Breaking Glass

by Amowitz, Lisa

Dad is gray. Literally. His eyes shift from side to side. He exhales in a long, weary sigh, as if he’s finally let go of a breath he’s been holding in for years. I feel the tug of another root pulling free. “Celia. Celia and me.”

  Now it’s my turn to take the bullet that slams into my gut. “What are you saying, Dad? That you’ve been fucking Celia Morgan?”

  “Yes. For years.”

  “What? Did Mom know that?”

  Dad slumps forward in the chair, his face resting against his palms. “You figure it out. You’re the historian.”

  But I don’t say anything. My lips are too numb. His face still buried in his hands, Dad mumbles. “Celia and I were together in high school. We broke up soon after. Only we didn’t.”

  Dad raises his head and looks at me, his face haggard, exhausted. “We were poor, Jeremy. Both of us. Dirt poor. I lived in one of the apartments over the stores in town with your grandmother. I could never have afforded law school without your mother’s help. She was so beautiful and kind. And rich as hell. But she was fragile and breakable. I think her parents were relieved someone would take her off their hands.”

  “Didn’t you love Mom?” My insides are writhing, full of slithering snakes.

  “I suppose. Though I knew there was trouble ahead. But she was totally dedicated to me. Dependent. She willfully overlooked everything. I guess you could say she loved me more.”

  I lower my head, my eyes tracing the pattern of the linoleum tiling. I want the waters to rush in between the cracks and wash me away. “You fucking bastard.”

  Dad hesitates, and continues. “Celia waitressed at the Riverton Diner. After her parents died a few years later, she had no inheritance and could barely afford the taxes on their house. Patrick wanted her because she was the one girl who didn’t want him. When she finally went for him, it was like planting his victory flag straight through my heart. Only an arrogant ass like Morgan couldn’t see the truth behind our masquerade.”

  I shake my head slowly, the room spinning in a slow-motion whirlpool. From its edges, I think I see Susannah looking on, smiling, arms folded over her chest.

  Poison roots, toxic roots. I wonder how far down into the earth they reach and ask myself how I feel, now that Dad is finally revealing his full hand. I decide that maybe I preferred his polite silences.

  But once roots are unearthed, you can’t put them back into the ground.

  Dad continues, but I’m looking past him, darkness teasing the edge of my vision. Susannah’s image is coming into focus. And she’s not so pretty. Her hair is bushy, as disheveled and wild as an abandoned bird’s nest. Her hands reach for me with skeletal, dead tree fingers. I’m following in my mother’s footsteps. I’m losing my mind, just like her.

  “Jeremy,” he says, his voice growing tinny and distant. “I hurt your mother. Terribly.”

  I swallow hard and blink back the cresting wave of darkness, force Susannah to the edges of the room. I feel sorry for Dad—first a crazy wife and now me. “So that’s why you let Patrick Morgan walk all over you all these years? Because you were fucking his wife. Does he know?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t be alive if he had any solid evidence,” Dad says miserably. “But lately, I’ve been beginning to wonder if he does know. And only a sick fuck like him would enjoy the leverage it gave him. Patrick Morgan inherited his law firm from his father, and from his grandfather before that. They built this town. They have connections that reach all the way to Albany, and some say right to the White House. No one can touch him, Jeremy. He could do any crooked deal he wanted and assume I’d stay silent.”

  My frenzied mind crawls over the facts at hand. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Douglas Bernard Lewis?”

  Dad’s face colors. “That was the accident you were talking about—Doug’s death. He was my best friend. An amazing guy. A big guy. Star quarterback, and smart as hell. We were all friends. Me, Patrick, Doug. Your mom, Celia, and Trudy. We did everything together. Until Doug fell through the ice on the reservoir and drowned.”

  Dad continues, lost in the memory. “Back then Trudy and Doug were the it couple. She was a stunning girl. But I don’t think Trudy ever had her head screwed on right after Doug died. She started distancing herself from the rest of us. Getting into trouble. After high school she moved away, some say to have a child. But she came back years later, twisted and strangely religious.”

  “Your mother was petrified of Trudy,” Dad says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Trudy Durban killed Susannah herself, buried her in the backyard under a rosebush, and then prayed for her immortal soul.”

  Dad and I stare at each other blankly. My head is spinning, but my mouth can’t shape words. The darkness rises like floodwater. Susannah is walking toward me, shaking her head.

  “And what about Mom?”

  Dad squints at me and slants his head. “Your mother was always sensitive and prone to depression. I couldn’t really say when things started to take a turn for the worse. I guess I never realized how much his death upset her. I always thought it was because of me.”

  I want to tell Dad I’m sorry. Sorry for being too much like Mom. Sorry for what lies ahead for us both.

  “We should get going,” he says finally, and stands, straightening his rumpled clothes. He walks to the wheelchair, rolls it over beside me, helps me in, then leans down, and looks me in the eye.

  “I don’t blame you if you hate me, Jeremy. But no matter what I’ve said, the horrendous choices I’ve made, I will always love you. I can’t stand the idea of anything happening to you. Do you understand?”

  He hugs me, careful not to jar my sprained arm. I reach around him with one arm and hug him back. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve put on you and put you through. It’s no wonder you drank.”

  I don’t answer. I just stare at the untied lace of my single sneaker. I don’t want to slip into insanity. I want to fight this. If I can solve Susannah’s murder, I can be free of her terrifying visits. I can be free of the madness that wants to claim me.

  “I just want you to get better, Jeremy. I want you to kick the drinking, get help for all the demons that are tearing you apart. And most of all, I want you to walk.”

  “I know that, Dad.”

  “Chaz is coming in the morning. Your leg will be ready soon. He says once it’s in, you need to be fit immediately, even with this setback, or you’ll lose muscle tone you may never get back.”

  This shocks me out of my numb state.

  “Huh?”

  “Lyle Hoffman put in a rush order on your electronic C-Leg. He’s gotten the insurance company to cover most of the cost and he’s donating the rest. He’ll also cover the remaining cost of the custom running blade, which he wants to fit as soon as you get used to your new leg. You must have made quite an impression on the guy.”

  Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of the wheelchair seat chafing against my butt and I want, more than anything, to be vertical. Despite the toxic roots, the bombshells, and the hallucinatory ghosts trying to drag me with them to the grave, a small thrill of excitement works its way through my insides.

  “A leg,” I repeat.

  Then I remember that Ryan is lying unconscious, hovering near death. “How’s Ryan?”

  “Alive. As far as anything else, the doctors are still trying to figure that out.”

  As Dad wheels me out to the hospital lobby, I imagine the rhythm of something I never once gave a thought about—putting one leg in front of each other. Human locomotion, unassisted by crutches or wheelchairs. Or mop handles. I close my eyes and vow when I get that leg I’ll make everything up to everyone. I’ll quit drinking for good.

  I’m so deep in my own thoughts, I miss the initial blur of Patrick Morgan pushing through the revolving hospital doors. He storms straight up to us.

  Dad pauses, his hands frozen on the grips of the wheelchair. Patrick glares at my dad with the weirdest expression I’ve ever seen. It’s anger, but underneath is something
harder to pin down. Triumph. I think of Dad’s metaphor about the flag of victory stabbed straight through his heart.

  It occurs to me that Patrick Morgan isn’t sorry about what happened to his son.

  He’s happy. Because whatever secrets Ryan was going to divulge, now he can’t.

  “You,” Patrick Morgan says, glaring at my dad, his voice cold and low. “Do you think I don’t know? Here’s a pun for you, Glass. Get ready for your world to shatter. I’m going to ruin you for what you’ve done to my family.”

  Dad is frozen. Speechless, his mouth trembling. Patrick Morgan pushes past us and strides to the bank of elevators.

  There’s a shout from the revolving doors that lead into the lobby.

  Trudy Durban stands at the entrance. “You bastard!” she screams crazily. “You fucking bastard! You deserve your filthy spawn to die! I know you killed her! You killed my daughter! I know what you did to her!”

  Patrick turns calmly around to face Trudy. She’s waving a gun, her eyes wild, the jangle of crosses thick at her neck.

  “You don’t mean that, Trudy,” says Patrick in his soothing baritone, walking toward her. “You know I would never hurt Susannah. She was like family to us.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” she shrieks. “We kept your secret. You have no soul. No conscience!”

  Patrick’s voice is choked. “You’re just upset. This isn’t the proper time for this. My son is in the ICU, barely hanging on. Susannah was a troubled girl. You’ve known that for a long time.”

  Dad pulls my wheelchair toward the wall. Trudy Durban’s face contorts into a mask of grief. Darkness claws at me, trying to drag me under.

  Trudy’s face becomes serene. “The devil wants your soul returned,” she says, calmly, taking aim.

  A whooshing sound zips past my ear. Blood spurts from the back of Patrick’s neck in a red arc. He folds to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

  Trudy Durban stands in the lobby entrance, her expression blank, the barrel of her pistol now pointed right at Dad and me.

  “What about you, Paul?” she screams. “Did you know? Did your wife tell you what she saw?”

  Dad shouts and lunges for me, knocking me out of the chair. I hear a blast and I’m on the floor, Dad on top of me.

  C H A P T E R

  t h i r t y

  Now

  I manage to push my dad’s weight off me. Darkness speckles my vision, turning my sight to negative Swiss cheese. Between the bright spots, I see Susannah gliding toward me in a flowing black dress that billows around her like smoke.

  “Dad?” I say, though I can’t see him. I can’t see anything but her.

  “Jeremy? Are you all right?”

  The dark devours me. Susannah stands before me, her rippling image like reflections on water. I thought you loved me.

  I hear Dad’s voice, tinny and distant. “Jeremy, are you hurt?”

  I slither backward, pushing out with my sneaker. Susannah drifts closer, an invisible breeze rustling her hair. Her eyes burn bright green through the dark mist, glowing like a firefly. You know I love you, Jeremy, don’t you?

  “Dad?” I call out, weakly. I know I’m not hurt. But I’m in a waking dream I can’t pull out of. “Please, help me.”

  “It’s okay, Jeremy,” I hear him say. “You’re just in shock. We’re okay. We’re both okay.”

  “Where are you, Dad?” I’m trembling as Susannah’s shadow expands around me. You’re just like the rest of them, Jeremy Glass, aren’t you? Using me for your own selfish desires.

  I feel Dad’s hand gripping mine, pressing it hard. Shaking it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get to him. I can’t snap out of this nightmare.

  Susannah’s shadow reaches down into the ground and pulls up a root. But instead of tree roots, they are bloody veins. The floor cracks and breaks apart beneath me as the roots pull free. The ground gives way, and I’m falling, falling.

  Choking for air, I land with a silent splash in the dark waters of the Gorge.

  The breath returns to my lungs. A blurred face peers into mine. Chaz.

  “You blacked out, buddy. Your dad had to talk with the police, so he asked me to wait with you.”

  Someone’s moved me to a waiting room where I’m sprawled on a couch.

  “But you’re okay,” Chaz adds. “Your dad’s going to be awhile. He asked me to take you home and stay with you.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I huff.

  Chaz smirks. “Apparently, your dad thinks you do.”

  Marisa bounds into the waiting room, breathless. She sits beside me smelling of snow and whatever she’d been cooking. “Oh, God! Jeremy! It’s all over the news!”

  “Is Patrick dead?”

  Marisa shakes her head grimly. “As good as. He was shot in the throat. The bullet lodged right at the base of the skull. He’s on a ventilator.”

  I let out a breath. I’m still shaking, but less so. “Does anyone know why Trudy did it?”

  “She thinks Mr. Morgan killed her daughter,” Chaz offers. “But, I don’t know. Why the hell would a guy like Patrick Morgan kill a seventeen-year-old girl?”

  I stiffen. Somehow, all the roots spring from Patrick Morgan. I can’t help but wonder. If he’s unable to speak, how will we ever know? A fresh wave of shaking rips through me. If I can’t solve the mystery behind Susannah’s death, how will I ever be rid of her ghost?

  “I’m betting there’s more to it than that,” Marisa adds. “Mrs. Durban may be crazy, but she’s a schemer. Nothing she does would surprise me.”

  As we file out to Chaz’s car, what I don’t expect are the TV trucks and the reporters that surround us like flies trying to land on shit.

  I duck my head as Chaz barrels through, using the wheelchair like a battering ram. Marisa strides ahead, palms to their cameras lenses. Once we’re in his van, Chaz puts the pedal to the metal and we peel off, leaving the crowd of reporters jockeying for a shot of our retreat.

  The shooting of Patrick Morgan is apparently big news.

  Once we get to my house, Chaz busies himself in the kitchen, rummaging around. Marisa and I are alone in Dad’s study.

  “I’ll stay awhile, if it’s cool with you,” she says shyly. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dark as the river at night. “I figured you could use the company. Chaz is not the most brilliant conversationalist.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow New Year’s Eve? Weren’t you supposed to go to a party?”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Weren’t you supposed to go to a movie?”

  My cheeks heat. I look down. I’m not going to do it this time. I’m not going to lose my heart to someone who will keep it and never give it back.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. I can’t look at her. And I’m sorry I let her come back here. It won’t be long before Susannah returns. Then Marisa will know how deeply disturbed I really am.

  She glances around, her nose wrinkled. “This place is a mess. And it smells. I think I’ll straighten up a bit. Why don’t you rest?”

  “You really don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to, okay?”

  I have no strength to argue. I sigh wearily and ease myself from the chair to the bed. She’s right. I’m exhausted. But I’m afraid to sleep. Afraid what unwelcome guests might drop by.

  Marisa leaves, then returns a few minutes later with her hands full of yellowed newspaper clippings. “You were going to explain what all these articles were and why they were worth nearly cracking your cranium open.”

  “They were my mother’s,” I say, shaking again. I pull the blankets up around me, but still I can’t seem to draw in enough warmth. “They’re about the death of a guy named Douglas Lewis thirty or so years ago.”

  “Why would your mother be so obsessed with it?” Marisa whispers, skimming through the old articles. I take them from her as she finishes, wondering what I’m missing.

  “He was a friend of hers. Maybe she felt responsible, somehow.”

 
“The drowning was ruled an accident.”

  Ruled an accident means nothing in Riverton, I realize. If Patrick Morgan wanted the truth altered, police reports could always disappear. Maybe witnesses do, too, or are at least persuaded not to speak up.

  The temperature in the room drops measurably, and I shiver. “What if,” I say, “Trudy’s convinced that Patrick Morgan killed Susannah because he’s killed before?”

  “Who?” Marisa bites a nail, deep in thought. “Who would he have killed?”

  Dark mist pools in the corners of the room. My stomach clenches. In moments I’ll be blind to my surroundings. Marisa will know how sick I really am.

  I try to focus on the light. On ignoring the figure of Susannah that’s emerged from within the shadows, her dress now ragged, hair whipping like storm-lashed branches. I press my hands to my ears to mute the sounds of the howling wind.

  “What if Douglas Lewis’s death was not an accident?” I shout above the noise only I can hear. “What if Patrick killed him?”

  “Why are you yelling, Jeremy?”

  The wind screams, a piercing, nerve-abrading shriek.

  No, it’s Susannah.

  The light sucks out of the room. I’m deaf to all other sound. Papers lift in a swirling vortex. Susannah is at its center. You brought me back and now you don’t want me.

  I grit my teeth until my eyes bulge. I will her to leave. “Please,” I whisper, my hands pressed to my temples. “Let me think.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Marisa answers.

  “Headache. Just a headache.” I breathe in deeply; under my breath. I hiss, “Go.”

  The shrieking dies away. The light returns and I let out my breath.

  “What if,” I say, “my mother knew for a fact that Patrick murdered that boy? That she saw it happen and was forced to stay quiet. Maybe it’s why she drank in the first place.”

  Marisa’s dark eyes widen. Blood rushes to my face. I want to pull her in closer to me so her heat can warm my chill. I want to hold her against me and never let go again.

  “That’s just conjecture. There’s no proof. And even if that’s true, it still doesn’t mean Patrick Morgan killed Susannah.”