Glass Shatters (11 page)

In the next room, the floor is made wholly of puzzle pieces composing a gigantic photograph of an eye. A single piece is missing, right over the place where the pupil would have been. Two men dressed in silk pajama pants wander in with bowls of oatmeal and sit down to eat. Each has a long beard trailing down his chest. They stare at Charles as he walks by.

Charles’s throat closes up. He’s sure that Mrs. Hollingberry has just tightened her grip. He counts silently in his head. He has decided that he will rip away from Mrs. Hollingberry and escape back through the garden. He should have listened to his parents, such a foolish mistake.

“Julie?” Mrs. Hollingberry says. Charles must have closed his eyes at some point. He opens them to discover a young girl standing before him, her face surrounded by dark ringlets. “Julie, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”

Charles looks at Julie. Julie looks at Charles. Neither one can look away.

“C
HARLES
?” S
KYSCRAPERS RISE AROUND US LIKE SENTRIES
as we approach downtown. We pass by a school yard, a swarm of kids in orange and yellow jerseys running back and forth down the basketball court. Women sit outside coffee shops, eating croissants, drinking tea, laughing as though everything is fine.

“Charles?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“About what?”

Iris catches the look in my eyes. “Oh, it’s not about anything important …”

“What?”

“Well, it’s actually about the leotard you gave Ava. She’s so in love with it, that turquoise color. It’s exactly like the one she used to have. I was wondering where you bought it. You know how it is with kids—the more she loves it, the more likely it is that it’ll get lost.”

“I don’t know.”

“Charles—”

“I’m not sure where I got it.”

Iris gives a maternal smile. “You know, there’s no right or wrong answer.”

I pause. “From Jess’s bedroom.”

“Pardon?”

“I got it from Jess’s bedroom. It’s never been worn. I found it folded on top of the dresser. It made me think of Ava.”

“Oh.” Silence. Iris feigns an unexpected fascination with the road in front of her. She stares straight ahead, lifting her right hand to brush her hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry, maybe that’s weird. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” I turn toward Iris. There is a strength to her figure in profile, her jaw set, her nose sharp and defined, a line or two running across her forehead, a beauty that has gone through tragedy, that has led a difficult life but that has persisted through it anyway. “Look, Iris, I know we may have had
this conversation. It’s just that, I was wondering—well, do you know what I did with all the photographs in my house?”

I expect Iris’s expression to soften, but instead, in a voice just neutral enough to be cold, she says, “I don’t know, Charles. They were gone by the time we met you, by the time Rory …” She trails off. Her eyes are somewhere else, perhaps lurking through memories with Rory at her side, only for him to disappear when she flashes back to reality. She stomps her foot on the brake to avoid running a red light.

“That’s it,” I say.

“What?”

“That’s the building. You can drop me off here. Thanks, and don’t worry about picking me up. I can walk home.” Before Iris can respond, I’m out of the car, dashing across the street, clutching my briefcase against my chest. There it is. 1247 Shelby Ave., as bland and beige as they come. Professional. Sterile. I take a step forward and stand in the entryway for several moments, mesmerized as I watch the mirrored glass doors slide open and closed. I unclasp the briefcase for the first time. It’s empty inside except for a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. I reach in, take out the glasses and adjust them on my nose. Everything is slightly clearer than before.

I look at my reflection in the sliding doors. My head is mostly healed now. The only sign of any possible accident is a slight bruise on the back of my neck. I wonder if I’ll recognize anybody or anything, how they’ll react to me. I should’ve called. I should’ve called ahead, but I can’t think of walking away now. I have to do it. I have to show up.

A deep breath. I enter the building. The soles of my shoes
squeak against the gray-blue linoleum. A woman in a business suit sits in the lobby, reading the
Washington Post
and drinking a coffee. She glances up vaguely as I walk by and then returns to her article, swinging her foot in time with the smooth jazz music that echoes from hidden speakers. I check the building directory, then press the button outside of the elevator. Of all the companies named, the only one that seems like a potential is Genutech, listed on the fifth floor.

The orange arrow glows brightly, followed by a ding. I can’t help but feel like the elevator is growing narrower as it rises. I undo the first button at the top of my shirt and try not to hyperventilate. When I exit the elevator, there’s a set of double doors immediately in front of me, bookended on either side by a large potted plant. A red light pulsates to the left of the door, and a little sign makes it clear I need a security badge. I have a hunch. I open the briefcase and run my fingers along the inside. One of my fingers catches. There’s a pocket in the lining along the back. Inside the pocket is a wallet, a cell phone, several tissues, a pack of mint gum. Before I reach for the wallet, I take out the cell phone, press several buttons at once. If this is my phone, then it has my contacts in it. I can’t get it to turn on, however. The battery and the SIM card are missing.

I then take out the wallet, thin brown leather worn at the corners. I check inside. There’s a driver’s license, several credit cards, a debit card, a few dollars, and a security badge with a barcode at the bottom. I slide out the driver’s license, holding it up to the light. The photograph must be at least ten years old. My blond hair is buzzed short, my blue eyes gleaming, and I have a crooked half smile, like I’m not sure how to pose. My
full name is spelled out, Charles Alexander Lang, my permanent address listed as 153 Maple Road, Hillston, WA 98409. A new piece of information—my birthday, December 5, 1977, which would indeed make me thirty-four years old. I take out the security badge next. The expression of this man, in contrast, is stiff and mechanical, but there’s no doubt it’s me. I hold the security badge up to the red light. There’s a loud click as the doors unlock. The hallway extends forth, an infinite mirrored corridor converging on itself. Why do they need so much security? What could Genutech have to hide? I reach the next set of doors, hold my thumb up to a scanner. Nothing. I try again. Nothing. Finally I turn my thumb over so that it goes in upside down. The device purrs and shines a blue light as the doors swing open, revealing another long open space with offices branching off to the sides. I step inside and instantly notice a familiar stain across the carpet, huge and sprawling, the color somewhere between brown and dark burgundy.

January 31, 2010

Age Thirty-Two

C
harles tears through the office, leaving armfuls of shredded paper in his wake. Shattered bits of glass are strewn across the carpet. Chemicals leak from the tanks along the wall; water puddles on the floor. Something translucent struggles in one of the puddles, some sort of sea life. Frayed wires sizzle in the water. A flat-screened modem lies cracked in two pieces. Charles is nothing but anger and despair. His boss, Peter, paces back and forth in the corner, gaunt in a suit jacket with his white, thinning hair and spectacles. He speaks quietly, urgently into a cell phone. The skin around his right eye is raised, red fading to black and blue. He glances furtively at Charles, who is now muttering to himself and emptying several drawers’ worth of files at his feet. Charles rips one sheet after the other, sinking down to his knees among a mountain of shredded paper.

A security guard bursts through the double doors and then slows, taking in the destruction around him. He turns his head to his shoulder, presses the button on his walkie-talkie and radios for backup. The guard approaches Charles, gently touches his shoulder. Charles flinches, turns to look at the guard. His glasses are chipped and smudged, his eyes clouded over.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME
I
THINK THAT MAYBE THIS REALLY IS
me. I feel more like this Charles from my memories than I ever have before.

“Charles, is that you?”

I’m standing in the same room as in the memory, a central corridor with an antiseptic feeling opening onto offices and labs, the mirrored windows lining the passageway giving a constant, uncomfortable awareness of oneself. Anything that I may have damaged has been neatly repaired, with all hints of past destruction tucked behind and beneath the flawless tables and carpets. If previously there were water
tanks against the walls, they have since been moved, with only the slightest discoloration of the wallpaper giving any suggestion of their prior existence. There’s a marble countertop with coffee, tea, and pastries in one corner, a water cooler, several leather couches and a table with magazines and newspapers.

I blink. There is no carpet, no stain left. Hardwood floors have replaced the carpet. The room looks like a doctor’s office, anything dangerous long since removed and locked away. I still feel shaken by the last memory. I wonder what exactly caused such distress. I wonder if it had something to do with Julie and Jess, if it had something to do with my absence as well.

Peter stands before me, holding a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other. He’s lanky with a beakish nose and small bird eyes, his limbs too long and angular for his body, like stalks of wheat. His white shirt is pressed and starched, his thick, black-framed glasses without a smudge, his pants perfectly creased, his shoes recently shined. His eyes linger. I would expect Peter to seem more surprised, perhaps taken aback at my unexpected appearance. Instead, he takes me in with a studied expression, with the sort of calm a physician maintains for even his sickest patients, a calm that is mechanical in a way.

“It’s good to see you back, Charles,” Peter says, extending a hand, and I give it a firm shake. “Shall we get you set up?”