Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (19 page)

“Good idea,” I said.

The big Mercedes engine roared down our old street and my heart jumped into my throat. The old streetlights lit up the sidewalk where Wyatt and I rode our bikes and Big Wheels. The driveways of the friends who let us skateboard up and down, getting in their way, making too much noise. The empty lot where we had Fourth of July parties with fireworks. The trees that taught me the value of strong, low branches for climbing.

And the house my grandfather built, where Wyatt and I felt safe and sheltered and endlessly loved. Where we could open the door and leave behind all the meanness of the world. Where we knew what to expect and understood what we were capable of giving.

Dad parked next to the front walk, but he didn’t turn off the car. He looked my way. “I can’t go in.”

“Why not?” I already knew the answer.

“Because she’s not in there. I can tell from here. And I can’t go in knowing she’s somewhere alone.”

I held my hand out. “I’ll need your key.”

“Lock up behind you.” He fished his keys out of his pocket and took the house key off. “Are you okay with this, Meg?”

“Not really, but we have no choice.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Be careful, Dad. Don’t drive too fast and call me as soon as you can.”

He backed out after I shut the passenger door. I turned and stared at our house, finding my bedroom window. Granddad had used Craftsman windows in every room but the room that became my bedroom. That room had the wrong window style and it drove my dad crazy. My beautiful, glorious, arched window was a Tudor cottage window. The kind that has tiny diamond shaped panes encased in thick, sturdy metal. I remember my dad grumbling, “Who mixes Frank Lloyd Wright with Robin Hood?”

Wyatt and his friends sent baseballs flying through just about every window of this house, but when they hit my window, the balls would ping against the metal and fall back, disappointed, to the ground.

I turned the key in the lock and opened the front door, leaning in to flip on the light in the entry. The familiar smell of home hit me in the face. I kicked the door closed behind me and leaned back against it.

“Mom?” I called loudly. But Dad was right. She wasn’t here. Not in body, at least. I mean, she was here
.
We were all
here.

Wyatt laughed, a burst of surprised joy, in the next room. Mom danced through the kitchen, pulling paintbrushes out of her apron. Dad whistled “Eleanor Rigby” in his office. We were
so
here that my shoulders ached.

I carried my bag up the wooden stairs that had supported members of my family for seventy years. I’d fallen down these stairs more times than I could count. Wyatt used to ride the laundry basket express down them when we were alone.

His door was ajar, the sight unusual enough to draw me closer. He’d kept his door closed at all times and, truthfully, I’d always wondered why.
What did boys do in their rooms?
I pushed the door, hearing the familiar creak that used to wake me up when he’d leave before dawn to run.

His room was empty except for his bunk beds, desk, and a few books. There were no pictures, no track trophies, no clothes, no shoes, no Wyatt. It hurt too much to see it, so I backed out of the room slowly and shut the door.

My antique bed and dresser looked huge compared to my things in Chapin. The only color left in my room was the pink and white striped cushion on the window seat. I’d spent so many hours on that window seat that I could see the impression I’d made on the cushion.

I opened the drawer under the window seat and saw things that the movers forgot to pack—old art projects, a few term papers, a couple of stuffed animals that I used to think I couldn’t live without, and my journal. I shut the drawer quickly and tried to forget about it.

Finding a stash of linens in the hall closet, I made up my bed and then borrowed mom’s shampoo and soap and took a shower. Someone had bought a few groceries—probably Aunt Catherine attempting to feed Mom—so I made a sandwich. After I cleaned up the kitchen, I went to work on my parents’ room. The bed was unmade and the sheets looked like Mom had been wrestling tigers in them. I cracked open the window for fresh air and grabbed a bag for all the trash.

The deeper I got into the mess she’d left, the angrier I felt. She hadn’t come here to find peace or to heal; she’d come here to give up.

A stack of family photo albums lay next to the bed; the top one opened to a picture of the four of us on the beach in New Jersey. Books from Wyatt’s bookshelf were spread out at the foot of the bed with
In Cold Blood
lying opened to a page in the middle. I stacked books in piles that made sense and returned the photo albums to the hall closet.

I scrubbed and dusted her room and disinfected her bathroom. I changed her bed and did her laundry. It was late when I collapsed in my bed. Dad called at one in the morning, waking me from a dreamless sleep.

“She’s not here right now,” he said. “I don’t think she’s been here, at all. The furniture was still covered and the fridge was off.”

“She’s definitely been here,” I said. “I just cleaned up the mess. It smelled like death in your room.”

“I’m sorry, Meg.” I could hear the ocean through the phone connection. He was sitting on the deck of the beach house. “I’m too tired to drive back now. I’ll sleep for a few hours and head back in the morning.”

“Okay. I’ll be fine here.” I already wanted off the phone so I could get back to sleep. “Call me when you leave in the morning, ’kay?”

His voice faded in and out. Most of what he said I didn’t catch. All but “I love you, Meggie,” was caught and carried away by the strong coastal winds and the miles that separated us.

I hugged my phone to my chest, reached to turn out my lamp, and surrendered to the night. I woke sometime later, confused and sweating. I’d turned the heat up too high and my mouth and throat were sandpaper dry. I threw off my blanket and stepped out of bed to turn down the thermostat and find water.

I knew something wasn’t right as soon as I opened my bedroom door. Mom’s door was closed and I could swear I’d left it open. A light had been left on downstairs, glowing faintly up the stairs. I tiptoed down the hall and pressed my ear to her door, hearing the quiet hum of the bathroom fan.

With a damp palm, I turned the knob and cracked open the door. She was asleep in her freshly made bed. I can’t explain how relieved I felt for this simple mercy. She was here and safe on clean sheets.

Maybe my relief was premature, though. Frankly, whatever I’d feared most was mild compared to the reality. She’d lost so much weight that she barely made a bump in the sheet that covered her. Her beautiful hair had been cut short. Her skin looked pale and dry.

I decided to give myself a moment to lose it, to mourn the loss of my mother.
This
woman was most definitely not my mother. I would let go for a second and then I would be able to think. Right?

Dropping to my knees next to the bed, I listened to her breathing. And I cried like I hadn’t cried in a while. We had lost so much.
I
had lost so much. And I didn’t think I had what it took to turn this particular corner. I wanted to yank my hair out until she tugged me onto her lap and covered me with a blanket.

She. Was. Sick. I knew this. I didn’t need reminding. I sat still and let the shaking stop. I breathed deeply and rubbed my eyes until they were raw so that I could see clearly again. Retrieving my phone from my room, I called Dad. He mumbled hello after the third ring.

“She’s here, Dad. She’s in her bed.”

“What?” he said. “She’s at the house?”

“She came in while I was asleep.” I waited for him to wake up and process.

He whispered, “Thank God, thank God, thank God,” over and over.

“But, Dad, she’s not okay.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“No, you don’t know. You won’t know until you see her. She. Is. Not. Okay.”

“Five minutes,” he said. “Five minutes and I’ll hit the road. It’ll take me six hours to get to you. Just hold on, honey.” He clicked his phone off, leaving me with a mouth full of questions.

Mom stirred some in her bed. From the hall, I heard a sigh and the rustle of sheets. And then, “Wyatt?”

I returned to her bedside. “No, not Wyatt.”

“Wyatt,” she whispered again.

“No, it’s me, Mom. Meg.” I hated the way my voice had no inflection.

She moaned and turned over to look at me. “Say his name, Meg. I want to hear you say his name.”

“Mom…”

“Say it, Meg. It’s music.”

“Wyatt. Should I say it again? Wyatt. Wyatt.”
Wyatt.

I saw the pain in her eyes when I said it. A tear snaked down her cheek, and her face twisted with fresh grief.

“Isn’t it a good name?” she moaned. “People have stopped saying it.”

“It’s a great name, Mom. It’s your name. Adele Wyatt Kavanagh.”

“Close the window, honey. I’m cold.”

“You need the fresh air. And a toothbrush. And a bath. I’ll run the water.” In her bathroom, I stopped to pick up the clothes she’d dropped on her way to bed and then turned on the faucet.

She moved behind me, but I couldn’t bear to look. I hung my head toward the steaming bath water and closed my eyes. The toilet flushed and then a gown fell softly on the floor. She stepped into the hot water without checking it first and hissed when it burned her feet.

“I’m cooling it now,” I said. “Give it a second.”

Instead of stepping out of the tub, she marched in the water to give each foot a break. When it cooled, she sank down and hugged her knees to her chest.

I poured shower gel on a wet cloth and looked at her very visible ribs. “Mom, what have you done?”

“I haven’t been able to hold any food down.” She buried her head in her arms and cried quietly.

“We could’ve been taking care of you.” I tried to wash her back without hurting her. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not sick. And I told you not to come.” She opened one eye. “Why are you here? Your dad’s not here, is he? I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“You have six hours to get ready.” I reached for a cup on her counter and turned the faucet on to help her wash her hair. “He’s driving like a madman to get to you.”

“Six hours…where is he?”

“Cape May.”

She nodded her head and then leaned back so I could pour warm water over her hair. “New haircut, huh?”

“I got sick of taking care of long hair. It made me late.”

“Late to what?” Working shampoo through her hair, I used my fingernails to scratch her scalp like she’d always done mine. “The dance hall?”

“Girl’s gotta dance,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes again and let me finish. Wash, rinse, repeat. And repeat again due to the abundance of grime in her short hair. Her thin arms hung by her side like heavy weights. This was what little food and months of atrophy did to a body. The curve of her knobby spine made my heart hurt.

“Help me up.”

She held her hands out to me. I pulled her to a standing position and tried to focus on the floor or the wall behind her instead of on her frail, vulnerable, naked frame. She swayed a little as I dried her off with the best towel I could find. Then I put a clean gown over her head and let it fall to her knees.

She wrenched her arms up and out of the arm holes, then shuffled to the sink where I’d loaded up her toothbrush with toothpaste. After brushing, she got back in bed. Tired, so tired. Basic personal hygiene was almost more than she could handle.

I closed the window and settled her under her blankets, then I rubbed lotion into her hands. I put Vaseline on her chapped lips, and I found a nail file and worked on her nails. I made her some soup and fed her small spoonfuls.

She didn’t complain, but she didn’t want it. I forced her to eat all of the soup in the mug and drink all of her juice, and by the time I’d put the dishes away, she’d fallen asleep. It occurred to me that this drowsiness might be more than depression. There were several prescription bottles on the bathroom counter that could explain her condition.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket so I stepped out in the hall to answer. Uncle David sounded far away even though we were in the same city.

“Just talked to Jack,” he said. “How is she?”

“Sleeping.” I paced in the hallway, from my parents’ room to mine. “Incredibly drowsy and thin…and what the heck did she do to her hair?”

“Yeah, she hacked it off herself a couple of weeks ago.”

I sighed. “What did my dad say?”

“A lot. And I’m supposed to repeat it to you.”

I leaned against Wyatt’s bedroom door and slid down until I sat. “I’m listening.”

“It’s time…actually, it’s way past time.”

“For what?” I couldn’t help if my voice sounded defensive. Decisions had been made without me and I was a little sick of that, seeing how the decisions impacted me directly.

“Your dad is taking her to a psychiatric facility first thing tomorrow morning. I know the director and he owed me a favor. He’s got a bed ready for her.”

“A psych hospital,” I said. “
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Like shock therapy and lobotomies. Crazy drugs and slobbering. Are you serious? Padded rooms?”

“No,” David said, exasperated. “And you know your dad better than that. And me. What the hell, Meg? Clearly, your mom needs help. You see that now, right?”

“Yeah, but help like daily therapy sessions and rules about medication and moving back home with us
.
The basic kind of help.” My throat was tight and my voice had reached that high octave that meant tears were imminent. I couldn’t control it anymore.

“Okay, look,” he said. “Your mom has an underlying depression that creeps up at times. Catherine said she’s always been that way, and that makes sense with how she’s presenting. So, you mix grief to the degree she’s had with a tendency toward depression, and you get what we call
complicated
grief. And complicated grief doesn’t go away like
grief
grief.”

“How long?” I whispered.

“Untreated? She’ll be like this indefinitely. Complicated grief festers. She has to learn how to live again and that takes time.”