Breaking Glass (21 page)

Dr. Kopeck flashes a brittle smile when she sees me. It’s the kind of smile the victor smiles at the vanquished, a smile that Roman generals probably wore when they surveyed their new conquests. She’s out of her white coat, dressed in a black turtleneck and an alarmingly short red skirt, her dark red hair pulled back in a severe bun. She’s a symphony of mixed messages, and I can’t help but think that she’s got a sharp blade ready to slice through my rib cage so she can rip out my still-beating heart.

She settles into a chair and gestures for me to sit on the couch. I refuse and remain in the wheelchair, even though its unforgiving vinyl digs into my back and chafes my stump. Not a minute into our session and she plunges mercilessly into the events surrounding my mother’s death, my recurrent nightmares and the dark waters that choke me in my sleep. I’m wondering how she knows all this and if I’d told her myself in the hospital as I flailed around in my detox delirium.

I’m like a guppy thrown in the tank with a piranha. There’s no way I’m getting out of this with the flesh still on my bones. She is going to eat me alive.

Looking up from her yellow legal pad, Dr. Kopeck regards me coolly. “So, it seems, Jeremy, what we have here is an early childhood trauma from which you’ve never fully recovered. I’d like you to tell me about that day, moment by moment. Everything you can recall.”

Dr. Kopeck manages to strip away my onionskin, layer by layer, to reveal the shriveled little kernel of misery at its center. I recount the day my mother died, from the watermelon ice fight I had with Michael Fishkin to the game of tag where we all jumped on top of Dave the counselor. I describe the sharp pain in my stomach when I saw my mother’s eyes and the raw terror as we flew over the embankment into the water.

Had my mother screamed? she asks.

I grip my temples. “I don’t know. Can we stop now?”

At this point I’m having a panic attack that has me hyperventilating so violently I’m sure I’m going to asphyxiate right here in her office.

She hands me a glass of water. “Very good,” she says, a slight smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Can you tell me about the recurrent dreams you have?”

I gulp down the water, still gasping for breath. “Please. I can’t.”

“You wouldn’t want me to report to your father that you’ve been uncooperative, would you, Jeremy?”

Still struggling to breathe, I realize that I hate this woman and wonder where the interrogator’s lamp is. Between breaths, I wonder if she really wants to help me.

Or break me.

“Jeremy,” she says. “You know I have your best interest at heart. Paranoia is a common symptom of people suffering delusional disorders. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

She smiles, and holds the door open for me as I wheel myself out.

In her own way, Dr. Kopeck is more of a terrorist than Chaz. And this is only the first session.

Back in the van, I’m shaken and stirred, jittery as the time when I’d made the mistake of riding the Jaws of Death at Six Flags and seen my life flash before me.

God, I’d kill for a drink. And my stump is throbbing like a second heart.

“You okay?”

I can’t take my eyes off the dashboard. For some reason, the patterns and lines in the faux leather fascinate me. “It depends how you define okay.”

“So, it was that bad.”

I shiver and nod. I’m going to have to beg Dad not to send me back. Play the suicide card. I can’t imagine how this torment is going to cure me of my drinking problem. But I know what he’ll say. Our hands are tied by Patrick Morgan.

“Sometimes when a bone is set wrong,” Marisa says, her gentle accent like lapping waves, “it needs to be re-broken so that it can mend straight. And that’s gotta hurt.”

“So, now you’re a doctor?” I mutter. I know I’m being unfair, but I’m a raw, bleeding piece of meat. The only way to feel better is to inflict pain myself.

But Marisa doesn’t back down. “I’m interested in medicine.”

“How nice for you. Why?”

Marisa’s cheeks color. She looks away. “Sick relatives with no insurance. Maybe if I became a doctor, I could help.”

“Oh.”

“You’re hurting, Jeremy. But sometimes you have to let a wound bleed out.”

I wrench my gaze from the dashboard. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Marisa tilts her head and shrugs. A smile creeps across her face, setting fire to her coal-dark eyes. “You’re my meal ticket?”

I chuckle mirthlessly. “Touché. Nicely done.”

“I like you, Jeremy,” she blurts. “Even though you’re working overtime to make sure I don’t.”

I return to the intricacies of the dashboard. The indents in the plastic remind me of the gullies that form in mud after a hard rain. My throat catches. Mud conjures the image of Susannah’s bloated body lying in a gully, coated in it. Forgotten. Abandoned. I squeeze my eyes closed tight so I don’t sob out loud.

“I should take you home,” Marisa says, touching my shoulder.

“No. We need to see Derek Spake. You promised.” I know I sound petulant, but I don’t care.

“Do you think that’s a good idea? Look at you.”

My eyes still closed, I pull my arms in tight to stop my shaking. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not. It’s what has to be done.”

C H A P T E R
e i g h t e e n

Now (December 26th)

It’s a five-minute drive to Hurley from Riverton and I’m lost in a current of thought as I watch the dirty snow piles whizz past. I imagine the steady thud of my feet on pavement, the calming rhythm that kept at bay the waters that threatened to drown me.

Now there are so many cracks for the waters to seep in and suddenly I see myself, balanced on one leg like a stork, peering down into the depths of the Gorge. Wondering if I should jump. Join Susannah and my mother after all.

Maybe it’s the only way to cut this noose from around my throat. Stop this physical and mental agony.

Not yet. If I don’t finish what I’ve started, no one will ever know what happened to Susannah. The guilty will walk away, scot-free.

Before I go, I decide, I’m taking them with me.

“What’s on your mind, Silent Sam?” Marisa says cheerily, back to playing nursemaid.

“Things you wouldn’t want to know about.” I clam up and she goes silent, too. I see her mind working, trying to figure out how to navigate the winding roads of my wild mood swings. She’s getting paid to do this after all, to tolerate me, and Marisa Santiago, I have learned, has one killer work ethic.

We coast to a stop in front of a nicely landscaped house on a neat little block. The houses in Hurley are more closely packed than the winding country lanes of Riverton.

It wasn’t hard to find his address online and her GPS helped us locate it easily.

The house looks quiet. It’s winter recess and I wonder if the Spakes have gone out of town.

We sit in the car for ten minutes, watching.

“So what are you going to do if we do see him, Jeremy? Have you thought of that?”

“No,” I admit. Maybe I just want to look him in the eye and see what’s there. I’m not sure. “I guess I’m just going to ask him how well he knows Ryan and Susannah.”

We’re about to leave when a sweaty, exhausted Derek Spake slows to a stop in front of his house. He bends over, catching his breath, hands on his knees. I’m wrenched by a tug of deep longing for that feeling, the burn of my muscles, the satisfaction of knowing I just ran twelve miles without stopping.

No. Life isn’t fair. I want to break Unspeakable Spake’s neck with my bare hands.

“Open the window.”

“Be careful, Jeremy.” Marisa rolls down my window.

“Hey, Spake!” I call. “Derek Spake!”

Spake straightens, squints at the car, and then ambles cautiously over. “Who’s that?”

“Come a little closer and find out.”

“I’m getting a bad feeling,” Marisa says.

“It’s fine,” I say, my eyes pinned on Derek Spake.

“Whoa. Look who it is. Dude, I heard you had an accident. We even gave to the fund. Sorry, man.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I didn’t come for your pity. I want to talk to you about something.”

Spake squints at me. “Huh?”

“I’ll be real quick.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Marisa squirm in her seat. “Jeremy,” she warns, “Don’t say anything stupid, if that’s possible.”

Spake saunters to the car and eyes me cockily. “Okay, spit it out, Glass.”

“You and Ryan Morgan—are you guys kinda, you know—
tight
?”

His face colors, the sculpted features screwing up into a snarl. “What the fuck do you mean by
tight
?”

“It’s slang for friend, asshole. Are you guys friends is all I’m asking.”

Spake is breathing heavily, his face getting redder by the minute. “What are you driving at, Glass? Because I don’t fucking care if you have one leg or if it’s been shoved up your ass—you start with me, I’m gonna finish it.”

My arm hanging out the window, I drum the car chassis. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, Spake. I’m just trying to ask a few questions. Do you know Susannah Durban?”

At this, his face deepens to a hideous maroon. Veins are popping out in his neck. He lunges for my arm and yanks it backward in a painful twist. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

“I would,” I say, “But you’ve got my arm. Can you just answer the question? Is it that big of a deal?”

“I’ll let go when you come out of this car and tell me to my face why you’re taunting me! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t hurt anyone!”

He bends my arm painfully backward and I yowl. “Fuck! Okay, Spake, you win. Let me go!”

At this point Marisa jumps out of the car, opens the back of the van, and storms around to the passenger side. She’s holding a baseball bat. “Let go of him,” she threatens.

Spake looks at her and laughs. “This is your bodyguard?”

Marisa glares and I don’t doubt she’d swing the bat and happily knock out his perfectly white front teeth.

“Okay!” I shout. “Back off, everyone. I’m coming out.”

“Jeremy. Don’t,” Marisa pleads.

I slide open the van door, unlatch the shoulder strap and pivot around so that my leg rests on the step plate. I ease myself down to the asphalt so that I’m leaning against the car body for support. It takes a second for Spake to find his voice. “Whoa. They never said it was the whole fucking thing. Shit.”

“My leg’s not the only thing that’s missing, Derek,” I say. “The night this happened, Susannah Durban vanished. She hasn’t been seen since.”

Spake walks away backward, palms raised. “Dude. I’m sorry for you. I don’t know anything about Susannah.”

“Did you ever, you know,
hurt
her?”

“
What?
No way. Never.”

“What is your relationship with Ryan Morgan?”

He starts trotting away. “Fuck off, Glass. If you ever come back here, I’ll break your fucking pogo stick.”

Marisa helps me back in the car, gets in herself, starts the engine, and closes the windows. I shake out my sore arm.

“That was productive,” she says.

“Actually, it was. Unlike Ryan, Spake’s no actor. I think he’s hiding something.”

“Or he’s pissed off about being stalked.”

“I think it’s more than that.”

“What if Susannah had something on him and Ryan, and that’s what the crazy shit with him and Susannah was?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know. There’s something weird going on with him and Ryan, and I need to find out what it is.”

C H A P T E R
n i n e t e e n

Now (December 26th)

When we get to my house, the sky is indigo blue, almost nightfall. Dad’s car is in the driveway. The light’s on in his bedroom, so I know he’s home, but the house is silent when Marisa helps me inside. He’s left half of a meatball hero wrapped in aluminum foil and a Caesar salad in a plastic container on the kitchen counter. Bono’s again.

It’s been a long, weird day. I’m exhausted, sore, and perplexed. The answer to the riddle of Derek Spake’s role in Susannah’s disappearance is within my grasp if I can just connect the dots. I think about a book I’d read once on forensic historians, people who solve longstanding historic mysteries. Like them, I need to take a more systematic approach.

One thing I know I don’t want to think about is the bleeding wound Dr. Kopeck has opened in my soul.

Rooting around in my neglected book-bag, I fish out a pad of grid paper. I tape four sheets together and spread them on the desk. Along the tops of the pages I pencil dates. I start with early October, when Susannah fought with Spake, and write each date across the whole length of the paper until I get to the present day.

I plot out each noteworthy event of the past three months, including our upset win in late October, the day the snapshot of Spake and Ryan was taken. I note Susannah’s departure to Rhode Island, her return and ultimate disappearance, fights Susannah and Ryan might have had. The YouTube animations. The day I found the cigar box with the picture of Ryan as a vampire. The package from Susannah with the conjuring kit. The drawing her mother gave me in the hospital. The surgery that took my leg. Messages on a drinking glass. My overdose. Hearing voices. Marisa. My confrontation with Spake. I record all of it.