Charlie, Presumed Dead

by Anne Heltzel

  “Sorry,” I say. “A lot of people are into religion. That’s cool too.” My words sound ridiculous, and I can’t help laughing. “I mean,” I say, “shit. I’m sorry. Are you religious?”

  “Not particularly,” Aubrey says. “I’m Presbyterian, and we go to church and stuff. I can see what you’re saying, for sure. But the way I was brought up, it was about tolerance and respect and being nice. Good Midwestern values and all that,” she jokes, mocking the phrase with air quotes.

  “Don’t make fun of it,” I tell her. “If that’s what you believe, it’s cool. I mean, I don’t believe in God. At least, I don’t think so. But sometimes when stuff happens—stuff that feels bigger . . .” I pause, wondering if I should continue. Then I think, Fuck it, and go on: “Like being here with you on this strange mission to find Charlie. Getting robbed. Living life. Opening up to experiences. Saying yes wherever possible because it feels like if you ride the ride, it’ll pay off. This kind of thing, and the fact that it wasn’t even in our heads two months ago, makes me feel small. But in a good way—like there’s something more out there. That’s religion to me. That’s why I get why people want to buy into spirituality.”

  Aubrey laughs. “It’s a little more than that . . . at least for my parents,” she says. “But I get what you’re saying. Maybe you’re spiritual, just not religious.”

  “I’m into people believing and doing whatever the hell they want,” I say, my words building momentum, “as long as it doesn’t hurt other people. It’s the same principle as ladyboys. Live and let live. Do what makes you happy. Don’t tamp it down, don’t be embarrassed. Just don’t be an asshole.” Even as I say it, I realize how long I’ve been suppressing these words, these thoughts. Oh, the irony.

  “Hear, hear,” says the bartender, winking at me. She puts two fresh beers in front of us, and I feel myself blushing again. I didn’t realize how loud I was being. “On the house,” she says, wiping her eyes on the bar rag and sauntering off.

  “Holy shit, I’m tipsy,” Aubrey says. I laugh because she only really swears when we’re drinking . . . another fun fact I’ve discovered about her lately.

  “Oh my god,” I tell her. “It’s been a half hour. We so didn’t come here for this.” I start to stand, craning my neck. I’m wondering who we should ask first. Does Dane use the same last name as Charlie? Will he look like Charlie?

  “Lena.” Aubrey’s hand is on my arm, even as I begin to stand. “Hold on a sec.”

  “What?” I ask. “Don’t you want to get this over with?”

  “I do,” Aubrey says slowly, nodding. “In a second.” She stops, like she’s thinking, and I drum my fingers against the bar impatiently. Aubrey only speaks when she’s ready, though. So I wait. “I’m into comic books,” she says finally. “Graphic novels, if you will.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, wondering where this is going.

  “Maybe you didn’t even know that, because I’ve never mentioned it.”

  “I’ve seen you doodling in that little tablet of yours,” I say. “Not doodling,” I amend as Aubrey winces. “Just. Whatever. You know.”

  “It’s okay,” she continues. “That’s not my point. My point is that there’s this one artist I love. Like, really love. She’s smart and profound and emotional but unsentimental, and everything she does makes me cry. And she has this theory, this test. The test is this: In a book or a film, when there are two girls talking . . . do they ever have a conversation that isn’t about a guy?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say distractedly, still not sure where this is headed.

  “Lena.” Aubrey’s voice is serious, and it causes me to look up. “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure this is the first conversation we’ve had since we met that didn’t revolve around Charlie.” She stops, letting this sink in, and finally I understand.

  “We failed the test until now.”

  Aubrey nods. “I liked it,” she says quietly. “Not talking about him, I mean. I kind of wish . . .”

  “We’d do it more often?” I finish for her.

  “Exactly.”

  “Done,” I say, and she grins. She’s totally right. I feel like I’ve been more me in the last forty-five minutes than I’ve been on this whole trip, or since Charlie died, for that matter. And sometimes I feel close to Aubrey. Almost as if I’m starting to trust her. It’s enough to make me hopeful.

  “And, um,” she says, “let’s go ahead and finish this thing. But if we find out that Charlie’s alive, fuck him, Lena. Charlie is a fucking asshole. And it’s time we owned the truth that he treated us like garbage. So let’s be angry. Promise me you’ll stay angry.”

  My mouth drops open, not just because she’s swearing up a storm, but because I’ve literally never witnessed her this fiery. Aubrey’s stronger than I thought, and she’s right. We’ve been consumed by Charlie for too long. Especially me. My heart aches at the admission. But she’s right.

  “Let’s finish this,” I say, in agreement.

  21

  Aubrey

  I think at first it’s going to be tricky to find Dane. The bar is big and sprawling—really a collection of bars, almost like a marketplace—and I’m tipsy from the one and a half beers I downed as Lena and I talked. But it turns out to be easy—almost too easy. The first person we approach knows him.

  “Dana?” the man asks. “Dana Price.” I assume at first it’s his accent that twists the name into its feminine version, or that we got the name wrong—“Dana” is a guy’s name too, in some circles. But Lena’s eyes darken and narrow, and I can tell she thinks different. She nods carefully, her posture tense and poised, like she doesn’t know what to expect. It hits me that if Dane is bad news, we could be in more serious trouble than we already are. “Yes, Dana,” the barback tells us, his manner relaxed. “Everybody know. Dana go onstage tonight. She . . .” He trails off, seeming to search for words. “She in house, wear lipstick.” I feel my eyebrows shoot up. Lena looks unfazed.

  “She onstage, wear lipstick,” the man clarifies. I’m still baffled, but Lena nods.

  “She’s getting ready,” she says to him. “For tonight?” The man nods. “Can you tell us where?” she asks, smiling and leaning toward the man in a friendly, ingratiating manner. Like they’ve known each other for years. The old paranoia hits me, the kind I’ve fought to move past in recent days. How well do I know Lena? What does she know that I don’t? But I push it aside. I’d rather have no room between us not to trust.

  “Yes,” he agrees, smiling back. His smile is less toothy than Lena’s. There are gaps where teeth have rotted out. But he’s affable and seems totally unconcerned about why we’re asking. “Go down road, take left. Then after four buildings you turn down alley. That house of Dana.”

  “Are there any details that might help us recognize it?” Lena asks. “Paint color, or . . . ?” The man squishes up his eyebrows like he doesn’t understand. “Color,” Lena clarifies. “Red house, green house?” She points at a grease-streaked placemat sitting on the bar. “Red,” she repeats, as she might for a toddler. “Brown?” She points to the bar. The man’s face clears and he nods again.

  “Yellow house,” he says, pointing to a container of mustard.

  A minute later we’re off, after Lena asks a few of the performers, already warming up onstage, to confirm the location of Dana’s home. One of them speaks proficient English, and we have no problem following her directions to the opposite end of Nana Plaza and over to a side street, where the yellow house turns out to be a crumbling, faded high-rise the color of dirty buttermilk. It’s covered in graffiti, and although I can’t read the wording, the house still looks charming in a gritty way. We walk through the throngs of peddlers at the building’s exterior, enter a dingy corridor, and push our way back to the elevator shaft.

  “Are we sure we want to do this?” I ask Lena as she pulls open the creaky metal accordion grate that separates the elevator from the hallway. The tiles that decorate the floors of each, once probably cheerful, are
covered with years of accumulated filth.

  “Are you kidding? We’ve come so far.” She steps into the elevator and presses the button marked 6.

  “I just mean the elevator.” I take a cautious step into the creaking beast after her, trying not to dwell on how frayed the suspension cable must be.

  “Oh.” Lena laughs. “Right. Too late now.” The platform starts moving upward almost before she can close the door behind us, and I watch the floors pass by one by one, the elevator grating against its gears all the while. The stairs and ceiling bear thick cracks, insinuating that the building might collapse at any minute. I recall an article in the in-flight magazine that cited building regulations for cities like this one, regulations put in place to prevent buildings in certain areas from being built over four stories high. I wonder nervously if this building is illegal. Buildings collapse all over Asia all the time. I try not to think about it. It’s Bangkok. Bangkok is more developed than, say, Bangalore. Isn’t it? I wonder if I’m getting my cities straight. My thoughts converge in a haze, and my palms turn sweaty as the elevator screeches to a halt.

  Lena pushes open the door, and more black sediment attaches itself to her palms. She brushes them casually on her jeans, and I feel another flush of admiration. Lena is remarkable in so many ways: she’s bold, fearless, and street-smart; I’m sure she doesn’t even recognize all her strengths. I follow her down the sixth-floor hallway, even dimmer than the hallway on the first floor owing to a burned-out bulb—its cord dangles frayed and helpless from a patch of crumbling concrete in the ceiling. Footsteps echo upstairs and dust peppers our heads as we walk. When it touches Lena’s hair, it disappears into her white halo. I’m sure on me it looks more akin to dandruff.

  “I think this is it,” Lena says, glancing at her palm. Sing Lee, a dancer at the bar, drew a map of the building’s interior, holding her pen in a firm hand while her red-lacquered nails dug lightly into Lena’s forearm to keep it steady as she wrote. There’s a small, narrow corridor off the main hallway on this floor. It leads to a plain brown door with a brightly colored sign on red paper tacked to its surface, with a word scrawled across its front in Thai. I imagine it means something like “Welcome,” and I say as much to Lena.

  “Fingers crossed it doesn’t say ‘Keep out,’” she shoots back. I suspect she’s only half joking. I reach out to press the black doorbell just within the metal grate that stretches across the shabby door, and Lena gives me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure Dana’s great,” she tells me.

  “How are you so sure?” I ask.

  “Charlie’s parents are awful,” she replies. “Well, his dad, anyway—his mom’s just sort of a mess. Any enemy of theirs is a friend of ours.” I make a mental note to ask her more about that later—I never met Charlie’s parents, and it was more difficult than anything to get Charlie to open up about them. All I ever knew was that he and his dad didn’t get along; but when I saw his dad from afar at the memorial, he seemed engaged and charming. Odd, actually, how he was smiling and greeting people like it was a receiving line at a wedding and not a funeral. I’m thinking this as the door swings open and a young girl, or ladyboy—I’m not sure which term is correct—smiles up at us. She’s wearing a tight black pleather skirt and glittery stilettos that must be at least six inches high.

  “Dana?” Lena asks, sounding shy for the first time since I’ve known her. The girl shakes her head and leans back into the room behind her, yelling out a few words in Thai. A few seconds later, another girl approaches, also Thai.

  “I’m Dana,” she says in perfect English, twirling a long strand of hair in one finger. It’s so reddish purple it’s almost magenta; but it looks pretty, contrasted against the smooth brown of her skin.

  “Dana Price,” Lena repeats, disbelieving.

  “The one and only,” Dana replies.

  Lena looks confused, and for the first time I wonder what the trajectory is with this black sheep half brother-sister. I can tell Lena was expecting a Westerner, someone white like Charlie. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now I’m wondering about this supposed brother of Charlie’s who’s clearly half Thai and wound up back in Thailand after years in elite boarding schools, presumably, like Charlie. Many questions are whirling through my mind.

  “We’re friends of Charlie’s,” Lena tells her, raising her chin just slightly. Dana counters with a level gaze. “We have a couple of questions, if you’re free.”

  “You’re the girlfriends.” Dana’s voice is flat, unfriendly.

  “Yes.”

  Dana’s eyebrows furrow, and then her face hardens. She purses her lips, takes a step back, and starts to swing the door shut. I manage to wedge my wrist through the partitions in the cold grate, catching the door before it latches. I hope fervently that the grate hasn’t cut my skin; I can’t tell just yet, but blood poisoning is something I’d like to leave Asia without experiencing.

  “Please talk to us,” I plead, raising my voice so Dana can hear it.

  “I’m busy,” she says, the pitch of her own voice sinking low in its aggression, the only betrayal of her origins as a boy. “I’m getting ready. And I hardly talk to Charlie anymore.”

  “Did you know he died?” I burst out. I can’t help myself. Lena looks at me and glares. There’s a long silence. Then Dana eases the door open just a crack.

  “Oh, honey, Charlie’s not dead,” she tells us. “He’s just being a grade-A asshole. If I didn’t hate our parents so much I’d probably have it in my heart to tell them. I just saw Charlie last week.” Though she’s friendlier, she is still guarded.

  “He’s not dead.” Lena’s voice is flat but registers no surprise. I’m so shocked that I can’t say anything at all.

  “No,” Dana replies, and then she sighs through the slight opening of the door.

  “We’ve traveled halfway around the world,” I hear myself say through the buzzing in my brain. “Please.” The noise grows louder and I feel like I might pass out. Dana’s face looks like a cauldron of warring emotions. She hesitates for a second longer, then removes a key from her pocket and unfastens the padlock that secures the grate. “Come in,” she says, foisting the grate open. “I don’t know if I have a lot of answers for you—Charlie and I were never exactly BFFs.” She waves us in impatiently; and, as I cross the threshold into her chaotic, filthy home, my nerves shoot adrenaline through my whole body—so much that it’s nearly impossible to keep my balance. It feels like Lena and I are crossing a bigger line than the threshold of Dana’s home, and that this time, we may not be able to turn back.

  22

  Lena

  Charlie’s not dead. Dana’s words ring in my ears, confirming everything I’ve suspected all along—and known without a doubt since our encounter with Anand. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or cram my head into a vise and squeeze. I’ve been right this whole time, but I’m not prepared to be.

  After I found the suicide note, I sat in his parents’ living room and held his mother’s hand while she chain-smoked, her hair wild and untamed, a badge of the girl she probably once was. I didn’t think Charlie’s mother could fall apart any more than she already had, and then she did. But even in her disintegrated state, she told me: “Lena, honey, we have to let him go. We’ll lose ourselves too, otherwise.” I think she was saying it for my benefit, because the way she was clutching a photo of him as a toddler, cradled in her arms and smiling shyly into the camera—it seemed to me that she wasn’t letting him go.

  No parents should lose their child.

  Nobody—my age, anyway—should lose her boyfriend.

  Nobody should lose her brother, nobody should lose herself. When I found the letter I thought, Charlie lost himself. But I still didn’t believe he was dead. And I didn’t think, I lost myself when I met him. I lost myself a long time ago, long before losing Charlie, maybe the second he walked into my life. I feel selfish, thinking it now. But it’s there and it’s true.

  When he disappeared, I felt like my grief
was bottomless—because even if he was still alive, he’d chosen to leave me behind. And my own mother said, “Someday, you’ll fall in love again.” I didn’t want to. I only wanted Charlie. I felt like someone had ripped my heart out, ended things before I’d given it the okay or even had a chance to adjust to the idea. Then I did adjust, somehow. After the grief there was the numbness, which stretched all the way up to the memorial service. During that phase, I realized I didn’t have anyone except Charlie. Charlie swooped into my life at the expense of all my other friends, who slowly faded into the background, where they remained, semi-forgotten, just people to say hi to at parties and follow on Instagram. After Charlie came into my life, everything was always all about Charlie. When he disappeared, as easily as the retreating of the tide, my old friends didn’t rush in to replace him. There was just barren, empty numbness. Then, after meeting Aubrey, there was the fresh pain of what he did. And the anger that’s consumed me ever since. And the relief.

  No one wants to talk about the relief.

  I don’t like to think about the pale, soothing calm that has swept over me in the more recent days following his “death.” I don’t want to know what it makes me. But I can tell Aubrey feels it too. Charlie may have been a liar and a cheat, but he didn’t deserve to die. And yet . . . I’ve been feeling relieved. There’s no other word for it. I’ve felt lighter. Charlie is missing from my life, but so are the worries, the letdowns, the disappointments.

  And now I don’t know what to feel. Or what I’m supposed to feel, now that I know I was right and he’s really out there. There’s no instruction manual for this: What to Do When Your Boyfriend Supposedly Commits Suicide and You Know Your Boyfriend Cheated and You Find Out Your Boyfriend Is Alive After All and for Fuck’s Sake, You Wasted Three Very Important Years on Him.