Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) (25 page)

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I said. “I know what she means to you. What do the doctors say?”

“‘It’s bad.’ ‘She’s old.’ ‘Time will tell.’ The usual things they say in situations like this, I guess,” she said. “She could die.”

“Yeah. She could.” I rubbed my temples, hoping for some relief from the stress.

“I don’t know what to do,” Meg whispered.

“I wish I was there to help you.”

“I wish you were here, too.”

But I wasn’t and we had to end our Skype conversation when her dad came in with the phone. My mom had called from the hospital with information about Jo. I had to let them deal with things in Chapin. All I could do was roll out of bed and try to find some meaning for this day, this Christmas Eve, here in San Isidro.

Rosa, clinging to the idea that the children would return and need her vast talents in the kitchen, bustled around preparing breakfast for us—the remnant—Janice, Sam, John, Aidia, Raf, and me.

Our dining hall sounded like a public library, the only noises being chairs scraping the floor, throats clearing, quiet voices saying good morning and how’d you sleep, backs being patted, and the low hum of melancholy, which has a sound all its own.

I’d felt this another time, when my granddad was in the hospital before he died. We all camped out in the waiting room, eating our meals together, most of us sleeping in the chairs every night. Family from far-flung places arrived at odd hours and we’d all stand and stretch, hug, get reacquainted, and pass the babies around.

Being together was the faint, pale stream of joy flowing through the heavy sludge of grief. It was kind of like those puddles of oil you see in parking lots that look ugly until the sun hits them and you see rainbows pulling together in the middle of the mess.

And wasn’t that just how life usually felt—a confusing swirl of ugly and rainbow?

Now, three of the people I cared about most in this world were in that same hospital waiting room, spending Christmas Eve worried about a woman who had no one else.

After breakfast, I helped Rosa clean up and played a game of one-on-one with a quiet Raf. John sat in the grass with Aidia, using an enormous bubble wand to blow bubbles for her to chase while shoulder-holding his cell phone, waiting for someone to pick up in the Ministry of Family office. Good luck with that on Christmas Eve in a Central American nation.

After I let Raf feel like the man by scoring some ridiculous three-pointers against me, I took off with the excuse that I needed to find Patrick Lane from Tulsa. I’d been itching to know if he’d remembered our discussion about supplies. I left Raf in the middle of the court, shirtless and sweating, probably wondering about my bipolar behavior.

“See you later, man,” I said. “See you later.”

The thing about guys like Patrick Lane from Tulsa was that typically they’re full of crap. But something about Patrick Lane from Tulsa struck me as honorable, like he said what he meant and meant what he said. I had to find out because grasping at supplies kept my mind off everything else.

I knew the piece of land Holton had purchased—sixty thousand square feet of Nicaraguan gold on the outskirts of San Isidro. Holton wanted to make darn sure people knew just who was moving to town.

Construction trailers dotted the dusty fields and enormous stacks of steel looked out of place in such a barren landscape. The scene looked like something you’d see on any given day in urban America. But here, it just felt wrong. Out of place. Historically inaccurate.

I parked next to the other trucks covered in an inch of gray dust and climbed out. My countrymen were here, spending money and bringing hope out of the ground. Patrick noticed me standing there and jogged toward me, laughing, probably fully comprehending what this sight meant to my sore eyes.

“You read my mind, Henry!” he shouted over the noise. “I’d planned on bringing you out here to see this gorgeous pile of steel.”

I shook his outstretched hand and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “I never thought I’d see this here.”

He jammed a hard hat on my head, over my baseball cap, and motioned for me to follow him to a nearby trailer. Once inside, I met the planning team. They were young, probably right out of engineering colleges, and they were all away from home and working on a holiday.

“You got a turkey in the oven somewhere?” I said. “A Christmas tree in a corner?”

“Ha! Is it Christmas?” Patrick joked. “Nah, we’re planning to feed everyone a meal and trimmings tomorrow. Do you have any idea what these guys make doing international construction during the holidays? They’re more than happy to give up seeing their mamas on Christmas morning.”

As he talked, he rolled out a blueprint, weighting the corners with rocks to make them stay.

“Here she is,” he said.

The building looked like nothing you’d ever see in Nicaragua, especially in San Isidro. Even in Managua, Hurricane Mitch had destroyed the nicer office complexes and the economy had kept anyone from rebuilding. This building would be noticed. I had mixed feelings, I guess, but I went with the positive.

“This will mean a lot to the local economy. It’ll put San Isidro on the map.”

Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We plan to do some hiring here. We’re required to put so much capital back into the town because of the tax breaks.”

“How do you feel about hiring sixteen-year-old reformed punks? I’ve got a kid who could really use a leg up.”

Patrick smiled. “If it isn’t the humanitarian coming out to play. Always looking out for the interests of his kids.
El Papá Bueno
.”

“I’m not trying to force him on you,” I said.

He feigned a right hook into my chin, barely scraping me. “I’m just messing with you, Henry. I fully expect to help Quiet Waters and to help you. What’s your situation?”

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I debated how much to tell him. Usually, in my mind, full disclosure won. “They’re all gone, all but two. Halls are empty; chairs are stacked. It’s crazy depressing.”

Patrick sat down and propped his feet up on the table, marking his otherwise pristine blueprints with heel prints. “I had no idea. What can I do? I’ve made some inroads with the agencies I’ve had to work with here. I’m assuming it’s the Ministry of Family you’re dealing with, though, and I’ve got nothing there.”

“You know, I don’t think any amount of American pressure would be welcome right now. I’m pretty sure we’re done with being an orphanage. I’ve been working on some ideas, though, because I’m an insomniac and have time on my hands.”

“What kind of ideas?”

I felt awkward shedding light on my half-baked musings, but on the off chance Patrick could help, I shared. “There are all these case studies of private schools in Latin American villages. They’re sort of like magnet schools in America, only they’re more aggressive.”

My voice shook and I’m sure Patrick could hear my heart beating. “Aggressive how?” he said.

“They literally drive all over the place to pick up the kids they teach—hundreds of miles sometimes.” I shrugged. “Maybe we could buy a bus and pick up all our kids from their foster homes. Make sure they’re fed and educated and loved, even though they sleep somewhere else at night.”

“Sounds good,” Patrick said.

“The problem is the government here knows us. They know all our names. They know our motivation. And they know that, no matter how we try to rebrand our place, we’ll still be a repurposed American orphanage.”

Patrick was a smart guy and I wanted him to give me his opinion. He planted his boots back on the ground and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing the stubble on his face and staring out a nearby dirt-smeared window. Finally, he slapped his thighs and stood, facing me.

“I can’t speak out of turn. This is too important for me to rattle off a fast food opinion. Know, though, that I’ll back you. What I can do now is drive you over to a special shipping container I’d love to introduce you to.”

What he had to show me nearly brought me to my knees. I steadied myself by bracing a shoulder against the rusted metal container so I wouldn’t fall.

Months—months—of longing for this sight made the reality of it overwhelming for me. I stood still and looked around at the boards, beams, drywall, millwork, doors, hardware, windows, and framework materials.

I ran my hands over the extras I hadn’t dared put on the list I gave Patrick. He’d taken my bare bones list and run it through the Holton filter—the one that has money to spend and professionals who know when a man asks for one thing, he really wants another thing, a more expensive thing, a harder-to-find thing. Sitting around me were boxes of ceiling fans, plumbing fixtures, skylights, and appliances.

“I thought you might could use a small kitchen in the building, you know, to increase the multipurpose groove you’re going for.” I think he could tell I was hanging on the edge. I swallowed back the shout of joy and the tears clogging my throat.

“I never thought,” I stammered.

“I know,” he said, crossing his arms. “Look, Holton had a great year and this is a way for us to help out. I plan to be here for the long haul with Quiet Waters, in whatever form it takes. I’m moving my wife and kids here. We tend to grow deep roots and we need a safe school for our babies.” He pointed at me. “Your idea about a school might be just what my wife wants.”

“I don’t even know if we should finish out the building, though,” I said. “We’ve got no reason now.”

“Does Sam still own that property?” he said.

I nodded.

“Well, improving it can only help—whether he sells it eventually to, say, a large international conglomerate like Holton or keeps it and runs something approved by the government.”

“You really think something good could happen?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve seen situations like this work well in other countries. You’ve just got to take off the orphanage glasses and put on the this-could-be-huge glasses.” His smile was genuine. “I’ll have a truck haul this container to you soon.”

My head swam as I turned the truck back down the dusty roads toward Quiet Waters. I had no idea how I would explain this gift to John. It was so completely unmerited, so ridiculous in its over-the-top generosity. It was a gift freely given to a group of kids who’d been scattered to the wind. I had to use it to honor them.

The evening heat and heavy air bore down on me as I turned back into our drive and searched for John. I didn’t find him, but I did find an unwelcome note on my bunk. I didn’t want to read it. Somehow I already knew what it said. I thought I should savor the last moments of ignorance as long as I could.

While the Christmas Eve fireworks still popped and whistled in the night around me, I felt myself slowly going offline, shutting down, and turning off.
Click
. I picked up the note.

Henry—

I’m gone.

Don’t look for me. There is no family who will take me and I will not live like a prisoner in some government holding facility. I know how to make a better life for myself. I can check on the kids without anyone knowing. I can send you word if I’m worried. Go home to your girl. You’ve done all you can.

Rafael Garcia

I bolted next door into his room, which had been wiped clean of any sign he’d ever been here. The rap posters had been ripped away from the wall, leaving the corners and yellowed tape. His window, perpetually open, was closed and locked. His bare mattress looked pitifully small and lumpy. I jogged down the hall to the bathroom. I crashed into the dining room, the kitchen, and the office.

Clumsy and panicked, I cracked my shoulder on a doorframe. I hit my head on the low eave of the porch. I broke a rung on the tree house ladder. I skirted the edge of the property, looking for traces of the kid who had changed me. The river. The bed of the pickup truck. Kate’s car. Finally, I stopped. I reached down and picked up a baseball bat at my feet and I flung it as hard as I could. It circled and arced high in the air until it slammed against the side of the dining hall with a crack and fell.

I sat down in the dirt. Then I lay down in the dirt.

Because not only was there no trail to follow, there was no evidence he’d ever been here.

There was no evidence any of them had been here.

meg

W
hen my dad came into my room, I felt like a little girl again. An important conversation was about to happen. A conversation I might not want to have.

“I’ve hardly seen you for weeks,” he said, sitting on the end of my bed where I was buried under a blanket, reading the assigned novel for English. “How was Jo today?”

“The same.” I had just enough strength left to raise one shoulder. Just a shrug. Stress had sucked the life right out of me and tonight I was supposed to be some kind of top model, plastic person for a stupid high school dance. I’d barely made it through the first week back at school. I had no idea how I’d make it through a social event.

I’d stayed at the hospital more than home for the entire winter break. On Christmas Day, my birthday, Jo’s doctor tried weaning her off the ventilator twice and, both times, she’d been unable to breathe on her own. The hardest part was that she was fully aware she was suffocating when the tube was pulled, and her eyes, clear and wide, searched the room, desperate for help. Each time, she’d pointed at the ventilator, a clear indication she wasn’t ready to give up. The nurses had sedated her and threaded the tube back down her throat.

“Your mom wanted me to ask if you should be doing your hair or something,” Dad said.

“What?” I said. “Hair?”

His smile was crooked. “She said when she was your age she’d start doing her hair four or five hours before a date.” He mimed my mom smoothing her hair. “I’ll tell her you’ve decided on an understated look.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“But,” he said, dragging it out. “She’ll be disappointed you aren’t asking her for help. She’s kind of waited for this night since you were born.”

“Good grief.”

“I know.” He shook his head, but I could tell he thought Mom was perfectly within her rights to want to fluff her daughter up before a dance.