by Anne Heltzel
“You’re friends of Charlie’s,” he says in an odd, flat tone. I look into Aubrey’s eyes and see the terror that mirrors mine.
13
A Letter from Charlie
May 20th
Mom,
Dear Mom, I should have started. I should have done a million things differently, don’t you think? And now it’s too late to go back. I should have offered you more affection more often. Sorry, I’m so clumsy. Soon, I’ll be gone, and there won’t be any making up left to do. Why will I be gone? Why me, Charlie, your only son? Don’t think this is about you, or Dad being gone all the time, or anything else. You’ve always tried your very hardest--if I’ve fallen short it’s been my own undoing. If you are reading this now, please be assured that I am gone. You need to let go now. If you’re looking for answers, all I can say is this: Life got a little overwhelming. I bit off more than I could chew, which you always warned me about, didn’t you? This time I did it, and I didn’t know how to fix it. It has ruined me.
Mom, did you ever know how much I love that quote by Aleksandar Hemon? The one on the inside cover of your book Let the Great World Spin? I was flipping through your copy one day just by accident, while you were making dinner . . . maybe a few months ago when I last visited you in Paris over school break. Dad was away again, so it was just you and me, but that was okay. I always liked those weekends better, when it was just us. Anyway I flipped through and I found this quote: “All the lives I could live, all the people I will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is what the world is.”
It’s from The Lazarus Project, that quote. When I read it, it hit me. I realized--it’s me. And it torments me, because I want to live all the lives, know and be all the people. I want the whole huge world to be mine. That striving, that is why it had to come to this. This time, all the people . . . pushing each other around--it pushed me too far.
And then, there’s the betrayal. I’ve been betrayed: my heart was bludgeoned with a bat or popped with a pin or sliced with a machete. It’s what happens when you bite off more than you can chew. It gets you back, doesn’t it? I don’t know how you and Dad do it, continue like you do--with Dad one person when he’s in Paris and someone completely different when he’s at “work.” When he’s traveling, is it really work? Or is his work just a cover for all the other lives he’s trying to lead? How do you survive it? There’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about, Mom, since I read that quote. If you try to live many lives and it gets out of control, can you destroy just one of them and let the others survive? Would that simplify everything? It’s dense. Tense. There’s another thing Hemon said: “Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there.” Did you know he said that? All the places I’ve lived, I’ve never known which to call home. Will you notice when I am gone, when I was never much there in the first place?
We’ll find out soon enough--I just need a little more time. I wrote this early, before I’ve set everything in motion. Why? Because I wanted to write it at the moment of my decision when I can be the most honest. But death, it takes a long time to orchestrate. Today, on May 20th, I made my decision. I’m sorry to put you through this. Death is like that pair of empty shoes at 8:18. It gives me hope. That’s why I chose 8:18. That’s when everything will be complete.
Love,
Charlie
14
Aubrey
Lena speaks first. I have to give her credit for that. I can barely stand, from the shock of what she’s told me coupled with the fear I’m feeling.
Charlie killed himself.
My brain rejects it. If it’s true, she’s right that I’m partially to blame. So why, if she’s known about this note all along, does she still want to believe he’s alive? And yet everything about this trip has been surreal. None of it is anything I could have expected. Like this six-foot formidable giant waving a gory fillet knife at us. The image of my bed back in Western Springs fills my head: its white, curlicued frame; its yellow bedspread and fluffy, flower-patterned pillows. Ralph, our rescue mutt, curled on a sage green throw at the foot. I want to go back there and stay there forever. It was predictable. Comforting. Safe.
Nothing since the day I met Charlie has felt comforting, predictable, or safe. I used to love that surge of adrenaline—it was like nothing I’d felt before. Only now I’m stopping to wonder if it’s healthy. It’s taken a trip around the world and a stranger with a knife to give me pause. Certain psychotherapists would have a field day with this; I’d laugh if I weren’t so scared.
“How do you know Charlie?” Lena demands, and at first I’m impressed. Her voice sounds confident and (to the untrained ear) diplomatic; and she’s turned the conversation around, putting Anand on the defensive. “Let’s all relax, shall we? There’s no reason to get worked up before we even know if we’re talking about the same Charlie.” As she speaks, she takes a small step toward me and reaches for my hand. My first instinct is to recoil, but then she slips something inside my palm and carefully wraps my fingers around it. It’s small and oblong and metal. A pocketknife. My eyes drag to hers, but she doesn’t return my look. Anand is blocking the entrance to the bedroom—our only escape.
“No, I recognize you now.” Anand’s voice is low, each word coiled. “We’ve got the same Charlie, all right. I knew there was something familiar about you two. He had pictures of you both. Called you his girlfriend. ‘Girlfriend,’ singular, as though you look anything alike. Said he had this amazing girlfriend, this one girlfriend he loved, showed me pictures of two. Thought the guy had gone off the deep end at first, but I figured he’d just smoked a little too much hash. Charlie was my best customer.” Anand lets out a guttural laugh.
“At least he only showed two pictures,” Lena whispers out of the side of her mouth. “That’s nice.” I can tell she’s trying to put me at ease, but I can’t crack a smile.
“So where is he?” Anand demands, taking a step toward us. It forces us farther into the room. “Why are you here? You messing with me? You here to rob me like that little prick did? Or did you come to pay off his debts?”
“We don’t know anything about his debts,” Lena says slowly. “We came, actually, to ask you a few questions about Charlie.”
“I got nothing to say unless you have money,” Anand tells us. “Why don’t you just ask him whatever the hell you want to know?”
“Because Charlie’s dead,” I hear myself say in an unaccustomed, unwavering tone. Somehow saying it out loud makes it feel real. “He killed himself.”
“No shit.” Anand laughs again. He sets the plate of fish on a low-lying bench with a clatter and paces in front of the door frame, gripping his hair in his fists as his laughter grows louder and manic. Lena and I watch him, stunned. This guy is way off. “Shit, shit, shit,” Anand mutters to himself as he spins. Then he’s yelling “Shit” and “Motherfucker,” moving around the bedroom and punching the walls, the furniture, anything he can reach. For the first time, the door is exposed.
I nudge Lena with my shoulder and motion with my chin toward the door. She’s closer, so she begins inching out slowly. Anand is too caught in his rage to notice at first. We’re nearly there when he refocuses and closes the gap between us in two strides.
“Do you know how much money he owes me?” Anand demands to know. “Over eighty thousand rupees.” I gasp. Granted I don’t know the exact conversion, but it sounds like a lot of money.
“That’s only, like, thirteen hundred dollars,” Lena informs me, seeing my face. “But Jesus, that’s a hell of a lot of . . . what, hash?”
Anand nods, eyeing us closely. He’s wearing a little smirk, and I realize Lena’s fatal error. Only thirteen hundred. I don’t know much about India, but I do know a little goes a long way. Even to most Americans, thirteen hundred bucks isn’t paltry. Here it must be a fortune.
“Jesus.” Lena is still reeling. “What is that, like, forty dollars per gram . . . Holy shit.” She stops, her mouth open. “Three hundred grams?�
�� she whispers. “Is that right? That can’t be right. What, this is over a long span of time?”
“How well did you know your boyfriend, honey?” Anand says in this patronizing tone. “Not very well, I’m guessing. Since you’re both here.”
“Don’t call me ‘honey,’” Lena says, getting right up in his face. Anand glares back, and moves closer until he’s just an inch or two away from her, but Lena doesn’t falter. I feel my grip tighten around the pocketknife. Hoping I don’t have to use it. Lena and Anand are locked in a stare-down. Something passes through Anand’s eyes, and then his face softens and he backs off, holding his hands high in an indication of peace.
“Listen,” he starts. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” I try to read his facial expression, staring hard into his murky brown eyes, but his face is impassive. All the hatred of a minute ago is gone, vanished or maybe pushed down just below his skin. “Come.” He gestures toward the doorway. “Sit down and let’s talk like civilized people.”
Now that he is calm, his mode of expression is interesting; older-sounding, I think, than his twenty-some years. Maybe born of a more formal study of English than most Americans are used to. He directs us to the wooden table that’s on the main deck just behind the bedroom cabin and still partially concealed in the shade of the upper level. We’ve missed most of the late-afternoon sun, but a blend of purples and pinks decorates the sky as the sun sets. Now that Anand is being nice to us, my breathing has slowed to what feels like a normal pace. Lena’s back is still rigid, I note, as she selects a spot at the end of the bench and settles in across from Anand, who’s come over wielding the tray he had set down on the bench just inside the bedroom. A couple of mosquitos buzz around, and I’m grateful I remembered to pick up bug spray in Mumbai; it’s high deet and technically toxic, but it’s better than risking malaria.
“Mind putting that someplace else?” Lena wrinkles her nose in the direction of the tray of fish. “No offense, but it’s an eyesore.” Her tone is guarded, and I can tell by the way her eyes pull down at the corners that she still doesn’t trust Anand. I don’t either . . . but it seems like he’s at least backed down from attack mode. He gives her a nod and walks back toward the kitchen with the tray.
“I should fry up the rest anyway,” he calls over his shoulder. “I hope you like whitefish and squid. I’m making some curry with the fish, and some paratha. Maybe it’ll be easier to talk over dinner, once we’ve had more time to cool down.” Lena stares after him with her lips pursed.
“He’s up to something,” she says, tapping her canvas shoe against the deck. She’s not talking about Charlie, but somehow it triggers the memory of what she’s just told me about Charlie’s suicide note, and I’m overcome with a lightheaded, surreal feeling that I guess must be shock. I want to kill Lena for bringing me on this crazy journey, for keeping such an important secret. And I want to talk about Charlie, really talk about him for the first time since we’ve come here. There’s got to be something we’re missing. I open my mouth to say more, but Anand’s back, carrying two frothy glasses of Kingfisher, which he places in front of us with a smile. Lena’s smile in return is big and fake.
“Don’t drink that,” she whispers once he’s walked away, humming under his breath. “He could have put something in it.”
“You really think he would?”
“Never know.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “He’s seriously pissed off. He could do anything.”
“But he said—”
“Come here.” Lena cuts me off and motions toward the narrow ladder that leads to the upper deck. She climbs the ladder and I follow her, taking a few tentative bounces on the first rung to make sure it’s stable despite its rotted appearance. When I reach the top after her, and peer past her just-disappearing Toms, I have to stop myself from gasping. It’s a beautiful open-air view from the top deck, and the water stretches ahead of us in a pattern of blue and gray. We’re coasting by small stretches of land that punctuate the water. It seems impossible, but several of them hold equally small huts, maybe six feet wide at most. Outside one of them, an old woman hangs clothing on a line that’s strung between two spindly trees.
“I can’t believe people live there,” says Lena, following my gaze from where she’s plopped herself onto a patterned cushion at the front of the deck.
“Everything’s different now,” I find myself saying. I guess I’m offended by her conversational tone, by how easily she slips back into normalcy, especially after what happened with Anand. I’m still shaken from the scare, and now that we’re alone, my rage comes tumbling out. I feel tears beginning to burn at the backs of my eyes, and there’s a sense that I can’t control what I might say next. “Don’t you get what you just did to me? How could you have lied to me this whole time?”
“It almost doesn’t matter what any of us did anymore,” Lena says, her voice sharp. “So many things have gone wrong.” She draws her knees up under her chin. “I’m sorry for telling you that way. I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t keep it in any more after I saw you with Adam. It felt like . . . like you just carelessly used me to get to him. I know that what Charlie was doing to us both wasn’t any better. But after being used by him, I can’t stand that I let myself be used by you. Charlie was my life, and now he’s gone, and I feel so lost. I thought you and I were becoming friends. I thought something good could have come from all this. But now I just feel stupid.” Her voice is firm despite the intensity of her words.
“I’m sorry, Lena. I am. It was wrong. But I wasn’t trying to use you. I didn’t plan what happened with Adam. I hate that I hurt you. I want us to get past it.” I pause, frustrated and confused. “But why didn’t his parents tell anyone? And why, after this, are you still doubting that he’s dead?”
“I was the one who found the letter,” Lena starts. “About a week before his memorial service, just a few days after he disappeared. When I went to his parents’ place. I went there to drop off food, see if they needed any help with anything, just . . . you know, just to be there. His parents were important to me. I didn’t see them much, but when I did, they were so kind.” Lena looks away, blinking back tears. My whole body is trembling as if there’s nothing substantial holding it together. The world that looked so lovely not long ago is turning extra bright, then black, the edges of the boat blending together and collapsing in on themselves, as I process Lena’s story.
“I went up to his room,” she continues. “It was pretty bare, nothing on the walls, no decorations—like the way he kept all his other rooms, in the dorms, the apartments in the cities. It was almost like a hotel room. But there was this one drawer he always kept full of little items from his childhood. He didn’t know I knew about it. Or at least, that’s what I always thought. I used to look through it when he was in the shower or whatever. He had, like, a collector’s edition of baseball cards. And some other junky things from when he was a kid: an Archie comic, a Christmas list. A note from a girl he liked in elementary school. A birthday card his parents gave him. And there on top of everything was something I’d never seen before.” Lena is crying now; the tears are streaming down her cheeks and onto her collarbone, and she’s wiping them away with both palms but not nearly fast enough.
“Tell me,” I say. I’m not sure I want to hear, but I know I have to. There’s no going back.
“There was this letter addressed to his mom. It was taped shut and it hadn’t been there the last time I visited, so I guess I kind of knew what it was. There was a stamp on it, like he was planning on mailing it at some point and never did. I knew what it was, Aubrey.” She looks up at me, her eyes less angry and more pleading. “I read it. It was a suicide note. I thought about hiding it.”
“But you didn’t.”
Lena shakes her head, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. “He wanted his mom to see it. That much was clear. She wasn’t any saint, but she was devastated. She didn’t want a scandal. You don’t understand. The Prices thought Charlie was per
fect. They were heartbroken. Their marriage was so screwed up. It was a disaster. His dad was gone all the time, his mom was depressed and drank too much. But they loved Charlie . . . at least his mom did. She funneled all her hope into him. I don’t know how she’s surviving. But at least it gave her closure. Even after they found the jacket with his blood on it . . . she was like me. She couldn’t accept it. But this let her accept it. We organized the memorial service the next morning.”
“Do you still have the note?”
Lena nods, leveling me with a hard gaze. “His mom was looking for it after the funeral. I didn’t say a word. It’s horrible, I know, but I couldn’t give it back.”
I’m silent. I don’t want her to feel judged.
“There was something about it all that felt off,” she goes on. “At first I couldn’t quite figure it out. I kept thinking, maybe it’s part of the act. The letter . . . parts of it were nonsensical. His mom chalked it up to the mental state he must have been in when he wrote it. Maybe he was panicked, or maybe he was high. But in the letter, he said everything would come together on eight-eighteen. That was the day he planned to follow through with it. But August eighteen is still a few days away. Part of me thinks he’s still around, planning something for then. That the rest of it was just a grandiose diversion. I know it’s nuts but it’s my gut feeling. That’s why I’m searching for him. I’m impulsive, Aubrey, but my feelings are so often right. Because why was it so cryptic? He didn’t come right out and say, This is what I’m going to do. And a normal person doesn’t commit suicide by crashing a plane. There are lots of easier ways to go. Sometimes I think I need to forget about it, accept he’s dead like the rest of you. I’ve tried to make myself. I know it’s the smart thing, the logical thing. But I just can’t feel his death. It’s not even that I want him alive. I know everything’s ruined. I don’t want him anymore. I know loving him wasn’t real, because it wasn’t real for him. But I keep thinking, I’ll look, and I’ll find him, and I’ll force him to take responsibility for something. He just can’t get away with this. I can let go of him, but not what he did to us.”
