by Lily Foster
“There’s not going to be a service, Charlotte. There’s no mahogany casket, no priest, no flowers.”
“What’s happening?”
With his eyes cast down, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I have to go.”
Simon was pleading with me to understand. But I was selfish, foolish, and just wanting so badly to hang on to him. “You’re leaving me.”
“You always knew I was leaving.”
“Not yet, though. And I just…Last night you said—”
“Do not do this to me.”
I stood there, numb and wordless, watching as he turned his back on me, got into his truck and drove off. It was a good five minutes before I managed to step back and close the door, the realization finally setting in.
He’s not coming back.
Simon
It burns on the way down. I imagine the cheap liquor eating away at my insides as it winds its way through my system. Just one more, I pledge as I take another swig. Only weak people numb themselves with booze and drugs.
Timmy was weak.
I’m not.
I know this. I know that when this bottle is empty, I’ll fall into a deep sleep that will help me forget, but just for tonight. I know I won’t be looking for a crutch tomorrow because I can’t.
I cannot fail.
But tonight I let it all crash down around me: the careless, mechanical way the prison administrator expressed his condolences, the apologetic look the clerk gave us as he handed over the manila envelope with my brother’s meager belongings, the sorrow that will weigh my mother’s shoulders down for a long time to come, and Charlotte.
I walked away from her, couldn’t look her in the eye. In the light of the morning after, I hated myself for using her body as a vessel for mine to grieve. Drunk and lost, I went to her after we got the call. Climbed into the bedroom window she opened for me. Climbed into her bed and cried like a damn child as she held me. Pressed into her soft body and lost myself in her goodness. Told her I’d love her forever.
I handed her that paper bag before turning my back on her, getting in my truck and peeling out without a glance backward. Tying up loose ends, I told myself. As if she was just something I needed to cross off my to-do list before I left this town for good.
Do not do this to me.
Those were the last words I spoke to her. Do not make me feel bad. Do not pretend like you thought I was going to stay. Do not act like last night changed anything. Do. Not. Cry. Please, I wanted to beg her. I have to go, I pled in silence.
Follow me, I’ll wait for you. That’s what I wanted to say, what I should have said. But instead I went with coldhearted and cruel. The words and the way I delivered them were meant to sever, meant to make a clean break.
I’m not in the business of making false promises, and my life thus far hasn’t set me up for believing that tired line of bullshit everyone seems to throw out like confetti: Just have faith and everything will work out fine. I don’t think so. Charlotte is sixteen. She has two more years in this town, a town I’m never setting foot in again. So I don’t want her believing that we have a future, even though I’ve spent countless nights dreaming of just that.
I cap the now empty bottle and put it aside, sinking into the mattress. I’m sure most people would complain about the accommodations at this crappy motel midway between Pennsylvania and Illinois, but this is the first time I’ve had the luxury of stretching out across a full-sized bed. The spare pillow isn’t soft. The cheap polyester case is scratchy and the filling is clumped in sections, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling it close to my body and wrapping my arms around it as I roll onto my side.
Now I can pretend, imagine I’m back on the bank of the river. Charlotte’s eyes flutter and then close, her contented smile telling me that I’m good and worthwhile. I kiss that spot on her neck just below her jawline, letting my lips linger, feeling the steady beat of her pulse. I pull her in even closer so that I can feel the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. Holding her like this gives me a solid kind of peace that I’ve never known.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone, never felt intense emotions over a girl. Just the thought of her makes me so happy that I’m pretty much sporting a ridiculous smile all the time. I’m so proud to have her by my side that I draw her close to me whenever I can, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that she’s mine. And I feel protective over her in a way that feels irrational—territorial and violent. I will shield her and rage against anyone who would set out to harm her. She is still mine. I can dream it any way I want in this near-sleep state.
She is mine and I love her.
My mind drifts back to last night, but I want to relive it, change reality, make it so that it went down in a very different way. It wasn’t the sad and desperate plea of a grieving boy. It wasn’t rushed. I didn’t forge ahead and take her before she was ready. I didn’t collapse on her and then roll away after I was spent, trance-like and despondent. God no. In my current drunken state, I grant myself a do-over. I can kiss her tenderly, the way I always do. I can be grateful for what she gives to me and I can cherish her, taking time to make it good and memorable for her. I can hold her after, hold her close the entire night. I can stay with her and hold onto this mind-blowing goodness day in and day out.
Forever.
Fuck me…I told her I’d love her forever.
I looked away from her like a coward this morning. I didn’t need to see her face to know that I’d devastated her, ruined everything good that had ever been between us.
I hate myself for using those words. A lie would have been better, would have made it easier for her to move on, to leave me in her rear view mirror.
In this moment, clutching the pillow that serves as a pitiful substitute for holding my sweet girl, I feel like it’s going to be the death of me. Because what I said is true. I will love Charlotte forever.
Charlotte
I exist in my memories. Hold onto them for dear life. I spend the weeks following Simon’s cut and run in a sort of fugue state, going through the motions but not truly present.
I need you.
In my head he says it to me over and over again. He’s hovering over me, resting his weight on one elbow as his other hand grips the flesh of my hip. He holds back like he always does, but I feel his body pressing into mine, I feel his need.
I am a grown up that night at the river, I feel bold and sure of myself. I lead him, push him, whisper in his ear that I’ve taken care of everything. I untie the strings myself, shift until I’m out of the suit that’s still wet from the swimming hole. I open myself up like a gift for him.
He shakes his head and kisses me softly. “Can’t.”
“I’m on the pill.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“What? Why?”
Don’t cry, don’t cry. “Because I—”
“Because you want to give this to me.” He leans closer and lays a gentle kiss on one eyelid and then the other. “And I love you, but I can’t.”
The first time he told me he loved me, I cried. He kissed the tears as they slipped down my cheeks, apologizing to me as if he’d done something wrong. He didn’t understand. How could he understand the ache I felt, the hollow place that those simple words filled inside of me? How could he know that it had been years since my mother spoke those words to me, and that no one else had done so since? I drew his lips to mine and kissed him, whispering on a breath that I loved him too.
But that night I don’t hear I love you. I hear rejection and it stings. I go to sit up, covering my breasts with both hands in embarrassment. “And when you’re in Chicago? Will you turn those girls down when they make you an offer?”
“Don’t,” he pleads in a soft voice. He drags his discarded shirt over my hips and eases me back down onto the blanket, raising my wrists over my head. “Be with me like we always are…It will be enough.”
His breath ghosts over my jaw as his hands explore my body. This time he goes
further, allowing himself to rut his naked hips against mine, touching me and losing himself in the sensation. I suck in a breath at the feel of him hard against my belly and silently will him to slide lower, will him to lose the self-control that holds him back from taking me.
When I made the split-second decision to swipe those sample packs from Sarah’s bathroom a few weeks ago, I lied to myself. Her older sister won’t even know they’re missing—that was the first lie. I’m an adult, and responsible adults take birth control pills when they’re in a relationship. That was more than a lie, it was a downright joke. Responsible adults go to the doctor and actually get information on how to properly take said pills—they don’t steal them and start taking them without even reading the damn directions or warning labels. And all along I told myself that he was leaving come fall, and that I was fine with it because down the line it would all work out for us. That was the biggest lie of all. Deep in my heart, I hoped that once I gave him everything he’d never be able to let me go.
I gave, and on that last night we had together, broken and grieving, he took from me.
It didn’t make him stay.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlotte
“Throw your shit in the back and get in the car.”
The way he swerved close to the curb and then slammed on the brakes should have me fearing for my life right now, but my survival instincts aren’t what they used to be. I’m simply too wrung out to cower in fear.
I’m pretty sure my brother has always been this way. I imagine he didn’t even cry when he entered the world. No, I can envision him exiting the womb and fixing the doctor and nurses with a scowl. What are you waiting for, dipshits? Clean me up! A similar look of annoyance directed at my mother when she paused to look on at him in wonder. Stop gawking, lady, I’m hungry!
He is a man of few words, and the words he directs my way are rude and clipped. Since Christian got caught nailing my father’s girlfriend a few weeks ago—shocking, given his reputation for honesty and integrity—he’s been on thin ice around Mason Motors. My dad ditched Liza, which hasn’t turned out to be the positive development I once thought it would be. He’s home more often now and walks around in a constant state of pissed-off. Christian is on his best behavior when my father is home, but then reverts to an even more twitchy and disagreeable version of himself when he has the run of the house. I’ve been avoiding the place like the plague. I’ve taken on one extra shift at the diner after school on Wednesdays, and when I’m not working, I hole up in the library until closing time.
I’d like to say I’m being productive, catching up on homework or prepping for my college entrance exams, but I’m not. Most days I can barely stand upright, the combination of pregnancy hormones, shock and misery knocking me for a serious loop. I’ve fallen asleep in those uncomfortable chairs, drooling with my head on a table more times than I can count. On those rare afternoons when I’m not doing a spot-on impersonation of Sylvia Plath, I scan the stacks like a spy on a covert mission and then tuck into a corner to read. There’s nothing to do but shake my head in disbelief, stunned by the fact that I am now no more than a grim statistic.
A whopping 38% of teen mothers earn a high school diploma.
Only 2% earn a college degree by age 30.
Less than 20% of teen fathers marry the baby’s mother.
That last one hurts the most.
I’ve written him three different letters, but I never get it quite right. I start off by asking how he is. It’s an awkward opening line, given that we didn’t exactly part on good terms. In one draft I go on to ask what college is like, figuring small talk is the way to go, a way to lessen the impact of the bomb I’m about to drop in paragraph two. And after that little nugget, I reassure him that I’ve got this, that I expect nothing from him. I can’t read over the words without shaking my head—it’s a total crock of bull.
I want to tell him I’m scared, that I’m lonely for him, that I can’t breathe. I want to ask him to hold my hand through this and help me make a decision, to take this burden on and shoulder it with me. But I won’t do it. I won’t trap him, won’t saddle him with a responsibility he surely doesn’t want. I won’t keep him in a place that has done nothing but torment him.
I make an executive decision: I’m not going to tell him. And the joke is on me, because I couldn’t mail the letters even if I wanted to. Simon left no forwarding address.
Christian has found me on a bench, waiting for the morning bus bound for Pittsburgh. The grand plan was to make my way to Florida. My mother has a sister near Tampa. Her name is written on a scrap of paper in my pocket. It’s got her phone number and address on it too, all written in my mother’s hand. I met her just once, years ago. I don’t know her, and I don’t know if this decade-old information will lead me to her. The only thing I do know for sure is that I have twelve hundred dollars saved up and no future here.
Center Street is a vision of suburban blight, with approximately half of the retail properties shuttered, but it’s still the heart of town. Christian Mason, upstanding businessman, won’t make a scene by backhanding me in public, so I’ve got that going for me.
Slamming the door, he circles the back of his car to loom over me. “Simon Wade…Really? And where is Simon now?” He lowers his voice to a menacing whisper. “Gone now that he’s had his fill.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he barks back, mocking me. “Maybe this’ll teach you to keep your damn legs closed.”
He knows.
I flinch when Christian leans in closer. “Yeah, I know,” he sneers as his gaze shifts towards my middle, “and so does Dad.” He grabs my small suitcase and hurls it into the trunk. “Now get in the fucking car.”
Welcome to Ohio the sign reads less than an hour later.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to live with Dad’s sister, Janelle.”
I feel dead. No energy or desire to protest the arrangement, the plans made without my consent. And as a girl still shy of her seventeenth birthday, pregnant with a baby whose father has just traipsed off to some fancy college I can now only ever dream of attending, I know I don’t have much in terms of bargaining power. Aunt Janelle? I’ve never met the woman. She’s no more than a mythical being. What does it matter anyway? Nothing matters anymore.
He looks over to gauge my reaction. I give him nothing. It’s what I do when he’s itching for a fight. “You think Dad wants you shaming us in our community?”
Shaming us? Right, because we’re so upstanding. A father who whored around the entire time his sick wife lay dying in the hospital, and a brother so used up and angry at the age of twenty-three that if I didn’t hate him so much, I’d pity him. Sad state of affairs, but my father is one of the few business owners in the county who actually manages to turn a profit, so I guess he does feel justified in viewing himself as a pillar of the community.
I keep my gaze fixed out the passenger side window, taking in the all too familiar landscape, the evidence of small town life along the side of the road. Desolate stretches of highway broken up by the occasional truck stop or Walmart supercenter. Billboards for adult entertainment shops, antiques or fireworks. Clusters of houses dotting the hills, recently painted and well maintained near some exit ramps, but those are the exception to the rule. Most towns look like replicas of my own, the majority of the homes dilapidated and neglected.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
“Of course you do,” he mocks, voice sweet and laced with sarcasm.
By the time he pulls off at the next highway rest stop, I’m about ready to wet my pants. He takes a spot near the entrance. “I’m gonna use the bathroom quick and then get gas. Get us something to eat and I’ll meet you back out front.”
I pause for a second. “I need some money, Christian.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “You don’t have any money?” I do my best to look embarrassed as I shake my head and lower my eyes to my
lap. I am bone tired but I’ve been conditioned from years of experience to never to let my guard down. I know my brother. If he thinks I have more than a few bucks to my name, he’ll be pulling off to the side of the road and rummaging through my things the second I nod off. “What have you been doing with all your tip money?”
“Used it all,” I whisper, covering my flat belly with one hand. “He—”
Christian runs both hands through his hair, tugging on it. I brace myself, waiting for the blow. He shoves my shoulder once, so hard my head hits into the window, and then reaches over and jerks my head back, tugging on my ponytail. “He what, Charlotte? He said he’d take care of you? Are you really that stupid?” He’s hollering now. “He’s a Wade! They’re all trash!” Christian gives me another shove, but this one has no power behind it. He digs into his pocket and fishes out a twenty, tossing it in my direction without looking at me. Stroking his left knee absently, he stares straight ahead. “If I had my way, all three of them would be in the ground.”
“Where are we?” I ask, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“Michigan.”
Looking at the dashboard clock, I figure we’ve been on the road for over ten hours already. “Where does Aunt Janelle live?”
“Michigan.”
Asshole. I’m not going to get more than that out of Christian, so I dig my phone out of my bag. No search results for a Janelle Mason in Michigan. She’s probably married though; we wouldn’t share the same last name. Where in the hell am I going? The anger comes on like a flash, but quickly morphs into a sadness that’s now firmly lodged in my chest.
Checking my messages, I see only one text from Daisy. It’s not like I’m expecting anything from him. No, Simon has been in full-on ghost mode. Not a word since August fifth, the date I think about twenty-four seven. In the predawn hours of August fifth I gave him everything, and since coming to realize that something was most definitely not right, I’ve been in the habit of counting the days and weeks from August fifth obsessively.
