Glass Shatters (15 page)

“What are we gonna do today?”

“How do you feel about coming with me to work?” I say, dipping the bread into the egg mixture.

“Is there gonna be stuff to play with?”

“Of course, lots and lots of stuff.”

“Are you like Dr. Frankenstein?” My mind flashes to the memory of the woman and the young girl, deformed and twisting, moaning in pain.

“Why do you ask that, Ava?”

“I dunno. He was really cool. If I were a scientist, I would make a monster and I would name him Rory and we would hang out all the time together.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so instead I finish cooking the French toast and set a plate at the table for Ava. I scoop her up like a paper doll and set her down. “Better eat up before it gets cold.” Ava pours a swimming pool of syrup over the French toast and chows down. I fry up my own batch.

“When’s my mom coming back?” Ava says through a mouthful.

“Tonight. She should be coming back tonight.”

Ava takes a big gulp of orange juice. “Did you have a mom?”

“I did.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No, she’s not.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes, very much.” I sit down across from Ava. Einstein hops into my lap and starts purring. The French toast is good but a bit overdone.

“And you had a dad too?” Ava asks after a moment.

“Yes.”

“But he’s dead, right?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Did you love him?”

I look down at my plate of soggy French toast. I’m at a loss for words.

“Of course I did. Everyone loves their parents,” I finally say.

June 13, 1982

Age Four

C
harles sits in a waiting room. His feet don’t touch the floor and he swings his legs back and forth. He pushes his glasses up his nose, squirms in the uncomfortable clothing his mother made him wear. The shirt scratches at the back of his neck, and the khaki pants are too small for him. His mother sits in the armchair beside him. She too is well dressed, wearing a long navy dress with buttons down the front, red lipstick, and a black velvet box hat with several curls peeking out from underneath. She crosses her legs, opens a
Time
magazine. The cover article is about Steve Jobs and Apple computers, the headline: “Striking it Rich: America’s Risk Takers.” Beethoven plays on a record behind them, an antique clock ticking on the reception desk. The wallpaper is stuffy and dull, and the waiting room smells like paper and cologne.

The receptionist looks down at a clipboard. “Dr. Hebson will see you now,” the receptionist announces. Charles checks around the room. He and his mother are the only two people there. His mother takes his hand and leads him down the hallway.

“Now remember,” she says. “You aren’t to tell your father about any of this.”

Charles nods as they enter a sparsely decorated office. There’s a houseplant, a bookshelf, a desk, and a couch. The couch is blue, nondescript. A man rises from behind the desk, adjusts his tie, and straightens his jacket. He reaches his hand out to Charles’s mother. She shakes it and then she and Charles sit down on the couch. She keeps her hand on Charles’s knee the whole time, unusual for her. Not the touch. She always tries to be warm and loving to Charles, but her grip seems nervous, as if she’s holding onto the knee to anchor herself. Charles attempts to slide his knee away.

“So what brings you here today?” the man asks. He takes out a black leather binder from one of the drawers and jots several notes. The man is muscular and broad-shouldered, with the sort of jocular smile that puts people at ease. He’s the man from the funeral, the one who was holding a photograph of Charles’s mother.

“I’m concerned about Charles,” she says, nodding her head toward him. He doesn’t look up, instead counting something on his fingers.

“What particularly are you concerned about?”

Charles’s mother lowers her voice. “He seems different from the other children. He’s in his own world. He prefers playing alone and he’ll become engrossed, almost obsessed with the mechanics of whatever interests him at a particular time. I’m just worried and I’ve heard . .”

“I see,” the man says.

“I just want to make sure, if there is something wrong—”

“Why don’t you leave Charles with me for the next half hour or so and I’ll ask some questions, maybe do a few tests. You’re welcome to sit in the waiting room. Help yourself to some coffee or tea.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hebson.” She plants a kiss on Charles’s forehead before she leaves the room.

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” he assures her.

A half hour later, the man emerges from the office with Charles. Charles holds open an issue of
National Geographic,
absorbed in an article about emus. He has a wide grin on his face as the man pats the top of his head and gestures to his mother. She springs up from her seat, clasps her hands together as she walks toward the man.

“Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”

“He’s fine,” the man replies. “Nothing to be concerned about. He’s very smart, you know.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware,” she says. In the meantime, Charles continues thumbing through the
National Geographic.

“He’s just very logical. Terrific problem-solving skills.”

“But there’s nothing wrong?”

The man gives the mother an earnest look. “Do you want something to be wrong?”

Charles’s mother shakes her head and again lowers her voice. “Of course not. I just … I don’t think he loves me.”

“I’m sure that he does,” the man says, and then he leans in and whispers into her ear. “I don’t think that’s what this is really about.”

Charles’s mother steps back, putting her hand up to her left eye, feeling the purple swelling she tried to hide with makeup.

“It was an accident,” she says. “My husband had an accident.” She goes to lead Charles out of the waiting room. The man takes her arm.

“I can help you, you know. If you let me, I can help you.”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” She tugs Charles out the door, but just before slamming it behind her, she sneaks a glance back at Dr. Hebson.

I
STEP OUTSIDE INTO THE CRISP MORNING AIR WITH
A
VA
in one arm and several pillows in the other. Iris didn’t mention anything about a car seat, but I’m pretty sure that Ava is too small not to have one. I pack her in between the pillows.

“We’re playing pillow fort,” I explain to her as she wiggles against the seat belt.

“Then how come you don’t have a pillow fort?” she protests.

“Because I’m the pillow fort driver. Every pillow fort needs a driver.”

I’m hoping that I still know how to drive. I haven’t tried since I first arrived back at the house. But the car in the driveway seems sturdy enough, a rust-red Subaru wagon from the early 1990s. I feel the muscle memory return as soon as I put my keys in the ignition and disable the emergency brake. It’s freeing to realize that if I really wanted, I could just keep driving. I could drive far, far away.

On the way to work, Ava mostly hums to herself, the same tune, over and over.

“What are you humming?”

“It’s from
Peter Pan
. It’s called ‘I Won’t Grow Up.’ It was my favorite song last year.”

“Why was it your favorite song last year?”

“Because my school did the musical
Peter Pan
and I got to play a fairy.”

I think about Jess, swooping around the living room with her friends. “You know, my daughter, Jess, always loved being a fairy too.”

Ava pulls something out from under her. One of the marionettes. A young girl, her face shining, her hair swept back into a ponytail, a princess dress swirling around her feet.

“Is this what Jess used to look like?” Ava asks.

“Yes,” I say. “At least, that’s how I remember her.” At the next red light, I turn back to her. “Ava, I have a question. Am I much different now?”

“Different from when?”

“You know, before I left.”

Ava pauses, chewing on her lower lip. “Kinda, I guess. You were sad a lot. You didn’t want me to know but I could tell. Sometimes when you told a joke that was supposed to be funny, it made me sad instead.”

“And I seem happier now?”

“You’re smiling more. I like that.”

I pull into the underground parking structure and gather Ava in my arms. We navigate through the maze of cars and concrete columns before taking the elevator up to the fifth floor. She insists on making rocket ship sounds the entire way up.

“Do you ever feel scared?” she asks.

“Scared of what?”

“The ghost.”

The elevator pings. “The ghost? What ghost?”

“The ghost who lives at your house,” she says matter-of-factly.

It takes me a moment. “You mean the old man?”

Ava nods her head. I shift her to my back as we walk down the hallway. Her legs cling around my waist like a marsupial.

“I don’t think he’s a ghost.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Then who is he?”

“He’s a relative, I think.”

“Because he seems haunted. Have you seen how he just like floats around?”

I can tell that I’m unlikely to win this battle. Besides, I’m not entirely convinced Ava’s wrong. I don’t know what to believe in anymore. “Well, even if he’s a ghost, there’s no reason to be scared. He has a good heart.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“But how?”

I put my keycard up to the sensor and the door whizzes open. Scientists bustle through the main lobby, clipboards in one hand, coffee in the other, murmuring under their breath about data sets and confounding variables. The faces are anonymous. Nobody stops to say hello.

I turn down the corridor and around the corner. The last door on the right is marked in bold block letters across the frosted glass—HUMAN RESOURCES. Classical music emanates out, something familiar and bright, Tchaikovsky perhaps. I give a light knock.

“Come in,” a feminine voice trills from inside, and I push open the door. A middle-aged woman sits typing on her
computer. Her blond hair is folded into a glossy updo. A bookshelf holds a dusty, leather-bound set of encyclopedias that I would guess to be at least one hundred years old. Otherwise the office is entirely modern, ergonomic chairs and the latest touch screen devices.

“May I help you?”

“Um, yes, I’m Charles, Charles Lang? Peter said to stop by HR to pick up some paperwork.”

The woman doesn’t respond, instead diving into a filing cabinet beneath her desk. She emerges with a manila envelope marked with my name.

“Make sure to get your paperwork completed and signed by the end of the week,” she says, handing me the envelope. She then checks the Post-its lining the edge of her computer monitor. She plucks one from the right corner.

“Also,” she continues, “you have an appointment with Katherine DeFazio on the first floor”—she checks her watch —“five minutes ago. You better get going. She’s in room 106.”