But will I feel the pavement beneath my sneaker? Nope.
He’s right. My leg is gone forever, just like my mother. And Susannah. My mind drifts toward the times when she has felt so close and real. So warm. And I wonder about myself. If maybe my brain just can’t accept losing one more thing.
The room goes silent, its fluorescent lights eclipsed by darkness shot through with sparks of light. A hand runs through my hair, the touch maddeningly tender. Shivering, I blink rapidly and the darkness dissolves like ink in water.
Hoffman is staring at me. “It was like I lost you there for a moment, Glass. Where’d you go?”
His voice is tinny in my ear. The bright room is stained with sepia at its edges. “Sorry. Just daydreaming.”
Hoffmann nods and his big mustache bobs with him. “Can’t do that when you’re out strolling with your new C-Leg. Learning to walk again is tough work, Jeremy. It requires complete concentration.”
Hoffman launches into a detailed explanation of the hydraulic knee joint and spring-loaded foot in the revolutionary titanium C-Leg model. He’s already in negotiation with my dad’s insurance provider over upping the funding to cover one. A boy of my level of activity, he says, can have nothing less. With the money collected by Ryan, I can also buy the high-performance running blade and get back to serious running.
“Did anyone tell you about Team Hoffmann, Jeremy?”
“No. What’s that?” I offer a weak smile to feign interest, but in my mind I’m envisioning some kind of parade of freaks.
“It’s our Paralympic team. We’ve got a kick-ass trainer. Last Paras we took home three golds.”
I imagine what I know of the Paralympics. Down’s syndrome kids laughing with raised arms as they shuffle across the finish line.
“Sounds inspiring.”
“Oh, it’s more than that. It’s a lifeline.” Hoffmann smiles, his twinkling eyes backlit by the fervent gleam of a zealot. And, despite my wish to wall myself off in my airtight fortress of gloom, I have to admit I may like this crazy spare-parts-dealing dude.
Hoffman takes a cast of my stump and tells me I’ll have my walking leg in a little over a week, but that it might take a few attempts to get the fit right. I should expect it to take many more weeks to learn how to walk again—it’s not like I’m going to be running right out of the gate. The fancy blade attachment will be fit after I’ve adjusted to walking.
And suddenly, like sunlight streaming into a cave, the thought of throwing away the crutches and the wheelchair forever sounds a little bit like heaven to me.
After my session with Hoffmann, Marisa suggests getting coffee at Awesome Cow. I beg off, but she persists and drags me inside.
“You can’t lock yourself in a cocoon forever. You have to face the world.”
“I’m tired of the stares. I’d rather wait until I get the leg.”
“Jeremy,” she says. “If you don’t do it now, you’ll just keep finding excuses. You have to learn to power through this stuff. Focus on what you want, not on what other people think about you.”
“Is that how you do it?”
Marisa fixes me with a steady stare. “What do you mean?”
I look down at my coffee mug and shift it back and forth. There’s no quick way out of the corner I’ve painted myself into. “You know. Assumptions based on the, uh, snap judgments people make.”
Marisa’s soft voice has developed an edge. “You mean about my culture? My accent?”
I clear my throat and look directly at her. I’m certain she can see the evidence of my own rush to judgment in my eyes. “I—well yeah.”
Marisa holds me in her gaze and lays her hand over mine. “That’s exactly how I do it, Jeremy.”
I’m relieved that the Cow is virtually empty at this hour. The breakfast crowd is gone and the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived. I feel safe, nestled in the dimly lit interior. Marisa folds up the wheelchair and puts it out by the back exit. Sitting deep in the round corner booth where no one can see I’m missing a piece of me, I feel relaxed, almost normal. Maybe it’s just sitting next to Marisa that makes me feel better.
I glimpse a familiar Oldsmobile sedan pull into the parking lot. It’s Trudy Durban. I pat my pocket. My mother’s half-heart locket has joined the photo of Derek Spake there. I’m going to have to speak to Trudy Durban about it sooner or later. Suddenly, the need to confront her sits on my tongue like a pill that won’t dissolve.
“Marisa? I’m kind of tired. Want to get going?” I ask innocently.
Ever diligent, Marisa helps me into the chair and wheels me out to the van just as Trudy Durban walks out of the dry cleaners, a pile of plastic-wrapped clothing draped over her arm. Her bush of wiry hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and an enormous pair of sunglasses perch on her hawk nose, giving her the look of an oversized bug.
Dragging myself forward with my single leg and pumping at the wheels with my hands, I pull away from Marisa, propelling myself forward. “Mrs. Durban!”
“Oh crap! No, Jeremy!” Marisa hisses from behind me.
Trudy Durban whirls around, not expecting a shout-out from so low to the ground. As always, she’s dressed monochromatically in a plum pantsuit, a tangle of necklaces hanging from her neck. But her face is more worn and haggard than ever, like a piece of driftwood that’s been left out to dry and bleach in the sun.
Her gaze falls first on Marisa. Her mouth sets into a scowl as she strides toward us. I feel the tug of Marisa trying to yank me backward, and I dig my heel into the sidewalk to act as a brake.
“Jeez, Jeremy. Let go!” Marisa says, tugging harder on the wheelchair. But it’s not budging.
“How nice to see you both,” Trudy says, coldly. It’s impossible to see her eyes behind the dark glasses, but her face is twitchy, the skin saggy and almost a grayish white. “Especially you, Marisa.” Her words are pointed, each one a dart tipped with acid. “How are you feeling, Jeremy?
“Um, hello, Mrs. Durban,” Marisa says softly. “We should get going, Jeremy.”
“Such a hardworking young lady. The problem is, you see, she steals from her employers.”
Marisa draws in a breath and tugs harder at my chair.
“If you mean that package, Mrs. Durban,” I say, “That was addressed to me.”
“So it was,” she says in a low voice. “I suppose I can’t expect much help from this town. You’re all against me.”
Marisa huffs and stomps around the wheelchair, hands on hips. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Durban, but Jeremy lost a leg clear up to the hip because he went out on a terrible night to help your daughter. Have you ever thanked him?”
I find I’m starting to regret this. “No one has to fucking thank me,” I say softly. “I’m not a hero.”
“I lost a daughter.” Mrs. Durban blurts, her lips trembling. She turns her bug eyes on me. “You were there. You could have stopped it. You could have saved her from that bastard. She’s with the devil now because of you!”
I gape at her, open-mouthed. Trudy Durban may be losing her tenuous grip on sanity, but her words sting like slaps. I might have saved Susannah, if I hadn’t tripped. I wouldn’t have tripped if I hadn’t downed a half pint of vodka. And I might have saved Ryan from himself.
His haunted expression flashes in my mind. Yes. There was guilt written there, in the tracery of blue lines around his eyes, but there was something else. Something I can’t define. Regret? Desperation?
“I’m doing my best to figure out what happened to Susannah, Mrs. Durban,” I say, my voice cracking. Marisa was right to back away. I’m not strong enough for this verbal assault. Tears well in my eyes, hot and bitter.
It’s my fault she’s dead. I may not have done the crime, but I did nothing to prevent it.
“Susannah’s disappearance is a police matter, Mrs. Durban,” Marisa says, defiantly. “Jeremy has enough to deal with.”
Mrs. Durban leans over me, her face close enough so that I can smell her breath, cloves and cigarettes. “You should
know better than anyone, Jeremy,” she says, “that the police in this town are under Patrick Morgan’s thumb.”
I think of my mother’s necklace in my pocket and the connection between her and Trudy Durban it implies. I’m about to ask her about it when black rims the edges of my vision and moves inward. Harsh silence fills my ears, swallowing all sound. Bright pricks of light swim and dance around me. Someone squeezes my hand. So warm.
I hear snapping fingers. It takes a second before I can see them, too, right in front of my face.
“What’s wrong with him?” I hear Mrs. Durban demand shrilly.
“Jeremy! For a minute there, you were totally out of it.” Marisa sounds panicked.
It happened again. Like in the prosthetist’s office. And in my room. I’d gone away.
“Nothing. I was just thinking of something I forgot.”
Mrs. Durban is staring at me with an expression of sheer horror. “Demonic influence. I can feel it.”
“Do you remember my mother’s locket? The half-heart?”
A deep crease forms between her thin brows above the insect sunglasses. Her lips press together and she speaks as if in a trance. “What locket? Your mother never wore much jewelry.”
I fish out the locket and let it dangle from its chain. Trudy Durban’s face turns brick-red. She speaks in a low, menacing whisper. “Where did you find that? Nobody knew about that locket.”
“What about this, Mrs. Durban? What does it mean?”
Mrs. Durban’s eyes go wide, the color draining from her face. “Never mind that. It’s all in the past. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that my daughter was murdered. And her mortal soul is in the clutches of a demonic power. Do I have evidence? No.” She removes her glasses, the burning gray eyes burrowing into mine. “The cops in Riverton don’t investigate crimes that involve Patrick Morgan.”
I glare at her and snap, losing patience. I’m not backing down this time. “Please tell me, Mrs. Durban, what on earth Susannah’s disappearance has to do with Patrick Morgan. You want to help me find her, don’t you?”
But Mrs. Durban doesn’t answer. Instead, she fingers her crosses, her gaze distant again, then turns and walks away.
“Don’t you, Mrs. Durban?” I call out, and try to follow, but Marisa has a firm grip on the wheelchair. I’m stuck.
I consider Susannah’s drawing with the tiny tree on a massive pile of roots, skeletons, and body parts, with the little leaf that says truth, and realize it’s a portrait of the town. Gnarled roots that twist deep into the rock, binding their occupants to each other and to the past. Roots that, when ripped out, cling to things you wish you never knew.
“God,” I murmur, finally. “I think Trudy Durban really has finally lost it.”
“See? Compared to her, you’re a saint,” Marisa says, still tugging on the wheelchair. I lift my foot and we hurtle backward.
“Jeremy! Really!” She shoves me lightly on the shoulder. “Cut that the hell out.”
“But it’s just for the money, right?” I say, swiveling around. “It has nothing to do with my wit and dashing smile.”
Marisa’s cheeks flush. She tosses her river of black hair behind her shoulders and I shiver a little. “Nothing at all. You’re a huge pain in the ass. And if you ever want to take me to a movie, that will cost you a king’s ransom.”
“Is that an offer?”
Marisa’s eyes shimmer. “It was a joke. But I’d do it, Jeremy. I’d go to a movie with you. It would be good for you to get out more.”
“So would you be on the payroll or would it be…”
She tilts her head and smiles. “…two friends enjoying a night out.”
“Wait,” I said. “You just said we’re friends.”
She nods. “Yeah. Crazy me. I did.”
I smile back at her, but dark presses at the edge of my vision, the light sliding away. It’s as if I’m being drawn into a cosmic meat grinder. I cling furiously to the arms of the wheelchair. Solid reality. I’m breathing hard, sweat popping out on my forehead. The dark skitters away, leaving me weak. I slump in the chair.
Marisa has her cell phone out.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling your father. Did you hear me calling your name? Two times in one hour, you snapped totally out of it.”
“It was a dizzy spell. The room started spinning.”
She slants her head and eyes me skeptically. “You were staring straight ahead like a statue. I waved my hand in front of your eyes and you didn’t even blink. Your head injury may be worse than they thought.”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Santiago.”
But my head is pounding and I can’t help but wonder—is this a medical problem, a mental problem, or a metaphysical one?
And if you summon someone from beyond the grave, can you send them back?
C H A P T E R
t w e n t y - t w o
Then
The morning after the fire, to celebrate Ryan and Susannah’s reconciliation, we were all treated to a feast of a breakfast in the dining room. Celia Morgan had gone all out, heaping our formal place settings with pancakes, sausages, and hash browns. I wolfed it all down. I don’t remember a meal ever tasting better.
Susannah ate her sausage in small nibbles, her coppery cheeks lit by a rosy glow. The name of Reingold Sheehan never came up again. I vowed never to set foot in the Riverton Arms.
We were a threesome again. It was the best that I could hope for, and it was time I finally accepted my position—the base of the triangle. I would never rock our shaky boat. I’d set a course on calm waters as the first mate, the deckhand.
“Let’s make a pact,” Susannah said, eyes glittering. She raised her glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “To never hurt each other again.”
“Hear, hear.” Ryan raised his glass.
I was tempted to throw my juice in his face and ask him if he really could keep that promise. Instead, I raised my glass, too. “To triangles, the strongest form in geometry.”
We gulped down our juice with Celia Morgan looking on, smiling. “The Three Musketeers,” she said, “Together again. As it should be.”
“Forever and for always,” Susannah said.
After we’d helped Celia clear the table, Susannah pulled the two of us into a huddle with her. “After the reservoir thaws, I have a surprise for you guys.”
“What?” asked Ryan, as excited as a child. “An adventure?”
“I’m not telling.” Susannah put her finger to her lips. “It’s top secret.”
I smiled vaguely, trying to think of something clever to say, but Celia Morgan cut in, her brow furrowed. “Never go skating on the reservoir. You can’t tell where the ice is thin.”
“Mom,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes. “No one said anything about skating or doing anything on the frozen reservoir. Relax. Susannah’s talking about—”
“Taking out a rowboat, Mrs. Morgan. Don’t you guys have one?”
“Yes,” said Celia, her face still tense. “In fact, we do. Patrick uses it for fishing sometimes. But you have to wait until it’s completely thawed because…”
“Because why, Mom?” Ryan asked, draping an arm around her shoulder. At nearly sixteen, he already towered over her.
“Just, well. Let’s say people weren’t always so careful. Things happened.”
“Like what?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“Nothing. I have to get ready for a luncheon now, kids. I hope you enjoyed your reunion breakfast!” Celia added brightly and walked out of the kitchen.
“Wonder what that was about?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Susannah gazed up into Ryan’s blue eyes and I resumed my position as third wheel. “Everyone who grew up here is crazy anyway.”
“Maybe it’s in the water.” Ryan said.
“Once we’re done with high school, we should all leave, so we don’t go crazy, too,” Susannah glanced at me. “We should put it in writing. Make a pact. A Three Pirates Manif
esto.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I wondered if, by then, I’d have mastered the art of making myself go numb. Ryan leaned over and kissed Susannah on the mouth as the full weight of what I’d signed on for truly hit home.
Many nights of hard drinking lay ahead.
Now (December 28th)
They run a battery of tests on my brain to see if there’s some residual bleeding or damage from my fall or the accident, but I come up clean.
On the car ride back from the hospital, Dad is ashen. He’s aged years in the three days since he’s bothered to be in the same space with me. I consider showing him the locket but I’m afraid he might accuse me of engraving those words myself. He flips on the classical music station, the absurdly sweeping notes of Vivaldi filling the silence between us.
In his mind, he’s probably watching my future slip down the drain.
“Dad, I know what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t,” he says after a lengthy pause.
“I’m not crazy.”
Dad glances at me, eyes rimmed with red. “I love you, Jeremy, and we’ll face whatever we need to face together.”
“I swear I’m not crazy. Yes, I have a drinking problem. Yes, I have one leg. You have to trust me.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. Your mother’s doctors said there was a one in ten chance you would inherit her illness.”
“Who were Mom’s doctors? Are you totally sure Mom was crazy?”
Dad screeches the car to a stop and shouts, his face a mask of rage. “Why are you doing this, Jeremy? Please!” He breathes rapidly in little shuddering gulps. I’m afraid he may have a heart attack. Finally, his breaths slow and he manages to speak in a more controlled lawyerly tone. “I’m sorry. Jeremy, your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic. You know what that is? Someone who imagines everyone is out to get them. Your mother was consumed with the notion that someone was trying to kill her.”
An icy chill climbs up my neck. My hands shake. “What if she was right?”
Breaking Glass Page 17