The Life of Glass

The last thing
my father ever told me was that it takes glass a million years to decay. I knew it was true because my father always knew things like that, strange sorts of things that no one else cared to remember or learn in the first place. Before he got sick, he was writing a book called
Strange Love
, which apparently referenced some song he and my mother had loved in the eighties, and also the fact that the book was all about his obsession with bizarre tidbits of information and unusual love stories. He’d only written two chapters when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, but he had a journal full of notes already waiting.

My father had never smoked a day in his life, so there was a strange fact just wrapped up in his diagnosis. It was something that made him laugh, an odd sort of laugh, a short snarl that reminded me of an angry dog and only stopped when my mother started sobbing quietly into her hands. My sister, Ashley, and I had shared a plastic chair in the back corner of Dr. Singh’s office, our bare summer legs touching. It was cold enough in there that we both had goose bumps. This was four years ago, when I was only ten and Ashley was twelve, and it was the first time I’d ever seen my mother cry, so I knew something terrible was about to happen.

By the time he told me the fact about the glass, it was two and a half years later. He was lying under a blue wool blanket in a hospice bed in our living room. He had a morphine drip in his arm and a short, raspy tone to his voice. He looked small and old enough to have been the same age as my grandpa Jack, who died when he was seventy-seven. My father was forty-one.

He’d spent two months before that night in his hospice bed, so it was something I’d gotten used to seeing when I walked in after school, something I had to navigate my way around if I wanted to get to the couch to watch television. I read a lot in my room those two months. Some
nights after dinner, my mother rapped on the door, poked her head in, and said, “Melissa, why don’t you keep your father company?”

I’d lie and say I had a lot of homework even if I didn’t. And she’d frown and get this sort of stern, perplexed look on her face, so her brow would get real tight. My mother is beautiful, and she hates frowning. She’s tall and thin with silky raven hair and smooth, pale skin. When I was younger and I first watched
Snow White
, I thought the character had been modeled after my mother, as if she were an amazing creation good enough for Disney. But she always told me that beauty was something you had to work for, and work she did—filing and polishing and loofah-ing and moisturizing—all the stuff I wasn’t that interested in, no matter how hard she and Ashley tried.

After my mother left my room, I’d close the door, open the window, climb out, and drop to the ground. It was a wonderfully freeing feeling, my feet hitting the crushed rock below my window. If my mother had been really smart or really paying attention to me she would’ve thought to install the prickly pear cactus right below my bedroom window when she’d redone the landscaping the summer before. But my mother had no idea that I went out at night, that the window was my escape route.

I’d leave my bike parked by the side of my house, and I’d get on it and ride down the night street until I got to Ryan’s house, which was only six houses down from mine. Ryan’s father is a Border Patrol agent, and he works a lot at night, leaving Ryan home alone. If his father’s car wasn’t in the driveway, I’d knock on the door, but if it was, I’d throw little rocks at Ryan’s window until he opened it up. If his father was already asleep, he’d climb out and hop on his bike, and then we’d ride wildly out in the night, into the open desert behind our street.

There is a large wash, an empty dry riverbed, that runs behind our development. It’s far enough back so people can’t see us but close enough to hop on our bikes and ride. And ride we did, through the wash, in the prickly dark desert night, the heat or the cool, depending on the season, enveloping us in a dry, crisp blanket. During the monsoon storms of summer, the wash fills up with water and becomes a raging river, cutting up the developments in the area for a few days until the dry air charges back in and dries it up again. Most of the time the wash is empty, long, and dark. The perfect place to ride bikes, to explore, to get lost.

“Let’s race,” Ryan would say, and we’d go on our bikes, legs pumping, breath exploding out of our chests,
all the way down the wash until we hit the railroad tracks, nearly four miles, a distance I’d once walked with my father.

And that night, the last night I ever talked to my father, the moon was full and hung bright and heavy in the clear April sky. The air was pleasant and achingly dry, though I knew that soon it would be summer, that the heat would become unbearable, the moon swallowed whole by thick monsoon clouds, the wash consumed with water. And it occurred to me, as I was riding my bike, that I hoped my father would die before then. School would be out in another month, and the thought of having to sit home all alone in the house, having to avoid him or talk to him was unbearable. It was a terrible thing to think, and I hated myself for it.

“Hey, Mel, look at this.” Ryan had stopped, and he was shining his flashlight off to the side of the wash.

“What?” I got off my bike and went to him. He held an object, an artifact, in his hand. “What is it?”

“I dunno.” He shined the light directly on it. It was small enough to fit in his palm and could’ve been a seashell, except it was made out of rainbow glass, all the different colors reaching and swirling in the light. People left strange things in the wash, and other things were
swept in with the rain and wind: trash and treasure, beer bottles, old tire scraps, jewelry. Once my father had found half a diamond tennis bracelet, strewn across a heap of sagebrush.

“Here,” Ryan said. “Take it.”

“Why?” But I held my hand out and took it. The glass felt cold and smooth.

He grinned, and the metal of his braces gleamed off the flashlight. “A souvenir.” Ryan was shorter than I was and a little too skinny. We’d been friends since we were seven, when he and his father moved into the neighborhood from Dallas, after his mother had left them both for the guy who’d mowed their lawn. Ryan said that was part of the reason his father liked living in the desert—no lawns—but I didn’t really see what the point was anyway, if she was already gone.

Ryan was quiet at school, in that he didn’t really have any friends but me and one other guy, Todd Tremaine. But when his asthma got bad, I could hear him breathing, even from across the classroom—a sound that sometimes reassured me, just a little bit.

When my father first got sick, my family left to go to Philadelphia for three months so my father could try an experimental treatment, Ryan took notes for me, and
he emailed me all my homework so I didn’t get behind. My supposed best friend since kindergarten, Kelly Jamison, didn’t even send me a single email the whole time I was gone, and when I came back, she gave me half a smile and a wave. And that was when Ryan became my best friend, when I learned the number of pedal strokes between his house and mine (thirty-six).

I had other souvenirs from the wash. On school breaks or weekends, Ryan and I would sometimes walk back there together, scavenging for something. Our best find yet: a thin green street sign that read
STREET ROAD
. Ryan hung it in his room and then lied to his father and told him I’d brought it back for him as a present from Philadelphia.

So on that particular night, I took the piece of glass, smooth and hard and colorful, and placed it in the pocket of my jeans.

When I snuck back into my house, I came in through the front door. My mother was a sound sleeper; she popped Lunesta like candy. Ashley was in her room at the other end of the house, probably lying in her bed with her headphones on, and my father—well, I didn’t imagine he would hear me.

As I closed the door behind me, I heard the buzz
from one of his machines; then I heard a whisper, like a ghost at first. “Cynthia.” He called out for my mom again. “Cyn?” I thought about keeping quiet, tiptoeing off to my room, my mother never the wiser, but I couldn’t do it.

“No, Dad, it’s me.”

“Melon?”

“Yeah?” I walked toward him, promising myself I wouldn’t look, that if I didn’t see him I could pretend his voice was just groggy, thick with sleep and half-forgotten dreams.

“What do you have there?” I had taken the glass out of my pocket and was fingering it nervously in my hand.

“Nothing. Just something I found.”

“In the wash?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t see the point of lying to him.

“Melon—”

“You won’t tell Mom?”

“Let me see it.” My father loved artifacts almost as much as he loved facts. He might’ve been an archaeologist in some other lifetime if he hadn’t been an accountant with Charles and Large.

I switched on the table lamp, sat at the edge of the
couch, and showed it to him. And that’s when he said it, when he told me that if I’d left it lying there in the wash, it would’ve taken this glass a million years to decay.

“A million years,” I mused. It was amazing, the way humans were just flesh and bones, and so susceptible to being broken down into so much less than that, into shadows and old men and hospice-bed figures, and yet glass could stay whole for so long.

That night I sat there and waited for him to say something else, but I only heard his breathing, so shallow and raspy that I couldn’t be sure it was there at all.

The next morning, my dad’s nurse, Annette, came at 7
A.M.
as always, and I heard her, as I walked from my room to the hallway bathroom, my head thick and dulled with sleep. “Now he’s at peace, Mrs. Cynthia,” she said to my mother.

“I can’t believe he’s actually gone,” my mother said. Her voice sounded lower than usual, and scratchy with what I assumed to be tears.

I sat there and soaked the news in, filled with this odd sense of regret, relief, terror.

Ashley came out of her room, her hair in twisty rollers, white pimple cream dotted on her chin. In an hour her curls would splash against her shoulders, her skin
would look flawless and smooth underneath her foundation. “What’s going on?” she asked. I shrugged. “Well, why are you standing in the middle of the hallway?”

“I’m not,” I lied. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. “Melissa.” Our eyes met for a second, and I saw it in there, that she knew, that we both knew. There would be no more tomorrows and cluttered living rooms and things divided in fours. “Mom,” she yelled. “Mom.”

My mother ran into the hallway. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup, but she still looked beautiful. Her eyes flickered, so she looked up, then down, then straight at Ashley. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Annette said he went peacefully. In his sleep.”

It was so expected and terrible and normal and almost a little bit like a release, and the three of us just stood there looking at one another. There was nothing to say. Nowhere else to go. Until finally I said, “Are we going to school today?”

“Melissa!” Ashley turned and ran back to her room.

“No.” My mother sighed. “No, I suppose you don’t have to. Unless you want to.”

I nodded. I did want to go. I didn’t want to see what might happen next. Didn’t want to know how my father
might leave our house for the last time, what might happen to the hospice bed, the equipment, or listen from the other room as my mother made the calls I knew she was bound to make.

I went back to my room and threw on some jeans and a shirt, and then I picked up the piece of glass from the wash and put it in my pocket. And even now I sometimes carry it with me, as if it were some kind of good-luck charm, the last thing of mine my father ever touched.

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