Glass Girl

by Kurk, Laura Anderson

  I saw a smaller cabin behind the main house and Dad followed my eyes. “It’s the servant’s cabin, Meg,” he said, smiling a little. “I knew you’d get a kick out of it. When society’s elite came here to vacation in the early 1900s, they always traveled with a staff. There’s a bedroom, a small sitting room and a bathroom in there. I think your mom can use it as a studio.”

  Desperate hope. That’s what he was feeling.

  “I want to show you,” whispered Dad, recognizing my simmering emotions. “Come inside with me.”

  Mom had already gone in. I could hear her opening cabinets in the kitchen and I wondered what she was thinking. Our house in Canning Mills was four-thousand square feet of craftsman beauty. This house was half that size, but, to me, more striking in its simplicity. I felt immediately like this was a place I’d wanted all my life. I felt my hand close onto my thumb like I was holding Wyatt’s hand. “Let’s go,” I murmured.

  The front door entered into the living area. I looked around and took in the small room. The high ceiling was beamed and the windows were the only decoration. My eyes were drawn to them and I gasped. There, above the trees, miles away, rose a beautiful mountain—snow-capped. Whoever built the house had stood right here and felt justified.

  My room was perfect, small and dark. I had a large window that looked out into the forest of aspens and ponderosa pines. Two antique twin beds took up most of the floor space. The walls looked smooth and were papered with an old floral paper that was softly colored and faded to nothing in areas.

  “We can paint over the paper, Meg,” said Dad.

  “No,” I whispered. “I love it.”

  A patchwork rug covered part of the worn wood floor and three old quilts rested neatly on each bed. Obviously Dad had done some work to make sure we’d be comfortable when we got here. A folded piece of paper on the bed by the window caught my eye. I stared at it until Dad squeezed my shoulder and said, “Go ahead, Meg.”

  He stepped out to find Mom and closed my door behind him. I sat on the bed and it creaked gracefully with my weight. I opened the linen paper and recognized my Dad’s neat, small handwriting. He’d written deliberately and carefully so I stopped breathing and started reading.

  My dearest Megan Grace,

  You are my best thing and I want you to know how deeply I love you. You have been made to face such suffering, mostly on your own. I regret that so much. Mom and I have been so focused on surviving that we have not held you enough or assured you of our love. Forgive us for that, Meg. Forgive me.

  We are now at a crossroads—unwilling to turn left or right, but knowing full well that we must make a choice. We can no longer live in this state of suspended animation. The world has continued moving even if we haven’t.

  Wyatt was a beautiful light in your life, in all our lives. It’s up to you now to be done with this fear of others that has paralyzed you. You must keep walking and allow yourself to trust again.

  This move represents so much. You have been given the gift of a fresh start. I hope you accept this gift and nurture its possibilities. You are beautiful, intelligent, and kind. You will be fine.

  You should know that I am here when you need someone.

  I love you…infinity.

  Dad

  The gates I had closed on this pain before we left Pittsburgh opened wide and a flood of emotion swept me away. Somehow, the feeling was different this time. The nerves weren’t quite as raw. The crying felt more peaceful; and I was suddenly so tired. I drifted in and out of consciousness, always aware of the sound of my own crying. I was being pulled away, though, and I dreamed even before I was fully asleep.

  My dream was vivid and colorful. Wyatt was there—he stood in the middle of a grove of aspens. The leaves were brilliant yellow and deep red. They moved with such tiny, graceful movements that they seemed to shimmer—tiny jewels catching the sunlight. Wyatt wore my favorite shirt of his—a blue plaid flannel—and his favorite Levis. He smiled his best smile, and his whole face looked happy. His crazy hair blew around in the wind, and it made me laugh because it stuck straight up. I realized he was smiling at me and holding out his hand. His hand felt warm when I took it. His grasp felt strong. He hugged me and then turned me around and draped his arms over my shoulders.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s yours, Meg.”

  I looked up and saw that we were standing in a valley with mountains all around. Two rivers met just fifty feet in front of us and a herd of elk had stopped to drink. In the distance, I saw our lovely, little house with smoke rising from the chimney. Mom and Dad were standing in the front window. They were smiling, too…

  I stirred and opened my eyes, realizing that I lay in my new bed. I smelled a fire in the fireplace, and I could hear my parents talking quietly in the next room. It almost felt like things were right…normal. It was dark, and it was safe, so I drifted back to sleep.

  Dear Wyatt—

  Last night I dreamed you were here and it felt so real that I woke up and looked for you. I hate the moment when I remember you’re gone. It used to happen to me every morning.

  I think you would like Chapin—it seems a likely place to find arrowheads and artifacts. Two rivers meet right at the outskirts of town and all around the town is a huge reservation. It’s always been a ranching town and some of the families have been here for generations.

  This place couldn’t be more different from Pittsburgh. Here’s hoping I won’t look like a freak at school.

  Love,

  Meg

  The next morning, the sun shone through the wavy glass and sent rainbows dancing around the floor and walls. I stretched and looked around my new room. I wasn’t sure where all my things would go—maybe to Goodwill.

  Unfamiliar deep voices boomed too loudly from the front room. The movers had made it. I understood now why we left all but a few pieces of furniture in Pittsburgh. With no room here, our big stuff would have been awkward and out of place. Dad directed traffic and Mom banged around in the kitchen. I grabbed some clothes out of my bag and headed to the bathroom.

  After a shower, I combed through my wet hair and brushed my teeth. I pulled on my jeans and a Penn sweatshirt, grabbed my shoes from my room and went to the kitchen. Mom had actually made coffee and heated some cinnamon rolls. I felt a surge of protective tenderness for her that I hadn’t felt in so long.

  “Morning, Mom,” I said, offering her a tentative smile.

  “How’d you sleep, Meggie?” she asked.

  “Really, really deeply.”

  “It must be the mountain air,” she said. She handed me a plate and poured a glass of orange juice.

  “Do you mind if I explore a little while the movers are here?” I asked.

  “Do what you need to do, Meg.”

  I ate quickly and grabbed my bag.

  “Be careful,” she called as I headed out the door.

  I stopped and looked around when I stepped outside, wondering if I would ever get used to how beautiful it was here. I had just started the Jeep and backed around the moving truck when Dad knocked on my window. “Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?” he asked. I could tell he was looking for a clue to how I felt.

  “Yes. Thanks for the letter, Dad. I love you.” My words didn’t seem to match the emotion of his letter. Instead, they sounded rushed and jumbled, and I blushed a little, embarrassed. “I’m headed to town. Need anything?” I asked, needing to lighten the moment.

  “Why are you driving? Town’s a block that way,” he joked.

  “I know,” I answered. “It just feels good to be invisible in the car. I don’t want people staring at me.”

  “Okay, but you’d better get used to that,” he said, winking. “Next week you’ll be the new kid at school…the new girl from back East.”

  Ah, there’s the rub. I’d worried about being the new kid since Dad announced we were moving. I’d taken comfort in the fact that at least I would be the new girl with no history…no dead br
other…no very public displays of depression to color anyone’s impression of me…no preset expectations of the perfect, happy family. I decided during the long drive to Wyoming that I would not tell anyone about Wyatt. Sharing him with these strangers would be unimaginable. He was mine and I didn’t want them to think about him. They would misunderstand him.

  I studied the map of the town that I’d printed before we left Pittsburgh and I found a bookstore called Wind River Books on Main. I backed out and headed north, found a parking space in the right block and pulled in. I watched crowds of tourists and locals pass by on the sidewalk. One group looked like the high school kids I saw at the café last night. I let them pass, and then with my heart in my throat, I opened my door.

  I walked and read storefronts as I went. People smiled and made eye contact with me, but I just stared at my feet uncomfortably. In Pittsburgh, only crazy people would make this much eye contact. I came to a tall, narrow, old building with a wooden sign hanging from an awning that said Wind River Books. I rushed to open the door and the smell of old books, dust, and leather greeted me when I stepped in. The store was long and narrow with a dangerous-looking spiral staircase in the middle of the room. Shelves, crammed with books, lined every inch of wall space. A sign on the stairs said “New Books and Reading Room Upstairs.” Two antique tables with lamps created a nice reading space in the back. A few people milled around or read quietly at the tables. I could hear the floor creaking upstairs as someone walked around.

  A petite blonde woman behind the counter stepped out and smiled when she saw me. “Can I help you find something,” she asked quietly.

  “No, thank you, I’d just like to look around,” I said.

  “Take your time,” she said. “We’ve got a lot of books on local history here in the front; this entire wall is Native American history for this area; and, upstairs we’ve got new books and journals.”

  “Thanks,” I answered. “I’m also looking for an after-school job. I worked in a bookstore in Pittsburgh a couple of summers ago, and I’d love to do the same thing here.” Wow, that just popped out. I hadn’t been planning to ask for a job.

  “Oh, you’ve just moved here from Pittsburgh?” she asked. “My son and I moved from Chicago three years ago. I wanted Thanett to grow up in a simpler place. What grade are you in?”

  “I’m a junior.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “You’ll have to look for Thanett. He’s a junior, too. He’s the manager of the football team. They’ve really taken him in here.”

  She looked down as she said this but I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty.

  “Okay,” I said, holding my hand out to her. “I’m Meg Kavanagh.”

  “Hi, Meg. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Annie Brewer. I bought the bookstore when we moved here, and this place was a real mess. I sure could use your help with shelving and inventory, if you’re interested in that.”

  She suddenly looked so fragile, and I felt drawn to her. I recognized the sadness in her eyes. “Sounds great,” I said, managing a smile. “I can come over after school on Monday.”

  “I can’t afford to pay much,” she said. “Seven dollars an hour would be about my limit.”

  “That’s fine,” I assured her. I knew this wasn’t about the money for me, and I didn’t mind if she knew that, too.

  “Come on, Meg, I’ll show you around,” she said as she took my arm in hers. Okay, first day in and I’ve made a friend and secured a job.

  Dear Wyatt—

  It’s two-thirty in the morning and I’m shaking. My heart is racing. I just threw up. I’m trying to remember your face and I can’t. I looked for my box of pictures and I can’t find it. It’s not where I thought it was. I think Mom must have gone through my things and taken it. I’m trying so hard to remember your eyes that my head hurts. I know they were brown but I can’t see them anymore. I have a sense of you, like an outline, but when I focus on the details, you disappear. Are you leaving me?

  What you looked like:

  1. Sandy blonde hair—always messy and in your eyes. Perpetually in need of a good haircut.

  2. Brown eyes—they were kind and probing. You had unnaturally long eyelashes—so long that when they were wet, they would tangle together and lie flat against your skin. You were never afraid to stare without looking away. Drove girls crazy and you knew it. Usually had dark circles under your eyes because you wandered around a lot at night. I’d hear you in the kitchen at midnight, making coffee, or watching TV and laughing softly at Saturday Night Live reruns.

  3. Mouth was thin like Dad’s. You smiled a lot. When you weren’t smiling, you were smirking. But never mean. Your lips made you look older than you were. Like you were so beyond kids your age. But I know it was just something you’d perfected in the mirror.

  4. Tall—6’ 1”. Thin. Jeans always hung off your narrow hips. Ran long-distance track so you were strong. Strong enough to snap someone’s neck but it was never obvious—like you had this hidden, disciplined restraint. But if you were pushed, you’d come out fighting like a mad panther.

  Tell me, Wyatt, that you’re having trouble sleeping wherever you are now. That you miss me and you’re making a list of what I look like.

  Love,

  Meg

  Chapin High School, a mercilessly unimpressive building built in the 1960s, looked like a military bunker with tiny windows in each classroom. My old high school had nearly four thousand students, and it boggled the mind how crowded the halls were. Chapin High might hold five hundred at full capacity. A gym sat behind the main building and a typical high school football stadium was across the street, surprisingly nice for a town this small. I’d been unbelievably nervous all morning. Couldn’t eat breakfast—nothing would’ve stayed down anyway.

  I followed a line of cars into the parking lot. Wyatt’s Jeep, with its wickedly treaded tires, looked like most of the other cars. Anything with four wheel drive seemed acceptable here, and a spare tire strapped on top appeared to be a status symbol. Dad told me last night that they were thinking of buying me a small car in Pittsburgh, but that he’d like for me to consider keeping Wyatt’s Jeep now that we’re here. I was hoping they’d come to that conclusion. I couldn’t bear to think of selling the Jeep. Wyatt’s CDs, his books and papers, his cologne—everything in the Jeep screamed Wyatt. I haven’t even cleaned it out.

  I parked, cut the engine, and watched kids piling out of cars and talking. They were all glad to see each other. They’ve probably all been together since they were babies. I made some assumptions as I sat there. I found the athletes, slapping each other on the back and laughing loudly. The cheerleader-types followed closely behind them.

  There were kids that looked like they belonged more on a rock cliff than in a classroom. A lot of the guys had really long hair; a couple of them even had dreadlocks. A group of emos stood around in a circle by the edge of the building, smoking, and comparing piercings or whatever they thought was unique. Although how unique could it be if they all had it, and why didn’t that dawn on them? And, as I expected, the majority of the kids looked like they were somewhere on the cowboy spectrum. Some were in boots with western clothes, and a lot of kids looked like they’d been up since dawn doing something dusty with cows or horses. A smaller group of girls passed, talking quietly. I watched them closely—they looked more authentic than the other girls.

  When the parking lot emptied completely, I stepped out. I shook all over and couldn’t take more than shallow breaths. They’d think I was neurotic if I walked in this way. If they were wondering, my clinical diagnosis would be more “post traumatic stress disorder” and less “neurotic.” I pretended Wyatt was here, walking me into the school, smiling and relaxed. Just thinking of him that way made me feel better.

  The front office, a small, wood-paneled room, had a receptionist desk and behind that two offices, for the principal and assistant principal. The receptionist looked up when I came in.

  “Good morning. New student?” she
asked, with that strange non-accent accent they all seemed to have here.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Megan Kavanagh, a new junior,” I offered, a little too quietly. “Everyone calls me Meg.”

  “Of course, Meg.” she said. “The principal, Ms. Ewing, wanted to see you before you go to class.”

  “Oh, okay,” I stammered.

  “Right this way, honey,” she said, motioning with her hand like I was a scared child.

  I got the sense that they already knew too much. My game had ended before it even began.

  Somewhere close, I heard a vibration starting. It was a ringing of glass that has very little damping. This one was going to break soon. Only a tiny bit more pressure and it would explode. I told myself I could not shatter right here in my new principal’s office. I would not say that I am obsessed with finding exits in every building I’m in; and that I’ve already counted the three ways out of this office and know which one was fastest. I would not admit that I researched ways to kill myself for a full six months, never intending to actually do it. I would not explain that my parents were teetering on the edge of divorce every day; or that maybe we’d all be better off if they did. I would not tell her that I believed I could still talk to Wyatt whenever I wanted to; or that I wrote him letters and waited for him to write back. I would not tell her that I could shatter at any moment. That I was glass.

  “Ms. Ewing,” said the receptionist, with an almost hesitant nod in my direction. “This is Meg Kavanagh from Pittsburgh.”

  “Come in, Meg from Pittsburgh,” Ms. Ewing said warmly, as she came from around her desk to shake my hand. “Canning Mills, right? I’m so glad to meet you finally.”