Breaking Glass (24 page)

Ryan excuses himself and wishes me luck with the fitting. I’m ushered into the showroom to meet Lyle Hoffmann, the prosthetist. I’m surprised to find a shaggy-haired walrusmustachioed guy who looks either like a fugitive from a seventies country-rock band or the stunt-double for Cousin It. His getup is so incongruous with the white lab coat he wears that I have to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. Dozens of electric guitars hang on the wall above the rows of realistic-looking legs, arms, hands, eyes, and ears. Fancy metal gadgets with only a passing resemblance to human limbs are stacked in towering piles.

Mr. Hoffmann comes around from behind his desk and leans over to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeremy Glass. I hear you’re a track star.”

I nod and shrug. “Was.”

“Welcome to the art of the possible, Jeremy.” Mr. Hoffmann’s eyes twinkle mischievously as he gestures to his body part menagerie. “With these hands, I can restore your life.”

I nod some more. I don’t want to insult the guy, but I find him a tad overdramatic. I wonder what would make a megalomaniac like him want to build artificial limbs.

“Not impressed? Have you ever seen that commercial for the Hair Club for Men? The one where the guy says ‘I’m not only the owner, I’m a client?’”

“So that’s not your real hair?” I say, smirking.

For a minute Hoffmann doesn’t catch my ribbing, then chuckles broadly. “Ah, a joker. I was referring to this.” Dr. Hoffman lifts his pant leg to reveal a blue and silver metallic pole. “Lost it in a motorcycle accident when I was just out of college. Way above the knee. Like yourself.” He prances back and forth and I watch his gait closely. Not bad, but now that I know I can see the slight catch in his step.

“Yeah, but can you do the mambo?” I ask.

“No,” he says, eyes twinkling, “But then again, I was always a lousy dancer. But I can ride my motorcycle and do killer lunges at my gigs.”

I gaze at the collection of guitars on the wall. “You’re not going to fit me with one of those for a leg, are you?”

Hoffman’s laugh is more like a merry wheeze. “Oh, my. No one warned me about what a comic you are. Jeremy Glass, you and I are going to get along very, very well.”

“Wait until you get to know me better.”

Hoffmann’s handlebar mustache turns down. “It’s always hard at the beginning, Jeremy. It’s a loss. It takes a while to accept the fact your leg is never coming back.” He paces over to the wall of black propeller-like devices. “Wait until we fit you with one of these blades. You’ll bounce like you’re on springs.”

But will I feel the pavement beneath my sneaker?
Nope.

He’s right. My leg is gone forever, just like my mother. And Susannah. My mind drifts toward the times when she has felt so close and real. So warm. And I wonder about myself. If maybe my brain just can’t accept losing one more thing.

The room goes silent, its fluorescent lights eclipsed by darkness shot through with sparks of light. A hand runs through my hair, the touch maddeningly tender. Shivering, I blink rapidly and the darkness dissolves like ink in water.

Hoffman is staring at me. “It was like I lost you there for a moment, Glass. Where’d you go?”

His voice is tinny in my ear. The bright room is stained with sepia at its edges. “Sorry. Just daydreaming.”

Hoffmann nods and his big mustache bobs with him. “Can’t do that when you’re out strolling with your new C-Leg. Learning to walk again is tough work, Jeremy. It requires complete concentration.”

Hoffman launches into a detailed explanation of the hydraulic knee joint and spring-loaded foot in the revolutionary titanium C-Leg model. He’s already in negotiation with my dad’s insurance provider over upping the funding to cover one. A boy of my level of activity, he says, can have nothing less. With the money collected by Ryan, I can also buy the high-performance running blade and get back to serious running.

“Did anyone tell you about Team Hoffmann, Jeremy?”

“No. What’s that?” I offer a weak smile to feign interest, but in my mind I’m envisioning some kind of parade of freaks.

“It’s our Paralympic team. We’ve got a kick-ass trainer. Last Paras we took home three golds.”

I imagine what I know of the Paralympics. Down’s syndrome kids laughing with raised arms as they shuffle across the finish line.

“Sounds inspiring.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. It’s a lifeline.” Hoffmann smiles, his twinkling eyes backlit by the fervent gleam of a zealot. And, despite my wish to wall myself off in my airtight fortress of gloom, I have to admit I may like this crazy spare-parts-dealing dude.

Hoffman takes a cast of my stump and tells me I’ll have my walking leg in a little over a week, but that it might take a few attempts to get the fit right. I should expect it to take many more weeks to learn how to walk again—it’s not like I’m going to be running right out of the gate. The fancy blade attachment will be fit after I’ve adjusted to walking.

And suddenly, like sunlight streaming into a cave, the thought of throwing away the crutches and the wheelchair forever sounds a little bit like heaven to me.

After my session with Hoffmann, Marisa suggests getting coffee at Awesome Cow. I beg off, but she persists and drags me inside.

“You can’t lock yourself in a cocoon forever. You have to face the world.”

“I’m tired of the stares. I’d rather wait until I get the leg.”

“Jeremy,” she says. “If you don’t do it now, you’ll just keep finding excuses. You have to learn to power through this stuff. Focus on what you want, not on what other people think about you.”

“Is that how you do it?”

Marisa fixes me with a steady stare. “What do you mean?”

I look down at my coffee mug and shift it back and forth. There’s no quick way out of the corner I’ve painted myself into. “You know. Assumptions based on the, uh, snap judgments people make.”

Marisa’s soft voice has developed an edge. “You mean about my culture? My accent?”

I clear my throat and look directly at her. I’m certain she can see the evidence of my own rush to judgment in my eyes. “I—well yeah.”

Marisa holds me in her gaze and lays her hand over mine. “That’s
exactly
how I do it, Jeremy.”

I’m relieved that the Cow is virtually empty at this hour. The breakfast crowd is gone and the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived. I feel safe, nestled in the dimly lit interior. Marisa folds up the wheelchair and puts it out by the back exit. Sitting deep in the round corner booth where no one can see I’m missing a piece of me, I feel relaxed, almost normal. Maybe it’s just sitting next to Marisa that makes me feel better.

I glimpse a familiar Oldsmobile sedan pull into the parking lot. It’s Trudy Durban. I pat my pocket. My mother’s half-heart locket has joined the photo of Derek Spake there. I’m going to have to speak to Trudy Durban about it sooner or later. Suddenly, the need to confront her sits on my tongue like a pill that won’t dissolve.

“Marisa? I’m kind of tired. Want to get going?” I ask innocently.

Ever diligent, Marisa helps me into the chair and wheels me out to the van just as Trudy Durban walks out of the dry cleaners, a pile of plastic-wrapped clothing draped over her arm. Her bush of wiry hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and an enormous pair of sunglasses perch on her hawk nose, giving her the look of an oversized bug.

Dragging myself forward with my single leg and pumping at the wheels with my hands, I pull away from Marisa, propelling myself forward. “Mrs. Durban!”

“Oh crap! No, Jeremy!” Marisa hisses from behind me.

Trudy Durban whirls around, not expecting a shout-out from so low to the ground. As always, she’s dressed monochromatically in a plum pantsuit, a tangle of necklaces hanging from her neck. But her face is more worn and haggard than ever, like a piece of driftwood that’s been left out to dry and bleach in the sun.

Her gaze falls first on Marisa. Her mouth sets into a scowl as she strides toward us. I feel the tug of Marisa trying to yank me backward, and I dig my heel into the sidewalk to act as a brake.

“Jeez, Jeremy. Let go!” Marisa says, tugging harder on the wheelchair. But it’s not budging.

“How nice to see you both,” Trudy says, coldly. It’s impossible to see her eyes behind the dark glasses, but her face is twitchy, the skin saggy and almost a grayish white. “Especially you, Marisa.” Her words are pointed, each one a dart tipped with acid. “How are you feeling, Jeremy?

“Um, hello, Mrs. Durban,” Marisa says softly. “We should get going, Jeremy.”

“Such a hardworking young lady. The problem is, you see, she steals from her employers.”

Marisa draws in a breath and tugs harder at my chair.

“If you mean that package, Mrs. Durban,” I say, “That was addressed to me.”

“So it was,” she says in a low voice. “I suppose I can’t expect much help from this town. You’re all against me.”

Marisa huffs and stomps around the wheelchair, hands on hips. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Durban, but Jeremy lost a leg
clear up to the hip
because he went out on a terrible night to help
your daughter
. Have you ever thanked him?”

I find I’m starting to regret this. “No one has to fucking thank me,” I say softly. “I’m not a hero.”

“I lost a daughter.” Mrs. Durban blurts, her lips trembling. She turns her bug eyes on me. “You were
there
. You could have stopped it. You could have saved her from that bastard. She’s with the devil now because of you!”

I gape at her, open-mouthed. Trudy Durban may be losing her tenuous grip on sanity, but her words sting like slaps. I might have saved Susannah, if I hadn’t tripped. I wouldn’t have tripped if I hadn’t downed a half pint of vodka. And I might have saved Ryan from himself.

His haunted expression flashes in my mind. Yes. There was guilt written there, in the tracery of blue lines around his eyes, but there was something else. Something I can’t define. Regret? Desperation?

“I’m doing my best to figure out what happened to Susannah, Mrs. Durban,” I say, my voice cracking. Marisa was right to back away. I’m not strong enough for this verbal assault. Tears well in my eyes, hot and bitter.

It’s my fault she’s dead. I may not have done the crime, but I did nothing to prevent it.

“Susannah’s disappearance is a police matter, Mrs. Durban,” Marisa says, defiantly. “Jeremy has enough to deal with.”

Mrs. Durban leans over me, her face close enough so that I can smell her breath, cloves and cigarettes. “You should know better than anyone, Jeremy,” she says, “that the police in this town are under Patrick Morgan’s thumb.”

I think of my mother’s necklace in my pocket and the connection between her and Trudy Durban it implies. I’m about to ask her about it when black rims the edges of my vision and moves inward. Harsh silence fills my ears, swallowing all sound. Bright pricks of light swim and dance around me. Someone squeezes my hand. So warm.

I hear snapping fingers. It takes a second before I can see them, too, right in front of my face.

“What’s wrong with him?” I hear Mrs. Durban demand shrilly.

“Jeremy! For a minute there, you were totally out of it.” Marisa sounds panicked.

It happened again. Like in the prosthetist’s office. And in my room. I’d gone away.

“Nothing. I was just thinking of something I forgot.”

Mrs. Durban is staring at me with an expression of sheer horror. “Demonic influence. I can feel it.”

“Do you remember my mother’s locket? The half-heart?”

A deep crease forms between her thin brows above the insect sunglasses. Her lips press together and she speaks as if in a trance. “What locket? Your mother never wore much jewelry.”

I fish out the locket and let it dangle from its chain. Trudy Durban’s face turns brick-red. She speaks in a low, menacing whisper. “Where did you find that?
Nobody
knew about that locket.”

“What about this, Mrs. Durban? What does it mean?”

Mrs. Durban’s eyes go wide, the color draining from her face. “Never mind that. It’s all in the past. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that my daughter was murdered. And her mortal soul is in the clutches of a demonic power. Do I have evidence? No.” She removes her glasses, the burning gray eyes burrowing into mine. “The cops in Riverton don’t investigate crimes that involve Patrick Morgan.”