Breaking Glass (6 page)

“Sorry.” Ryan smiles and sets a box on the night table. “The guys and I thought you’d like the complete set of Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary. To kill the time while you recuperate, you know?”

My gaze flits to the boxed set of DVDs on the table. I’m kind of touched they picked something I’d really like. Normally my heart would leap at such a treasure. But it can’t even muster a flutter. “Cool. Tell them thanks.”

Ryan slants his head. “You must really feel like turd if even Ken Burns can’t get a rise out of you.”

I prop my back against the wall. The words fly out before I even realize I thought them. “How hard did you look for her? Did you go back there?”

Ryan’s shoulders slump. He plops heavily into Dad’s recliner and sighs. “Me and some of the guys went back to Reservoir Road a couple of days later and walked up and down along the shore. Then the searchers and their dogs came. There’s no sign of her. What else do you want me to do?”

There’s a cold lump in my throat. I consider the photo of Ryan, defaced to make him look like a bloodsucker. I can’t fathom what Susannah is trying to say, but one thing is clear. She was furious. I can’t say I blame her.

“You’re the one that’s supposed to care.” I close my eyes briefly, then open them and meet Ryan’s wounded gaze. “If anything happened to her, it’s our fault. You know that, right?”

Ryan scowls, his brow furrowed. “That’s completely and totally nuts. You’re all doped up and you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense. You fucked with her head and I helped you do it.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “C’mon. This is the painkillers talking, dude, not you.”

Something stirs beneath the damp sludge of my stupor and shoots to the surface. “Just leave, okay?” I say coldly.

“What is this shit, Jeremy? What’s gotten into you?”

“Too much Vicodin and not enough vodka.”

Ryan stands, his hands balling into fists. “I didn’t ask you to follow us that night. If you hadn’t stuck your nose into my business you wouldn’t be in this—”

“Is
that
what you think I’m pissed about?
Myself
?” I grab the closest thing to me, the Civil War tome I’d dropped, and in a sudden burst of strength fling it at him. Yeah. I’m fucked for life. But it’s my own fault and I can’t throw a goddamned book at myself. Ryan makes an easier target. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Ryan ducks. The book sails past him and falls at the feet of the girl who stands in my doorway, her mouth falling open.

It’s Marisa, the girl who works for Susannah’s mother.

“Enjoy the Ken Burns marathon.” Ryan brushes past Marisa and stomps out.

“This is a bad time,” she says in her softly accented voice.

“Yeah.” I say, overwhelmed by the slicing agony that knifes up my leg.

“I should go.”

But Marisa doesn’t leave. She stands in the doorway, the Civil War book at her feet. Her arms are full of more books.

“That would be a good idea,” I say.

I’m feeling lame for lashing out at Ryan. He’s probably still in shock. Reasonable Jeremy never yells. Reasonable Jeremy is always in control. Reasonable Jeremy is happy in his role as human doormat and Enabler-in-Chief.

“Your father asked me to speak to your teachers. You, uh, have a good chunk of AP Calculus to catch up on.”

“So, you’re working for him now?”

“I go where the money is,” Marisa says curtly.

“Great,” I say. “I should have known. AP-fucking-Calculus. The Holy Grail. It wasn’t my idea to take it, but Dad figured it would better my scholarship chances. I’ll never catch up at this point.”

Marisa looks down, her tiny face lost in the dark curls. “I can help, if you like.”

Not wanting to insult her, I try to smile, but sour thoughts tug my mouth into a sneer. “It’s not worth your time.”

She raises her chin and there’s the barest glimmer of a challenge in her coal-black eyes. “I’m very good at math. I took AP Calc last year. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Marisa whirls around and leaves. The upended Civil War book rests exactly where it landed.

I stare at the empty door, then grope for the Vicodin. I pop four of them in my mouth, gulp down the last of the water, settle back, and wait for the lava flow in my leg to cool.

It’s Dad’s turn to host poker night. Once a month, he and his buddies gather at one of their homes for their raucous, drunken, testosterone-laden card game. I remember Mom used to have an aversion to poker night and always hid in her bedroom. Because of that, I thought it was some kind of terrible man ritual until I started to realize it was kind of fun. I got to sneak some rum into my bottle of cola and slink off with my booty, unnoticed.

But tonight, I dread it. And the thing I dread the most is facing Patrick Morgan and his pretend pity.

The men set up in the dining room and I listen to their laughter, the pain in my leg intensifying with each passing minute. I swallow two Vicodins and have managed to immerse myself in a book about Revolutionary war hero Nathan Hale when I look up to see Patrick Morgan standing in the doorway to Dad’s study.

“Jeremy, my boy!” he booms with a broad, cheery grin, liquor fumes radiating from him in waves. I lick my lips, thinking how much I could use a swig of whatever’s sloshing around in his stomach.

He’s holding a basket brimming with snack foods and candy. “Celia knows you have a sweet tooth, so we thought these goodies might help you convalesce.”

He strides into the room, places the basket on Dad’s messy desk, and pulls up a chair next to my wheelchair. “So,” he asks softly, his grin vanishing, “How are you feeling, Jeremy? How’s the leg?”

“Kind of busted up, but okay, I guess, Mr. Morgan.”

“Jeremy, you’ve known me your whole life. You are permitted to call me Patrick. In fact, I insist.”

“Okay, Patrick.” I stare at him, without any idea of what I should say. Patrick Morgan always manages to render me speechless, his burning blue eyes and shock of movie star grey hair making him seem larger than life.

“Good book?” he asks.

“Um, yeah, if you like reading about tragic heroes who died senselessly.”

“Hmmm,” says, Patrick, suddenly lost in thought. “You, on the other hand, are a pretty lucky guy. You could have been flattened by that truck, Jeremy.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I neglect to mention that Susannah wasn’t as lucky, since she hasn’t been seen or heard from since that night, which was now over two weeks ago.

Patrick Morgan stares at me, and it’s as if his eyes can cut through the layers of my silence like scalpels. “Ryan misses you, but I understand if you’re not up for company these days.”

I glance at my leg, which still throbs despite the Vicodininduced veil of numbness settling over it. “I’m sorry if I’ve been kind of rude to Ryan. But I’ve been in a bit of pain. It’s hard to be sociable.”

“Ryan is your best friend. You don’t have to do anything.” The eyes don’t leave me, like a knife pressed against my throat. I gasp for air, the room suddenly stuffy and close.

“I know, but…”

Patrick Morgan stands. “It’s okay, Jeremy. Not a problem. Ryan’s just concerned about you. As we all are.”

“Thanks, Mr. Morgan—uh—Patrick. I’m sure the leg will be fine.”

“I wasn’t referring to your leg.”

“Huh?”

Patrick Morgan heads for the door, but turns back around. “You don’t suppose the doctors didn’t register your extremely elevated blood alcohol level, do you?”

His words are like a slap. How stupid
am
I? I should have known there’d been a Morgan intervention.

“What?”

“Jeremy. You were driving a car while heavily under the influence. You could have killed someone. Instead, you got yourself hurt. Under the circumstances it was easy to have the medical report vanish.”

“What are you saying? Does my father know?”

“As always, your father has chosen to avoid reality. And you have enough other problems to deal with right now, don’t you?” Patrick Morgan pauses, jettisoning the frozen smile. He leans in close, his voice velvety soft. “What I’m saying, Jeremy Glass, is to look carefully where you step. It’s easy to take a fall when you’re hopping around on one leg.”

I weigh Patrick Morgan’s words and wonder if I heard him right. If the drugs are making me paranoid. Was he trying to extort me into keeping quiet? Or is he just playing his part as the influential family friend stepping in to save my precarious reputation?

It’s hard to say.

Once the house clears, I lie awake, unable to sleep. Dark thoughts flood my mind like a broken water main. Images float by—my mother’s blond hair slipping free of its ponytail in slow motion, the thin bluish skin of Susannah’s temples. My heart pumps a soundtrack to the looping slide show. Sweat coats my forehead. The need to run burns through my stagnant muscles.

If I had any sense, I really should be worrying about what was going on with my leg under its cast. It can’t be anything good.

Finally, the pain subsides. I’m up on one crutch, precariously reaching with my free arm for the canteen. Every shred of sense I possess screams that mixing four Vicodin and vodka is a recipe for an overdose.

It’s really just a few swallows, I tell myself. There’s my famous self-control.

I down the stuff.

A short time later, swaddled in a warm fuzz, my mind settles, then is drawn like dead leaves to a sewer drain toward Susannah and the mysterious Kabbalah package. She went to the trouble of burying the cigar box, so apparently she had some kind of a plan. I can’t help but wonder if it included dying.

I fish out the package from under my bed and stare at it.

A dead-summoning kit.

What kind of game is Susannah playing? Is this some weird test of my loyalty, a personal hazing? Or a penance for my betrayals?

Either way, I’ve got to play out my part in her little psychodrama.

I sit a long while, the velvet pouch resting on my lap, debating whether I should call Mrs. Durban and tell her about the package. I’m pretty sure Marisa smuggled it out of their house without her knowing. I wonder, irrationally, what would happen if I used it to bring back my mother instead. My mother who killed herself and almost took me with her.

I must be insane to believe this cheap kit will do anything. It’s no Kabbalah spell. It’s probably something Susannah bought at one of those occult shops she frequented in the East Village, on the hunt for props for her animations. I look for a trademark, just to make sure it doesn’t say Parker Brothers or something.

But I’m feeling crazy enough to try using it.

The contents of the baggie within the velvet pouch are pretty flimsy for such a solemnly monumental ritual. Which makes it kind of difficult to take the thing seriously. But since Susannah apparently has, I resolve to continue.

There’s a note on parchment printed in an overly pretentious script, five tapered white candles, a diagram of a pentagram, and a snip of hair in a small baggie. Susannah’s hair. Tucked inside the folds of the velvet pouch is the Kabbalah necklace she always wore. The one that Ryan gave her.

I swallow hard, growing convinced that this has to be some elaborate prank of hers. She’ll probably tape me as I do the stupid ritual. The video will go viral on YouTube and I’ll be the laughingstock of Riverton.

I soldier on. To not do so would be the ultimate disloyalty. She entrusted her secrets to me. I can’t fail her again, even if it means making a fool of myself. Besides, hopped up on Vicodin and vodka, it all seems to make sense.

The instructions direct me to position the five candles in a pentagram formation that’s big enough for a human to stand in. I dutifully carry out the task. One toppled candle, I realize, can burn down the house with me in it. But there are candlesticks in the pantry, a holdover from the era of Mom’s gracious dinner parties, the ones she quit hosting years before her death without explanation.

It takes me awhile to get the ritual set up—five candles at the corners of the pentagram diagrammed in masking tape. In the center of the symbol, I arrange the snip of hair. My forehead is clammy with a thin film of sweat. My breathing feels thin and labored. I’m just nervous, I tell myself.