The Last Time I Saw Her

by Alexandra Harrington

  The cleaning made her feel a lot better. Sophie always told her that clutter promoted stress, and she was certainly clutter-free for the time being. Not exactly stress-free, but perhaps on the right track.

  Charlotte turned her attention to the bed beneath her. The sheets had felt old and musty last night, because they hadn’t been slept in for ages. With a fresh start came fresh linens, she supposed. She pulled herself to her feet and wandered back out to the hallway. Standing in the small space at the end of the hall, she reached up on her tip-toes and pulled down on the hatch. The wooden ladder unfolded before her, and she climbed the stairs to the attic.

  The heat was thick and heavy at the top of the house, and the slanted ceiling was so low she had to stoop to move around. She peered over a couple old cardboard boxes. She and Sean had gone on a major cleaning spree after their dad died, and moved a ton of stuff into the attic. She’d told herself to label her own stuff that she packed away so she could find it later. If there was ever a time Charlotte wished she could go back and kick herself in the teeth for being so goddamn lazy, it was now.

  She nudged one of the nearest boxes with her foot. Too heavy to be sheets. She knelt down and tore open the one beside it. Charlotte dug her hand through a box of china wrapped in old newspaper. Really, they should sell this stuff. Not like they’d be having a formal dinner party any time soon. She looked up and a dark object a couple feet farther back caught her eye.

  A large, flat book. A photo album. Charlotte pulled it to her and took a seat on the dusty attic floor. On the inside cover, someone had written—in handwriting eerily similar to her own—the name Eliza Montgomery. Charlotte felt a weird sort of nostalgia. She didn’t remember her.

  Her dad used to call her mom Lizzie; apparently everyone had. Charlotte never got the chance to call her much of anything; she was gone before Charlotte had really started forming solid memories. Charlotte turned the plastic-lined pages slowly. They were filled with old photos of her mom in high school, concert tickets, and scraps of handwritten notes. Her dad was in a few of the photos. They had been high school sweethearts. They never married. Her dad hadn’t really talked about her. Sean, especially not. There was a piece of her that didn’t envy her brother, who had gotten to know and love their mom before she left. He missed her more.

  Her mom had left when Charlotte was about three years old. A classic case of River John Syndrome. Charlotte thought it might have been better, romantic even, if her mom had fallen in love with someone else and left to be with them—at least there would have been a reason. Sean told Charlotte later that their mom just got sick of living in a town that was smaller than most high schools and simply took off one day. Sean had barely started school when it happened—came home one day and she was gone. She’d sent birthday cards until Charlotte turned nine, and that was the last contact she’d ever had with her. Sean had a picture of a three-year-old version of himself holding hands with a baby Charlotte, their mom laughing in the background because Charlotte had a grumpy baby face. It was the only picture Charlotte knew of with the three of them.

  Charlotte closed the album with a loud thud, columns of dust swirling at the edges. A faded piece of newspaper peeked out of the top. Pulling it free of the pages, she saw it was an obituary for an Owen Montgomery, whom Charlotte guessed to be Eliza Montgomery’s father—her grandfather.

  Owen Montgomery had apparently been a loving husband and father, worked as an accountant, lived in Halifax for a while, and then moved to River John. He died of heart problems at age fifty-four. The date put her mom at not much older than Charlotte when her own father had died. It seemed like a pretty basic, tragic-yet-ordinary obituary. Charlotte wondered for half a second if her own eventual write-up would be the same twenty lines about how she lived and died in the same tiny town. To have your whole life summed up like that was kind of an unfair final evaluation.

  Charlotte scanned the last line: Survived by his wife, Catherine, and only child, Eliza. Charlotte frowned. She didn’t know very much about her mom, but she knew she had a sister. Heather. She was the one who had paid the tuition for Charlotte’s boarding school last year. So the obituary was wrong about the number of kids he had.

  Or…what?

  If the missing-from-this-obituary Aunt Heather wasn’t real, who had paid the thousands of dollars to enroll her at boarding school? Their dad’s parents had passed away before Charlotte was born, and she didn’t know her mother’s family. There wasn’t much in the way of extended family. That left Sean. How would he have come up with the money? Their dad had left them with some, but not nearly enough to cover school. She doubted there was some secret family bank account. Not when they’d spent the months after he died worrying how they would pay the bills and cover funeral costs.

  Maybe “aunt” was being used lightly. Maybe Aunt Heather was more of a friend of their mom’s who had stepped in to save the day. Maybe Sean had asked her. But the more Charlotte thought about it, the more unlikely it sounded. An essentially random person had footed a twenty-thousand-dollar bill to send her to boarding school at the last minute? Even if Sean had explained the whole situation to this theoretical Heather, it still seemed like too large a favour.

  Charlotte had met very few people who she only connected to her mom. Most of the people in town knew her dad because he had grown up here—her mom hadn’t moved to River John until high school. Charlotte didn’t think she’d be able to convince the person who loved her most in the entire world to fork over twenty grand, let alone someone she had never met. Let alone someone who might not even exist.

  Sean and Charlotte never heard from their mom, not even after their dad had died. They had enough money to stay afloat for a while, but Sean had had to give up college. He’d made it into the program he’d wanted at Saint Mary’s University in Halifax. He originally planned on deferring a year after high school, to work and save money so he could eventually afford to live on campus. But their dad died just before Sean’s high school graduation, and then Sean didn’t have much of a choice. He had a little sister who couldn’t live by herself while he went off to university. She still felt guilty. Sean started taking full-time hours at Home Depot,

  Charlotte became the town’s most frequent babysitter, and together they managed to scrape up enough money at the end of every month to pay the bills.

  Sitting back on her heels, Charlotte pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, reading the names she hadn’t looked at in a year. When she found who she was looking for, she took a deep breath before hitting Call. It rang several times before he answered.

  “That didn’t take long.” She could hear Max smiling on his end. It was a stretch, maybe, but Max might be able to help her. Simon Hale, Max’s father, ran the only bank in River John. Simon was the one who gave Sophie the job at the bank last summer—after Max asked him, after Sophie had begged Max for a month. Maybe with some convincing, Max could get her in to see Sean’s bank account.

  “Don’t start,” Charlotte snapped, tucking the photo album with the obituary under her arm and clambering toward the exit. “I need your help.”

  Charlotte pushed the ladder back into place and shut the attic hatch.

  Sean was in his bedroom, shuffling around boxes and god knows what else under his bed, just like she had been doing earlier.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Uh.” Sean pulled his head out from the clearance. You couldn’t pay her to even look under there. “Nothing. Just reorganizing. What can I say, you’ve inspired me. Who were you just talking to?”

  Certainly not anyone who would help her figure out where Sean had found twenty thousand dollars. “Max.”

  “Hale?”

  “No, from Fury Road.”

  “Max Hale?”

  “Am I speaking English?”

  “What are you talking to Max Hale for?” Sean asked.

  “
Nothing,” she said, “it’s not your business.” She narrowed her eyes. “What do you care?” Charlotte didn’t understand his hostility. She’d been friends with Max since they were young. Sean had too, really. That was just what happened in a small town.

  Sean sat back on his heels with a sigh. “Whatever. What are we doing for lunch?”

  Charlotte traced a pattern on the door frame. “Based on what’s in the cupboard, probably Scooby-Doo gummies.”

  Sean angled his head like he wasn’t all that opposed to the idea.

  “If you leave me twenty bucks I can get food later,” she said. “Hang in there until dinner.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  She shifted her weight away from the door frame. “Baking muffins.”

  “For me?”

  “No.” Charlotte turned to leave him, but the nagging from the photo album under her arm kept her there. “Do you ever think about mom?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  Sean, who was pulling himself to his feet, staggered slightly. “What?”

  She tilted the album toward him a bit while still holding onto it protectively. She watched his eyes settle on the album for the first time. “Do you miss her?”

  “I, uh.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really think about her.”

  Charlotte hadn’t expected his bluntness. “Oh.”

  “Do you?” Sean returned without looking at her, like he felt it was his brotherly duty to ask.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t really know her. Did you ever know any of her family?” Charlotte pressed the words out carefully.

  “No,” Sean said, his gaze focused back under his bed.

  Charlotte took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to slip back to her room. So much for philanthropic Aunt Heather.

  seven

  She woke up the next morning to a text from Max: Come over. Either he was propositioning her, or he had found what she wanted.

  The closest thing she could find to a basket for her muffins was a popcorn bowl from the movie theatre that had characters from Shrek 2 on it. Martha Stewart would be so proud. Hopefully Max wouldn’t notice that the muffins inside were a day old.

  Max’s house was large, sprawling, and flat. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows lined the walls. Charlotte remembered driving the getaway car last year when Sophie egged those very windows after he had dumped her four days before the winter formal. They reconciled a few days later, the morning of the dance.

  Charlotte had met Max in grade primary. Sophie’s family moved to River John in the third grade, and Sophie made them a trio. As she and Sophie grew closer, Max branched off toward the other guys at school, like Leo. In what Charlotte saw as a diplomatic arranged marriage of two friend groups, Sophie and Max started dating around Christmas of grade eleven. They broke up for a while in the spring, but got back together in time for the end of school.

  She knocked a few times on the glass sliding door until Max appeared on the other side. He pulled the door open and she pushed the ogre-covered bucket into his hands.

  Max looked down at it for several seconds, before his eyes flicked to hers. Smirking, he said: “Is this…a muffin basket?”

  “It was the best I could come up with on short notice. They’re oatmeal. I didn’t have any chocolate chips.”

  Max laughed and stepped aside, motioning for her to come in. “Mental note to do you favours more often.”

  Max’s house had the same cottage-type layout as most of the houses in River John. His was similar to hers, only with nicer furniture that actually matched. Doors lined the walls of the main room and led off to a couple bedrooms, bathroom, and an office. The kitchen was off to the side.

  “So, what did you find out?” she asked as Max peeled the plastic wrap off the top of the bucket and inspected the inside carefully.

  “Oh, right. It’s in my room, one sec.”

  He disappeared into a room at the back corner of the house, taking the muffins with him.

  Charlotte looked around. She hadn’t been here in ages. On the coffee table was a photo of Max’s stepmother, Deirdre. Max’s mom and dad had gotten divorced back when Max and Charlotte were in junior high. His mom lived in Halifax now, and Max visited semi-frequently. Charlotte wandered over to look at the wall above an armoire, decorated with photos from town events and local newspaper clippings about Simon’s various business endeavours.

  Simon Hale looked like he had taken a wrong turn two hours back and decided to stay for the hell of it. With the exception of maybe some sentimental entrepreneurs and lottery winners who had retired here, Simon was arguably the richest man in town. He was successful, handsome, well groomed. He was young, too. Charlotte guessed him to be early forties. She knew Max and his father were not very close.

  “Ta-da.” Max re-emerged holding a file folder. He was still carrying the bucket of muffins. “I’m amazing, don’t worry. Blood, sweat, and, like, four tears. Sean’s transaction records, courtesy of my father. Not that he, uh, knows about it. So don’t bring it up.” Together, they walked to the dining room. “We’re lucky he can access the bank server from this computer here and that I know his password is the same for everything. It’s I Love My Son 123.”

  Charlotte grinned. “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely as he laid the folder on the dining room table. “I owe you.”

  Max shrugged and popped a bite of muffin in his mouth. “It gave me something to do. Very thrilling,” he said, his words distorted by the muffin chunk. “Oops. Sorry.” He swallowed. “It’s been a while since I had this much fun.”

  “Yeah,” Charlotte said, reaching for the folder. “It hasn’t exactly been a fun year.”

  She could feel Max’s eyes on her as she flipped through the papers.

  “Well,” he said, “you missed most of the fun when you were gallivanting across the province.”

  Offhanded, like always, but Charlotte caught his meaning. What would you know about it, Charlotte? You weren’t here.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” she said coolly, pivoting between him and the door, her fight or flight response warning her to leave.

  “I didn’t mean it like—”

  “No, you’re right. I wasn’t here. I can’t…change that.” That was a weak answer and she knew it, but she didn’t feel like explaining herself to Max. What she’d done was between her and Sophie.

  “I don’t know if that’s how apologies work,” Max observed. Sophie may have been Charlotte’s best friend but Max knew her too. Could see right through her.

  “What’s it to you?” she hissed. “You didn’t care about me before I left. I didn’t do anything to you.”

  So much for flight.

  Max looked at her like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t say you did anything to me. I watched Sophie go through hell without her best friend. My girlfriend. The worst year of her life. Our lives.”

  Charlotte knew it was hard to excuse what she did, especially when it seemed that there was no reason. She could scream the truth at him, fling it right back in his face, and maybe he’d understand. He might even pity her. But was it worth it? Probably not. She didn’t need pity, anyway.

  “This,” Charlotte said slowly, “is about me and Sophie. Not you. You don’t get to take what I broke and make it about you. And Sophie doesn’t need you to defend her.”

  “I know that. Sophie and I may have sometimes been shitty to each other, but we protected each other. We always did. We still do.”

  Charlotte pressed her fingers to her temple like she had a headache. “Why now, then?” She looked him in the eye. “Why not have this fight yesterday? You were fine with me twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Because what’s your plan, Charlie?” Max threw his hands out, gesturing
at nothing. “You’re more preoccupied with what drugs your brother might be doing and what he may or may not have in his bank account than Sophie. I thought you would at least be making an effort, I thought….” He sighed. “You came back here expecting everything to go back to how it was.”

  Charlotte grimaced. “I’ve been back for two days, Max. I’m giving Sophie space. Time.”

  “Right. I’m sure she didn’t get enough of that while you were gone,” he shot back. “There’s a difference between remorse and guilt, Charlotte.” Max’s cheeks were flushed, and Charlotte wondered how long he’d wanted to say of all this to her. He’d had the year to think about it. She shook her head and turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm and spun her back around.

  “Sophie wrote to you, you know. Dozens of letters.”

  “Let go of me.”

  Max released her arm. “And she never sent them. Do you know how much she cried over you?”

  Charlotte froze. She didn’t like thinking about the interim days between when Sophie found out Charlotte had left and when she realized she wasn’t coming back. If it had been the other way around, Charlotte wouldn’t have believed it. She would have waited for Sophie to reappear, saying it had all been a joke.

  Charlotte stepped closer to him. “Don’t act like my being there would have magically made everything better—”

  “Well it damn sure would have helped! Sophie isn’t the only person you left behind, Charlotte!” Max yelled. They were suddenly so close that Charlotte found herself backed against the sliding glass door. “I had a paralyzed girlfriend who refused to speak to me, and I couldn’t do anything to help. You weren’t there; you didn’t see what I did. You don’t spend every single second terrified that the accident could have gone differently. You didn’t have to—you were gone. All she wanted was you, and I was the consolation prize and I hate that you left us here like we were nothing.”