Charlie, Presumed Dead

by Anne Heltzel

  “Is this crazy?” she wants to know. She kicks off her shoes and holds them in one hand, her feet bare against the pavement.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “It is absolutely insane. It is definitely crazy, even for me.” I didn’t know she had it in her, but I’m happy she does. Aubrey’s surprising; you think you have her pegged, and then . . . this. I swing an arm around her. She wouldn’t have let me touch her earlier tonight, but this time she leans close like we’re old friends, and we move in the direction of the gross, crappy hostel.

  In reality, I suggested staying there for Aubrey—because I knew she didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t want to insult her by offering to foot the bill, or put pressure on her to spend more than she has. I never would have stayed in that hellhole otherwise. But there’s no way I’m doing that in Bombay, where hostel means “roach-and-rat-infested room with a hole in the ground in place of a toilet.” In Bombay we’ll do it my way, with my money. As we walk, I’m hoping the magic that’s settled around us—satanic or otherwise—conjures up some answers fast, before she changes her mind, or worse: figures out what I’m hiding.

  8

  Aubrey

  I can’t even imagine how much the Air India flights cost Lena. Fifteen hundred dollars each? Two thousand? For not the first time, it strikes me how generous she’s being. How coming out here—simply because I felt it was important—was a big leap of faith on her part. She had no reason to be so kind to me, and yet she was. I wonder if we’ll find my journal. I wonder if Adam will have any information that could help us. I wonder, even, what it might have been like to date someone like Adam—someone intelligent and kind, with integrity—rather than Charlie. If I had, I wouldn’t be on a plane to India right now—or at least not for the reason I am.

  I chomp on a stick of cinnamon-flavored gum the whole time, while Lena alternates between reading Us Weeklys and humming along to Bollywood films. Four hours in, her tray table is littered with discarded wine bottles and cans of Diet Coke. The fact that Lena is this wealthy—enough so to drop thousands on our flights out here without batting an eye or even clearing it with her parents first—is awe-inspiring. But she wears it casually, and she never boasts. The way she’s done everything she could to make me comfortable and not indebted—even the small things, like sharing her snacks and helping me fill out my customs form—demonstrates her generosity. I like Lena, and I can’t help but see why Charlie fell for her. I’ve never met someone so uninhibited, exciting, and open to emotions.

  They’re all qualities I admire. I’ve always had trouble making friends; I’m the only girl in my family, and it’s never been easy for me to relate to other girls my own age. I’ve always been a little shy, never comfortable enough in my own skin to seamlessly fit into a group. Lena is the type people want to be around. They gravitate toward her naturally—even the taxi driver, who engaged her in conversation on our way to the airport; and the flight attendant, who gave her an extra bag of cookies for free. Lena has all the qualities I’ve always wanted. Sitting next to her on the plane like this, I can almost pretend like we’re sisters. It’s not a bad feeling; but the truth of it is, we’re worlds apart.

  Lena must know Charlie so much better than I do. After all, they met in London a year or so before his parents moved him to Mumbai to finish high school there. They spent time together—presumably days on end and lots of nights too. I, on the other hand, met Charlie in a subway station just before leaving New York for good. Our relationship has always been long-distance. We’re from different backgrounds in every possible way.

  She has money like he did; she’s traveled the world like he had; she knew him for two years longer than I. She has the advantage. More than that, though, she’s self-assured. Even I’m not immune to her fearlessness. It inspires jealousy and admiration all at once. I know I shouldn’t care. Mostly, I don’t. If by some wild chance Lena’s right that he’s alive and we do find him, I’ll make him wish he’d been dead all along.

  And maybe we’ll also find out that he’s a spy for the CIA, or something, and needed to vanish to take care of some top-secret mission. And needed to have two girlfriends for some highly classified government project.

  Right.

  I don’t know why I can’t just tell him to go to hell, within the confines of my mind. Why I can’t let go of my fear over the journal and accept this whole incident as a second chance that I desperately needed. I’ve been wanting to escape Charlie’s pull for way longer than the past two weeks; I was planning on telling him a heck of a lot more than just Go to hell before he disappeared. I’d planned to confront him, tell him I was through with everything no matter what the consequences. So I can’t understand this attachment I’m feeling, now that he’s gone. I guess I just have to get my journal, and maybe also get confirmation of his death, for closure. It’s true that not knowing what happened the day he died—and not having a body to prove he’s gone—is driving me a little crazy.

  Now Lena and I are hanging out in a bustling open-air café in Colaba, a neighborhood in South Mumbai, waiting until our hotel opens up. It’s called Café Leopold, and it has all kinds of American comfort foods mixed in with traditional Indian fare. I order jalapeño cheesy bread. Lena’s in the bathroom now, washing her hands. The air is hot and oppressive; it’s over ninety degrees, with only a few fans to cool the customers. The tables around ours are packed with sweating bodies, and shouted commands ring out from the kitchen in the back. The chaos of it makes me dizzy; I’ve never felt at the mercy of a place until now. Mumbai conveys this sense that anything could happen at any time: I have to be on high alert. But I’m feeling like my life has started to spiral out of control, and I no longer have any idea what I want out of it. I’m just along for the twister.

  The thing is, it’s exciting. It’s the first time I’ve ever leapt before I looked, and especially with a girl my age, someone whom I find myself liking more and more. Of course, I’m nervous about what we’ll find. I’m also nervous about how my parents will be when I go home to Illinois. I start college in less than two weeks. When I checked my email using the airport wifi—in Heathrow, not Mumbai; it’s becoming obvious that Internet’s going to be spotty in Mumbai, at best—I had this chipper email from my future roommate at Georgetown:

  Hey Aubrey! So psyched to be your roomie next year! I saw on your profile that you’re into art, that’s totally cool! I’m a dancer, and I was on the state championship cheer squad too this year! I’m going to try out for the pom squad for sure! Write back so we can coordinate stuff to bring. I’ve got a huge comfy beanbag chair and some plastic stacking shelves we can use to keep food on! Talk soon, can’t WAIT! xoxoxo

  I didn’t respond because, well, I just don’t think I can match that level of chipper right now; and anyway, I feel like I’m a million miles from college and all the stuff I’m supposed to be excited about. And I’m excited about the wrong stuff: like being in this noisy café with its bullet holes in the windows and inching closer and closer to—what? Disaster? Thinking about what will unfold if we do find out what happened to Charlie is like anticipating a tsunami, but I’ve never not been a masochist. The relief of having my journal back will be worth it anyway, no matter what happens. That’s what I have to keep reminding myself. That’s what I told myself when I dashed off a two-line email to my parents, letting them know I’m not in Europe anymore.

  “God,” Lena says, pulling out her chair and squeezing in carefully, because it’s only an inch from the person behind her. “Look at all these lame tourist outfits.” A bunch of bangles slip back from her wrist to her forearm as she motions around us; and for the first time, I see the teeny-tiny, jagged image of a sheep tattooed across her wrist, no wider than my thumbnail.

  “You kind of fit right in,” I say without thinking. Lena glowers. But it’s true—when she’s not wearing slutty dresses, she seems to favor loose, baggy, printed pants and these oversize tanks that show off whatever Day-Glo bra she has on. The others here are wearing b
asically the same thing except for the Day-Glo part, and lots of people are tattooed or pierced. “I meant it as a compliment!” I backtrack. “But it is a little weird how everyone’s dressed the way you think tourists in India will be dressed.” We both know I am trying to win her back. I like Lena, though. More and more. Part of the reason I like her is because she’s so open with me, despite that she could easily have seen me as an adversary. She’s the one who wanted me to come along to London. She might have been angry that Charlie took me into his life, but she never blamed me or made me feel bad about it. She’s also never made me feel judged. Even when she teases me for being nerdy, she’s almost affectionate about it. With her I feel less afraid. I feel myself emerging from my shell.

  “I wonder if they also grew their dreadlocks specifically for the occasion,” I say, keeping my expression serious. Lena rolls her eyes.

  “Maybe some of them are legit,” she allows. “By the way, did you know this is the café that was hit during that big terrorist attack a few years ago? The same one that targeted the Taj Hotel.”

  “Gee, that makes me feel super safe. Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “They never hit the same spot twice, Bree. This is basically the safest spot in Bombay.” I recoil at her use of “Bree.” I can’t help it.

  “Don’t call me that,” I snap. I feel bad one second later. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have.

  She lifts one eyebrow. “Jet-lagged or just bitchy?” she asks. I sigh. Maybe I am jet-lagged. But it’s more than that. Charlie was the only one who ever called me Bree, until now. It’s odd, the way they both chose the exact same nickname. I don’t want to think about everything it implies about them, the way they think, the way they think of me . . .

  “I’m a little tired,” I admit. “But shouldn’t we get going on this? Look into Charlie’s contacts out here and stuff?”

  “Whatever. I’m tired too. Just another hour before we can check in.”

  “Not whatever,” I tell her. “I have school in less than two weeks,” I remind her. “I have to be back for orientation in one. We don’t have tons of time.”

  “I have school too,” she tells me. “But you can’t rush this process.”

  It’s ironic, coming from her. I lean back in my chair, eyeing her. She seems so unconcerned. It’s almost like she already knows what’s going to happen. “Why are you so calm?” I ask.

  “Just genetically blessed with an even temperament, I guess.”

  “Stop.” I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. She’s avoiding my gaze, and I don’t like what that might mean. “What’s your deal?”

  “My deal is that I’m tired, and I want to check into our hotel, and I want to sleep for, like, nine hours before I start thinking about this. Okay? Just chill, Aubrey. You’re not going to figure anything out unless you take a few steps back.” She takes a sip of her mango lassi. “Just try to enjoy Bombay while we’re here.”

  “It’s annoying how you call it Bombay. It’s Mumbai.”

  “No one calls it ‘Mumbai.’” She rolls her eyes, showing her scorn for my lack of knowledge. “That’s just for official paperwork. Conversationally it’s still ‘Bombay,’ even among Indians. I’ve been here enough to know.” That piques my interest. Glittering eyes, I think, watching hers light up. Whenever Lena talks about travel, her eyes glitter. It reminds me of the Roald Dahl quote, “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you.”

  I tell her as much, and she laughs, rolling her eyes.

  I blush, embarrassed. “Why have you been here so much?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.

  “My parents,” she says. “They brought us here two summers running for three weeks each time. Typical rich-parents thing to do: expose us to a third-world country so we won’t be ruined forever.”

  “Too bad it didn’t work,” I comment.

  Lena lifts an eyebrow. “My, my,” she says. “Who knew you had such bite?”

  “Why the sheep?” I ask, tapping her wrist. I’m eager to change the subject again. It feels like we’ve been bickering constantly this whole time, and I don’t want that. Lena blushes and shoves the bangles back down her arm, so they cover her wrist.

  “Lamb,” she corrects. Then, “I don’t know. I just felt like it.”

  “You just felt like it?” I say, doubtful. “Come on, what’s the story?” She’s clearly embarrassed, and I can’t help but feel even more curious. It takes a lot to shake her up.

  “I actually don’t know,” she admits. “I kind of wonder that a lot. It’s not really me, is it? I mean, I always thought if I got a tattoo I’d get something like ‘Rock on,’ or whatever. Not that, but you know. Maybe something from an album cover.” She pauses. “But Little Lamb was Charlie’s nickname for me. I was out one night, had a little too much to drink, woke up in the morning, and it was there.” She finishes with a shrug. “I guess I was feeling sentimental that night.”

  “Wow.” I’m impressed. Or maybe shocked. “Wasn’t someone with you? A friend or something? Or like, wasn’t there a receipt? Are tattoo artists even allowed to do that when you’re drunk?”

  “No receipt.” She bites her lip. “Charlie was with me. He didn’t remember it either.”

  “Really.” There’s this awkward pause. My heart’s pounding. My head’s back with Charlie, filtering through all the nights, wondering if this happened before or after we met, and when did Charlie get so into drinking? He was never a partier with me. I clench my jaw, hard, to prevent myself from asking. I don’t want to ask. I’m not sure I can handle it on three hours of sleep. Lena’s still staring at the table. She takes a long, slow sip of her lassi and avoids my eyes. Later, I think. For some reason, pity worms its way into my heart. Later, after we’ve gotten some sleep, I’ll ask her all these questions.

  But then she looks up, stares me straight in the eyes.

  “Six months ago,” she says. “You want to know. It happened six months ago.”

  An hour later we’re rolling our bags into the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. I can’t imagine how much this little aspect of our trip is costing, but Lena says in Mumbai—correction, Bombay—you don’t do hostels and there’s nothing in between, so it’s perfectly okay with her that we stay here and not just inquire after my journal like I’d planned. “A few nights won’t kill us,” she says, and I try not to worry about how bad it is to owe people favors. I make a mental note to call my parents as soon as we have access to a phone, since my cell doesn’t work out here. I try not to think about what they’ll say—or the hurt they’ll feel—when I explain the most recent turn of events. The days when I turned to them with everything are starting to seem like a distant memory.

  “I could have stayed somewhere else, you know,” I say. I’m looking up the wide spiral staircase at the arched ceilings above. The “old” Taj, they told us when we checked in. This is the wing that wasn’t damaged by the fires in 2011. It feels like a real palace, which is exactly how it’s supposed to feel.

  “You could have,” she says, yawning, “but that would be stupid. I’d have paid for this room anyway. I might as well share it.” Again, my chest expands a little. She’s always acting accidentally big­hearted, like none of it’s any big deal.

  A quick trip to the front desk turns up nothing, and I have to work hard to conceal my disappointment. “Nothing, ma’am,” is all the concierge tells me when I ask if someone left a leather journal in one of the rooms a few months back. “Are you sure?” Lena presses. “You’re not just, you know, not saying? Because it was my friend’s journal.” She jerks her thumb in my direction and glares, then slides a twenty-dollar bill in the man’s direction. He promises to check with a manager but returns empty-handed. He doesn’t return the twenty.

  “No worries,” she says. “We have lots of other stuff we can do here. I just have to think back to who Charlie was friends with out here, and we can Google them or look them up on Facebook or something. And if he had your diary or whatever when he was he
re, then we’ve narrowed your search for it, at least. He wasn’t that many other places in the months since.”

  She’s right, and the realization heartens me. But there’s another reason I forced the issue of going to Bombay, as I’m trying hard to call it now. Something I can’t tell her and probably can’t do anything with anyway. I wish it were just the journal; but my willingness to be here is more than that. Here, I’m closer to the thing that ultimately ruined me and Charlie. I’m closer to all the reasons we fell apart. I can’t tell Lena, so I follow her silently up a set of wide, winding stairs toward our room.

  It’s luxurious. The beds are covered in gold bedspreads with elaborately embroidered red patterns. An arched alcove leads to a balcony with an intricately patterned iron guardrail, overlooking the Gateway of India. A silver tea set rests on a broad wooden console, and a crystal chandelier hangs overhead. It’s a stark contrast to the grimy chaos and slums we drove through to get here. Lena’s happy, I can tell. “‘I came in like a wrecking ball,’” she sings under her breath, as she surveys the room. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes at the truth of it.

  “We’ll start tomorrow,” Lena tells me, her voice half muffled from where she’s flopped her thin frame across one of the queen-size beds. “This is just too good.”

  “So—is this where you stayed when your parents were teaching you lessons about the less privileged?”

  “Fuck you, Aubrey.”

  I grin. “I’m getting in the shower.” I’m halfway through the bathroom door before I turn back. I’ve been so guarded with her, but I can’t ignore how generous she’s being.

  “Thank you. Really.” I hesitate. I’ve never been very good at opening up. “You’re being very generous.”