Breaking Glass (35 page)

Spake is there as usual, helping Ryan eat. Visits from the track team have dwindled as Ryan’s inner circle has whittled down to just me, Dad, Spake, Celia and sometimes Marisa.

Ryan is propped up in a cushioned chair with a tall back. Spake looks on as Ryan tries to spoon oatmeal into his mouth with his working left hand. His blue eyes drift and roll, unfocused, until he notices me and smiles the smile that has lost none of its wattage. Seeing him this way tears me in two, but I’m careful not to show it.

He’s still unable to speak, and the doctors don’t know if it’s due to the damage done to his vocal cords, brain injury, or both. With his right side weakened, walking is an epic struggle. It’s going to be a long road for Ryan, months of rehab and psychological evaluation. And there’s still the matter of his attempted suicide.

There’s no way I can ask him, yet again, if he killed Susannah.

And I’m not sure I want to.

Ryan rests the spoon on his tray and makes the same gesture he has every day since he’s been fully conscious. Two fingers walking.

He smiles and his scattered gaze tracks my movements as I get to my feet and make my usual circuit, my limp still pronounced.

He never seems to tire of watching me walk with my new leg.

I pull up a chair alongside him. We may have switched places, but Ryan is a much more agreeable patient than I am.

“Hey, bro.”

Ryan nods and grips my hand. He squeezes hard. Harder than I’d ever suspected he could. His wavering gaze struggles to lock in on mine. Finally he gives up and squeezes his eyes closed tightly.

“He looks forward to when you come, Jeremy,” Spake says. “It means a lot to him.”

But Ryan seems agitated today. His eyes snap open, and he blinks rapidly. Pressing his lips together, he huffs out repeatedly through his nose. I can feel his frustration, the words locked inside him, as he repeatedly taps the tabletop with his palm.

“What’s the matter with him?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. The nurse said that sometimes at night he has these fits where he shivers and breathes heavily. They have to give him a sedative to get him to sleep.”

I frown and turn to Ryan. “Are you in pain?”

Ryan shakes his head no, vehemently. But his lower lip quivers as he fights to keep his unsteady gaze on me. Tears slip from the corner of his eyes. His mouth opens and closes, but only a raspy wheeze comes from his throat, which prompts a coughing fit so violent, this time the nurses have to be called to give him oxygen.

Pacing the room, Spake looks as tightly wound as a coiled spring. The nurses transfer Ryan to his bed and he falls asleep quickly, snoring lightly.

I stare at his peaceful form, his chest rising and falling. Ryan is still as beautiful as ever, his injuries and scars masked by sleep.

Spake leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sure he’s been trying to tell me something. I’ve gotten him pad and paper, but he can only make meaningless scratchings. I think the frustration of not being able to communicate is driving him crazy.”

I peer down at Ryan, wishing I could crack open his skull and peer inside. What secrets are locked in there? “What do you think is keeping him up? You don’t think—”

Spake’s jaw sets as if he’s read my thoughts. “Don’t go there, Glass. He didn’t do it. Ryan couldn’t hurt anyone. It’s not in his nature.” He paces the room, a cyclone of bristling energy. “It’s probably nightmares about his monster father. Seeing him like this, while the person who’s responsible is still alive, is tearing me up inside, Glass. Have you ever seen the bruises on Ryan’s back?”

I think hard and realize I never have. Ryan would often swim wearing a T-shirt. But since I wasn’t much for water sports myself, I’d barely taken note. I’d seen him in the shower, but never noticed anything odd.

“Asshole was careful not to beat him during track season. But the rest of the year—all bets were off. You should see what his back looks like now. It’s no wonder he preferred to die rather than face that man’s wrath.”

Spake meets my gaze, his jaw trembling. “Patrick Morgan threatened to kill me, Glass. He said if he ever caught me within a country mile of his son, he’d cut off my—my—and toss me in the reservoir with everyone else who’d crossed him.” Spake spits out his words. “It’s that bastard’s fault that Ryan tried to kill himself. And I’m fucking glad he has all the time in the world to think about what he did.”

“That’s assuming,” I say softly, “he has a conscience to bother him.”

C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - f o u r

Now (January 9th)

In the morning, Chaz orders me to walk up and down the staircase twenty times. I’m so tired, I’m ready to whip off Veronica and beat him to a bloody pulp with her. But Chaz is unflinching in his grim determination. For my next tasks, he has me walk around the house holding books in my good arm, balance plates like a waiter, and mop the floor one-handed.

My stump howls with pain, but Chaz isn’t interested in my whining. And my effort has been paying off. As my gait improves, and since I’ve been sober for over three weeks, Dad has been experimenting with letting me drive the car for short stints, apparently unaware of my few sojourns.

Marisa and I meet at Awesome Cow for lattes and sandwiches. I never thought being able to get out of a car on my own and walk into a café on two legs would feel so good. We’re still cautious in our behavior—all giggles, flirtations and snuggles, but nothing more. And I’m starting to wonder if desire denied is going to be the default setting for the rest of my life.

After lunch, I drive Marisa home and I’m off to visit Ryan on my own. She smiles at me, sunlight tripping across the black gloss of her hair, as she walks to her door. And I think how unfair it is, how we are both prisoners of the inconsolable spirit I’ve brought back from the dead.

And how we won’t be free unless I can send her back.

Spake sits with Ryan, as usual, talking to him. Ryan nods and grimaces, his head turned away. Celia leaves to go for coffee.

Once his jittering gaze lands on me, Ryan’s left hand drums the tabletop incessantly. He starts to breathe heavily, making deep huffing noises as if he’s trying to speak but has none of the necessary equipment.

I pull up another chair and throw an arm around him.

“Do you want to see me walk today?”

Ryan pounds the table with force and shuffles his feet.

“The nurses say he was up all night, bug-eyed. It’s like he’s scared to death. They say they want to have him transferred to the psych ward as soon as he’s stronger,” Spake says. “I have to do something.”

I glance at Ryan, who sighs and slumps lower in his chair, defeated.

“What do you actually think you can do?” I’m not sure I like or trust Spake’s tone.

“Maybe if Ryan knows that Patrick Morgan is really gone, he can start to heal. I’m not sure he gets that his father can’t hurt him anymore.”

Ryan’s mouth moves, fish-like, making the same wheezing and huffing noises. His lips twist and contract into strange positions, as he struggles unsuccessfully to form words.

“What is it, Ry? What are you trying to tell us?”

Ryan nods and exhales, left hand patting his chest, then points to his mouth and shrugs as if to say he’s not sure why he can’t talk. He taps his chest again, points to his shifting eyes, then circles his finger next to his head, the universal sign for crazy.

“No one thinks you’re crazy, Ryan,” Spake says. “You’ve had a huge trauma. It’s just going to take awhile to get your body to work right again.”

Ryan blows more air out of his mouth and shakes his head. This time he does the
crazy
gesture and points to his eyes.

“Wait,” I say. “Do you mean you’ve
seen
something crazy, Ryan?”

Ryan smiles, his head bobbing yes, enthusiastically.

I pull my chair closer. Spake crosses his arms defensively. “Go easy on him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What did you see?” I ask, ignoring Spake.

Again, Ryan paws at the air, but his rapid gestures are not getting us anywhere. He contorts his mouth into a trembling O. His eyes flutter closed, his face red and strained into a grimace. His tongue finds the back of his teeth. He lets a puff of air escape to make the sibilant sound of an “s.” It’s little more than a gruff whisper, a rasp of air.

Breathing hard through his mouth, Ryan’s clearly spent from the effort, but he tries again. “Suh—” This time he purses his lips in a tight little “o” and blows out a new rush of air.

Ryan shakes his head, wildly, clutching my arm. “Sooosssss—soooossssssssss…”

“Susannah?” I prompt, wondering if this, when I’ve finally accepted his innocence, is his confession.

Ryan nods furiously, and smiles. Tears stream down his cheeks. I pull him close to my chest as hissing sobs vibrate through his body.

“You’re upsetting him, Glass, just by mentioning her name.”

Ryan pulls away, fighting to form words. “H-h-h-eerrrrrrrrre.”

My scalp pulls taut, my hands shaking. It can’t be. Ryan’s not confessing to anything. “Here? Susannah is here?”

Ryan squeezes his eyes tight and nods.

I pull him closer, and rub his arm. “It’s okay, Ry. It’s okay.”

I ask to spend the night in Ryan’s room. I wait until he’s asleep, then carefully unstrap Veronica and slip her under the cot. In no time, despite the hospital noises, I fall into a fitful sleep myself.

I wake to near-total darkness, punctuated by the vigorous rattle of the hospital bed. I make out Ryan as he swipes with his good hand, the breath hissing and huffing wordlessly through his lips. There’s no sign of any presence in the room, and I wonder if he’s having a PTSD episode, similar to the ones that I suffer from.

“Ryan. I’m here, buddy. Settle down.”

Then I smell it, a vague tang of vanilla and earthen dampness, a scent of the wet wind that blows in with a summer storm. Ryan thumps his head against his pillow. The windows blow open, admitting a gust of biting wind that lashes the room in a violent frenzy.

I leap off the cot and lunge to close the window, then hop to Ryan’s side. There’s no time to fuss around with Veronica. I climb onto the bed and enfold him in my arms, his chest heaving and shaking with tremors.

A chill claws up my spine. The moment I touch Ryan, I see the silhouette of Susannah against the dark.

“Is he your killer or isn’t he?” I shout. “Just say it!”

He hurt me. All of you hurt me
.

A freezing squall whips the curtain that surrounds Ryan’s bed. He exhales in a breathy hiss, edging as far away from her as he can get in the bed.

You were supposed to help me, Jeremy
.

My voice booms out from my chest. “Wouldn’t a murder victim
know
who killed them? Why all the hints and clues?”

Ryan flails and swats, eyes wild like a startled horse.

“Well?” I press. “Did he or didn’t he? Or was it Patrick Morgan? Why all the intrigue? Is this some kind of game to you?”

Ryan heaves and shakes, achieving nothing louder or more defined than a series of tremulous exhales.

“Leave him!” I bellow, “Go back to where you belong. You’re dead!” I’m shouting, pointing at her shadowy form with a trembling finger.

Ryan turns toward me, blinking helplessly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

The shadow recedes.
You’ve always lied for him! You never loved me!

“Once, I did. I really did.” I close my eyes and hold Ryan’s quaking body against me. “Who killed you, Susannah? Just tell me.”

All of you killed me
.

The silhouetted form flickers and sputters out, taking the dark with it like smoke drawn through a vent.

Ryan sobs in silent gasps, his head pressed against my chest.

I stroke his damp hair and cradle him, her words ringing in my ears.

Dreams don’t lie, Jeremy
.

C H A P T E R
t h i r t y - f i v e

Now

I fall asleep on Ryan’s bed, jammed against the bedrail.

Spake shuffles into the room first thing in the morning, looking more like a ghost than Susannah did.