Glass Shatters

by Michelle Meyers

  The rain falls harder and harder, coming down in sheets. Charles is soaked through to the bone and so is Julie, though the smile never leaves her face. Julie pulls Charles away from the road, through a wooded area in which they must duck under tree branches and jump over logs. Instead of slowing down, Julie’s pace grows faster, so that Charles almost has to jog to keep up.

  Finally Julie stops. She stands in front of a cave, her mouth slightly ajar with amazement. She pulls Charles forward, a misstep, and she and Charles both tumble face first into the dry cave. Without saying anything, Julie strips Charles of his wet clothing. Charles does the same for her. He pushes the dripping streams of hair out of Julie’s face as he kisses her, again and again. Julie’s hand explores his warm, soft skin. Their bodies glow in the yellow light of the moon. Finally, when they are both exhausted and content, they curl up in one another’s embrace. The rain has stopped and there’s a tapestry of stars in the night sky.

  “What is this place? There’s something about it. Something that doesn’t feel quite real,” Charles says. Julie lies beside him, her head resting on his arm.

  “I know what you mean,” Julie says. She takes Charles’s chin in her hands and tilts it down for a kiss. Charles wraps Julie up in his arms, pulling her against his chest. Their breathing synchronizes and slows together into something approaching sleep. Just as he’s about to nod off, Charles speaks.

  “I missed you, Julie.”

  “I missed you too, Charles.”

  “Why did we spend so many years apart?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT BY THE TIME I TRUDGE UP THE FRONT steps. My pants are soaked and every time I close my eyes, I see Julie plastered on the insides of my eyelids. My senses wish for nothing more than her real person, a person whose skin, whose warmth I can feel against my fingertips, against my chest. It seems inconceivable, that my former self could have been so foolish. Why did we spend so many years apart? So many wasted years.

  I flip on the lights to the entryway. The old man is still awake. He sits cross-legged among the marionettes, in an open robe and pinstriped boxers, his big toe sticking out through a hole in his socks. He’s moved the oak end table from beside the bed. Lavender sheets hang down from the rafters, creating curtains for a stage. The marionettes have been taken down, and a damp rag beside the old man is dark and musty from scrubbing the dust off their wooden bodies. He takes one of the marionettes in his quavering hand, a young woman with dark hair and hazel eyes, studies the way in which the marionette moves, pulling up and down on the strings, causing her to walk forward and back. He runs his fingers along the grooves of the body, frowning in an unconscious way. He then takes another of the marionettes, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes. He lays them down on the table, side by side, manipulating the young man’s arm around the young woman with the strings. The curtain-sheets sway in an imagined wind, and even though we are inside, I can almost see raindrops drizzling down across their faces. The male marionette turns his head.

  “I missed you, Julie.”

  The female marionette tilts her chin up. “I missed you too, Charles.”

  “Why did we spend so many years apart?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  The last line breaks the old man. He chokes on the words. No more will come after that. I lower myself down beside him, unlooping the strings from around his fingers and setting the marionettes aside. I try not to admit to myself how rattled I feel. How does he know the exact words from my memory? Have I recited them to him before? Or is it something less than logical, something beneath a more rational explanation of human consciousness.

  “She feels familiar,” the old man says. He takes the female marionette, cradling her in his arms, her dark hair spilling over his fingers.

  “She looks like Julie.”

  “But I don’t know who that is.” His voice is watery, draining away.

  That night, I dream of myself in a crisp tuxedo, my hair trimmed, my face freshly shaved. Julie stands beside me, a lacy white wedding dress curving around her body, the cherry red of her lipstick casting a deep, dark imprint as she kisses me on the cheek. We are still, our smiles unchanging, as if we’re waiting for our photograph to be taken. Julie places her hand against her abdomen, wincing slightly. I take her in my arms. We continue to wait.

  And then, slowly, our smiles wither and fade. We aren’t surrounded by our family or our friends or anything at all but a dreary, endless abyss. I reach out my arms, searching the darkness around me, hoping to find something solid, something tangible. As I reach out for Julie, my hands slide through her transparent body, a ghost of a body that no longer exists.

  I wake up to the sound of someone knocking at the door. The bedroom is still dark. The sun is just rising, light like egg dripping down the edges of the sky. I stumble out from under the sheets, pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I walk by and see Einstein and the old man curled up together on the couch, snoring in harmony with one another, marionettes scattered around them. I peer out through the peephole and then open the door. Iris stands on the porch, a mostly asleep Ava draped over her shoulder. Iris’s hair is up in a quick bun, dark circles under her eyes.

  “I’m sorry to wake you up so early, Charles. Can we come in?”

  “Of course, of course. Why don’t we go into the other room?” I lead them into the kitchen and Iris takes a seat, maneuvering the sleeping Ava into her lap.

  “Coffee?”

  “I better not, I can only stay for a minute or two,” Iris says.

  I put on a kettle of water to boil for myself. Iris strokes Ava’s soft red hair, combing through the tangles with her fingers. “Look Charles, I’m sorry about the way I reacted the other day. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s okay, I understand. No hard feelings.”

  “And I’m sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning, especially to ask you for a favor, but I was wondering if you could take Ava for today. My mother-in-law fell down the stairs—she’s going to be fine, but she needs someone to go with her to the doctor and she lives in Carlton two hours east from here. And of course Ava doesn’t have school today, so …”

  “I’d be happy to do it.” I flash Iris a quick grin. Steam curls out of the kettle.

  “Okay. Okay then, well, thank you, Charles. I have to run, but I’ll be back tonight, all right?” Iris stands and maneuvers Ava into my arms. Her tiny lungs breathe against mine, her small, wet mouth soaking into my shoulder. As soon as Iris shuts the front door, Ava’s eyes pop wide open. I wonder if she was faking sleep the whole time.

  “Can we have French toast for breakfast?” she asks. She reaches up her hand and brushes it against my cheek. “You need to shave.”

  “Yes, I need to shave, and yes, we can have French toast for breakfast. You want to help?”

  Ava nods and I set her up on the countertop. I crack a few eggs into a metal bowl, then hand her the whisk. “You know how to do this?”

  “Course I do.”

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and then start a pan sizzling with butter. I take out a loaf of bread and some milk. I watch Ava’s concentration, biting her lower lip as she whisks the eggs, determined to make them uniform. Einstein trots into the room and licks up the bit of egg that Ava drips onto the floor. I wonder if I used to make breakfast with Jess, if she was as serious a whisker as Ava.

  “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 h
im 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

  Charles 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 AVA 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.