Page 167 of The Glass Girl

I’m sliding dishes into the dishwasher when my phone buzzes.

Dylan’s face appears on the screen. My heart sinks.

It’s one of my favorite pictures of him, at the arcade at the movies, leaning over air hockey.

I can’t ignore him for the next two and a half years.

I can hear how soft his voice would be on the phone, sinking into my ear. Or if we did a video call, how he’d look lying back on his bed, his phone above him, his head resting on the pillow, his eyes half closed. We kissed on that rumpled bed, a lot, when his parents were out.

I can see all these things; they flood back to me in a breathtaking wave. If I answer the phone, I’m opening something back up. Something I think I need to keep locked tight. I didn’t ask him to save me the night of the party. It was kind that he did, though. I don’t ask him to seek me out in the hallways or wave to me in the cafeteria. But he does.

Maybe it’s not me who needs to let go. It’s him.

I wait until the phone stops ringing and then I text him.

Please stop. Please, leave me be.

Then I block his number from my phone and go into my room and pull on my headphones and listen to the saddest songs I know as loud as I can.

Everybody Is Trying in Their Own Way.

Dear Bella,

Do you remember when you were very little, about three or four or so? Your mother had that night class she was taking. It met once a week, for three hours. That’s a long time to talk about books, but I’ve never been a big reader, really. Anyway, you didn’t like her being away. You two had a very specific bedtime routine, and me being around, and her not, kind of threw you off. You were very specific with me that I couldn’t read to you in the bed, like she did. “It’s her spot,” you said, as nicely as possible. “Her place is saved. You will have to sit there.” So I sat in that awful wicker wingback chair Hoyt and his wife had given us. Not the best for reading. But I did it. And I was happy about it because I felt close to you. Because I loved you. We worked out our own routine, if you recall. The wingback chair was rotting in the seat, and my back was rotting, too, so I bought one of those outdoor loungers and some cushions at Savers, and every Wednesday night, I pulled it close to the right side of the bed, where you were, and we read. Then I’d sing you to sleep. I’m much better at musical things anyway. Or I used to be. Sometimes I wonder if you remember those songs. I do. I had a couple on rotation, like “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” and “Alive” (you really liked that one because no one can do Eddie’s baritone like me. I’ve made a lot of money off that song in bars, let me tell you. And of course, I sang it kind of quiet, because I’m not a monster, and also you needed to go to sleep and Pearl Jam tended to rile you up, AS THEY SHOULD). But your favorite was “Time of Your Life,” so I always closed with that.And I remember exactly the night that I thought you were finally asleep and I started to get up, like usual, but you opened your eyes and said, “No, Daddy, stay right here, with me. Don’t go. I’m scared.” And I didn’t. I said, “Never. I’m right here.” I stayed right there on my little makeshift pool-lounger bed. I stayed there every time after, too. I stayed the whole night, every time.

Somewhere, though, I left you. Of course, I couldn’t stay in your room forever and always while you slept; you had to learn how to sleep alone, and grow up, and do things without me.

But I left you, somewhere in all that time. Your mother and I had our problems and I disappeared. I was there, but I wasn’t. I have a lot of shame about that, but that’s my burden to bear, not yours.

My point is, I’ve been thinking about your letter and that song, “Time of Your Life,” and that time in our lives, and this time, and especially the lyrics “It’s not a question / but a lesson learned in time.”

Maybe this is all a very sharp and painful lesson for me, like the song. I have to do better. I have to be there for you. You aren’t grown up and you shouldn’t have to do things alone. You’re a kid. You’re my kid. And I hurt you. I didn’t hear or notice that you were struggling. I haven’t paid attention to my own struggles, either, or the ways they might have affected you.

It’s hard for me to look at you and understand what’s happened to you, because then I have to look at myself and see all the ways I’ve failed you. I don’t expect you to understand that. I don’t think you’ll truly understand unless you become a parent someday. That sometimes we inadvertently break our kids’ hearts. Then we have to live with that.

When you’re ready, I’m here. I’ll be here for you. I can’t promise everything will be perfect; nothing can be. But it’ll be better. I love you, Isabella.

—Dad

Do You Feel Safe Today?

I’m coloring with Ricciwhen my phone buzzes.

Josh.

Thump­thump­thump­thumpbut not in a bad way, in a nice way.

Hey,he texts.

Hey

How are you?

Good. You?

It’s going okay.

Good.

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