. A perk Susannah lacks.
No, I am not going to walk off quietly into the sunset on the leg the Morgans bought and paid for. Not while this entire town wants its secrets to stay buried along with its dead.
I’m one-legged Jeremy Glass and I’m an alcoholic. And I’m going to dig until I unearth every last shred of the truth.
Silently, she pushes me up the ramp to the entrance.
“Marisa, will you take me to find Derek Spake after this session?”
She holds the glass door to the building open for me to roll in. Once inside, the only sound is the swish of my wheels on carpet and the soft tread of her sneakers as she walks beside me. I stop and pivot toward her. “Marisa. Will you?”
She closes her eyes and raises her hand to her mouth. “I’m going to regret this. But I’ll take you. For Susannah.”
Dr. Kopeck flashes a brittle smile when she sees me. It’s the kind of smile the victor smiles at the vanquished, a smile that Roman generals probably wore when they surveyed their new conquests. She’s out of her white coat, dressed in a black turtleneck and an alarmingly short red skirt, her dark red hair pulled back in a severe bun. She’s a symphony of mixed messages, and I can’t help but think that she’s got a sharp blade ready to slice through my rib cage so she can rip out my still-beating heart.
She settles into a chair and gestures for me to sit on the couch. I refuse and remain in the wheelchair, even though its unforgiving vinyl digs into my back and chafes my stump. Not a minute into our session and she plunges mercilessly into the events surrounding my mother’s death, my recurrent nightmares and the dark waters that choke me in my sleep. I’m wondering how she knows all this and if I’d told her myself in the hospital as I flailed around in my detox delirium.
I’m like a guppy thrown in the tank with a piranha. There’s no way I’m getting out of this with the flesh still on my bones. She is going to eat me alive.
Looking up from her yellow legal pad, Dr. Kopeck regards me coolly. “So, it seems, Jeremy, what we have here is an early childhood trauma from which you’ve never fully recovered. I’d like you to tell me about that day, moment by moment. Everything you can recall.”
Dr. Kopeck manages to strip away my onionskin, layer by layer, to reveal the shriveled little kernel of misery at its center. I recount the day my mother died, from the watermelon ice fight I had with Michael Fishkin to the game of tag where we all jumped on top of Dave the counselor. I describe the sharp pain in my stomach when I saw my mother’s eyes and the raw terror as we flew over the embankment into the water.
Had my mother screamed? she asks.
I grip my temples. “I don’t know. Can we stop now?”
At this point I’m having a panic attack that has me hyperventilating so violently I’m sure I’m going to asphyxiate right here in her office.
She hands me a glass of water. “Very good,” she says, a slight smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Can you tell me about the recurrent dreams you have?”
I gulp down the water, still gasping for breath. “Please. I can’t.”
“You wouldn’t want me to report to your father that you’ve been uncooperative, would you, Jeremy?”
Still struggling to breathe, I realize that I hate this woman and wonder where the interrogator’s lamp is. Between breaths, I wonder if she really wants to help me.
Or break me.
“Jeremy,” she says. “You know I have your best interest at heart. Paranoia is a common symptom of people suffering delusional disorders. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
She smiles, and holds the door open for me as I wheel myself out.
In her own way, Dr. Kopeck is more of a terrorist than Chaz. And this is only the first session.
Back in the van, I’m shaken and stirred, jittery as the time when I’d made the mistake of riding the Jaws of Death at Six Flags and seen my life flash before me.
God, I’d kill for a drink. And my stump is throbbing like a second heart.
“You okay?”
I can’t take my eyes off the dashboard. For some reason, the patterns and lines in the faux leather fascinate me. “It depends how you define okay.”
“So, it was that bad.”
I shiver and nod. I’m going to have to beg Dad not to send me back. Play the suicide card. I can’t imagine how this torment is going to cure me of my drinking problem. But I know what he’ll say. Our hands are tied by Patrick Morgan.
“Sometimes when a bone is set wrong,” Marisa says, her gentle accent like lapping waves, “it needs to be re-broken so that it can mend straight. And that’s gotta hurt.”
“So, now you’re a doctor?” I mutter. I know I’m being unfair, but I’m a raw, bleeding piece of meat. The only way to feel better is to inflict pain myself.
But Marisa doesn’t back down. “I’m interested in medicine.”
“How nice for you. Why?”
Marisa’s cheeks color. She looks away. “Sick relatives with no insurance. Maybe if I became a doctor, I could help.”
“Oh.”
“You’re hurting, Jeremy. But sometimes you have to let a wound bleed out.”
I wrench my gaze from the dashboard. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Marisa tilts her head and shrugs. A smile creeps across her face, setting fire to her
coal-dark eyes. “You’re my meal ticket?”
I chuckle mirthlessly. “Touché. Nicely done.”
“I like you, Jeremy,” she blurts. “Even though you’re working overtime to make sure I don’t.”
I return to the intricacies of the dashboard. The indents in the plastic remind me of the gullies that form in mud after a hard rain. My throat catches. Mud conjures the image of Susannah’s bloated body lying in a gully, coated in it. Forgotten. Abandoned. I squeeze my eyes closed tight so I don’t sob out loud.
“I should take you home,” Marisa says, touching my shoulder.
“No. We need to see Derek Spake. You promised.” I know I sound petulant, but I don’t care.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Look at you.”
My eyes still closed, I pull my arms in tight to stop my shaking. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not. It’s what has to be done.”
C H A P T E R
e i g h t e e n
Now (December 26th)
It’s a five-minute drive to Hurley from Riverton and I’m lost in a current of thought as I watch the dirty snow piles whizz past. I imagine the steady thud of my feet on pavement, the calming rhythm that kept at bay the waters that threatened to drown me.
Now there are so many cracks for the waters to seep in and suddenly I see myself, balanced on one leg like a stork, peering down into the depths of the Gorge. Wondering if I should jump. Join Susannah and my mother after all.
Maybe it’s the only way to cut this noose from around my throat. Stop this physical and mental agony.
Not yet. If I don’t finish what I’ve started, no one will ever know what happened to Susannah. The guilty will walk away, scot-free.
Before I go, I decide, I’m taking them with me.
“What’s on your mind, Silent Sam?” Marisa says cheerily, back to playing nursemaid.
“Things you wouldn’t want to know about.” I clam up and she goes silent, too. I see her mind working, trying to figure out how to navigate the winding roads of my wild mood swings. She’s getting paid to do this after all, to tolerate me, and Marisa Santiago, I have learned, has one killer work ethic.
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