Breaking Glass

by Amowitz, Lisa

  Somehow, despite the cold wetness seeping through my pants, I fall asleep, cradled in her arms.

  And dream.

  In the distance, I see Susannah stroll across the frozen terrain of the graveyard, her black dress in sharp contrast to the sun-washed whiteness of everything else. Her bronze hair gleams in the bright light, and blows ragged though there’s no breeze to speak of.

  It’s the dream Susannah, not the dark revenant that’s been haunting me. But her features are obscured, blurred by a bright haze. I squint and realize I’m not sure who it is, after all.

  Silently, the figure approaches and I realize Veronica is gone. I’m one-legged and stranded, hopping crazily from tomb to tomb to get away. I’m dreaming. This is still the dream.

  I make it to the edge of the cemetery, but there’s no place left to go except straight into the water of the Gorge.

  The figure draws closer. I see it is not Susannah at all.

  It’s my mother.

  Silently, she stops at her own grave and smiles at me. Then she leans down and pulls at the ground, but instead of clumps of earth, she’s pulling up the wood planking of a floor.

  I wake suddenly, the sun sinking between the crosshatch of branches, gripped by a chill deep in my bones. And I know I hear it, borne by the wind that whistles between the graves.

  Dreams never lie, Jeremy.

  C H A P T E R

  t h i r t y - s i x

  Now (January 10th)

  It’s almost dark when I get home, soaked and freezing. I try to slink up to my room, but with a metal leg sprouting from my thigh, the art of sneaking is going to require a lot more practice.

  Dad calls out to me from the dining room. “Jeremy!”

  I find him seated at the table behind an avalanche of papers, reading glasses perched on his nose. He stands abruptly, scattering more papers, and peers at me over the rims. “Where the hell were you?”

  “I went for a drive.

  “You could have called.”

  “Cell battery died.”

  Dad throws up his hands and sits down with a sigh. “Some things never change.”

  “What is all this?” I ask, gesturing at the blizzard of papers.

  “Paperwork for Trudy Durban’s murder trial.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going to represent her?”

  “Of course not. I’m just helping out. You know, for old time’s sake.”

  “Old time’s sake.” I drum my fingers on a part of the table that’s not covered in papers. Ever the historian, on the lookout for details and the things others miss, I scan the mess. “Just how close were Mom and Trudy?”

  “They were inseparable in high school,” Dad says, returning to his work. “But after graduation, they stopped speaking to each other.”

  “You think Trudy Durban is fit to stand trial?” I ask, working hard to sound casual, my eyes combing the pile.

  Dad scribbles something on a yellow pad and mumbles. “She’s being evaluated, but I doubt it. She seems to have snapped completely. She keeps repeating, over and over, that Patrick Morgan is the devil. And Ryan is the son of the devil. And the town must be expunged. And a whole bunch of other nonsense about the Lord’s justice and an eye for an eye.

  “Her ravings aside, there’s nothing to suggest that Patrick Morgan killed anyone. However, there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence that Ryan did kill Susannah, and Patrick was helping him cover it up.”

  I stand so quickly, Veronica locks on me and I fall back into the chair. “Ryan didn’t kill anyone. Maybe Trudy did it herself! The woman is clearly insane.”

  “I don’t know,” says Dad. “There’s no sign of Susannah anywhere. It’s been two months, and the police are about to declare her presumed dead. And with Patrick gone, people are talking. It appears the initial police report was tampered with. Everyone with a grudge against the Morgans, and believe me there’s no shortage of them, has come out of the woodwork. I’m going to be busy for years helping Celia fend off the lawsuits.”

  I scratch my head. “I know Ryan didn’t do it. I just have a gut feeling that…”

  Dad cuts me a look. “Not that again, Jeremy. Weren’t you the one who suspected him in the first place? Are you feeling okay? You’re not having hall—”

  “Dad! I am not fucking nuts. I’m saying that, based on the evidence at hand, I just don’t think he did it.”

  “Jeremy, there’s enough damning evidence to support the possibility. You may even be called in as a material witness.”

  “This is ridiculous. How can Ryan stand trial? They can’t send someone as—as messed up as him to jail.”

  Nestled in the white mountain of papers my roving gaze lands on a small manila envelope labeled keys. I note it for future reference.

  “Disability is not a ‘get out of jail free’ card,” Dad says, “The fact that Ryan tried to kill himself is very damning.” Dad takes off his glasses. “If it’s determined that he is mentally competent, he can stand trial.”

  Tired and frozen, a nasty cold coming on, I clump up the stairs to my room. I strip off my wet clothes, remove Veronica, throw myself onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling, wondering if I can summon Susannah at will.

  Come, I think. We need to talk.

  Time passes, an hour maybe. My eyelids are so heavy. But before they slip closed, darkness descends. The room goes cold. Gusts of wind hurl papers around and tear at my curtains. I feel her weight lower on top of me, and automatically, despite myself, my body responds.

  But no. This is business. I roll over on my side and curl in on myself like a millipede.

  “C’mon. Did Ryan kill you or not?” I ask wearily. “If you say he did, I’ll believe you. I’ll make sure he pays for it. I swear.”

  Wind slams my door shut.

  I sit up and speak into the blackness that engulfs my room. “Or do you want an innocent person to go to jail?”

  The door reopens and slams shut again. The lights in my room flicker back to life.

  I fall asleep. I do not dream.

  The morning of January eleventh dawns bright, another unseasonably warm day. It’s also the day Patrick Morgan will be cremated at his wife’s request, his ashes sprinkled into the Gorge. It’s a small ceremony, just Dad, Celia, and a few relatives. It’s decided that Ryan, still recuperating from his injuries, is not well enough to attend. And I flat out refuse to go.

  Because I’ve come down with a cold, I get out of PT for another day. But I’m restless and lonely in the big stuffy house, just me and Veronica. She gets me where I need to go, but she’s not very supportive beyond her job description.

  Chaz’s PT boot camp really has paid off. I can walk for miles at a pretty fast clip without getting too tired. Slowly, Veronica has become an extension of me. The stump feels lost without her warmth to cradle it.

  The same way I feel about Marisa.

  Jittery, my head spinning with loose ends and anxiety, I call Marisa to come out for a walk since it’s such a nice day. Before I leave to meet her, I shuffle into the dining room where Dad has left his paper mountain range. The envelope labeled keys beckons from its place under the pile.

  I slip it open and know I’ve hit pay dirt. The keys are stuck with a Post-it—Trudy Durban, 38 Melrose Park Drive.

  Do I dare?

  For a flash, I feel sorry for Dad and the trouble I may cause him. Despite everything I’ve put him through, he still doesn’t get just how devious, and cunning, and downright sneaky I can be when I’ve set my mind on things. I stick the keys in my pocket, not precisely sure if I’ll ever get the nerve to use them or why I’d need to. But something tells me I should.

  I drive to Awesome Cow to meet Marisa. We walk the first mile through town and up Greenbrook Road in comfortable silence, our breath hanging in vaporous puffs on the crisp air. I’ve gotten used to the alternating pressure—foot, thigh, foot, thigh.

  It’s become second nature to me. But between the steady beats, I wonder if I’m
making the same mistake all over again. If I’m letting personal bias color the truth. I viewed Susannah through the lens of my obsession, never really seeing her for the way she was. Maybe now I’m doing the same with Ryan because I feel sorry for him. And because I’m guilt-ridden. What if I’m wrong about him, too?

  And if I’m not, then who killed Susannah?

  Patrick? Trudy? Spake? The possibilities swirl in my head.

  Marisa and I have walked fast and I’m a bit winded. I stop to catch my breath. Between the bare trees, the reservoir glitters in silver patches.

  Marisa looks up at me, and smiles. “I can barely keep up with you. You and Veronica are Team Awesome.”

  “We make a strange love triangle—me, you, and my bionic leg.”

  “I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous. She’s the one who always gets to be close to you.”

  I crack a one-sided smile. “Yeah, but she’ll never really warm up to me.”

  Marisa giggles. I cup her face in my hands and sigh. I don’t mention the true third side of our triangle. Leaning in closer, my breath quickens.

  “I want you so much,” she says, her lips parting. “I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “Me neither.” I close my eyes and let my mouth find hers. What’s the harm of one quick kiss?

  But I pull back, shaking a little. I can’t risk Marisa getting hurt.

  “This sucks,” Marisa says.

  We trudge along some more. I look up, surprised to see we’ve gone much further than the two miles we’d planned to walk. My thigh throbs. I’ve overdone it.

  “Tired?” Marisa asks. “I can go back and get the car.”

  “No. I’m fine. In fact, why don’t you head back? I have a quick errand to do.”

  Her voice drops, and her lip curls. “Jeremy, my bullshit detector is bleeping code red. You may think you can put one over on everyone else, but I’m onto you. What are you really up to?”

  I finger the keys in my pocket and think about the dream in the cemetery. My mother pulling up boards from the floor of her grave. If Susannah can return from the dead to haunt me, why can’t my mother return to warn me?

  I stare into the middle distance, lost in thought. Dreams don’t lie, Mom said in the dream.

  “Earth to Jeremy?”

  I turn to her and smile. “I, uh…” and realize quickly that I can’t lie to Marisa because she sees clear through me. Transparent Jeremy Glass. “I have the keys to Trudy Durban’s house.”

  “What? Why? You’re not thinking of—Jeremy, don’t tell me you want to go in there.”

  I glance up at the street sign. We’re at the intersection of Melrose and Monroe. It must have been in the back of my mind all along. “Look, Marisa. You don’t have to come. In fact, I insist that you don’t. It might be dangerous.”

  “You really are insane. You could slip and fall, and who would be there to help you?”

  “You worry too much. Look. They’re getting ready to file charges against Ryan. Not only will that mean an innocent, totally fucked-up guy who can barely see, walk, or even speak for himself could be blamed for a crime he didn’t commit, but it still won’t get Susannah off our backs because I don’t think he did it, and, quite frankly, I don’t know if she wants us to know who really did.”

  “Are you saying Susannah wanted to frame Ryan? Why?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But I had this dream. About floorboards and stuff. I think there’s something in the Durbans’ house that will unravel the whole thing.”

  “Isn’t that breaking and entering?”

  “Not if I have the key.”

  Marisa bites her lower lip, looking so adorable I want to scream.

  “Why on earth did I have to get mixed up with the biggest lunatic on the planet?” she moans, mock dramatically, hand to her chest.

  “I take that as a yes?”

  “Yes. To make sure you don’t get hurt, Mr. My Ass is Glass.”

  The Durban house has a forlorn and deserted look. Snow has drifted onto the porch in thick piles and the dirty white of the front lawn is pitted with tossed newspapers left where they’d landed. I realize it’s a good thing Marisa has decided to come with me, because Veronica and I are going to have a rough go crossing the filthy, melting mess.

  The sun has disappeared behind a thick cloud cover. The sky has the close dark look of imminent rain, unusual for early January. A drop falls, and then another.

  We get to the porch just before the deluge. I’m gasping for breath and embarrassed to be so winded from a simple dash across a yard.

  “It’ll get easier, eventually,” Marisa says, reading my mind.

  Again, I’m overcome with the urge to kiss her and the anger rushes to my cheeks. It’s not acceptable, I think.

  Not acceptable at all, that I can’t.

  I place my cold hands on either side of her face and look into her eyes. Electricity passes between us, drawing me closer and I can’t pull away. I want this too much.

  So I kiss her anyway, soft and sweet and urgent, right there on the porch, knee-deep in snow. Practical, no-nonsense, quicksilver Marisa. Her lips are cool, her mouth warm. Joy rolls through my nerve endings. Cold as I am, I could stand like this forever, kissing her.

  But my memory roams to the time I almost died of hypothermia on Susannah’s porch. It’s only then that I remember where I am.

  There’s a sudden gust of wind and the screen door flies open, slamming hard into my back.

  “Ouch. Shit!”

  “Weird,” Marisa says, looking warily around.

  “It was just the wind. That’s all.”

  But Marisa’s eyes are wide and I’m not sure she believes me.

  Inside, the air is stale, but as always the Durbans’ house is meticulously neat. If anything, though, there are more crosses cluttering every spare inch. Trudy Durban has even hung them on the slats of the staircase banister.

  Rain patters the roof and streams into the gutters in small waterfalls. Wind pounds at the windows. I don’t dare turn on the lights, in case a neighbor or passing car might notice intruders. The whole town knows that no one is home at the Durbans’.

  Lightning flashes strobe the dark room into intervals of intense brightness. Marisa looks around and shivers. “It’s really spooky being back here. Now, remind me. Why exactly are we here?”

  “Because I had a dream.”

  Marisa laughs nervously. “So, now you’re Martin Luther King.”

  I poke her with my elbow. “Funny, funny. I had a dream about something hidden under some floorboards. And I think whatever it is is hidden somewhere here, in this house. But I have no idea what it is, or where Trudy would hide something.”

  Marisa’s face creases in a frown. “Well, she never did let me clean under her bed.”

  There’s a bright flash and an earsplitting crack of thunder. We flinch, and then, without saying a word, we’re racing up the steps to the master bedroom as fast as I can manage, Marisa right behind me.

  When we get to the top, a squall of wet wind blasts the hall window open. We hit the floor and creep on our stomachs, commando style, to Trudy’s bedroom. Above us, the blackness gathers and billows in an iridescent cloud.

  Once inside the master bedroom, the door slams behind us. With violent pops, all the glass in the room shatters. Shards bombard us in a glittering blizzard, the deadliest snowfall ever. Thunder rattles the floor. Rain slams the roof and pelts the window.

  A lamp smashes into the wall behind us, followed by a picture in a glass frame. Small objects, paper, coins, and dust whip into a vortex that whirls around us as we drag ourselves toward the king-sized bed like soldiers to a foxhole. Marisa screams as a sliver of glass grazes her cheek, narrowly missing her eye.

  I help her squirm under the bed beside me. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  Marisa presses her scarf to her bleeding cheek. “It’s just a scratch. Let’s make this worth the trouble.”

  As we huddle under the bed, the
room shrieking and groaning around us, a hurricane of flying objects batters the walls as we grope around for loose floorboards which may or may not be here.

  And I wonder if I really am crazy and haunted. If I’ve led Marisa on an irresponsible and dangerous wild-goose chase.

  My knuckles knock against hollow floor. Digging my fingers between the planks, I pry a single board free, revealing the shallow space beneath.

  I poke around, my hand scuffing against something soft, and extract what looks like a large wedding album.

  As soon as I open the album, the howling wind stops. The glass shards clatter to the floor.

  There are pages and pages of loose-leaf paper slipped under the plastic sheeting of the photo album. Some pages are crowded with ballpoint pen, written in a backward-slanting loopy script. Some are covered, collage-style, with photographs, torn bits of menus, book covers, magazines, and matchbooks. Then come the pages and pages of defaced photos. Patrick Morgan with his eyes torn out. Scribbled on. Gouged. Even burned. Each subsequent page more violent and disturbed, as if the book is a timeline of Trudy’s devolving mental state. Her rabid hatred for Patrick rises from the images like toxic fumes.

  A pendant on a chain slips from inside the book. It’s the other half of Mom’s heart locket, embossed with the words.

  Teresa

  ds forever.

  Marisa and I sit by the window in the waning light and leaf through the strange book that documents the anatomy of Trudy Durban’s rage. But it’s not Trudy’s insane scribblings that hold my interest. Instead, it’s the pristinely penned essay on loose-leaf paper that draws me in.

  C H A P T E R

  t h i r t y - s e v e n

  Teresa Winston and Trudy Durban

  My Version, December 24th, 1978

  Paul had the flu and Celia was out of town visiting relatives. I didn’t want to go out on the ice with Patrick, Trudy, and Doug that night. But Trudy insisted.

  “Wear a hat,” she said.

  “I hate hats. I get hat hair.”

  “Give me a break, Teresa.”

  It was just going to be Trudy, Doug, Patrick, and me. And I already knew the scenario. Trudy and Doug would be all over each other, X-rated style, and Patrick, without Paul there, would have his hands all over me. I never did have the nerve to tell Paul that, whenever he turned his back, Patrick swooped in.