Glass Girl

by Kurk, Laura Anderson

  “Where’s your dad?”

  I groaned and felt a stab of pain as I thought of the layers of things I have to explain about my mother. I decided I might as well be completely honest.

  “He followed my mom to our beach house in New Jersey. When we got here yesterday, we found out that she’d left my aunt’s house. No one knew where she was. So Dad rented a car and drove to New Jersey hoping she was there. He found her and he’s going to make her stay there with him for a few days.”

  Henry sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry, Meg. I wish I could fix all of this for you. It’s killing me to see you like this.”

  “You’re helping me, Henry. I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”

  He took my shoulders and held me firmly.

  “You stop that, Meg. I’m serious. You’ve got to stop that. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here and I can take it. Whatever you need to dole out, I can take. But you have to stop apologizing to me.”

  I curled into him and his warmth made my eyelids shut again. After a few minutes, I drifted off. He let me sleep for a few minutes and then he woke me.

  “Meg, you need to rest. I’ll carry you to your bed.”

  “No, I can walk.”

  I got up and started toward the stairs. He grabbed his bag and followed me. When we got to my room, he looked around and smiled. He touched my dresser and my bed. He walked over to my window and looked out and then pulled my curtains closed. He turned the lamp on next to my bed and helped me put the sheets on. Once we made my bed, I took him to the guest room and we made his bed.

  I realized suddenly that he’d been traveling all day. He must have been starving.

  “Do you want to take a shower? And, I can heat up some of my aunt’s beef stew for you. You can eat in here with me.”

  He traced my jaw with his fingers. “That sounds great, Meg.”

  I found a tray in the kitchen and I loaded it down with stew and a bowl of microwave popcorn that I found in the pantry. I was waiting in my bed when he came in wearing University of Wyoming sweats. He sat on the bed and leaned back on my pillows and ate the stew like he was starving. I ate popcorn and watched him, dazed and exhausted.

  When he finished, he took the tray down to the kitchen. I curled up under my blankets and fought sleep. I heard him walk back into my room and turn off my lamp, and then he slid into bed next to me. He pulled me into him and held me. His tenderness slipped open the knot of pain that I’d felt building just behind my ribcage. I tried not to cry again, but it was impossible to fight it. Henry seemed to know that what I needed the most was for him to hold me quietly. I felt such a strange combination of emotions—one of the strongest seemed to be embarrassment that this was how Henry had to find out about Wyatt. Henry deserved better. So did Wyatt.

  “It’s okay now, Meg,” he murmured in my ear. “It’s okay. ‘Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love.’”

  “What?”

  “It’s just a verse my mom would say to us when we’d had a bad day. I want you to remember that God hurts with you. He’s been holding you all these months. He hasn’t failed you.”

  After a while, I drifted toward sleep. Maybe I was still crying, though, because I felt my chest shudder when I breathed. I felt Henry slowly untangle himself from my arms and legs, and from the blanket and slide out of the bed. He sat for a minute on the edge. I knew he was watching me, trying to decide if I was okay. If I was asleep. “Happy Birthday, Meg,” he whispered as he kissed my cheek. Then he walked quietly down the hall to the guest room.

  I woke to a quiet house—silent except for the noises that this house and neighborhood have always made. The pipes popped loudly as the furnace struggled to fight the freezing temperature outside. Tree limbs scratched at my window. Familiar cars idled in driveways—my neighbors trying to warm them before they got in. The kids across the street fought about a Christmas present.

  I took a long shower and put on tights and boots and a miniskirt and a sweater. I dried my hair straight and brushed on some powder and blush. I wanted Henry to see that I could still function. I peeked into his room to make sure he was still there. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if he’d freaked out and run for the hills. When I saw him sleeping, I released the breath that I’d been holding.

  While he slept, I drove to the bakery a couple of blocks away for cinnamon rolls and juice. By the time I got back, Henry had built a fire in the fireplace and he stood and smiled when I walked in. He studied my face quietly, so I smiled back and saw him relax instantly.

  We sat on the floor in front of the fire and ate warm, sticky cinnamon rolls. These were Wyatt’s favorites. Dad would buy them on Saturday mornings if he was in a good mood. Wyatt could eat three or four and never gain a pound. When we were done, Henry pulled me next to him.

  “Anything else you’re not telling me, Meg? Now would be a good time for you to talk.”

  “No. You know everything now. I’m your open book—a sad, sad story. Are you afraid of me?”

  He found my hand and stared at it as he rubbed calming circles with his thumb. “Meg, it’s hard for me to put this into words. It’s like this part of you that I’ve never been able to figure out, to see clearly, is now in sharp focus. Like a veil was lifted, you know what I mean? It explains this compassion in you that I fell in love with without knowing what exactly I was falling for. Well, now I know. I see you and I’m not afraid. I’m blown away by the depth and strength of your soul.”

  I couldn’t breathe, much less respond to his sweet words.

  “I know you loved Wyatt, honey. We can talk about him whenever you need to. I want to know all about him. I would’ve liked to have known him.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “We were best friends. We laughed all the time. He took care of me. I worshipped him. He was tall and strong, like you. Very focused. Quiet. Smart.”

  “Why did he call you his glass girl?”

  “I don’t know. He thought it was funny that I was so emotional about everything. He worried that I’d break if somebody looked at me wrong. Things just affect me and Wyatt knew I was fragile.”

  “Maybe he called you that because he knew you were strong. Glass fibers are amazingly strong. A pane of glass might not be, but the individual fibers are. Maybe you should believe that’s what Wyatt meant. Because I’ve watched you now for all these months, plugging your way through some hard things, and I was thinking I’d never met anyone as strong as you. Glass is full of contradictions. It’s strong and fragile. It’s a barrier with a clear view of what it’s protecting us from. It’s beautiful but transparent. That’s you, Meg.”

  I thought about that for a minute. That would change everything I thought I knew about myself—to suddenly believe I was the strong one.

  “Meg, I want to help you if you’ll let me. I want you to see how amazing you are. Life threw you a curve, but you didn’t flinch.”

  I touched his cheek and smiled. “Henry, there’s so much to tell you about that part of my life. It changed me. Grief…well, it can either ruin your life or make you something else entirely. I’ll never be who I was then, and sometimes I miss that innocent part of me.”

  My voice cracked with emotion and from the effort of trying to explain what we’ve all felt since Wyatt died. Suddenly wanting Henry to know Wyatt, I jumped up and grabbed my backpack from the kitchen floor and dug in it until I found the picture I carry around. It was supposed to be his senior picture, but he thought that whole concept was ridiculous. Mom had to sneak it to the yearbook staff so they’d have a picture of him. In the photo, he sat on the steps of our front porch and leaned against the railing. He had a huge, relaxed smile on his face. I could tell his brain was working at warp speed—he was trying to think of something funny to say to dissolve the awkwardness he felt when having his picture taken.

  Henry studied the picture for a long time without speaking. When he finally broke the silence, his voice sounded hoarse and thick. “You have his smi
le and his eyes. Are they from your mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Jeep was Wyatt’s?”

  “They were going to buy me a car, but they let me keep his Jeep instead. They gave it to him as an early graduation present.”

  “So your mom came back here because of Wyatt.”

  I nodded. “She felt like we left him here alone. She’s been living with Aunt Catherine for a few weeks, but I think she’s going to move back into this house. She’s struggled with depression for a long time, but I guess Wyatt’s death was more than she could overcome. And I don’t know if she loves my dad anymore.”

  “You miss her.”

  “I miss them both—every day. Henry?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What will I do next year when you leave me?”

  He held my face and shook his head. “I’m not leaving you, Meg. I’ll be in Nicaragua for a little while, but I’m not leaving you. I’m already making plans to work around the clock to get it done, and get home to you.”

  Then his eyes got very serious and dark. “But—and I mean this—if you ask me not to go, I won’t go. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  My breath caught in my throat when I saw how much I’ve worried him. “I would never ask you not to go. I want you to help Kate and John. I’m just dreading it so much.”

  “If I do go, are you going to wait for me?”

  I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. The movement propelled us both off balance so he grabbed my waist and steadied me. Then he held my face and stopped me. “Say it, Meg. I want to hear you say you’ll wait for me.”

  “Henry, you can’t seriously doubt that. Of course. I’ll be right there in my little yellow house in Chapin waiting for you. And I’ll always be yours if you want me.”

  I stared at him, trying to reassure him, and he flipped me expertly onto my back with one arm under me and one hand holding my head to cushion it. He found my lips and softly and gently kissed me for a long time. When he pulled away, he lay on his side, and looked at me thoughtfully. “You sure your dad won’t come through the door and rip my head off any second now?”

  “He loves you, Henry. If he came through that door, he’d be glad to see you.”

  “How is it possible that I’m alone with you in your house?”

  I smiled up at him and laughed.

  “I was supposed to call a friend to stay here with me, but I guess I fell apart before I made that call.”

  “Well, I’m glad I got to be your friend last night.”

  “I should probably ask Allie and Krista to spend the night here tonight, since that’s what my dad expects.”

  “Yeah, okay. I guess. If you really have to.”

  We sat quietly watching the fire for a while. Henry leaned against the couch and pulled me against him.

  “Hey, Meg, while I’m here, I want to see your home town. I want to see those museums that you miss so much, and all your favorite places.”

  I smiled, thinking about the tour he gave me of his favorite places.

  “Really? I’d love to show everything to you.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Let me call Allie, first.”

  I grabbed my cell and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Meg!”

  “Hey! Guess where I am right now.”

  “On top of a mountain with your cowboy?” I could hear the eye roll in her voice.

  “No, I’m in Canning Mills with my cowboy.”

  I caught Henry grinning shyly when he heard me talking about him.

  “You’re kidding! What are you doing home?”

  “We came for Christmas. My parents are at the beach house for a few days. Henry surprised me. He just showed up yesterday. I want you and Krista to come spend the night tonight.”

  “Yeah, okay. Will Henry still be there?”

  “Yes. He wants to meet you. He’s heard all about you. Come at six and we’ll order pizza or something.”

  “Okay. I can’t wait to see you, Meg.

  Henry and I climbed into his rented SUV and I directed him toward the Carnegie Museum. Once we were there, I walked him directly to the room where my mom’s painting hangs in the middle of the wall surrounded by other photorealism works. She’d painted it from a picture she took of me and Wyatt on the beach. I stared at my two-year-old self, dressed in a white sundress that was blowing in the wind. Five-year-old Wyatt knelt next to me working on a sand castle. I had just carried a bucket full of water to him and my tongue stuck out of the side of my mouth—something I would do when concentrating hard. Wyatt focused intensely on keeping one side of his castle from falling. His forehead creased with concentration and his lips pressed tightly together. We both looked tanned and glowing. My curls blew around, in my eyes, in my mouth. My mom named it “Love.” The museum had mounted a light in the perfect spot—it flashed on the orange sun setting behind us. The painting looked so real that I wanted to reach out and touch Wyatt’s face.

  Henry stood back and stared at it for a long time. His mouth was open and his eyes were narrowed. “You were the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “The eyes. The mouth. The way your tongue is poking out. You still do that, you know? Your hair was curly?”

  “Yeah, I know. Funny, huh?”

  “Your mom’s going to be okay, Meg.”

  I looked up at him, wondering what brought that out.

  “I mean, I’m looking at what she created here and it just shows how much she loves you, and loved Wyatt. I can see how deep she is. Like you. Like a river. She just needs time.”

  We walked through the rest of the museum and I showed Henry the benches where I would sit and stare at my favorite paintings. I’d take the bus here on Saturdays, alone, and spend hours sketching or reading or just listening to people talk around me. I took him to the sculpture garden outside and then we had lunch at the museum café.

  When we left, he tossed me the car keys and told me to drive. So I took him on a tour of Pittsburgh. I showed him the old town—the remaining vestiges of the steel industry, the industrial ghosts. Then I drove him downtown to see the beautiful architecture, the clean streets, and the famous store windows. I pointed out Dad’s old office in its gleaming tower. Then I turned back toward Canning Mills.

  As we passed the ubiquitous chain restaurants and stores that signaled we were back in the wealthy suburb, Henry reached for my hand. “I want to see your school, Meg,” he said.

  “I hadn’t really thought of seeing it again,” I admitted.

  “Maybe it would help if you did. I’ll be with you.”

  I sighed and took a right toward Canning Mills High. The school sat on a hill before us, its huge windows appearing out of proportion now that I’ve been at Chapin High. The bell tower at the front of the school overwhelmed the rest of the architecture. The clock bell rang on the hour and our teachers would have to wait for the chime to finish so they could be heard.

  I pulled in and parked in Wyatt’s old spot. The seniors got the front rows in the parking lot and Wyatt had a spot shaded by a huge live oak right next to the crosswalk. He could be running really late in the morning, but because he had such a choice spot, he could swoop in and run into class before the bell rang. For a long time, the school didn’t give his spot to anyone else. The students placed a small white cross next to the tree and kids would leave flowers occasionally. There was a small bench under the tree with a brass sign on the back that said, “In loving memory of Wyatt Kavanagh, our son, our grandson, our brother, our friend.” Mom and Dad put the bench there a few weeks after he died.

  Henry stepped out of the car and walked to the bench. He touched the sign and then leaned against the tree and watched me in the car. Finally I stepped out and we walked slowly toward the school. The parking lot was empty except for a couple of older model cars so I assumed the janitors might be here, cleaning the building an
d getting ready for school to start again next week. Maybe we could peek in the windows, at least. The front doors were locked, but I saw Ms. Harrold in the hall, talking on her cell phone. I knocked on the glass and waved at her. She smiled broadly when she realized it was me and hurried down the hall to let us in.

  “Meg! My goodness, it’s so good to see your face. How are you?”

  She hugged me tightly and I hugged her back. Maybe Henry was right. Maybe I did need this.

  “I’m doing well, Ms. Harrold. It’s really good to see you. I want you to meet my friend from Chapin, Henry Whitmire.”

  She shook Henry’s hand in both of hers and studied his face. “Thank you for coming with Meg, Henry. I’m glad to know you. She’s a very special person to all of us here.”

  “I know she is, Ms. Harrold. We feel the same way about her in Chapin.”

  She turned back to me and took my hand. “Well, how much of the school do you want to show Henry?”

  “I guess I’ll just walk him around, to the gym, and the cafeteria, and the commons, if we won’t be in the way.”

  “Not at all. I’ll be upstairs in my room if you need anything. Stop in and say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

  I led Henry around awkwardly, pointing out my locker, my favorite classrooms, the chair in the library where I’d sit and read every chance I got, the orchestra hall, and the cafeteria. Finally I found myself walking into the commons. Across the room from us was the very spot where Wyatt died. Everything looked exactly the same as it did on my last day of school here. They’d added a few couches here and there—places to meet friends or wait for class to start. I took Henry’s hand and led him silently across the room to the spot where Wyatt pressed his arm around Bailey, and did what he could to help her. I stood silently on the tiles where he fell. Henry knew where we were and he put his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him, murmuring softly in my ear. “You’re amazing, Meg Kavanagh. I love you so much.”

  I didn’t cry. I didn’t hear gunshots or screams or Wyatt’s deep voice. I didn’t smell fear or gun-powder. I just felt peace all around me. I took a deep breath and looked around once more and then pulled away from Henry and walked out into the hall. And my legs felt steady and sure. And my head was clear. And my eyes were dry.