Marisa and Chaz flank my sides like proud parents. The steps are tough, but I make it to the car, amazed at how tiring the simple act of walking can be.
“I want to visit Ryan. I want him to see me walk.”
I think of him, lying immobile, lingering near death. My best friend.
He’s been an enigma, a vessel of secrets. But so have we all.
And I realize I can’t stay angry with him.
I never could.
Though I was once so sure, I’m beginning to wonder if he killed Susannah. I want to hear him deny it, once and for all. I hope I get the chance.
By the time we enter the hospital lobby, I’m barely leaning on the crutch, so I hand it to Chaz and I’m walking on my own. It still feels like I’m the Tin Man, but I’m getting the job done.
I catch a glimpse of Marisa and me in a mirror. My curly head towers a good eight inches over hers. At 5’11’, I’d completely forgotten how tall I am. And how short Marisa is. I smile. With my sweats falling to my shoes, I look like a regular guy with a really bad limp.
In the ICU, my jubilation turns to dread. I stop and lean against the wall, water pushing into my lungs. Ryan. How could he do this to himself?
I fight the desire for a drink. It’s a fight I’m probably going to be battling my whole life.
“You okay, buddy?” Chaz asks.
I nod, swallowing down the cold lump in my throat. “Just tired. This is hard work.”
“You’re doing great,” he says. “The best I’ve ever seen. But I think, after this, it’s enough for your first day out.”
I nod again, wipe the sweat from my brow and push on, one foot in front of the other.
Even though my stump feels like it’s tied to a steel girder, I insist on visiting Ryan by myself and send Marisa and Chaz to the coffee shop lounge to wait. Chaz relents, on the condition I agree to take the crutch.
As I limp past the coffee shop, a small blonde woman wearing sunglasses and a running suit dashes into the hall and reaches the bank of elevators before me. When I finally get there, the woman is still waiting. The elevator doors open and we go in. It’s only after the doors slide closed and she lifts her dark glasses that I realize it’s Celia Morgan.
Her face tight, Mrs. Morgan’s glance cuts from my feet to my face. Her eyes light with her smile. “It’s good to see you back on your feet, Jeremy.”
I try to block unpleasant thoughts of her face-sucking my dad, but can only replace them with equally unpleasant thoughts of the present.
“H-how’s Ryan?” I blurt. I don’t ask about Patrick Morgan because, frankly, I don’t give a flying shit.
Celia Morgan’s eyes fill with moisture. “Thanks for asking, dear. He’s awake now, but we won’t really know—” she breaks off and wipes her eyes with a tissue. “We won’t really know what the future holds for Ryan for another day or so.”
Her words vibrate in the small space like tolling bells. The floor, which only part of me can actually feel, seems to tilt. My brain is oversaturated with news I do not want to hear and can no longer absorb. I shoot a glance at the elevator display and curse silently that the thing is so slow, and can’t help but wonder how many people have died in this thing while it creaked to its destination.
Celia Morgan blows her nose. “I’m sure Ryan will be happy to see you walking again.”
Derek Spake stands outside Ryan’s room, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks up as I approach. “Well, if it isn’t Glass and his brand new peg-leg.”
“Next year’s model comes with Bluetooth and a phone. How’s Ryan?”
Spake’s smile evaporates as he motions me inside. “It’s hard to say.”
Celia Morgan settles in the seat beside the bed and holds Ryan’s hand in hers.
Ryan looks a hell of a lot better than he did yesterday. His cheeks are flushed, his lips moist, and his blue eyes clear. But his neck is still immobilized in a stiff plastic collar and his eyes seem unable to focus, like two butterflies flitting from flower to flower.
“He’s doing so much better, Jeremy. Let him know you’re here,” Celia says, her smile overly bright.
Ryan’s eyes jitter as his gaze skims past mine.
“Can he see?”
“They think so. But the muscles in his eyes are messed up,” says Spake, angrily. “They don’t focus or respond to light. He can’t talk either, because his vocal cords have been damaged.”
I shudder and lean closer to Ryan. “Dude, it’s Jeremy. Can you hear me?”
The corners of Ryan’s mouth twitch into a slight smile. He blinks rapidly, his eyes rolling but never fixing on me. My insides clamp up.
Celia Morgan blows her nose. “I told you he’d be glad to see you.”
I take Ryan’s hand. It’s warm and limp. Tears spring into my eyes. This can’t be my fault. It can’t be.
“I-I’ve got to go.” I swivel and lurch from the room as fast as my metal leg will carry me. The fluorescent light sears my retinas. If there is such a thing as hell, I decide, it probably looks and smells like this hallway.
Spake catches up with me in a few long-legged strides. Which is easy enough, since I’m moving only marginally faster than the hour hand on a clock.
Spake motions me to a row of benches that line the wall. It occurs to me that, compared to the brain damage that Ryan probably has, losing a limb is a paper cut. I stare down at my mismatched feet. My stump throbs.
“Christ,” I say. “What if he stays like that?”
“He’s a fighter. He can get back to normal eventually, with lots of therapy.” Then, Spake clears his throat. “You still aren’t thinking that Ryan had anything to do with Susannah’s disappearance, are you, Glass?”
I meet his gaze. Spake’s pale eyes burn into mine, and it occurs to me that Derek Spake might actually love Ryan more fervently than Susannah ever could. “My gut tells me no. But I still have no idea what happened to her.”
Spake lets his head droop, then straightens. “Ryan didn’t hurt her. I can prove it.”
“How do you know? Were you there, too?”
Spake sucks in a sharp breath. “She knew about us, Glass. She was going to blow the whistle and ruin us both.”
I narrow my gaze. “So you killed her?”
“Fuck no. Neither of us laid a hand on her. She just disappeared into thin air that night.”
“Sure,” I say. “It sounds like you both had pretty good motives for shutting her up. But how did she find out about you two? Even I had no clue.”
Spake stares at his palms as if the appropriate answer is written there. “Two years ago, Susannah and I met at a summer art class in the city. I thought art was my thing before I found track and field. I was going through a lot of shit then. So was she. We got kind of close. Started telling each other stuff we’d never tell anyone else who lived in the same town. So I told her I was gay. That I knew since I was nine. That I hadn’t come out to my parents yet.”
Her summer art class. I think of the tangle of roots that apparently stretch beyond Riverton, all the way to Hurley.
“She told me stuff, too. Stuff I’m pretty sure she wishes she never did. Because when she tried to threaten Ryan and me, I threw it back at her.”
“She threatened you?”
“Fuck, yeah. And I told her I’d post all her pathetic secrets all over Facebook if she started trouble with me.”
“So that’s why she was crying the day you took her home.”
“How the fuck did you know about that?” Spake asks, frowning.
“Never mind. What did she tell you?”
“It was pretty harrowing stuff, actually.”
My spine goes rigid. “Like what?”
“She was such a lost soul. Stuff with her mother, with other guys. Older guys, too. What a mess. I felt sorry for her. But after the class ended, we didn’t stay in touch. The next time I saw her was as Ryan’s arm candy at a meet last April. Susannah introduced us, and from that moment on I couldn’t help m
yself. I was in love. The most amazing day in my life was the day Ryan came out to me. I’m the first person he ever told.”
A twinge of jealousy flashes through me. Ryan told this guy, but hid the truth from me. Forced me to lie about his hookups. But would I have accepted him if I’d known? I’m not sure.
“So she confronted Ryan the night she disappeared? Did she suspect you guys right away?”
“A few weeks before that. She expected him to dump me, but he wouldn’t. I’m not really sure how she found out. But I was furious, knowing about some of the shit she had done. She didn’t deserve him.”
My insides twist with nausea. It’s as though Spake is talking about a different girl. Not the girl that I knew.
Spake’s voice trembles. He squeezes his eyes shut and tears leak through his lashes. “She refused to break up with Ryan. She would not let go. I don’t know what that girl was thinking. Ryan loves me.”
The linoleum pattern on the floor reminds me of roots. Roots that connect and weave into a twisted tangle.
“I’m sure he does,” I mutter absently. “When you were in Ryan’s room all day yesterday, did Mrs. Morgan ever visit her husband? Isn’t he, like, paralyzed from the eyeballs down?”
Spake nods. “Yeah, it’s pretty gruesome. I heard the doctors talking. Dude can’t even blink. If you ask me, he’s probably better off dead, and I wish he was. He’s a first-class bastard.”
“Did you hear anyone mention what room he’s in?”
Spake cocks his head. “Why?”
“I just want to see the guy. He may be a bastard, but he practically raised me. I didn’t have the heart to ask Mrs. Morgan. She’s got enough troubles.”
Spake assesses me and either falls for my flagrant bullshit or just doesn’t care enough to keep sparring with me. “There’s a special ward on the next floor for patients who can’t breathe on their own.”
“Thanks, Spake. You’ve been a big help.”
He heads back to Ryan’s room, and I text Marisa to come and get me because I’m running on empty. The stump screams in rebellion with every dragging step I take, outraged at the abuse. Marisa helps me to the elevator. It’s slow going, but she steadies me.
Patrick Morgan’s room in the ITU, or Intensive Treatment Unit, is guarded by an elderly private security guard who snores gently on a chair outside the room. Marisa and I slip inside.
Patrick Morgan lies in state behind a see-through tent, a plastic tube inserted straight into his throat. His eyes are frozen in a perpetual stare, as if he is dead. The sky-blue eyes shift ever so slightly and a chill shrieks up my spine. Unlike his son, the eyes are shrewd and aware, but the face is immobile. The machine that registers Patrick Morgan’s heartbeats bleeps faster.
“Oh, my god,” says Marisa. “He’s wide awake in there. How awful.”
“It is, isn’t it,” I say, drawing closer. Patrick Morgan doesn’t blink, his face as still as sculpted marble. But the monitor’s bleep rate speeds up.
“So,” I say leaning over him, staring deep into those wide-open eyes. “A tree with the deepest roots starts with a single seed, Mr. Morgan. All the trouble in this town leads back to you, doesn’t it?” Blip, blip, blip.
“Jeremy,” Marisa warns. “I think you’re upsetting him. If his heartbeat gets too erratic someone’s going to come rushing in here. We should go.”
I turn to her. Sleek black hair frames her face, obsidian eyes shining with fear and worry. “Why shouldn’t he know how it feels to be completely powerless, like the people he’s victimized all these years?”
It’s time to test my theory. Before she can protest, I pull Marisa into a kiss. I want to punish Patrick Morgan for hurting Ryan. For being a tyrannical bastard. And any other crimes he had his filthy hands in.
My groin presses against Marisa’s pelvis. The thrill of standing and kissing her all at the same time washes over me, even though I know the curtain is about to come down on my stolen moment of bliss.
As if on cue, the lights snuff out. Damp wind circles the room, buffeting Patrick Morgan’s plastic tent. Blip, blip, blip, blip goes the heart machine.
Feeling for Marisa, I hug her close against me. I see nothing but Patrick Morgan, his plastic tent illuminated as if by an eerie spotlight. The heart monitor is going wild. In moments, a medical team will be stampeding in to keep the bastard alive.
I feel her presence in the swampy air. Hear her cries swallowed in the howl of the sudden wet wind that tears at our hair.
“Did he hurt you, Susannah? Was Patrick Morgan the one who killed you?” I shout.
A black mist in the vague shape of a girl hovers close to Patrick Morgan, wind shrieking and lashing our faces. Marisa trembles violently and I press her tiny frame tighter against me.
The nebulous form passes through the plastic tent. The heart monitor races, the lines on the screen jagged with zigzags.
“No!” I hear Marisa cry.
The heart monitor stutters.
“Stop this, Jeremy!” Marisa screams.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. Dragging Marisa with my good arm, I head blindly toward the door, shreds of light ripping through the dark veil of gloom. By the time we reach the glare of the hall, I can see again.
“What if she kills him?” Marisa asks, her voice trembling.
“Then she’ll have done them both a favor.”
“Do you really think Patrick Morgan killed Susannah?”
I stop and wince at the grinding ache in my hip, tempted to rip off Veronica and hop the rest of the way to the car. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - t h r e e
Back in Chaz’s van, Marisa helps me unstrap Veronica. I can almost hear my stump sigh with relief as I peel off the sweaty sock it wears like a newborn’s cap. Marisa doesn’t flinch at the sight of the raw, raised scar, or the pink hairy slab of flesh and bone jutting a few inches past my hip joint. Veronica sits beside us on the seat like a third passenger.
My head resting on Marisa’s slight shoulder, I let my eyes drift close, lulled by the movement of the car tires as they roll over winding roads. I slip into the peaceful sleep of a tired baby after an outing at the playground.
And I dream.
Sunlight dapples the reservoir in lazy ripples. The lapping water sparkles in diamond-bright glints. Her back to me, Susannah stands on the rocky shore tossing daisies into the water. The current takes the flowers toward the center of the reservoir in a single line, like a string of beads.
In the distance, Pirate Island rises from the water like a shark’s fin.
Marisa, Chaz, Dad, and I spend New Year’s Eve eating pizza. Afterward, Chaz puts me through my paces, making me climb the stairs again and again, backward and forward. Then, he makes me do it with my eyes closed.
I collapse into bed, exhausted, and dream, yet again, of Susannah tossing flowers into the water, the floating bouquet stretching across the reservoir in a long yellow line.
And each morning, I wake, no closer to understanding the message of the dreams, no closer to solving Susannah’s murder. I can’t find any concrete evidence of Patrick Morgan’s involvement, but I don’t want to believe it could have been Ryan. It doesn’t seem like Spake could have done it. Which leaves me with zero suspects. And a persistent headache.
I’ve felt Susannah’s grip on me slip into a holding pattern, like a storm that lingers, refusing to blow out to sea. She makes her presence known each night, soft breathy advances alternating with violent tirades. Through it all, I remain still, eyes closed against the turmoil, impervious to her touch.
It’s not the same for me, anymore. Her power over me has diminished, yet she’s still with me, this restless spirit I’ve summoned from the grave.
Each night I drift into sleep to the sounds of her muted sobs.
And with Susannah’s presence watching our every move, Marisa and I don’t dare do more than hug.
Which is killing me faster than g
oing cold turkey from vodka ever could.
Still, it’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve wanted a drink.
The days have slipped into a kind of routine. Dad has temporarily moved in with Celia to help her through her ordeal. Even though the town is talking up a storm, a weight seems to have lifted from his shoulders. I’ve even caught him smiling with both sides of his mouth. Ordinarily, I’d be jealous that Dad can be with the woman he loves without the fear that a vengeful spirit will kill him. But he’s lived under the tyranny of Patrick Morgan for so long, I figure we’re even.
I’m left in Chaz’s merciless care—PT torture sessions in the mornings, afternoons doing calculus with Marisa.
My insides still burn for a drink. I won’t be able to hold out forever, but for now there’s too much else to do.
Yesterday, Ryan was transferred to the rehab wing of the hospital. This bright and bitter afternoon, every surface glazed with ice, Dad decides to gives Marisa the afternoon off and takes me to the hospital himself. He makes a strange detour that takes us down a hilly, deserted road glistening with ice-coated branches. A low stone wall banks the road, punctuated by a pair of wrought-iron gates and a sign that reads, Upper Westchester Memorial Cemetery.
“Why are you stopping?”
“Your mother is buried here.”
I gnash my teeth. I think I hear the faint rhythm of water lapping against my eardrums. “Shit. Why now, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I guess—you know, Celia and all. I always thought—”
“You always thought what?”
Dad doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets out of the car, comes around to my side, opens the door, and holds his arm out for me. “Please, Jeremy. Just for a minute.”
“There’s all this ice—I don’t know if I can—” It’s true, I’ve gotten pretty good with the walking thing. I’ve ditched the crutch and graduated to a cane. Though I get tired much less easily, I’m still mastering the art of walking on uneven terrain. So I’m not lying when I look at the frozen path with real trepidation. But that’s not what’s holding me back.
I let Dad help me out of the car. Sheets of rutted ice glisten in the sunlight. Dad grips my arm firmly and helps me along, my footfalls uncertain. “I’ve got you, kiddo.”
Breaking Glass Page 23