Strange but True (19 page)

Charlene has had far too much of that already.

Sitting there, however, she can't help but try to piece together what she knows of her son's life with the information she just read on the computer. Of the many things Charlene came across, the two details she latched on to above all others were the mention of that doctor from Penn and the notion that a student could donate his sperm on a college campus. She attempts to make all sorts of tenuous connections between these pieces of information. In one scenario, she imagines that Ronnie donated sperm for cash when he went to visit Penn after his acceptance. It was just the sort of impulsive thing he might do, and he did need the cash, since Charlene and Richard had taken away his credit card. Perhaps Ronnie told Melissa what he'd done, or maybe she was with him at the time, and after his death she found a way to track it down. In another scenario, that Dr. Casale from Penn who was mentioned in one of the articles happened to be on campus the day Ronnie visited. Or maybe he was at the hospital the night Ronnie died. Perhaps Richard knew him, the way all doctors in this state seem to know one another, and that's the secret he is keeping from her…

In the end, after Charlene is done spinning out all of these far-fetched scenarios, she is no closer to believing the girl than before. And the more she thinks about it, the more she remembers that the way Melissa delivered the news did not make it sound as though this was some sort of medical miracle at all, but rather a miracle from above.

I made the decision to stay away from doctors, because I know they won't understand either. That's why I was hoping Mr. Chase—

Again, Charlene wonders why she kept asking to see Richard. Yes, it could have simply been because he was the only doctor she was willing to trust. But something tells Charlene there is more to it than that. For the first time, she regrets having yelled so much last night and storming off instead of staying in the car with Philip to get the details.

Since she is not going to find any real answers sitting here, she stands and grabs her cloak and purse. When she steps out of the Internet room, Edward looks up from his thick book and asks if she found what she needed.

“Sort of,” she says. Charlene feels on the verge of tears suddenly, though she does her best to fight them back. Her nose is running, and she wishes she had a Kleenex in her purse instead of that bread.

Edward notices her sniffling and pulls a tissue from his desk. Charlene thanks him, then gives a loud goose honk into it, disrupting the tranquil quiet of the library. When he returns to his reading, her eyes linger on his bony shoulders and slim frame a moment longer as she thinks of Philip again, at home reading too.

That's when she gets an idea.

In the very back of the library is a cluster of waist-high shelves where the poetry books used to be kept. Much to Charlene's surprise, when she walks to the section, they are still there. It takes her a few seconds to scan the authors—from Maya Angelou to Elizabeth Bishop to Emily Dickinson—before she spots the author she is looking for: Robert Frost. Charlene pulls the book of his collected works from the shelf, intent on taking it home to Philip in hopes that he'll finally stop reading about that madwoman of suburbia's personal brand of suicide-obsessed rubbish. She decides that the book will serve as a kind of peace offering, that maybe it will help them stop bickering with each other so that he might stay a while longer once he gets better.

But there is one small glitch in her plan: Charlene's library card has long since expired. The last thing she wants is to draw attention to herself by going through all the rigmarole of renewing it, so she comes up with a Plan B. After checking to make sure no one is watching, Charlene tucks the book into the folds of her wool cloak and walks toward the emergency exit over by the Science and Technology shelves. Back when Charlene was head librarian, some of the other librarians liked to step outside and smoke. Since she didn't want them puffing away by the front entrance, Charlene left the alarm off on this door so they could slip out for a cigarette without anyone noticing. The
ALARM WILL SOUND
sign above the push-bar always deterred patrons from going anywhere near it.

Charlene puts one hand on that bar, figuring that if something has changed and the alarm
does
sound, she will have to make a mad dash around the corner of the building to her car. After all, it's not like dopey Adele or that smarty-pants Edward fellow is going to have the energy to get up off their rumps and chase her down. One last time, Charlene looks around to make sure no one is watching. In the distance, she sees Edward slumped in his chair, reading. Just beyond, she sees Adele and that ancient red-haired woman at the front desk, searching through a box of index cards together.

She is about to turn back toward the door when she spots something that makes her stop: there, in a nook between two shelves, are the metal drawers that house the microfiche, along with a lone viewing machine beneath a plastic dust cover. Charlene puts her escape plan on hold and goes to those drawers, scanning the dates on each one until she spots the week of June 18, 1999. Without planning it, she tugs open the drawer and pulls out the canister. A moment later, she yanks the dust cover off the machine. It's not plugged in, so she has to undo the cord in the back and find the nearest outlet. Once it is up and running, Charlene loads the film into the cartridge and takes a seat, keeping that Robert Frost book tucked beneath her wool cloak the entire time. As she cranks the Forward knob and all those headlines whiz by her in a blur of gray and white, Charlene thinks back to what she was doing the night of the accident.

It was the first author event of the summer, and she had managed to book an author whose book had been selected by Oprah. Even though they were guaranteed to draw a crowd, Charlene requested that all the librarians invite as many friends as possible so they would have the biggest turnout ever. She also made a point to warn them against asking what Oprah was like, since she thought the writer must get that question an awful lot. But late in the evening, after the author had finished reading and the floor was opened for questions, Pilia (who brought no friends, probably because she didn't have any, Charlene surmised) raised her hand and asked, “Sowhat'sOprahreallylike?”

Charlene wanted to slug her, but Adele tapped her on the shoulder and said, “There's a phone call for you.”

“Can you take a message?” she said.

“But it's someone from the Radnor Police Department. And she says it's an emergency.”

As those old headlines speed by on the smudged and fingerprinted screen of the viewing machine, Charlene has the vague impression of looking out a car window, only instead of trees and houses whipping past, she glimpses headlines from stories that were big news on the Main Line at the time. “Fare Increase Has Commuters in a Funk”… “Fellman Drops Charges Against Radnor Police Officer” … “Developer to Demolish Farm and Build Home Depot”… And then, finally, Charlene sees the headline she has been looking for: “Radnor H.S. Student Dies in Limo Accident.” Beneath those words is a black-and-white photo of the limousine crushed into a tree. All these years had gone by and never once has Charlene allowed herself to look at this article. But for whatever reason—maybe it is being back in this place where she first got the news of what happened that horrible night—Charlene takes a breath and reads:

Four students from Radnor High School were being driven home in a limousine from the prom at Fairbanks Inn on Friday, June 18, when the driver of the vehicle, Albert Chang, 38, of Philadelphia, lost control and struck a tree on Blatts Farm Hill. The driver and all four passengers were taken by ambulance to Bryn Mawr Hospital. Both Mr. Chang and Ronald Charles Chase, 18, were pronounced dead on arrival. The three remaining passengers, Stacy Moody, 17, Melissa Moody, 17, and Charles Gimble, 18, suffered a multitude of injuries but remain in stable condition at the hospital. A preliminary blood test on Mr. Chang's body showed high levels of blood alcohol. Complete results will be released from the coroner's office by midweek. Principal Randolph Hulp of Radnor High School said, “We deeply mourn the loss of Ronnie Chase. He was truly one of the finest students ever to pass through these halls. He touched our lives in ways none of us will soon forget.” Ronald is survived by two parents, Dr. Richard and Charlene Chase of Turnber Lane, and a brother, Philip, 22. Services will be held at the Miner Funeral Home on South Wayne Avenue, Tuesday, June 22, 4–7 and Wednesday, June 23, 4–7. Burial Services: Thursday, June 24, 1
P.M.
at Meadow Rest Cemetery, 22 Feldoma Road, following a noon mass at St. Martin's Episcopal Church on Glen Mary Road.

When Charlene is finished reading, the plain facts of the article—of her life—have her breathing fast and hard. She rewinds the tape so she can put it back in the canister, then back in the drawer, then get the hell out of here. Returning to this library had been a mistake, she realizes. It brought her no closer to believing what Melissa said was true; all it had done was churn up too many bad memories. And now she wants out. But the damn microfiche gets caught in the machine. Charlene cranks the knob to the Stop position. Her fingers are shaking when she reaches in to fix it, but the film won't go where it is supposed to go. Finally, in a fit of frustration, she rips the tape from the reel with such force that it flings out around her, then comes to rest on her shoulders. Charlene leaves it there, picks up the Robert Frost book, which dropped to the floor during the commotion, then marches right through the emergency exit without bothering to hide it in her cloak.

Outside, in the cold winter air, she realizes she is crying because the tears feel hot against her face. She opens her purse and takes out a piece of bread to dab her cheeks as she walks toward her car.

“Charlene?”

The alarm did not sound but someone just called her name. Without even turning around, she knows who that someone is. She would know that voice anywhere. Charlene does her best to stop crying, then turns to see Pilia leaning against the brick wall of the building, wearing an unzipped, baby blue ski parka and expensive-looking black pants, smoking a cigarette. Charlene studies her face and sees that somehow the woman has managed to defy aging. She still has smooth, uncreased skin, those two dramatic blond curls rising up from the top of her forehead, long thin legs. Just about everything at the library has changed except Pilia.

The woman probably bathes in formaldehyde every night, Charlene thinks, so I shouldn't be surprised. “Hello,” she says.

“IthoughtthatwasyouintheInternetroom.”

“It's me, all right.” Charlene stares down at the piece of bread in her hand, which is the slightest bit damp from her tears. She waits for Pilia to ask why she is using the emergency exit, why she is helping herself to a volume of poetry, why she is wearing a strip of microfiche around her neck like a boa, and why she is holding that piece of bread.

All she says is, “It'sbeenhowlong? Sixyears? SinceI'veseenyou.”

“Five,” Charlene corrects her, neglecting to add the
Since you stole my job
part.

“Howhaveyoubeen?”

“Just dandy,” Charlene tells her. “Every day is another blessing. Life just gets better and better. How about you?”

Pilia takes a drag of her cigarette. “OkayIguess.”

It's then, as Charlene watches her blow smoke from her nose, that she realizes there
is
something different about Pilia. It takes her a moment to pinpoint exactly what that something is, but once she does, Charlene drops the bread to the pavement and finds herself stepping forward. Her hand, seemingly on its own, reaches out and lifts away the front of Pilia's baby-blue parka to get a glimpse beneath. Oddly, Pilia remains unfazed by this. She stays perfectly still, staring down at her chest, as though she expected Charlene to look there all along. When she confirms her suspicions, Charlene says, “My God, Pilia. What happened?”

Pilia shrugs. She stubs her cigarette against the brick wall. “Breastcancer. Ihadtohave. Adoublemastectomy.”

Charlene lets go of Pilia's jacket and puts her hand to her open mouth. Any sense of schadenfreude she might have imagined feeling at Pilia's misfortune does not come to her. Instead, she finds herself free-falling into a bottomless feeling of guilt for all the time she spent wishing Pilia ill over the years. “I'm so, so sorry, Pilia.”

“Metoo,” she says, putting half of her unsmoked cigarette back in her small leather purse. “Iwas. Goingtowear. Artificialones. ButthenIjust. Gaveup.”

Charlene doesn't say anything for a long moment, then she asks, “Isn't that dangerous? The cigarette, I mean. What if it sparks something inside?”

Pilia looks at her purse and shakes her head. “Idoitallthetime. IfIknow. Ihaveahalfofone. Inside. Itkeepsmefromsmokingmore. Crazyrationale-butitworks. It'sfunnythetricks. Youcanplayonyourmind.”

“Funny,” Charlene says.

A silence falls in the chilly air between them then, and Charlene's breath clouds before her when she says, “Well, I better go.”

“Niceseeingyou, Charlene,” Pilia says and smiles.

“You too,” she tells her and turns toward her car.

As she walks across the lot, Charlene still feels herself dropping into that bottomless well of guilt. At the same time, there is something else happening inside of her. For the last five years, she has spent so much of her time hating people and wishing terrible things upon them, but after seeing Pilia just now, she doesn't think she can do it anymore. And with this realization comes a strange sense of loss, because she is unsure of what her life will be like without all that hatred churning inside of her day in and day out.

When Charlene reaches her car, she puts her hand into her open purse for the keys and pulls out the remaining slices of bread. Then she opens the door and bends to gather all those discarded crusts on the floor before turning and throwing them on the lawn. After she gets inside and starts the engine, Charlene backs up and catches one last glimpse of Pilia's baby blue parka as she steps inside the library and the emergency exit door closes behind her. She thinks of what Pilia just said about the tricks people play on their minds, and this leads her to thinking of Melissa again, as Charlene shifts into drive and moves forward. She wonders if in the midst of her grief all these years, Melissa had tricked herself too. That thought brings even more guilt to Charlene, because of the way she treated her last night. Even if she can't bring herself to believe the girl just yet, the least she can do is reach out to her and try to help somehow. She decides to start by going to her house and apologizing, giving her a chance to speak.