Glass (20 page)

I assess personal damage. Don’t

think I’m hurt, at least not badly.

Beyond a likely steering-wheel-

shaped bruise, and having

the wind totally stolen from

me, I’m all in one piece, and

everything seems to work.

The car, however, is a different story.

It landed facedown in a drainage

ditch, one rear wheel tilted off

the ground. No way can I get it

out on my own. I’ll have to walk,

and I’d better get going before a cop

happens along, not that many cops use

this road. Still, just my luck, tonight

will be the night one is visiting

his girlfriend out here or something.

I don’t mind getting a ticket, if that’s

the most that will happen. But any

cop trained as a DRE would definitely

know what’s up. In fact, it probably

wouldn’t take a drug recognition

expert to expertly recognize how fucked

up I am right now. I’ll be a lot less

likely to go to jail in the morning. Oops.

It is morning, somewhere close to five.

It isn’t too far, maybe a little over

a mile, but it’s dumping snow, and I

didn’t bring my coat. [Stupid.] My

feet slip and slide, and before very

long, my sweater and hair are frosted

white. The cold makes me shiver,

the meth makes me shake, and by the time

I jam my key into the lock,

my fingers barely work enough to turn it.

I tiptoe up to my room and into

a hot shower. By the time I dry

off, enveloped by warm scented

steam, a gray dawn illuminates

my window. Outside, the snow

keeps unfolding a canvas of white.

The house crackles alive.

Footsteps fall, weighted,

on the stairs. I get up

and trail them down

to the kitchen. Brad

is at the sink, back

toward me, wearing

nothing but skimpy

briefs. I thought Trey

was buff, but Brad’s

body is better. Whether

that has to do with working

construction or only

a matter of a few extra

years, I don’t know.

[Who cares? Yummy!]

Anyway, ogling the hew

of his shoulders and

back is not why I’m

here. “Brad, I, uh…”

He jumps and yanks

in my direction.
Holy

shit, Kristina. You

scared the living

hell out of me! Your car

isn’t in the driveway,

so I figured you must

have stayed in town.

The quick move slightly

parts the opening in his

BVDs, offering a glimpse

of something rather private.

I can’t help but smile.

He glances down, but

doesn’t make a move

to rectify the situation.

All he does is shrug

and return my smile.

Then it strikes him.

So where’s your car?

My turn to shrug.

I left it facedown

in a ditch, a mile

or so from here.”

What? Hey, are you

okay? He moves

closer, gives me

a concerned once-over.

He cares? “I’m fine,

except for a giant

bruise. Not sure

about the car, though.”

Give me a minute to

get dressed, and I’ll

go check it out. Oh,

wait…the kids.

“I can watch them,

unless you need me

to come too.” I hope

he says no, in case

there happen to be cops

around. I’m still pretty

buzzed. Brad, on the

other hand, looks fine.

He thinks for a minute,

finally shakes his head.

I’ll assess the damage.

If I can pull it out, I’ll

come get you. If not,

we’ll call my buddy

at Reno Tow. He owes

me, anyway
. Telltale wink.

Brad takes off to find

some jeans, and I find

a growing affection for

the guy who took me in.

And I go upstairs, seriously in

need of a smoke. When I reach

for my Marlboros, my cell tells

me I have two new voice mails.

The first is from Trey.

Hey, babe. It’s about nine

on Saturday and it’s raining

like insanity, which means

it’s seriously blizzarding up

in the mountains. I’m not

going to chance it until it

stops and they plow the roads.

I’ll get there soon as I can, okay?

I knew he was going to say

that. But was there another—

definitely female—voice

in the background?

The second message is from

Mom.
Kristina? Where are

you? Are you okay? I just

got a call from Deputy Freed.

He found your car and had it

towed to impound. But he had

no idea what happened to you.

Will you please call and let us

know you’re okay? Please?

Guess the snow filled in my

tracks. Guess Brad’s off

the hook. Guess Mom might

care about me after all.

I step out onto the back step

to smoke and fret about that.

Snow falls, insistent, intent.

I watch it tumble

down.

Was he with a girl when he

called, or only somewhere

where there was a girl? Am

I paranoid? I know,

deep down,

that falling hard for the first

guy to take interest in over

a year was not the best idea.

But how do you tell

your heart,

No, don’t swell with magic,

you’ll only burst? How do

you tell it to clamp itself off

from possibilities? God

knows

I don’t need more pain in

life. Why did I invite it in?

Do I have to feel pain to

believe I feel anything at all?

She answers on the first ring.

Kristina? Thank God you’re

all right. What happened?

I omit most of the story—

the band, the booze, the monster.

I do mention running into Quade

at Wal-Mart. “We got to talking

and by the time I left, there was

too much snow on the road.”

Her voice has relaxed.
I’ll

have to tell his mother you saw

him. What about your car?

“Impound won’t be open until

Monday, so I don’t know how

much they’ll want, or how

much damage there is to my car.

But Brad’s friend has a tow service.

We can bring it back here.”

Sounds like you’re not too

worried about getting to work.

Fishing. Definitely fishing.

No use not copping. “Actually,

I quit my job. It was a long drive,

especially with gas so high.”

I consider mentioning the pervert

excuse, but decide to save it

in case I need it in the future.

Mom pauses, and I know she’s

considering what to say next.

What about Christmas?

I knew it! Knew she couldn’t

do Christmas without everyone

home. That’s my mom. Everything

has to be perfect. And how could

it be perfect without me? [You’re

kidding, right?] “What about it?”

Are you going to spend it at

home? Do you need me

to come out there and get you?

I’ve got a couple of choices

here. I could play smart-ass—

ask why she wants me to come

home, when she knows I’ll

only spoil the party. I could play

coy—tell her I’m not sure

of my holiday plans, could I let

her know? But the truth is, I want

to spend Christmas with my family.

Still, I don’t want to sound too

anxious. After all,
she
kicked me

out. “Let’s play it by ear. If my car

is okay and the roads are clear,

I can drive down there. If not,

we can figure out something.”

We leave it there, and it isn’t

until after I hang up that I realize

I didn’t even ask about Hunter.

Sketching Hunter from a recent photo.

Every now and then I look up to watch

the snow. I’m lost in a silvery view

when a little hand taps my shoulder.

Whatcha doin’?
asks Devon.

Who’s that?
referring to the portrait

becoming flesh on my sketch pad.

The girls don’t know about Hunter,

and I don’t want them to know

I left my child in my shadow.

“That’s Hunter. Isn’t he cute?”

Uh-huh. Will you draw my picture

too?
Self-absorbed, but what can

you expect from a six-year-old?

“Sure. But how about if I make

you breakfast first? What do you

like?” I expect a simple answer

like cereal or cinnamon toast.

Bacon and eggs and pancakes.

Mommy used to cook those.

Can you?
Some sort of a challenge?

“Of course I can cook them,

and you can help, if we have

the ingredients. Let’s go look.”

I push back from the table,

and am surprised to feel a little

hand slip into mine.
The eggs

is in the ’frigerator.
She tugs gently.

It’s the first time I’ve really

realized how much she misses her

mother, and she tugs more than my

hand. She tugs at my heart.