Breaking Glass (19 page)

“I’m sure you’ve heard,” Mr. Morgan continues, his voice reverberating over the speakers, “that last month, after a terrible accident, Jeremy lost his right leg.”

The crowd sighs and clucks. My eyes sting. No mention of the fact that Susannah vanished that same night.

“A life-altering tragedy for a track star. boy who is sure to have won a coveted track and field scholarship from Cornell University . With his promising future now changed forever, his mobility impaired, Jeremy seemed to be in dire straits.”

The crowd is silent. A tug of self-pity tightens my throat. Damn, he’s good. Even though I know what scum he is, I find myself believing him. Ryan has been well taught by the ultimate Zen master of bullshit.

“But that doesn’t have to be the case. Because of new advances, prosthetic legs are better than ever; artificial legs are engineered to allow a natural gait, running at a full sprint. But these devices are prohibitively expensive, and Jeremy’s father’s insurance only covers a basic cosmetic prosthesis.” Here he pauses for effect, the room hanging on his every syllable.

“My son Ryan could not let his gifted friend be sidelined. So, he decided to do something about it. In five weeks, he’s raised over ten thousand dollars—about half of what is needed to fit Jeremy with a special high-performance running blade. Because,” Patrick Morgan booms, his voice cresting to maximum volume, “of the efforts of my son, Ryan Morgan, Jeremy Glass will run again!”

The room erupts in applause. Ryan bobs the prosthetic leg up and down above his head. It’s a community service tour de force, just in time to turbo-charge those college applications.

It’s a complete crock of shit.

“Jeremy, will you please join us on the podium?” implores Patrick Morgan’s amplified voice.

I sit there for a moment, dazed. I realize I’m seriously smashed. I have no idea where my crutches are, and probably couldn’t remain vertical even if I did. Slowly, I begin to wheel myself through the sardine-packed crowd, which draws back like a curtain.

I feel a sudden acceleration from behind. The Hulk, carrying my crutches, has taken over and I’m propelled to the podium in record speed.

As I get closer, I can see the huge tree is festooned with miniature trophies and Photoshopped cutouts of me running with my new blade. The Morgans have certainly outdone themselves this year.

I’m handed the crutches and planted on the podium beside Ryan and Mr. Morgan. The crowd roars.

Swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane gale, I squint at the sea of people. There’s an elbow in my rib cage and it dawns on me I’m expected to fawn over my benefactors. I lurch forward and hear my own voice bouncing across the room.

“I, uh—I just want to thank Ryan for raising all this money. And the Morgans, for hosting this great party. And thanks to all of you, for coming out tonight. It means a lot to me.”

I pause, trying to focus my vision because I’m seeing double. Looking over the sea of hypocrites, I’m suddenly choking on venomous rage. My next words fall like stones over the silent crowd. “But I’d be a lousy friend to someone who is not here if I didn’t take a moment to point out one obvious thing. A girl vanished, without a trace, on the night of my accident. No one has seen or heard from Susannah Durban since November 17th.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. My leg is threatening to buckle liked cooked spaghetti; my arms are numb. I’m not sure what’s holding me up.

My temples are pounding, but I shout into the microphone, “I have only one question, people of Riverton—what the
hell
have any of you done about it?”

The room is freakishly silent. A tidal wave of nausea sweeps over me, the crutches giving way like melted wax. I list, then fall forward into the crowd, the side of my face smacking against something hard.

There are shouts and cries. I feel myself being lifted. The last thing I think I hear is a voice whispering,
Thank you, Jeremy Glass
.

C H A P T E R
s i x t e e n

Now

After four hours in the emergency room, I’m released with an eye that’s swollen shut and eight stitches on the side of my head. From the pursed lips and sullen stares, I get the impression the hospital staff is getting pretty sick of me.

Back home, I doze off for maybe an hour. When I wake, Dad is sitting at his desk directly across from me. In the gray morning light he’s the same color as the newspaper he’s reading. Eyes red, chin sprinkled with salt and pepper stubble, he sips mournfully from a glass of orange juice. “Do you want some juice?”

I sit up in the bed and press the half-melted icepack against the messed-up side of my face. I ache all over, but all I’m allowed is two Advils.

“No, thanks.”

It’s Christmas morning. Our scrawny tree’s lights blink forlornly back at me. There are a couple of wrapped presents for me under the tree. I, of course, haven’t been able to shop for Dad.

“Yo. Merry Christmas,” I say.

“What’s merry about it?” He gulps down the rest of the juice. His tone has changed, ice creeping into his voice like the first chill of winter with a hint of the arctic blast to follow. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life.”

I close my eyes, focusing on the pain of my throbbing head. “What’s wrong with Jeremy Glass for five hundred?”

“Quit joking with me, Jeremy,” he yells. “I am
so
tired of your bullshit.”

I sigh, my eyes still closed. “Which category should we start with then—body, mind, or soul?”

Dad doesn’t answer. The chair creaks as he stands and I hear him pacing. “Look at me, Jeremy.”

I open my eyes. “So, which one? Let’s skip over the obvious. We can both see that I have one leg and eight stitches in my head. That takes care of the physical.”

He throws a hand to his forehead, then squats so he can look me square in the eye. “Jeremy. You’re my son. I love you. And I think your alcohol problem may be more serious than I thought.”

“Really, Dad? I had no idea.”

He studies me as if an honest answer will somehow scrawl itself across my forehead. “Why, Jeremy? I can’t believe that after drinking destroyed your mother you’d go the same route.”

I look straight into his eyes and see the anguish in them. But I want him to feel what I feel. I want him to feel
my
pain deep in his bones. “I’ve been drinking since I was twelve, Dad. I always got away with it until—you know.”

His face twists into a grimace. “What? How can that be?”

I sit up on the bed, the motion sending ringing vibrations through my skull. “Do the math. What would make a kid who has everything going for him start drinking at age twelve?”

Dad paces furiously, shaking his head. “How—how did I not see this?”

“Because you didn’t want to?”

“Shit.” He paces some more, back and forth, back and forth. Then he stops. “Pat Morgan is livid. He’s insisting I put you into treatment immediately, preferably in a residential facility. He is not, of course, making the gift of your leg contingent upon that. He’s just concerned about you and your wellbeing. The Morgans have told everyone that you had a dizzy spell. That you’re not used to standing around on crutches for extended periods.”

“Bet he’s worried about a lawsuit now, huh?”

Dad’s face turns deadly crimson. “There’s no chance we’d sue. Not after all they’ve done for us. Not to mention all that would come to light about
you
.”

“So the Morgans have us by the short hairs?”

Dad grits his teeth. “Enough, Jeremy! I told him that, although a residential facility would probably be the best thing for you, you still need extensive rehabilitation. You’ll need to learn to walk with your prosthetic. So, you’ll stay home. However, you’ll be under strict surveillance. And you’ll be seeing Dr. Kopeck four times a week instead of once.”

I begin to chant in a monotone, over and over, knowing it’s driving him crazy. I just can’t resist the temptation to wring more emotion out of him. “Jeremy Glass sat on a wall. Jeremy Glass had a great fall,” I taunt, then add, “I hate that bitch. I bet she wears leather and plays with whips in her spare time.”

“Jeremy!” he shouts. “Don’t you
want
to get better?”

I sigh loudly and sink into my pillow. I want to tell him that I’m afraid there is no thread strong enough to mend the giant tear running right down the middle of me. That all I can manage is to hold back the floodwaters any way I can. That without my right leg to help me fly through the streets of Riverton, the vodka is all I have and now that’s gone, too. “Yeah, Dad. Sure.”

He gapes at me, his mouth slack like a man in shock. “Try to sound more convincing, okay?”

“Dad. Ever think
why
the Morgans might want me conveniently out of the picture?”

Dad frowns, accentuating the deep new grooves that furrow his forehead. “What the hell are you driving at here?”

I sit up in the bed and lean toward him, even though the motion sends a spike of fresh pain through my jaw and bruised eye. “Maybe they know more about Susannah’s disappearance than they’re saying, you know? Maybe I touched a nerve last night.”

I can see the pulse in Dad’s jaw. His eyes shine with something I can’t remember seeing before. Fury.

In a blur of motion, he grabs my wrist and wrenches it so hard I see stars. “You shut your sick mouth, Jeremy Glass. How could you say—how can you
think
something like that? You’ll accept your fake leg with grace and shut your goddamn stupid mouth!”

He twists my arm around and I bite back a howl. Two months ago, I’d have had him pinned to the floor. “Fuck. You’re hurting me!”

Dad drops my arm as if it burns him. His eyes still simmer with rage, but he’s holding back on it. His voice is shaky when he says, “All these years, Jeremy. All these years, I’ve struggled to raise you alone. I’ve encouraged and supported you. Pushed you to achieve. And—and,” his voice breaks. “You’d just toss it all away.”

“Dad, it’s not like that. I just thought—I mean I have this feeling I can’t ignore. About Susannah. It’s like she’s trying to—like she wants me to help her.”

Dad’s lips quiver. He’s looking at me in a new way, a way I’ve never seen him look at me before. He looks lost. “What do you mean? She called you?”

“Of course not. Face it, Dad. She’s never been gone this long before. If you ask me, she’s dead. And I’m pretty sure she’s been trying to reach out—trying to reach
me
.”

“You’re hearing voices?” He’s up and pacing, crashing around the messy study. “Oh, no. Not
this
.”

“Dad?” Now I’m worried. I’ve never seen him lose it like this before.

He halts in his tracks, looking completely like a madman, and hisses in the softest, scariest whisper two lips have ever uttered.

“This is how it started with your
mother
.” He takes in a deep breath, his voice shaky. “You have three options, Jeremy—Dr. Kopeck, a residential facility, or your blood alcohol report magically reappears.”

Stifling a sob, he races from the room, pounds up the stairs, and slams the door.

I stare at the blinking lights for a very, very long time, not sure what I’m feeling at all. But I’ve done it. I’ve tipped my hand. And now my dad thinks I’m a budding schizophrenic. I can hear the expert testimony now—genetic predisposition, traumatic trigger, onset of delusional symptoms leading to a total psychotic break.

Just the nougat the Morgans will need to have everything I say discounted as the ravings of the town lunatic. I gave them this gift.

What if they’re right?

Then what’s the deal with Derek Spake?
repeats the question in my head.

The house is dead silent and dry as a bone. Every last hideyhole for the vodka has been cleaned out. No one calls. Dad doesn’t venture from his room all day. I ease myself into the wheelchair and forage in the kitchen for food. Since I have a slight concussion, the doctors have forbidden me to use the crutches for a week, lest I take another fall. I ache too much anyway, so for once I do what I’m told.

Afternoon slips quickly into grim evening, the lights now blinking like hyperactive fireflies. I roll over to the flimsy tree and slowly unwrap the gifts. One is a massager. I’d complained to Dad that the pressure on my leg when I stand too much makes it ache at the end of the day. The other is a book of photos, quotes, and inspirational stories about disabled athletes. The third is a volume about the Roman Empire. I set them down and roll back to the bed. And wonder.