Glass Girl

by Kurk, Laura Anderson

  His room was dark with only his desk lamp turned on. I sat at the desk and watched him counting clothes and considering shoes. I laughed quietly when I realized how boyish he seemed right then—like he wished his mom would just come in and pack for him. I couldn’t possibly love him any more than I did at that moment. Every few minutes, Henry stopped what he was doing, looked at me, and groaned. I saw him folding the old blue t-shirt that he wore the day we rode Ben and Trouble in the mountains and I grabbed it from his hands. “Sorry, you can’t take that one,” I said. I put it to my face and breathed in Henry. He smiled, remembering why I loved that shirt, and found another t-shirt to pack.

  Finally, when he felt he’d done all he could, he sat on the floor at my feet. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  “Sure,” I said as he pulled me to my feet. We walked through the living room and Mrs. Whitmire looked up from her quilting and smiled. “Tomorrow will be hard for all of us,” she said. She rose and patted my back. Henry hugged her and told her he’d be home by eleven.

  On the way through town, he pulled over at Thanett’s house and turned to me. “Mind if we go in so I can say goodbye to them?”

  “I don’t mind. I think you should.”

  He held my hand and rang the doorbell as he shoved his other hand in his pocket and shuffled his feet around awkwardly.

  Annie answered the door and called up to Thanett. We all sat on the front porch in the moonlight, hardly talking, but full of silent understanding. Annie asked Henry a few questions about the orphanage and Henry answered politely. Then he scooted closer to Thanett on the porch step and bumped him with his shoulder.

  “You gonna take care of my girl while I’m gone?” Henry asked, sheepishly.

  A slow smile took over Thanett’s face and he arched an eyebrow. “If I do that, you might not have a girl to come home to. She could finally figure out that I’m superior in every way to you.”

  “She might at that,” said Henry, winking at me.

  “I’ll watch out for her, Henry,” Thanett said, laughing. “You take care of yourself and get back here as soon as you can. We’ll both miss you.”

  “I’m trying to talk Meg into UW. Any chance you’d think about applying there, too, Thanett?”

  “There might be a chance. I’m kind of getting serious about Northwestern, though. It’s where my parents went. But UW would be tempting if both of you were there.”

  “Well, think about it. I’ll be checking email every day, so write and let me know how things are going with you. Okay?”

  “Yeah, Henry. I’ll email you.”

  Later, sitting on the front porch steps at my house, we held hands and quietly watched the stars. I felt him shift and then he pressed a small box into my palm.

  “What’s this? You weren’t supposed to get me anything!”

  He chuckled. “It’s not much, Meg. But it means a lot to me for you to have it.” His voice was quiet but I heard the emotion behind it.

  I unwrapped the box and found a delicate silver bracelet with one small heart dangling from it. Henry took it from me and rubbed the heart with his thumb to polish it, and then he turned it over and showed me the engraving on the back. It was a tiny inscription that said, “M.W. Mine forever. H.W.”

  My tears fell onto Henry’s hands and he smiled and wiped my eyes with his thumbs. “It was my grandmother’s,” he explained. “Her name was Marie. Marie Whitmire. My grandfather, Henry, gave it to her on the day they married. She gave it to me and I want you to have it.”

  I held up my wrist so he could fasten it. “Do you look like him?” I asked.

  “Actually, it’s funny, they named me after him and I turned out looking just like him. He was tall and skinny, and dark-headed. Kind of bow-legged. Marie was the real deal. My granddad said there were men lining up to marry her. She was really beautiful…like you.”

  I smiled back at him as he traced my eyebrows with his finger. “I love it, Henry. I’ll always wear it.”

  “I was hoping so,” he whispered as he kissed me.

  Finally, I sighed, and pulled back so that I could get his present out of the Jeep.

  “Wait here,” I said with my hand on his chest. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at his feet, smiling.

  I pulled his wrapped present from underneath my seat. I felt completely nervous about what he’d think, but it was too late to change my mind. Henry took the package and pulled the paper off with one tug. He studied it and his eyes flickered with something unrecognizable. I wasn’t at all sure what he was thinking.

  “When did she do this?” he asked slowly.

  “A few weeks ago. I emailed her the picture and told her it would mean a lot to me. My aunt took her supplies to her and she worked on it whenever she had free time. She went on and on about how handsome you are. I think it was a good thing for her. It made her feel connected to us again.”

  I leaned against his shoulder and looked at the framed painting of the two of us. My mom had painted it from a picture that James took of us next to the red door of the horse stables. Henry was leaning back against the door in the faded red shirt that all his wranglers wore, and frayed jeans. He had one leg bent and his muddy boot rested against the barn door as he held me. I was looking into his face, laughing. One of his hands held the back of my head and he stared into my eyes, watching me laugh. My mom captured the moment so precisely that my heart ached to look at it—it was better than the photograph because it was alive with our energy. I loved the way he looked at me.

  Henry cleared his throat and spoke softly and deliberately. “Meg, this is the best gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you. Please tell your mother that I’ll keep it with me forever. I’m honored that she would do this for me. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder. “I’m really glad you like it. You don’t have to take it with you, if it won’t fit in your suitcase.”

  He stopped me by touching my lips with his. “I’m taking it. I’ll carry it on the plane with me.”

  “Will you write to me on real paper?” I asked as I wrapped my fingers through his.

  He kissed my knuckles and laughed. “You want me to write you love letters with a lot of fancy words?”

  “You got a problem with that, bucko?”

  “Not at all, sweet thing. I promise I’ll write you on real paper, and I’ll e-mail and call every chance I get.”

  He smiled a crooked smile, and shifted so that he was sitting behind me then he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Meg,” he breathed into my ear. “I’m not going to say goodbye, but I want to tell you something before I leave.” I felt him pull in a shaky breath while his hands absently stroked up and down my arms. “The minute you sat down in Landman’s class that first day, you got in my head and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. I knew there was something different about you and I was going to do whatever it took to find out what it was. It took you a while, I guess, to trust me enough to let me in there.”

  He tapped my chest over my heart and kissed the back of my head. “But once I saw who you are, I couldn’t help but fall completely in love with you. You had this crazy idea that you should hide that part of you that has survived such pain, but, as I live and breathe, Meg, I swear to you, that’s the part that’s irresistible to me. It’s like you’re able to see the world without the stupid blinders that everyone else wears and I’ve learned so much from you. You’re so tender. And that night at the springs…”

  He stopped, looked at my face, and wiped away the tears that were pushing out of my eyes. “That night…well, I don’t care what else happens to me on this earth, that will always be the best night of my life. It just blows my mind that I was there to share that moment with you. It’s crazy, but I can’t imagine ever being as happy as I was in that cave with you. I know we’ll have lots of moments like that because I get to come home to you one of these days, and I don’t plan on leaving you again, if you’ll st
ill have me.”

  I tried to speak but couldn’t and Henry chuckled softly.

  “I’m not even close to done, sweetie. Did you know that I’ve prayed for you for years? My dad started it when I was little. He’d come in my room to pray with me before I fell asleep, and he’d always say, ‘We know there’s a little girl out there that is meant for Henry. Please protect her and raise her up right.’”

  He took my hand and studied my face. “So, it just became part of my prayers. I still pray that prayer only now I know that girl’s name.”

  He paused long enough for me to speak, but my words came out as more of a sob. “Henry, I’m too selfish to tell you to have a great trip. I really just want you to forget about it and stay here. I’m going to miss you so much.”

  What I wanted to tell him was how thankful I was for him. I wanted him to know how much it meant that he’d been with me when I found I could hope again. When I found that I could laugh again. I wanted to thank him for showing me grace and sharing his faith. I just couldn’t make the words come out without making a mess of it.

  He grinned and then moved me so he could turn the full force of his eyes on me. “Please talk to Ms. Ewing about the creative writing program at UW. I know you’ve looked into it because Landman said you asked him about it. You are an amazing writer, Meg, and if we can be in Laramie together…well, let’s just say I would really like for you to look into UW.”

  I took a breath that sounded more like a hiccup and forced my voice out again. “I’ve already started my application. Please come home to me as soon as you can.”

  “I’m not planning on staying any longer than is absolutely necessary. We’ll be together for Thanksgiving and Christmas and after that it’ll almost be over.”

  He rubbed circles into my palms and then checked his watch.

  “Sweetie, I should go. My folks will be wondering where I am. It’ll be too early to call you before we leave in the morning, so I’ll call you from the airport, okay?”

  “Okay,” I cried.

  “Come here, Meg,” he whispered as he folded me against his chest. “Don’t cry, honey. I won’t be able to stand it.”

  He stood, pulled me up with him, and we walked slowly to his truck, my mom’s painting tucked safely under his arm. He kissed me goodbye very softly on my lips and then on my eyelids. I closed my eyes but I felt him moving away, opening the door, and sliding inside. When I looked at him, he was smiling through tears. I shut his door for him and watched him drive away. I couldn’t go inside yet and face my dad without melting, so I sat on the porch steps and listened to the night.

  Thirty minutes later, I was still sitting in the same place when headlights flashed into our driveway. A Whitmire ranch truck bounced over the ruts in the drive and I stood to see who was driving. Dylan climbed out of the cab, grinning and holding a ball of fur.

  “Hey, Meg. Did your boy leave you already?”

  “A little while ago. What do you have there?”

  “Oh, just a little something to keep you company, I think.” He climbed the steps and sat down. I sat, too, and he gently placed a wiggling black and white puppy in my lap. “She’s all yours, darlin’. I’ve got her food and supplies in the back of the truck.”

  She had a huge pink bow tied around her little pink collar. A heart tag hung from the collar and it was engraved with her name—Hope. A card was tied to the heart that said, “So you’ll always have Hope. Love, Henry.”

  She climbed on me and licked my face and when she got close enough, I saw her little eyes. One was deep brown and the other—brilliant blue.

  With Henry gone, I’d had a lot of time to work on my UW application. In one essay for the creative writing program, I was supposed to identify what gave me, as a writer, unique insight. I struggled with admitting to myself that my fragility was somehow valuable enough to give me an edge. To suddenly turn tail and embrace the part of me that had always caused embarrassment seemed too formidable.

  The essay made me remember the first time I became aware that I might have more than my share of sensitivity. When I was eight years old, my mom’s best friend, Gayle, lost her husband. He got up one morning, left the house to go on his normal five-mile run, and never came home. He’d had a heart attack and was dead before his head hit the sidewalk. Gayle didn’t know what to do, so she drove to our house. My mother answered the door and knew everything when she saw Gayle’s face. They hardly spoke; my Mom just led Gayle to our guest room, tucked her in the bed and closed the door.

  I felt pulled to the guest room—it was something I had no control over. I knew I’d get in trouble if I opened the door and got in bed with Gayle so I sat on the floor outside the door with my forehead pressed up against the cold wood and my hand tracing a heart in the grain over and over and over until, however many minutes or hours later, Gayle cracked open the door and peeked out at me. I was too horrified to say anything. I just clutched at my chest and nodded.

  Later, Mom called us to the breakfast table and Gayle came, too. We were all there. Dad had taken the day off. Gayle drank coffee and cried quietly. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “What does your heart feel like, Gayle?” I whispered.

  Dad cleared his throat and read something aloud from the newspaper, trying to cover up my obvious intrusion. I just thought Gayle hadn’t heard, so I tried again, a little louder. This time, Dad kicked me under the table, and the conversation took an absurd turn that still sends a deep, burning flush of shame through my face when I think of it.

  “Ow…why’d you kick me?” I squealed.

  “I was kicking the dog, Meg. Can you take her out?”

  “We don’t have a dog!” My foolish answer hung in the air for too long while my parents waited for me to get a clue. It finally dawned on me that they were teaching me the sanctity of grief. Gayle had a right to sit and cry and I had absolutely no right to invite myself in. She wasn’t a book to be read or a psychological model laid out for me to study. She was a human being experiencing life’s most poignant moment, the loss of someone she loved, and the tragic, inescapable fact that she must now make a choice to either go on living or get on with dying herself. I understand that now because I’ve made that choice myself.

  Losing Wyatt made my tenderness stand out in stark relief but it had always been there, growing as I matured. I thought it showed weakness. I thought being the glass girl meant that I’d have to be prepared to break. That I couldn’t take risks with my emotions. That I’d never be done with grief. But it was never true.

  Some people have devoted their lives to arguing whether it’s nature or nurture that made us who we are. It’s such a fantastically pointless discussion. What does it matter how we were shaped? We have to accept what we are and make the best of it. I’m tender—exquisitely so. And I’ve fought against it, been ashamed of it, denied it, and hidden it—all to no avail. I’ve dabbled in aloofness. I’ve played with sarcasm. But those don’t work for me. Tenderness feels natural, honest. I had to see myself through Henry’s eyes to understand that, to appreciate my strength, to let go of guilt and despair and accept the grace that comes from moving forward.

  And now, with this understanding firmly in place, I can face my future. I can love what I’ve become, what I’ve always really been, and I can hold the hands of others who have to walk through painful times. I realized I had my essay. This was my essay…this journey of mine. This twisting, turning, achingly beautiful journey.

  Dear Henry—

  I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you. You’re my hero, my sweet boy, my lifeline, my favorite book, my muse, the voice in my head, the spark in my eyes, the name I say, the face I see, my birthday wish, my protector, my friend, my memory, my jealous heart, my straight and narrow, my oldest jeans, my rose shampoo, my hammock that swings, the wind in my hair, the treasure in my box, the taker of breath, the sneaker in bed, the stealer of resistance, the whisperer of forever, the one who got to me, the dream I dream, the thought I
have, the more I want, the holder of secrets, the one I wait for, my first kiss, my campfire, my anchor, my midnight swim, the smile that melts, the lips that free, the arms that hold, my summer night, my snowy day, my no place like home, my can we elope when you get back, my future, my only need, the air I breathe, the one that won’t get away, my there’s nowhere else I want to be. Come home soon, Henry.

  Love, Meg

  Dear M—

  You’ve never climbed a mountain. I realized that last night. When I was thirteen, Kate and John had just started dating and John got it in his head that he would get to know Kate’s baby brother by taking me mountain climbing. They took me to Wind River Peak—it’s a little over 13,000 feet high. It took us all day to hike in to our campsite at the base because Kate was being such a girl.

  Early the next morning, John woke me up and gave me about five minutes to get my pack on and get my butt outside to start climbing. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I couldn’t breathe right. I couldn’t see right. I was freezing. My legs hurt. In fact, there was not a darn thing that felt good on my body but there was no way to turn around.

  We were headed up this little narrow path in the dark, and winding around rocks and over ledges and you literally couldn’t turn your body around. I was so mad at myself for agreeing to do this thing, and mad at the world for not giving me a chance to change my mind…to change the course I was on.

  The climbing part of the mountain climbing was not my favorite thing. Lord knows I’m not built like a mountain climber. Even then I was way too tall to be pulling myself up like that. It nearly killed me, but I kept going because heck if I was going to get that far and not be able to say I’d made it to the summit. Finally, I made it, and it took everything I had to hold my skinny self upright in the wind at the top. I looked around me…down at the trail that I’d just come up…around at the other peaks that were below me…at the sunlight bouncing off boulders…at the blue sky, that sky that you said seemed to curve down like a blanket.