And, third, I loved when you and your friends had no money but you wanted to eat out. You’d always say, “Side salads for everyone! Side salads all around!” You were a real dork.
You were more alive than me when you were alive.
I miss you every minute, Wyatt.
Meg
Life for me had adopted a comfortable rhythm. I’d blended in as much as possible. I didn’t miss the overt sympathy that was a constant reminder of Wyatt at Canning Mills, and I’d found that I could hold it together better when I couldn’t see the tenderness in someone’s eyes that came from knowing about Wyatt. I didn’t have to wonder if someone was just being nice to me because I lost my brother. Here, they don’t know, and what they don’t know, won’t hurt them…or me.
Tennyson and her friends have taken pity on me and tried to include me by taking me to football games. And Thanett and I have become really close. We’ve been spending every afternoon working together in the bookstore and sometimes after work, we eat dinner together and do homework. I’ve looked for any opportunity to be close to Henry. When he’s walking close to me, I have an insane urge to grab him and hold on for dear life. He has obliged by finding a way to be alone with me as often as possible.
Life for my parents has not been as straightforward. Dad loves the hotel and has thrown himself into reorganizing the marketing team. He’s been working long hours, so Mom and I are alone a lot. She spends most of every day in her studio, although when I ask to see what she’s working on, she says there’s nothing to see.
One night, Dad came in my room and woke me. He sat on the edge of my bed, and he looked so sad when he reached out to touch my cheek.
“Are you awake, Meg?” he whispered.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about how difficult things are right now with your mom. I just feel so bad for you.”
I sat up and gathered my quilt around me. I didn’t know what to say to help him feel any better. His eyes were red and swollen, and his shoulders were hunched over as he tried to find a comfortable place to sit that wouldn’t crush me. I wanted to put my arms around him, but I thought if I touched him, I’d feel his sorrow and I would panic.
“I’m okay, Dad. You shouldn’t worry about me. Just worry about Mom. What should I do?”
He laughed a little under his breath—a grim clue that he didn’t believe there was anything either of us could do.
“I’ve been trying to get her to see a counselor here. I’ve tried to get her to take the antidepressant that she was given in Pittsburgh. She’s refusing.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
He continued like he hadn’t heard me. “I came to a conclusion a minute ago. This is why I woke you up. I believe that you and I have been able to move forward. We’ve been healing as we go. Not that it’s been easy for us. Adele, though, not so much moving forward. It seems like she’s regressing…like she’s in denial again. She won’t listen to reason and she gets angry if I bring it up. Nothing I say is right. Nothing.”
I took a deep breath, trying to decide what I should say.
“Dad, have you two made a decision about something? Is that why you’re here?”
He shuddered and a look of exquisite pain crossed his face. I realized when he turned his eyes to me that he’d been crying for a while. I had hoped I would never have to see my strong dad cry again. A sob rose from deep in my chest and I looked down to hide it.
“We haven’t made a decision, Meg. I love your mother more than myself. I want her to feel better. I want her to be interested in life again. But I can’t force her. I can’t make her feel something that isn’t there. This butting heads thing that we’ve been doing for the last year isn’t right. It’s hurting her more than helping. She threatens to leave. I threaten to make her stay. She hates me. It’s a vicious circle that isn’t doing either of us any good. Maybe…”
His voice faded out and he stared out my window like he was trying to divine the future.
“Dad, don’t let her leave. Where would she go? I don’t want to go back to Canning Mills! I can’t go back to living in a fish bowl there.”
He turned to look at me like he just realized I was there. Like he was surprised to find that I had an opinion on the matter.
“Meg. Sweet Meg. If she chooses to go back to Canning Mills, we can’t stop her. She has to make her way through this before she can be ours again. But you and me, Meg, we can’t go with her. If she leaves, she leaves alone. We’ve started down a path here and I think it’s the right one. We’ll stay.”
I pulled the quilt tighter around me, suddenly shaking violently. I hugged my knees to try to force my body to be still.
After he left my room that night, I cried myself to sleep. I worried that my mom would leave us, but I worried as much that if she didn’t leave us, the pain of it all would kill her.
A few nights later, when I came in from the bookstore, I found her kneeling on the ground in front of her studio, digging small holes with a kitchen spoon and placing flower bulbs in the holes. She hummed the lullaby that she sang when Wyatt and I were little. I approached her quietly, not wanting to stop this moment if it meant that she was burying a little part of her sadness.
She heard me behind her and without looking up she spoke to me. “Look, Meggie, I bought crocus bulbs today. I heard that now is the time to plant them. Maybe in the spring, you’ll see tiny little leaves coming out. The flowers will be yellow. You’ll look for them in the spring, right?”
“Yes, Mom, we’ll probably see them in May or June since it stays cool here so long.”
“May should be nice here.”
“Mom, would you like to get out for dinner tonight? We could walk to a café and sit in front of a fireplace and have a nice dinner.”
“I’m not hungry, Meg. But you should go. Maybe you could eat at the hotel with your dad.”
“No, I’d really like to eat with you. I’d like to show you some of the town. We could even visit the Wimberley studio. It’s open late tonight. Annie says they have beautiful local art. I don’t have any homework.”
I felt the desperation in my voice. I needed my mother to take this hand that I was offering her. But she didn’t seem inclined to reach back.
I searched her eyes for an indication of her emotion. Something seemed different there. She was calm, but closed down. Her green eyes stared blankly back at mine. Because I have her eyes, I knew the look well. She’d made a decision and I was suddenly terrified for her—for us. I helped her plant the rest of the bulbs that she bought. We made two even rows directly in front of her studio and then I brought rocks from the yard and we placed them like a stone fence around the bulbs. We both stood and looked at our work.
“It’s good,” she said.
“Yeah, it’ll add a lot of color here. Maybe you can paint them when they bloom.”
“Yes.”
Then I took a chance. “Mom, are you still taking your medicine? Is it helping you feel better?”
She turned to me and her anger was quick and burning. “I don’t want to feel better,” she said slowly, like she was talking to an enemy instead of her own daughter, like it was perfectly normal for hate and love to keep company in her relationship with me. “Why should I want to feel better when my son is lying in a grave two thousand miles from here, and the world is forgetting him? For God’s sake, even his own father is forgetting him.”
Her anger turned to weeping, “I’m so tired of everyone thinking it’s time to get on with life. You’re no better than your dad, Meg. Don’t you see? Wyatt’s not a bandage you can rip off to end the pain quickly. God, you’ve moved on. Ah, I just want to be quiet about it. Can’t we all just be silent about this? Don’t you see that words mess it up?”
Her words cut me so deeply that I couldn’t breathe for a full minute. Finally, I sucked air in loudly and shook with the violence of that act.
“I struggle every day just to make it through without h
im, Mom! That was unfair. I know you wish it had been me! But it wasn’t and you need to remember that I loved Wyatt as much as you did. You don’t own this grief! It’s mine, too. And it’s Dad’s. He’s trying to be strong for us! You don’t even recognize that! You don’t give him credit for all that he’s trying to do for us!”
We were both crying now. I refused to walk away, though. As much as this hurt, it was a relief to finally hear her say the words that have simmered under the surface for months. I thought that maybe when she heard how impossibly ridiculous she sounded she would turn this corner.
Her body relaxed slightly and she held one hand in the air toward me…like she wanted to comfort me, but she was unable to close the distance between us.
“I’m sorry, Meg. I have never wished that it had been you. I’m sorry you’ve thought that for even one second. I don’t know how to do this. I’m just so cold here. You have to forgive me for the things that I must do. I can’t listen to your dad’s voice anymore, talking about everything except Wyatt. And, you, you have to be allowed to live and I’m just making that impossible.”
With that, she walked past me into the house. I heard her close the door to their room.
I called my dad at work and told him that he should come home. Within minutes, he opened the front door, nodded to me and disappeared into their room. I didn’t hear anything from them the rest of the night—or the next morning. Their room was still quiet as I showered and got ready for school. I put my ear to the door before I left. I touched the knob and fought my desire to open the door so that they could comfort me. I needed my parents, but I couldn’t have them. I hadn’t had them in a year and a half. Quietly, I turned and walked away.
The day felt eternal for me. I was distracted in every class. Tennyson tried to bring me into conversations, but her voice sounded miles away, and a bit like an annoying insect. Henry watched me anxiously, but I couldn’t smile even to reassure him.
I drove Thanett to the bookstore and walked in with him. I told Annie that I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to go home to rest. Of course, she was fine with that. I drove home very slowly, afraid of what I would face. It was as obvious to me as anything I’d ever known—my mom would not be there when I got home.
Even though I had prepared myself, it still broke something deep inside me when I pulled in our drive and saw that her car was gone. She chose Wyatt over me. She loved the dead more than the living. I parked and sat in the Jeep as tears stung my eyes and blinded me. My stomach hurt so bad that I doubled over, and my heart took up a spluttering, unnerving rhythm. After a time, the passenger door opened and my dad slid in. He looked straight ahead out of the window. He reached for my hand blindly and found it. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.
“I know, Dad. I know she’s gone.”
“She said she needed to be with Wyatt.”
“What will we do?”
“We’ll stay here and work through this. I’ve called her therapist in Pittsburgh to let her know.”
“When did she leave?”
“After you left for school.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. It’s my fault. I asked her about her medication. I upset her.”
“No, baby. You had nothing to do with this. She’s planned this for weeks.”
Dad stepped out of the car and then leaned back against it and stared at the sky. I got out and walked to him.
“It’s going to be okay, Meg.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. We have to adjust our expectations now.”
“You know, your grandfather used to say that we were never promised an easy time on this earth. Life’s about how we react to the hard stuff. You remember that through these next few months. Mom will come home and we’ll get through this. You keep hold of yourself. This too shall pass.”
“I think I’ll take a walk,” I said, as I turned down the drive and walked away from him.
“Don’t be gone long. I’ll need you here.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I whispered as I choked back the flood of tears that threatened to drown me.
I wasn’t even sure where I was going. I headed west and up a street that goes into an old, historical neighborhood. Most of the original settlers of the town built cabins here. There were even a few that sat on several acres and still had stables with a few horses. Sometimes you’d see someone riding downtown on one of these horses. There were actually still hitching posts outside of the old buildings.
It felt good to put one foot in front of the other—the forward motion was comforting. I wasn’t sure if I was walking away from pain or walking toward relief—a little of both, I think. As had become my habit when I was upset, I curled my right hand around my thumb and felt Wyatt’s presence warm me. He held my hand, even made little circles on my palm with his thumb. For me, these visits from Wyatt weren’t spirit-like. He was real and he was warm and I could hear his soft breathing. I heard his footsteps falling next to mine. I walked with my brother, again.
“What about Mom?” I asked him, breaking the silence.
“She’s fragile. She’s got an artist’s soul.”
“What am I supposed to do to help her? What are we supposed to do without her? Why does she get to act like a child?”
“Keep your head on straight, Meg. You heard Dad. This too will pass and all that.”
“She’s coming home to you, Wyatt. You have to make sure she doesn’t mean that literally. You can’t let her hurt herself.”
“She loves you too much to do that. You keep walking and Mom will catch up.”
“I miss you too much, Wyatt. I don’t think I can keep up the charade.”
“I’m right here, Meg.”
Completely unaware of how I got there, I found myself turning back down our rock driveway. I saw a light on in the living room. Dad stared out the front window, and his expression relaxed when he saw me. He gave me a half smile when our eyes met. His determination was heroic.
Neither of us could eat. I took a hot bath and got in bed. Dad stayed up late reading. I heard him on the phone a lot with friends in Pittsburgh. Once, as I drifted off to sleep, Dad said something that made me think he was talking to Mom on the phone. Maybe she made it to Pittsburgh, and she would be okay. I slept fitfully until the sun rose. I wondered what kind of God would let the sun come up again and again over this earth full of sadness and hatred and empty lives. Not one I trusted. It should be ended. I got out of bed and numbly got ready for school.
Keep walking, I told myself. I drove slowly and parked. I waited until my legs stopped shaking and I walked into the building. My stomach was messed up and I felt bile in the back of my throat. I must have looked as horrible as I felt because kids were staring and getting out of my way. I didn’t acknowledge anyone as I walked to English and took my seat. Henry was there, waiting. He pulled his desk close to mine when I sat down. His forehead was deeply lined with concern. He shook his head.
“Meg? You have to tell me what’s wrong. I’ve been going crazy with worry—you didn’t call me back last night. You were so upset yesterday. Have I done something? I’m wracking my brain trying to remember everything I’ve ever said to you. Have I hurt you?”
“Of course not, Henry.” I looked in his eyes pleading with him to believe me. “You cannot think this has anything to do with you. You are the sweetest person I’ve ever known. I’ll be fine.”
“If you feel like you can talk to me, then let’s go, right now. We’ll walk out of here before class starts—you and me. We’ll take a drive. We’ll go down to Red Canyon and we can just sit. Or you can talk and I’ll listen. I’m a really good listener.”
“I just need some time, Henry. I need to stick with a normal schedule and stay at school today.”
He reached for my hand and held it in both of his as he searched my face. His eyes were tortured. I wanted to put him at ease, but I had no idea how to do that; I couldn’t even help myself anymore.
Mr. Landman came in and put dow
n his briefcase. His modus operandi was to begin class by reciting a poem or a passage from whatever we were studying. So, without greeting us, he recited:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Then, in utterly absurd irony, Landman called my name. “Meg, I’d love to hear your interpretation of Dickinson’s poem.”
You’ve got to be kidding me! I struggled to maintain composure. I felt Henry shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to figure out a way to intercede for me.
“Well, if you take the poem at face value,” I said after a long pause, “you’d think she’s saying that ‘hope’ is with us, all of us, and it is strong enough to sing to us no matter what storm we’re enduring, or how far away from normal we are.”
“Hmmm. Taken at face value, you say. So tell me what you think lies under the surface, Meg.”
I felt myself go white and clammy. “She’s obviously making fun of people who are naïve enough to believe this. I mean, what hope did she possibly feel? She was so completely introverted that she stopped leaving her house when she was my age. Then even weirder, she stopped leaving her bedroom. She would only talk to people through a door. People called her a ghost! She was suicidal. She was in love with a man she couldn’t have. She hid her poetry, and ordered her sister to burn it when she died. She didn’t live like she believed in hope.”
Glass Girl Page 11