Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (15 page)

“Nope. Looks the same as it’s looked since Hurricane Mitch.”

“It reminds me of fields that sit fallow for too long,” I said. “The dirt starts to look like the surface of the moon and you wonder if any amount of irrigation can make it right.”

Sam nodded. “We’ve seen new pockets of confidence rise up here and there, but this grief, on a national scale, might not be healed until the whole generation that saw the hurricane is dead and gone.”

“Sam, aren’t you going to ask Henry about the incident in Managua?”

“I’m easing into it, honey.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sam smiling. He’d probably learned to be diplomatic after forty-plus years of marriage.

“Say, Henry,” he said. “John told us about the incident in Managua that forced the consular office to get involved.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Yes, sir.”

“That must have really scared you.”

I nodded, waiting for him to make his point.

“Have you been reading the reports from the Council of Communication and Citizenship?” Janice asked.

“No, ma’am. I’m not familiar with those.” I glanced at her in the rearview. She was taking papers out of her large purse. “But I bet you brought me a copy, didn’t you?”

She smiled, handing a stack of papers to Sam, who placed them on the console between us.

“When you get a chance,” he said.

“What’s the gist?”

“The gist is the government has decided to speed up the implementation of
Programa Amor
.” He glanced at me. “You know what that is, right?”

“They want to get kids off the street and back into homes?” I said.

“That,” Sam said. “And more. They’re removing kids from orphanages, too. They want kids to grow up in homes—their own or with foster families.”

The headache that stayed in my temples these days spread quickly to the back of my skull, causing me to drag a hand over my head for a minute. It had to be my brain rebelling against the counterintuitive nonsense of this program called “Love.”

“But our kids don’t have homes to return to.”

Sam nodded. “I know that.”

“I mean, a couple of them might,” I said. “But those kids’ parents surrendered custody to Quiet Waters. The rest Kate and John saved from the streets. And Raf, who’s just a force of nature.”

Sam cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. “This committee says the children of Nicaragua belong in homes. They think they’d be doing these kids a mercy.”

“Or putting them in danger from abusers…or giving them to people who will work them to death.” I spoke mostly to myself because Sam had focused on the view out his window.

“Only a couple of orphanages will continue to exist, officially,” he said. “As a last resort measure for a handful of kids they can’t place in foster homes. The rumor is, orphanages will be able to operate unofficially if they keep quiet and stay under the radar.”

“What kind of timeline are we looking at here?” I said.

“The committee claims they’ll have the love spread around within a couple of years. They’re taking it department by department. I guess they’ll hit our Matagalpa department within a year, maybe less.” He took a sidelong glance my way. “Maybe significantly less now that we’re being looked at for child endangerment.”

I barely registered the fact that the truck tires had hit the gravel road of the Quiet Waters property. Rosa and Gael had all the kids out stretching in the sun, preparing for P.E. disguised as a game. Gael had even donned some goofy, long basketball shorts for the occasion.

Every head turned when they heard the truck, curious about the newcomers. None of these kids had been here when Sam and Janice ran the place.

In typical sweet fashion, the children approached our guests, greeting them like old friends with hugs and smiles. The little girls swarmed Janice as soon as she stepped out of the truck, feeling of her soft white hair, cataloging the clothes and jewelry she wore. She ate it up, taking off her necklace and bracelets to distribute them among the girls. She tied a ribbon in Karalyn’s hair and held hands with Daniella and Sofi.

The love these kids offered, and the hollow places in them that craved unconditional acceptance, blew me away. Even Raf appeared to be a model citizen this morning. He made eye contact with the Matthews. He bounced a basketball and twirled the whistle on a rope Gael had given him.

I listened to the conversations around me but my mind had moved into crisis mode.
What will I do when government officials come knocking?
Telling me to pack the kids up?
What will I do if John and Kate aren’t here when it happens?

New rules—we needed new rules. No one opens the main doors but me. No one leaves the property without me. No one goes outside without letting me know. I had these horrible images in my head of kids being restrained against their wills, of kids crying my name out, begging me to help them when I was powerless. These were desperate times. Lord, my soul called out. Lord…somehow that’s as far as I could get. I didn’t have the words.

That jumpy, restless feeling stayed with me all day and well into the night. At midnight, I walked the perimeter of the property, looking for any sign of the enemy. I let myself into each room in the dorms, checking window locks and children. Finally, I showered and hit my bunk.

That’s when I noticed, for the first time since returning, I’d left the painting of Meg and me in my room in Chapin.

meg

T
here’s something fundamentally wrong with driving to school in the dark. As a little kid, when my mom would wake me on winter mornings by turning on my lamp, I always assumed the worst. Like it was the middle of the night and someone was sick.

This morning, driving the darkened streets, I drank my coffee and shrank into my coat. The city trucks that had worked through the night making sure our roads stayed clear were now lined up in the right lane, waiting for a turn to park. Instead of safely changing into the lane moving forward, I stayed too long behind the city trucks at a complete standstill.

I put on my blinker to switch lanes and waited for a break in the line of cars. The dented and rusty truck in front of me had a bumper sticker that caught my eye—“Live to the point of tears.”

I recognized the Camus quote. Who knew that a de-icing truck driver in Chapin, Wyoming was so existential? This morning, darkly reverent, made the words more than they should have been. The quote—live to the point of tears—morphed into some huge, metaphorical shout-out meant for me.

I had a theory about that. Henry had left me…again. But his parting words had not left me.
Just make sure you’re at peace with how you leave things here
. Make your peace. Make. Peace.

Camus and Henry waved to me from that muddy truck. They both wanted me to get over myself. So, this was me, getting over myself. And it was about time.

I saw my chance, pulled into the left lane of moving cars, and performed an illegal U-turn. People who are sufficiently motivated to live and make peace will do what it takes, and civil disobedience is usually required.

I stalked toward Jo Russell’s house. I would not be refused. I would not be misunderstood. I slowed when I saw that a car blocked Jo’s driveway. And not just any car—Quinn O’Neill’s car. What the heck?

I parked by the curb and walked to the front porch, glancing in his driver’s side window as I passed. No books. No backpack. No random guy stuff. From the porch, I heard women’s voices threading through the cracks in the front door and the windows.

“But, Ms. Russell, chicken broth never killed anyone.” This voice was soft and pleasant.

“It will if the cook poured paint thinner in it.” This voice was not pleasant.

I peered in the window where the curtains parted and saw a small, smiling woman in pink scrubs. Her dark hair was in a tight ponytail. She looked to be in her forties. She kneeled next to Jo who sat in a recliner pressing her lips together so the woman couldn’t spoon soup into her mouth.

The nurse giggled. “Oh, Jo, you underestimate me. I have the good stuff. Like Propofol.”

I stepped closer to the window so I could see if she was seriously alluding to death by intravenous anesthesia, but she was joking.

“Let’s talk again about who I am.” She placed her hand gently on Jo’s shoulder and looked into her face. “I’m from Amity Home Care, remember? My name is Jenny O’Neill and I’m an R.N. In fact, I’m your R.N. For as long as you need me.”

Jo shook her head at the woman who must be Quinn’s mom. “Never hired you. Don’t need a nurse.”

“Judge Colvin seemed to believe otherwise,” Jenny said. “Last week, he appointed Clayton Whitmire to be your guardian and Mr. Whitmire called me.”

Jo shook her head, full of stubborn pride.

“I’ll be here a little while every day to see about you. I promise you’ll like me. I’ve never bitten or poisoned a single person. And I have no interest in looking in your purse, so you can put it down.”

Jo didn’t loosen her grip on the purse in her lap. Jenny sat back on her heels and looked around the room. When her gaze drifted across the window, she saw me peering in like a stalker. She waved before I could hide.

“Jo, it looks like you have some company.” She placed the soup bowl on a table and rose from the floor.

When Jenny opened the door, I motioned for her to come out.

“Can I help you?” She hesitated, half-in and half-out like she didn’t want to leave Jo alone.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I sort of know Ms. Russell and I just stopped by to see how she’s doing.”

Jenny smiled. “Come on in and see for yourself.”

“Who is it?” Jo yelled.

Jenny turned to go in, but I put my hand out to stop her. “The thing is, she doesn’t remember me. She may or may not believe I’m harassing her.”

Jenny’s forehead creased as she processed my words.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I can’t stop worrying about her. I’m glad she has a nurse now.”

“She’s a case, for sure.” Jenny’s smile looked so much like Quinn’s. She touched my arm like we were old friends. “But I’ll win her over eventually. I can be quite convincing.”

“Are you…I mean, I saw Quinn’s car. He and I are friends.”

“Are you Meg?”

“Has he mentioned me?”

“Of course,” she said. “Now it all fits.” She covered her mouth. “The police and the problem with Jo. How are you doing with all that?”

“I’m okay, really.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I understand it’s her mind and, even though she doesn’t want my help, I can’t seem to let it go. You know?”

Jenny chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I know.” She pointed to her scrubs. “Hence, my vocation. You’d better tread carefully if this isn’t what you want for the rest of your life.”

“I’d have to love biology a lot more to do what you do.”

She shook her head. “Quinn said you’re extremely bright. I’m sure you do fine in biology. Why don’t you come in for a minute? It’ll be good for her.”

“I could just say hello.”

“Of course. And, Meg.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I told Quinn he should bring you over for dinner one evening. Consider yourself invited, anytime. Moving here wasn’t exactly a democratic decision at our house and Quinn said you remind him of home.”

“Oh, that’s…wow.” I remind him of Rhode Island?

“Look, Jo, Meg’s here. She stopped by to check on you. Isn’t that sweet? Don’t you just love Meg?” Jenny entered the room like an actress taking command of the stage.

Jo stood up and stared at me, her mouth drooping a bit. I wondered if she’d had a stroke since I saw her last. She wore what my grandmother always called a housecoat, and it wasn’t hard to imagine she didn’t have anything on under it. She looked distraught and I felt my face mirror her emotions.

“Hi, Ms. Russell,” I said, forcing my voice into something resembling bravery. “It’s great to see you again. Did you finish the painting you were doing on the street a few days ago?”

She continued to stare right through me. I felt awkward and too warm. “Um…the painting…it was of a boy standing on the sidewalk on Main with some shops behind him? Did you finish it?”

“I need to talk to you,” she said. She turned, shuffling out of the living room and down a hall.

I glanced at Jenny and raised my eyebrows in question. “Go ahead,” she whispered, motioning with her hand that I should hurry.

Jo had turned into a room and was sitting on a bed when I entered. The smell of sleep and old mattresses and mothballs coated the air. Her dresser was covered with prescription medicines and other bottles like milk of magnesium, with dried, green drips painting the side. There was an old hot water bottle on her nightstand and a humidifier that looked like it spewed mold. Her comforter had pictures of fat cats on it. Her room was unexpected.

Jo watched me without speaking, so I walked around, looking at her paintings on the wall. Every single inch of wall space, up to the ceilings, was covered in her art. I leaned in close to a few paintings to see her famously loose brush strokes. One in particular caught my eye.

“Did you do this one with a palette knife?”

She nodded. “I found if you use a knife, it looks like dessert when you’re finished.”

“You didn’t use a brush on these roses at all?”

“Nope. I hid that painting in here because I’m supposed to paint cowboys and trees.”

Scratching my head, I committed the painting of delicate pink roses to memory, so I could tell my mom about it. Jo, the Western artist, liked velvety, pink roses.

“I shouldn’t have called the stupid police.” She muttered this under her breath and I stilled for a minute before turning to look at her.

“It’s okay,” I said. “But…why?”

“I’d had a few days in a row of…well, I’d been deprived of my former clearheadedness.” She used the heel of her hand to hit herself in the temple repeatedly. “It comes and goes. I couldn’t remember if I’d dreamed you or if you were real. Then you came waltzing in here today and I realized I really screwed the pooch.”

I smiled. “You have a dog?”

“Ah.” She laughed and pointed a crooked finger my way. “You’re okay. Tell me your name again.”