A Need So Beautiful (2 page)

“Superfast.”

She exhales. “Fine. But first tell me, will I look hot tonight at the benefactors’ dinner?”

“All signs point to yes.”

“Thank you.” She grabs the handle of the cathedral door. “You know this is completely weird, right? I have no idea why I enable your morbid gifts.”

My shoulders tense. I feel exactly that way. Weird. Out of control.

“I don’t know why you do either.” I put my hand over hers and help pull open the door.

The sweet, smoky smell of incense immediately fills my nose and I close my eyes, taking it in. When I open them, I see the light filtering in from the huge stained-glass windows, casting colors on the mahogany coffin as it sits, lonely, in front of the altar. Father Peter is standing there, grasping the golden chain where the incense holder dangles, chanting and swinging the censer around the coffin where Stanley is surely resting.

I take Sarah by the elbow and move forward down the red carpeted aisle.

“This is humiliating,” she whispers. “I want to sit in the back.”

I pause, but find myself unable to turn away. I have to get closer to the altar, closer to the dead guy, Stanley Morris, and I let Sarah go.

Gaze focused on my black thrift-store Mary Janes, I step quietly toward the coffin. My mouth is dry, my skin feels hot all over—as if I’m sunburned.

A few people shift, creaking the wooden pews as I walk past, and I’m sure they’re wondering who I am, and if I knew Stanley. I didn’t. But I doubt I’m here for him—he’s a bit beyond any help I could give him.

Suddenly, three rows from the front, a familiar rush of air moves through me. It doesn’t ruffle my hair and I can’t feel it on my face, but it’s inside my body. I stop. I move to the pew on my left and look at the woman sitting there, her pregnant belly protruding. She presses her thin lips into a smile and scoots over, making room for me.

I nod thanks and sit. I look to where Stanley lies, his coffin closed. I wonder what he was like and what he would think if he could see all the people here now. It’s sweet, really—how they all remember him and have come to honor his life. It’s almost like he’s not really gone. At least not to them.

“How did you know him?” the young blond mother asks me.

I look sideways at her, feeling dreamsick, nauseated. “I didn’t, unfortunately. You?”

She glances at the casket, and then back at me. “Grandfather,” she whispers. Her sadness fills me and I miss him too, as if I
am
her. I miss the time we spent at his cabin in Lake Tahoe, and the time he took me fishing in a canoe on the Colorado River. I miss the spicy smell of his pipe as he rocked on the back porch of the house he’d built when I was a little girl.

I cover my face with my hands, startled and comforted by how cold my fingers are. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.

“Are you okay?” the woman asks, touching my arm.

I turn to meet her red-rimmed green eyes. Her smooth, pale skin is graying slightly and I know why.

“When are you due?” I ask, her face getting hazy as light blots out the corners of my vision completely.

“Three weeks.”

I squint, the radiance too bright. I’m trying to act normal so I don’t scare her, but I know if I don’t say it the Need won’t go away. “Maureen,” I whisper, unable to keep the words inside anymore. “The baby’s not well. You need to see the doctor. You need to see him now.”

Her face twists in both terror and anger, but I can tell that she knows; that maybe she’s known for a while that something is wrong. She shakes her head at me, her voice rising slightly.

“What? How did you . . . who are you?” Her lips begin to tremble and I can see the familiar glazed look in her eyes. The same look they all get when the knowledge hits them.

I smile softly, the tension in my body fading, releasing me. She’ll go, right now; she’ll leave and go to the doctor. There’s something wrong with her baby. And because I was here, she’ll be okay. It makes me feel good.

“I’m sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I didn’t mean to bother you.” My body has returned to normal and I know I can walk away. There is no tug to be in this church anymore. I’m free.

I stand up and step out into the aisle. The pew creaks again and I can feel everyone watching me, probably confused and curious.

“Stanley was a good guy,” I say quietly, motioning toward the coffin. I almost wince at my own words, but I don’t know what else to say.

I’m halfway down the aisle, moving toward Sarah, who looks horrified, when I hear the padding of feet behind me.

“Excuse me,” Maureen says, rushing past, not turning to me. She is out the door and into the sunlight by the time I reach Sarah. When I do, she shakes her head.

“‘Stanley was a good guy’?” Sarah repeats, her right eyebrow raised. “Were you
trying
to look insane and unbalanced?”

I laugh and loop my arm through hers, my tense muscles all relaxed, leaving me almost euphoric. I flinch at a sudden burn on my shoulder, but it fades almost instantly.

“Let’s go grab something to eat,” I say, not looking back. “I’m starving.”

Chapter 2

S
arah dips her fry in my ketchup—why? Not because I have the last ketchup packet on earth, but because she says the smell makes her gag. She can enjoy it only from a distance. And apparently two and a half feet across the table is enough for her.

I inhale the cheeseburger (no onions) that I ordered and gulp my diet soda. After a Need I find myself completely ravenous. I’m staring down at my plate, still thinking about the funeral, when Sarah says my name.

“What?” I answer, looking up at her.

“I asked if you had to go into the clinic tonight. God, I swear, you don’t listen to a thing I say!”

It isn’t true, but I can understand why she thinks that, especially now. Our normally Sarah-centric friendship has been competing with my increasing Needs. When I disappear on nights we have movie plans or show up late for our shopping trips, Sarah thinks I’m blowing her off. But I can’t tell her how often the Need hits, because if I did, she might rethink her clairvoyance theory. And I don’t have a better one to offer.

“Of course I listen to you,” I murmur, sipping from my drink.

“Then what did I say?”

I smile. “That you’re the hottest thing to ever walk the halls of St. Vincent’s and everyone wants you?”

“Close enough. Now, do you have to volunteer at the clinic tonight or not?”

“I was supposed to, but I asked for it off. Let me check.” I take out my phone and dial up the office, waiting through the easy listening instrumental until the receptionist answers.

“Burnside Clinic,” Rhonda says.

“It’s Charlotte.” I dip my fry in the ketchup. “Is Monroe around?” I eat while I wait for Monroe—Dr. Swift—to get on the phone.

“Tell Monroe I miss him.” Sarah puckers her lips and makes a loud kissing noise. She likes to visit when I’m volunteering at the clinic, mainly to get a look at my boss.

Monroe Swift is barely over forty with slightly graying blond hair and a British accent. The Portland homeless community regards him as a saint. In fact, he’s probably performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen right at this very moment. I personally find him brash and full of himself. Then again, he’s been friends with my family so long it’s like we’re related.

“Yes, Charlotte?” Monroe’s smart British accent rings through the phone. “What can we do for you?”

“Just checking to see how it’s going tonight,” I hint, hoping that if the waiting room is remotely calm, I might not have to go in.

I’ve been volunteering at the free clinic a couple nights a week for the past few years. I mostly enjoy it—filing papers, making copies—and I know it’ll look good on a college application. At least that’s what Monroe tells me. But now I just want more time for myself. Scratch that, more time for Harlin. There’s never enough time for Harlin.

But instead of giving me time off, Monroe added shifts to my schedule. Instead of three nights a week, it’s five. I’ve complained a few times but they pull the whole it’s-for-a-good-cause card. Not. Fair.

More than anything, I just really hate working until ten. A free clinic in the middle of Portland doesn’t exactly attract the best crowd when it’s dark out. And yet, I can’t imagine Monroe working anywhere else. He likes to play savior whenever possible.

I sigh. “Can I have today off or not? I asked you yesterday.”

Monroe’s silent for an excruciatingly long time. “I haven’t had to perform CPR on the sidewalk out front, so it seems to be a slow night. Why, do you have plans?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, then. Don’t let the sick and incapacitated of Portland stop you. Run. Frolic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Why, thank you. To make it up to me you can come in tomorrow. Six sound good?”

“I knew there was a catch.”

“Always is, sweetheart.”

When I hang up, Sarah widens her brown eyes at me before popping a fry into her mouth. “Time off for good behavior? Monroe is feeling generous tonight.”

“I have to go in tomorrow instead.”

“He’s a bastard.” She pauses in her chewing. “So . . . I heard you and your boy toy whispering about sneaking around. Planning a sleepover, Charlotte?” She grins deviously. “And how will Mercy feel about this plan?”

Mercy Hernandez—my adoptive mother—splits her time between volunteering at a woman’s shelter, working nights as an ER nurse, and raising foster kids as her own. Then again, with a name like Mercy, what else would she do?

“She’s working at the hospital tonight.” I smile, picking up my soda to bite on the straw before sipping. “And she doesn’t get back until after school starts in the morning. And since I’m not going to the clinic tonight—”

“You’re going to get naked. Yeah, I got it, Charlotte. Don’t need the mental picture.”

I nearly choke on my Diet Coke. Sarah has a habit of knocking everything down to the lowest common denominator, which to her usually involves getting naked.

“Will you drop me off at Harlin’s place when we’re done shopping?” I ask.

“Sure, but I have to go to Plato’s. I need an outfit for this stupid benefactors’ dinner out in Hillsboro. Do you think—”

“Yes, you’ll look hot,” I answer before she can finish asking.

Sarah’s mother forces her to attend countless benefit concerts and dinners, all in the name of charity. They’re all worthy causes; I just don’t get the having to entertain people for them to give money. Why can’t they just . . . give?

“Are you thinking self-righteous thoughts right now, Charlotte?” Sarah asks, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Not all saints are created equal, you know. Mercy does her thing physically, and my mother does hers socially.”

It is a valid argument. Sarah’s dragged me to a couple of events before, but they’re like death to me. Stuffy people. Stuffy room. Sometimes I feel like her mother is watching me, as if being poor is contagious. It’s like I’m a stray that Sarah brought home. I wonder if she’s hoping someone else will adopt me soon.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text message. Harlin.

Still with dead people?

I laugh and run my thumbs over the keys.
Worse. I’m sharing ketchup at Frankie’s.

“That Harlin?” Sarah asks, wiping her hands on a napkin and then tossing it onto the table. “Tell him I said to take a cold shower. You’ll be there later.”

“Nice.” Instead I type,
Sarah says hi.

After a second Harlin’s text pops up and I press my lips together and look across at Sarah. “Um, he says hi back.”

“Yeah, right.” Sarah starts piling the dirty plates on the tray and reaches over to take my soda out of my hand, shaking the ice around—confirming it’s empty. She drops it on top of the tray and walks over to dump it all in the trash.

I watch after her when another text comes up.

I want you here now.

I cradle the phone in my hand, wishing I could kiss the screen and he’d feel it. It’s tough with Harlin. I think I’d spend every second of every day with him if I could. He’s like a want I can’t describe. And I don’t just mean physically. When I’m not with him, I feel almost empty. Lost. I can barely remember what it was like before him.

When Harlin transferred to St. Vincent’s two years ago with scruffy hair and a leather jacket, it was like I’d been half-asleep for years and then suddenly woke up. Everything came into focus when I was with him. Sure, I had a few friends—I had Sarah. But something about Harlin—the way he looked at me. It was like I could suddenly breathe. He made me feel at peace.

Soon. I love you
, I send back, and click my phone shut. I pause for a second, feeling the warmth fade from me, leaving me just a little bit lonely. After a long sigh I stand up and look around for Sarah. She’s at the glass doors, her arm resting on the metal bar, staring at me.

For as long as I’ve known her, Sarah’s been searching for
the guy
, the one who’ll be good to her. Of course he also has to be hot, rich, funny, sensitive, masculine—but not macho—and want to move out of state after she graduates. With those requirements she’s been looking for a while. Even if it’s gotten her a not entirely deserved reputation.

Sarah knows how I feel about Harlin. Even if we seem a little intense at times, she knows he’s my
guy
, so she doesn’t complain. We’re too drama-free and a little boring for her taste, but I’m pretty sure Sarah approves. She’s a romantic like that.

“Red or black?” Sarah asks, a dress in each hand as she poses in front of the mirror. Of the eight that she’s tried on, she’s narrowed it down to these two dresses. She holds the black one up to her, tilting her head.

We’re in Plato’s, a hipster secondhand store that has the best selection of used clothing in Portland. Even though Sarah could afford to shop anywhere, she prefers this place. She says the clothes have more personality because people have lived in them. Squinting, she switches to the red dress.

I shrug. “Red is sexier, but the black makes you look smarter.”

“Red it is.” Sarah tosses the black dress across the patterned lounge chair and folds the red one over her arm, turning toward the front of the store. “I have some fabulous Jimmy Choos at home to match this.” She pauses to look me over. “Do you want to shop for something? I have my mom’s charge card.”