Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (30 page)

Finally, he called on me. “Meg,” he said softly. “Are you ready?”

I stood slowly and walked to the front of the class with my paper in its gray plastic cover. I gathered myself behind the shaky old metal podium, and tried to breathe normally for a second while I pretended to find my place. Without any introduction, I read the poem. And it truly is a beautiful poem—really heart wrenching and sweet and emotional and devastating. I glanced around as I read and noticed that people were actually listening to it. The poem sounded like it could be any of our parents talking, just two everyday people having an everyday fight. But, the point was, this was no everyday fight. It was a fight I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. A fight that I’d witnessed in my very own home.

“This,” I said, “the saddest of Frost’s poems, details the tragic burial of a home after the burial of a son.” A few throats were cleared after I said this. The moment was not lost on the kids who’d searched for information about my brother. I paused and glanced at Henry to steady myself. Then I dove right into the deep end.

I talked about anguish so powerful it scared people. I described the taste grief leaves in your mouth and the awful duties left to the survivors. “I was surprised,” I said, “by how well Frost captured how difficult it is to comfort one another in the face of loss.”

My voice sounded like an echo in a canyon to me as I talked about the marriage in the poem. The husband didn’t understand his wife’s inability to move on or even her refusal to tell him how she felt. The wife was blind to her husband’s grief. To her, he was just the cold, heartless creature who could bury his baby and then come inside with the mud of the grave on his boots and talk about the weather.

My presentation hit a rhythm where I was no longer reading my paper. I was confessing, but confessing with purpose—

I know grief that eats at your soul because I’ve experienced it. You all know about my brother, Wyatt. Two years ago this month he was killed by a classmate at our high school outside of Pittsburgh. It probably seems to you that I would focus only on the violence of his death. That ‘school shooting’ would be the first words I’d use when I talked about Wyatt. But the fact is, it doesn’t matter how he died. He died. I lost my brother. He’s gone.

Life has been really hard ever since. We struggle every day to balance missing Wyatt with living our lives. We’ve all grieved in completely different ways, and this creates tension and conflict at my house. In the last two years, everything about our lives has changed, and my parents have struggled to hold things together.

I didn’t want to write about this poem or make this presentation. I thought it would be too hard. I didn’t want you to treat me any differently or feel sorry for me. Grief is personal, and it’s a journey. But Mr. Landmann told me that sometimes it’s best to share our pain with others, and let them divide it up so we have less to suffer.

So that’s what I’m doing today. I’m telling you all that I’ve learned about the worst parts of life—the evil ones—and I’m still here. I’m recognizing that I’m not the only one in this room with a story to tell. There are others in here who’ve known sorrow, too. I hope we can help one another. I want you to know I’m willing.

Our society has a habit of hiding grief, closing curtains over those of us who mourn too long. We’re made to fear we’ll infect others with sadness. But grief and mourning are part of life and sometimes they have nothing at all to do with death. We can grieve the loss of anything and it’s during those times we need each other the most.

I think Frost wanted us to hear that more than anything.

I finished abruptly. The faces looking back at me were unreadable, really. If I’d made a mistake, it was too late to fix it. I stumbled back to my seat. Henry stood up and hugged me when I got to him, and I felt the tension leave my shoulders a bit.

After what seemed like hours, Mr. Landmann leaned against his desk, facing us. He smiled at me as he spoke.

“Your candor and insight will be a memorable part of this class. I think Frost would say, ‘Yes, Meg, yes. There are things in life that matter and things that don’t.’ You have a firm grasp on the ones that matter.”

Somehow, my eyes were still dry, which was good, a victory in itself. I stared at my paper as all eyes turned toward me.

When class ended, a line of students wanted to hug me, thank me, and tell me they were sorry, exactly the things I’d tried to avoid by keeping Wyatt a secret for so long. I thought it would kill me. And maybe it would’ve killed me a few months ago.

But I understood, now, that we don’t live only for ourselves. We’re connected by millions of shared experiences and dreams and nightmares, all tied together with compassion.

Even when we’re going through our darkest winter, spring is waiting to appear.

Dear Wyatt—

I want so badly to believe that you were with me in Mr. Landmann’s class. And six months ago, I would’ve believed it. It’s crazy, I know. I felt you with me all the time—especially when I was scared. You held my hand.

Maybe I know now that you’re not exactly following me around, but I still believe that you know me, that you think of me, but that you’re where you need to be and where you want to be. You don’t want to come back to us.

Yesterday was the day, you know—the two-year anniversary. And yesterday, I was standing in the pouring rain in the woods behind the house. I was trying to feel you. I was trying to force you to be here. But you simply weren’t. And it was okay.

I said goodbye to you
…
for the first time. I whispered goodbye. Did you hear me?

I miss you. I do. And much of my strength comes from copying you. I copied you. I always did. I always will.

Mom is going to be okay, Wyatt. She’s coming home to us soon.

Love,

Meg

“H
enry leaves tomorrow, Mom. He really wanted to meet you before he left.” I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my room, watching myself dance, and holding the phone to my ear.

“Darn!” she said. “I wanted to meet him before he has this amazing experience so I’d know the before and after.”

Only my mom would say something like that. The weirdest part was that I’d had the same thought. “He’s coming home for Thanksgiving so you can meet him then.”

She made a disappointed noise.

“He taught me to two-step last night.”

“You, two-stepping, with a cowboy, under that big sky. That’s rich, Meg. I love it.”

I giggled. “Yeah, I knew you would.”

“Did he do anything funny at graduation?” she said. “You know, nude under the robe or cowboy hat instead of a mortarboard?”

“One of those examples is a little extreme, don’t you think?” I said. “He was very serious and scholarly.”

“I remember when your dad and I were dating and I moved to Europe. We were apart for nine months and eleven days. I cried every day. I think I was testing him, to see if he’d come find me. He did, of course.”

“Dad misses you like crazy.” I paused to listen for noises in the hall. I was positive Dad had his ear to my door.

“I want to sit and stare at both your faces for hours,” she said.

Dad knocked and let my door swing open. He leaned against the doorjamb and smiled. It made him happy when Mom and I used her weekly calls to talk like old times. But he’d waited long enough. He motioned with his fingers that he wanted his phone back. I told Mom I loved her and handed it over.

He disappeared into his room, talking quietly to her.

My parents were coming back to me. At first it had been slow, just bits and pieces, but lately it had been a flood of recaptured familiarity.

A couple of hours later, I found Dad in her studio, straightening the shelves and cleaning the windows. I peeked in and he smiled at me.

“Want some lemonade?” I said.

He sat down on Mom’s painting stool. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“I’ll meet you on the back porch in a minute.”

“Okay, babe.”

I fixed two glasses of lemonade and kicked open the kitchen screen door to the back porch. Dad waited there for me, sitting on the steps with his legs stretched out in front of him, looking up at the stars.

“We sure didn’t have a view like this in Pittsburgh, did we?” he said, when he heard me coming.

“Not at all.”

“I love it here, Meg. How about you?”

I sighed. “I don’t want to go back to Pittsburgh, or to any other city. Brace yourself, but I don’t know if I’ll look at Penn.”

He snorted softly. “Penn is not a priority, Meg. Maybe something closer, like the University of Wyoming?”

He knew Henry would be there—eventually—so this felt like a stamp of approval.

We drank our lemonades in silence, watching the stars and listening to the pines rustling. Tender hopefulness charged the air around us. Anything was possible.

Later, Henry picked me up to take me to his house. I was spending the night there so I could tag along when his parents drove him to the airport for his early morning flight. I’d packed an overnight bag and brought a second bag that held a going away gift for Henry.

The night I’d dreaded since Henry first told me about his Nicaraguan adventure was upon me.

“Believe it or not, I have work to do when I get home,” he said, driving with an elbow resting in the open window. Wyoming evenings in June were perfect. So many trees and plants were blooming and the air smelled sweet.

“What do you have to do on your last night here?” I tried hard not to whine.

He laughed at me. “We bought a couple of new quarter horses today. Dad’s got the trailer hooked up already so we can go get them from a ranch about thirty minutes away. Then we’ll have to settle them in.” He switched hands on the wheel so he could reach for mine. “They’re beautiful. Great bloodlines.”

“What did you name them?”

He smiled. “You are so freaking adorable, Pittsburgh.” He laughed the deep rumbling laugh that meant he was at least trying to hide his amusement. “They already had names. They’re not puppies.”

“How in the world could I have known that?” I said, air-punching him in the arm.

He shook his head. “Yeah, probably couldn’t have.”

He turned down the road leading to his house. “I’ll drop you off and then head over to the barn where Dad’s waiting.”

Miriam hugged me when I came through the door with my bags. “Hard night,” she said. She was already emotional. She pointed at a shipping crate in the middle of the living room that held some of Henry’s things.

I stared at the small stack of books he’d chosen to take, and the picture of me from his desk that sat waiting to be covered in bubble wrap. “How can I help?”

She shrugged. “He’s done a lot. He still needs to pack a few more clothes.” I’d never seen her look so sad. “We can talk while they’re rounding up horses.”

“Miriam,” I said. “I know you’ll miss him.”

“Like crazy.” She smiled and touched her hair—a moment of raw vulnerability. “Henry is the spitting image of his dad and his grandfather—good, strong, stubborn men.”

She took my hand and led me to a chair at her table, then she brought over a plate of warm oatmeal cookies and poured me a glass of milk. “Thank you,” I said.

“It’s beautiful—when a man gets it right.” She sat next to me and took one of the broken cookies for herself. “It’s such a privilege to watch a little boy grow into a man. You saw that with Wyatt.”

I nodded. “It was different, though, watching him as a little sister.”

“Tell me about your mother.”

“She’s beautiful like you. She’s an artist.”

Mrs. Whitmire scooted her chair closer to mine. She propped her bare feet up and rested her elbows on her knees, watching me intently.

“I won’t pretend to understand what you and your parents have lived through. I’ve prayed for your family.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

“There’s this thing that happens as soon as we find out we’re pregnant.” She picked up a napkin and smoothed it out absentmindedly. “These little people take over our hearts and souls and it takes all our strength to love them through all the hurts of this life. This has all been so hard for your mother.”

“It has.” I pushed back from the table a little and stretched my legs.

“When will she come home?”

I couldn’t suppress a smile. “In two weeks.”

“I see hope just bursting out of you.” She smiled back at me. “There is never a reason to give up on each other…never. Relationships are too important.”

She stood to clear the table and then she told me to wait there. After a minute, she returned carrying a stack of papers. “Henry told me to make sure you got these when you started working on your college applications.” She placed them on the table. “But I think you might find them interesting reading now.”

When she excused herself to get ready for bed, I curled up on the couch to look through the papers. They were copies of things Henry had written for his applications to UW and UC Boulder. I figured since he’d received early acceptance to both schools, I should see what he’d done right.

The first few pages of the application were all standard personal information. The last half of the packet contained the two essays he’d written for the admissions committee. One was about his life as a ranch hand—the lessons he’d learned about hard work and family and loyalty. The second essay was about Thanet and it was titled “The Person I Admire Most in the World.”

In the essay, Henry wrote that he respected Thanet because, although he had cerebral palsy, he was the least disabled person at school. He talked about Thanet’s quiet smile, his ability to sit still and listen without judgment, and his loyalty to his friends. He described the difficulty Thanet had with getting through the day physically and sometimes emotionally.

He wrote—

I guess it’s kind of funny, when you think about it—how close Thanet and I are. I’m a ranch hand more comfortable talking to horses than people and he’s an extroverted, football-loving comedian. I think, though, that we have things in common that run deeper than the surface.