Free Breaking Glass by Lisa Amowitz

swaddled, you’d think I was bringing home a newborn baby.
    It’s Monday, December 10 th . Over three weeks since Susannah went missing.
    A light film of snow coats the winding roads of Riverton. Holiday lights twinkle from the houses we pass. I imagine happy intact families composed of happy intact people, enjoying the season and each other inside their cozy homes.
    We pass the Morgans’ massive house, ablaze with lights, a cross between a circus and a stadium. The circular drive is populated with more reindeer than they have in Alaska. Shrouded in snow, it’s Riverton’s very own winter wonderland.
    I try to envision the Morgans inside, Ryan and a bunch of our track buddies watching Monday Night Football in the den. They’re all talking about what a shame it is about their star runner. Or, maybe they’re laughing about it. There’s something ironic about a one-legged track star. Even I have to admit that.
    The Morgans’ house is always full of people, as if cramming the cavernous thing with bodies makes up for the fact that three people have an obscene amount of living space all to themselves. Susannah always insisted that Celia and Patrick Morgan were like the ideal parents she’d never had. I could see it with Celia Morgan. Her motherliness had a way of softening Patrick Morgan’s imperious presence. There are always cookies baking in their vast, stainless steel kitchen.
    But Patrick Morgan? I guess with a mother like Trudy, just about anyone would seem like an improvement.
    We pull up the steep driveway and I see Dad has made the feeble attempt to string some colored lights on the house. It’s almost laughable compared to the Morgans’. But it’s clear he tried, so I keep a lid on the sarcasm for once.
    “Nice, Dad. Is this for me?”
    He turns to me. “I thought you’d like it. You always complain I’m lousy at Christmas.”
    “You’re a Jew. You’re not supposed to be good at it.”
    Dad chuckles and flashes me a rare full-cornered smile. “Well—you’re only half a Jew. I thought the other half would enjoy the lights.”
    His smile drops away as it slowly dawns on Dad that he’s fed me my next line.
    “So which is the half that’s left?” I say with a sideways smile. “The Jewish half or the Christian one?”
    Dad reaches over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Feeling sorry for yourself is understandable, but it’s not going to solve anything, Jeremy. You still have to think of your future.”
    “That pesky thing again.”
    Dad turns off the ignition. “Let’s go inside. I’ve ordered an Indian takeout feast in your honor. After all that lousy hospital food, I thought you’d be famished.”
    It’s not just my loss. It’s his, too, I realize. Which makes me feel even worse.
    “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “Indian food sounds great.”

    The trip from the car to the house is a heroic 3-D action-adventure movie. The snow is coming down hard. Dad decides that it’s too risky for me to navigate on crutches, and the wheelchair can’t roll on snow, so he slings my arm tightly over his shoulder. Clutching his waist, I hop in small, mincing leaps, a human pogo stick, until, wet and exhausted, we finally make it inside.
    We eat our Indian feast in the dining room. Dad’s got a pathetic little tree and an electric menorah set up. I slap on a smile as he tries to distract me with a story about a flaky client, but the heaviness bears down on me so hard I can barely taste the lamb korma, my favorite. I feel Mom watching from the shadows.
    “Are you even listening to me, Jeremy?” Dad asks.
    “Actually I was thinking about this Civil War general, Dan Sickles. His leg got shot off in battle. He had the bones of the ruined leg wired together so it could be put on display at the Army Medical Museum. Maybe I could have mine put on display in the school trophy case next to last year’s State Championship Cup.”
    Dad stares at me a beat, then lays down his fork. “Look, Jeremy. We can either