by Anne Heltzel
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you want to make this my fault? Even if I did set something in motion, would you have preferred to go on like we were, in the dark?” This last part triggers it: the tears, the frustration, even relief. And in their wake, guilt.
“I still feel as though telling Charlie about Adam was what set him off,” Lena says after a minute of silence. “Even though I know that wasn’t your intention.”
All of a sudden I know: It doesn’t matter that Charlie was doing the same thing to me that I did to him—a fact I didn’t even know then. It doesn’t matter that he made me unhappy a lot of the time, and that the relationship probably never should have happened in the first place. It doesn’t matter how many excuses I made to do what I did that one night in D.C. with Adam—or the lies I told myself to explain away all the nights after Charlie found out my secret, when I stayed with him out of necessity.
They’re just excuses for a series of awful events that I never, not in a million years, would have thought I’d be capable of. I lied, I cheated, and I played with fire. The reasons that led me to do these things are separate. And now, instead of feeling culpable, I feel overwhelmed by relief. Somewhere, deep down, I worried there was a chance he was alive. Now all I need is the journal to feel truly safe again.
I sink down next to Lena, feeling the full weight of these revelations. Not because of what it might have pushed Charlie to do, but because of what it’s done to Lena and to me—my values, who I am as a person. I think of my parents, and who they raised me to be. I think of the way I’ve pulled away from them in recent months. When stuff like this happens and you make these choices, you can’t go back to the way things were. You’ve changed yourself, and maybe you can never recover.
15
Lena
To her credit, she looks squashed. Nauseated. It makes me feel almost bad for telling her the way I have. Almost. She needed to hear it. Maybe it wasn’t up to me to have hidden it, but what I said about Charlie’s parents was true. They wanted to keep it quiet. They couldn’t bear the scandal if it got out. I had wanted to respect that.
“Why did you hide it from me?” she repeats, staring at me with a glazed expression. “You never said. Why bother with all of this?” She swings her arm around, indicating the Keralan backwater landscape we’re floating down. I almost laugh. It would be idyllic if it weren’t so twisted. In another world, Aubrey and I would be best friends on some kind of Asian backpacking adventure. But instead we’re in our shitty version of a haunted destination love triangle.
“I didn’t know you yet,” I say, avoiding her eyes. “His parents wanted to keep it hushed up. I also . . . I guess I wanted something for myself. Something you couldn’t know about.” I know I’m not answering the question, but I can’t when I don’t know the answer.
“But he’s gone. I just don’t understand how you can believe otherwise. This whole thing—it’s just . . . it’s so ridiculous.” How much of this has been about a journal and how much has been about something else: proof of his death? And if that’s the case, did she want to confirm his death or his life? Which would have made her happier?
“I’d like to remind you who’s been paying for this ‘ridiculous’ pilgrimage,” I tell her. I know right away it’s the wrong thing to say.
Aubrey laughs once and shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says. “You can stop paying, because I’m going to go. I’m not here to chase Charlie’s ghost. Fuck the journal. This whole thing is making me crazy. I don’t even care anymore, not enough to keep this up.” She leans her head in her hands, laughs again, and starts muttering “Oh god oh god oh god” under her breath.
“What? Are you okay?” I’m a little concerned that I may have pushed her over the deep end. She lifts her head. Her face is blotchy and worn-looking; she could pass for much older than eighteen. But she’s beautiful. It’s a sneaky kind of beauty that hits you when you’re not looking, and she’s somehow prettier in her devastation. It reminds me of when I first saw her earlier in the week, at the funeral home—how she seemed sort of ghoulish but in a haunting, lovely way, like the doomed heroine in a Poe story.
“I’m not,” she says. “But I just realized, I don’t even necessarily know if what you’re telling me is true. This could be just another lie, another manipulation. Maybe it’s not true? You’re clearly still in love with Charlie even after everything he did to us. Maybe you just realized I’m inconvenient, want me out of the picture, want to find him and claim him.” I gape at her, my mouth open. What she’s saying is crazy.
“Aubrey, if I were to find him again I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. I just think I deserve the truth of what my life has been for the last few years. If he’s alive, I want to force him to answer some questions. Plus I want to expose him, see him pay for this.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “This is an awful lot of trouble to go to for that. Sure there’s not something else?” No. I can’t claim to be sure. But I nod anyway. She laces her hands under her chin and frowns.
“Wait a second.” I break in on her puzzlement. “For me this was about finding Charlie, getting some answers, eviscerating him. I needed that. But you’re supposedly here looking for some stupid journal. I always figured there was more to it, that you were kind of in denial about looking for him, too. So what are you hiding? You’ve never told me what the deal is with the journal.”
Her head jerks up. “It’s personal,” is all she says. Aubrey is handling the revelation of the suicide note oddly. She’s crying, but she’s laughing, and I’m about to ask her exactly what she is feeling when Anand shouts up the stairs, pulling me back into our present predicament: we’re stuck on a boat with a potential felon.
“Food’s ready,” he calls out in this pleasant voice that, to my ears, rings insincere. I’m not thrilled with Adam at the moment; I feel like maybe he should have put Anand into context, told us he was more than just an innocent weed hookup, that kind of thing. And, like, why would he throw Aubrey into this situation if he supposedly likes her? I file that question in the back of my mind.
“Guess we’ve gotta play nicey-nicey with the chef,” I say, making a mental note to come back to this journal of hers, which suddenly seems like a very odd reason for her to come along on this trip, if it’s her real reason. I pull myself together as Aubrey struggles to mop her own face with the back of her hand. “How long till we can skip out of this place? It’s almost nine, so I guess that gives us, like, twelve hours? Keep your wits about you, kid.” I nudge Aubrey with my elbow, and to her credit, she cracks a grin. Part of me regrets having told her about Charlie’s note, and part of me feels this huge sense of relief. It’s sucked, carrying around that kind of secret.
I’m not shocked to find, upon reaching the bottom deck, that I’m starving. Emotion does that to me.
Anand has lit small lanterns all around the deck of the boat—a safe decision, I’m sure—and there are steaming platters lined up on the table, piled high with food. He’s standing there with his creepy, placid grin; and yet somehow, it does nothing to ruin my appetite. It hits me that Aubrey and I haven’t eaten all day, other than some mini tropical bananas at the hotel in Bombay this morning. I can’t help but dig in with both hands—literally, since Anand has provided no silverware and seems to expect us to manhandle our food in the traditional way. I’m ravenous. It’s been almost a day since I’ve eaten anything substantial. I use paratha to scoop the curry and biryani, ignoring the scowls Aubrey’s shooting me from where she sits, arms crossed over her chest, her cheeks still a little mottled from crying. It doesn’t occur to me until I’m full that eating Anand’s food could have been a mistake.
“I feel bad about the way we started,” offers Anand, wiping his mouth with a stained cloth napkin. “You seem like nice girls. Let me make amends.”
“There’s no need,” Aubrey breaks in. “Anyone would have been upset in your position.”
“Tell me, what is my ‘position’?” he asks
. I’m wondering the same thing, but I feel too exhausted to do much but watch them volley. Beneath us, the boat bobs against the shore where we’ve docked so Anand can eat. We could run now, I think. But where would we run to? My phone doesn’t work all the way out here; I have no idea how far we are from Kerala or how to get there or even if there are people living nearby who could help us if we needed it. Beyond just that, it’s pitch black out. I can’t even see the neighboring huts from where we sit.
“I just mean, you had a bad experience with Charlie, and then we show up—” Aubrey catches herself and stops.
“Yes,” Anand agrees, leaning forward, his eyes alight with something I can’t identify. Everything about Anand now feels aggressive, I realize: his posture is tense and poised; his expression is blank but his eyes are sharp. “It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? What are the chances you’d show up—with no knowledge of the money your dead boyfriend owed me? Why would you choose my boat of all the possibilities? I think,” he says softly, while Aubrey’s cheeks begin to flush, “that there’s something you two aren’t telling me.”
“We don’t have any money for you,” I assure him, the veins in my temples throbbing. “And we’re not trying to take anything of yours. We didn’t even know about you until a day ago. Charlie lied to us, just like he did to you. We’re just out here to figure out the truth, same as you.”
“I see,” Anand says, breaking into a grin. “Okay then, I can tell you what I know. After all, you’re paying guests. Speaking of which, is anything wrong with the food?” He directs this at Aubrey, who gives him a tight shake of her head. But her plate remains untouched. I glare at her until she meets my eyes, and she reluctantly twists off a piece of paratha. She uses the soft, chewy bread to mop up a tiny bit of curry sauce and tentatively brings the food to her mouth. Anand watches her in silence while she swallows.
“Trust is important,” he tells us both. “It’s something I value. You come here, you want me to open up to you about your Charlie, and yet you don’t place any trust in me. Trust is symbiotic.” He grins. “I learned that word from an American, a professor who stayed on my boat with his wife. You think I’m this bad guy, this drug dealer. You think, How does Anand make his way, own five boats, and he’s only twenty-three? Through drugs. You’re right about that, but I’m not a man without morals. There’s a difference between a bad man and a smart man. I’m a smart man. Your Charlie, he was bad. Anyone could see it, just to look at him.”
“The Charlie I knew wasn’t bad,” I observe. “At least not at first.”
“People aren’t born bad; they become that way,” says Anand, and for the first time I’m impressed by the clarity of his thoughts. “It happens through a series of bad decisions . . . missteps over time. And a lack of balance. Me, I sell hashish. Finest quality. I have almost a hundred regular customers. Some people may say that’s bad—but I have balance. I’m good to my wife, I run a good business, I’m kind to my neighbors. I don’t deceive.”
“You’re married?” Aubrey wants to know. Her eyes dart to the empty space on Anand’s finger where a ring should be.
He smiles broadly. “Married since two months ago. Why not? I found a beautiful woman and I love her, and our families approve. There’s already a baby coming.” At this, his face darkens slightly. “Which is why money’s important now. But,” he continues, “life is too short for anger. With Charlie, I will let bygones be bygones. I knew coming into it, with him, there was risk. Some people you can read. You can look into their eyes and know they’re good, or you can tell right away that they’re bad. It’s the way they look over you when you talk, the way their mouth curls down in distaste at something you say or what you wear. They try to hide it, but it’s there in every gesture.
“And then others, like Charlie, you can’t read at all. Their eyes are blank. I knew it. I told him no when he first asked me for my services. But he was persistent, and he was willing to pay top dollar. So you see, it was my mistake.”
“When did Charlie start coming to you?” Aubrey asks. Her dark hair is messy from a day in the sun and the humidity; it forms a rumpled nest around her pale skin, highlighting the dark circles that rim her eyes.
“A while ago,” says Anand. “Maybe two years. He was recreational at first, purely into the enjoyment and used it to relax. A couple of grams here and there. When he started increasing the amount of his requests, I thought, A little for friends, he’s in high school, maybe there are parties. Then he asked for more and I got mad, thinking he’s dealing on the side, charging more than what I charge. We had a fight, and he swears it’s just for him. All of it. That he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be in Bombay and I’ve got the best hashish there is, so he’s stockpiling. Never mind how he’ll get it overseas—that’s not my problem. The kid was always good on his payments. Always. Until his biggest order comes, and what does he do? Says, ‘Give me a week, Anand. You know I’m good for it.’ Then he’s gone.” Anand shakes his head. “Little fucker.” The words sound silly coming with his south Indian accent, and I can’t help laughing. I know it’s a mistake the second I do. Anand’s head whips around and he stares at me, eyes narrowed. I hold out one palm to assure him I don’t mean anything.
“I’m sorry,” I insist. “It’s just . . . ‘leetle fuck-ah.’” It’s probably wildly inappropriate that I’m laughing, but I dissolve back into giggles anyway, and Aubrey joins me. Our eyes meet and we crack up, leaning over the table and gasping for air. When I catch my breath and have the courage to look up at Anand, I’m relieved to find that he’s smirking too.
“How did you meet him?” I ask once I’ve caught my breath. “Were you lurking around the schoolyard, hoping to score some new clients?” My tone is sarcastic. He doesn’t catch on.
Anand shakes his head. “I tell you, I’m a standup guy,” he insists. “I met him through his half brother. Dane.”
“Charlie doesn’t have a brother.”
“Not anymore,” Anand clarifies. Aubrey and I glance at each other in confusion.
“No,” Aubrey says slowly. “Charlie was an only child.” She looks at me again and I nod in confirmation, though suddenly I’m not so sure. But why would Charlie have kept something like that hidden?
“I assure you, he had a brother,” Anand says. “Kind of a black sheep. His dad’s son from a mistress. He lived with the family for a while.”
“It’s not possible.” My voice is hard, firm. “I’ve been to Charlie’s parents’ house a million times. There were only pictures of Charlie. No brother.”
“The brother was disowned,” Anand said. “He . . . chose his own path, from what I understand.”
“Meaning . . . ?” Aubrey demands, her face flushed.
“I never got the whole story,” Anand says vaguely, pushing away from the table. “Now, how about I fix us some chai? It’s late. I’ll need to sleep soon.”
“You said you’d tell us about Charlie,” I call out to his retreating back. He pauses.
“Yes,” he says without turning around. “I’m telling you all I know.”
Before Aubrey and I can exchange anything more than looks of mutual disbelief, Anand has returned with three tin cups of chai along with a pitcher holding more. Chai is one of my favorite things about India—I can never get enough of the sweet, milky tea; and I grab for mine as if it were an old, familiar lifeline.
“From what I understand,” Anand says, “Dane had some sort of fall from grace, and he and Charlie didn’t talk much after that. They both moved around a lot, you know. They weren’t always even in school on the same continent. Charlie stayed more often with their mother, Dane with their father. But they got back in touch, I know that.” Anand goes on, but his words seem to merge into a soft, lulling drone. I look across the table at Aubrey. She’s sipping her tea in this really relaxed manner, her shoulders slightly slumped.
“I’m so tired.” I force out the words but they sound jumbled up, and Aubrey nods dreamily.
“Ma
ybe you ought to get to bed,” Anand suggests from somewhere far away. “We can continue our talk in the morning once you’ve had some rest. You girls have had a trying day.” Trying day. It turns into trying way, try to stay, hit the hay. My eyelids begin to droop. I struggle to stand and find myself collapsing backwards into Anand’s waiting arms. When did he stand up from the table? When did he move behind me?
“Aubrey?” I murmur. I try to lift my lids but they won’t cooperate. Instead, I peer out from beneath their narrow slits, but I don’t see Aubrey anywhere. I try to jerk my arm back, out of Anand’s grip, but it’s like I’m wading through water, or thick sludge. Nothing’s working the way it should.
“Shhh,” Anand whispers in my ear. His breath, hot against my skin, makes me recoil inwardly, but outwardly my limbs feel like wet clay. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “She already went to bed. Let me help you.” I have no choice. I let Anand lead me back to the bedroom, where Aubrey is sprawled across the bed, face-down and fully clothed, snoring loudly. Anand eases me onto the bed next to her and again I make efforts to move my body away from him. His hands leave my shoulders. He moves toward the door and reaches for the light switch. I try to watch him, but I feel myself drifting from consciousness. Aubrey’s snores intensify beside me.
“Sleep tight,” Anand whispers, and the light goes out.
