The Downside of Being Charlie (24 page)

I feel like I should be seeing something that I can't see. Like I'm missing the signs or the connectors. They're floating around right in front of me,
right in front of me
, but they're invisible or maybe they're too close. But pretty soon that last piece is going to click into place, and I'm going to step back and think, I should've known. But by then, it might be too late.

I skip school the next day. Ahmed does too and we hang at my house, watching stupid shows on TV. When Dad gets home, he brings dinner. A couple of veggie subs. Ahmed and I take them up to my room, even though Dad looks a little disappointed that we don't hang out with him.

Ahmed is in the middle of telling me how he makes sure to hog up most of his locker between classes because then when Janie bends over him to get her books, he gets a good view down her shirt.

“Today's view was particularly AMAZING, brother! I mean, sure there was Tina,” he says as he rolls his eyes and dismisses the memory of her, “but these babies . . . wow!” He shakes his head and takes a bite of his sub.

“Right,” I say, still depressed about the whole thing with Charlotte last night.

“Okay, I know you're bummed. But just think of all the chickies out there that you have yet to meet. Come on, she's cute and all, but think about it. College is right around the corner, and you don't want to be tied down in some serious high school relationship. Haven't you watched those movies with college girls in them? They're in a whole different league, you know? No more of this little teasing shit. That's the real thing.” He starts pumping his hips in the air. “Oh, just like that.”

“Dude, I really don't want to watch you air hump right now, or ever,” I tell him.

“All right.” He puts his sub down and throws himself on my bed. “This better?” he yells as he pumps his hips on my bed. He flops around and starts yelling, “Janie, Janie!”

“Shut up, man. And quit doing that on my bed!”

He laughs and sits up. “Laugh, dude, it's not the end of the world.”

“Dude, just stop, all right?” I say because I don't feel like being cheered up and I don't feel like pretending that I'm amused by Ahmed's antics right now. I take
another bite of my sandwich. The girl of my dreams just told me we can never be and still, I have no problem eating. It figures.

“Fine,” he says, and I know he's irritated but I don't feel like apologizing.

The phone rings and my stomach drops as I wonder if maybe Charlotte has had a change of heart. A few minutes later, I hear Dad's footsteps, and he cracks open the door to my room.

“Charlie?” he says.

My God, it's her! Maybe she had time to think about it. Maybe she stayed up all night thinking about how much she really does want to give me another chance.

“I got it, Dad!” I jump up and start to head out of the room.

“Charlie.” Dad is in the way and doesn't move as I try to get past him.

“Watch out, Dad,” I say, hoping she doesn't hang up.

“Charlie, it's not for you.” My stomach drops. It wasn't Charlotte. But the heavy feeling in my stomach stays because even in that millisecond before he speaks, I know whatever's coming has to do with Mom.

“Listen, Charlie,” Dad says. He takes a deep breath. “I . . . have to go get Mom.” His voice cracks.

I don't have the nerve ask him what the hell that means. Ahmed drops the last bit of his sub and scrambles to pick it up. Nobody says anything, and for a minute I think maybe Dad didn't really say it. He must think the same thing because he says it again.

“I have to go get Mom,” he says again but more slowly.

The way he says it scares the shit out of me, like she's in a body bag and she's incapable of coming home herself, or if we don't get her she'll disappear forever and maybe she won't have ever existed in the first place.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Florida.” He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't and turns to leave.

“I'm going,” I say. Both he and Ahmed look at me as I grab a bag and start shoving some clothes in it. He shakes his head, but I just say “I'm going” more firmly. He knows I've made up my mind and even if he doesn't like it, I don't think he's in the mood to put up a fight.

He nods. “I'll make the flight arrangements.”

During the drive to the airport, I finally ask him what I've been wanting to ask him because I can't keep guessing anymore.

“Is she alive?” I mutter. I don't want to know, but I have to know. He doesn't flinch when I ask him; he's not even taken by surprise. He must have thought about it already.

“Yes,” he says, “she's alive.” His voice is flat, and I wonder if she really is.

I have a thousand questions, but I'm not ready for all the answers yet. We say nothing more the rest of the ride. I don't want to think of how Mom is broken; how she's cracked and shattered and now we're on our way to pick up little pieces of her.

It's still dark outside. The snow that fell last night
has turned into a slushy gray mess. Was it just last night that it snowed, that it was pure and white and falling? Was it just last night that Charlotte was in front of her house, twirling in front of me? How we were in our fake little world. I remember her cold kiss on my cheek. And then, how I went home to my house, and upstairs to my little compartment and Dad was in his little compartment. Mom's little compartment down the hall was empty, again. And we didn't care. It's strange, how we seal ourselves in. We can be right next to each other and not hear anything. We just look up and wait for snow, a smile, or a fracture, afraid of screaming for help, afraid of tearing down walls. Except Mom. Mom had been screaming and banging on the walls all this time. But we ignored her.

Dad and I rush to catch our flight and barely make it. I don't notice anyone or anything, and I'm glad the loud hum of the plane's engine almost shuts out the thoughts in my head. And I don't know how we can be landing when we only just left, but we are and there's noise and other people as we get off, but I feel like my ears are stuffed, their voices muffled and far away.

Soon, we're driving a rental car, listening to the fake politeness of the GPS person.

“Charlie,” Dad starts, “the call was from a motel clerk where your Mom has been staying for a while. He said she was in really bad shape and someone needed to come and get her.” He says it so robotically that for a minute I think his words came out of the GPS. I let this sink in for a moment.

“How long has she been there?”

He takes a deep breath and sighs before answering, “Over a month.”

I think of how I saw Dad track down Mom one time and found out she was in Maine by tracking her credit card purchases.

“Did you know?”

I look over at Dad. He keeps his eyes on the road in front of him and doesn't say anything.

“Did you know?” I demand.

He nods.

“After everything, you didn't . . . ?”

“I thought she needed time. I thought she'd be okay. I didn't know what to do. She's always been okay.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“Don't,” he says, “I just . . .” He searches for words, but there are none.

“How bad is she?” I ask him. He's silent, “Dad, how bad?” I demand. I look over and he starts shaking his head. “I don't know,” he manages finally. The uncertainty of the words mixes with the stifling artificial heat of the car and makes it hard to breath.

We arrive at the motel and Dad pretends our headlights didn't just flicker over a prostitute leaning into the window of some rusty old car as we turn into a no-name motel. She looks over at us with lazy eyes, before turning her attention back to the shadow in the car.

Two guys sit outside the entrance of the motel, arguing. They look at Dad, who even in his disheveled clothing, even with his grave face, is notably out of place. They size him up, but he doesn't look their way as we enter the motel office. It smells like mildew. The
guy behind the counter is old, and he squints at us as we approach the desk.

“Hi, uh . . . are you Jim?” Dad asks.

“Uh-huh,” the old man says. “Who's asking?”

“You called me about my wife.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, she's been holed up in that room for a couple weeks now. She's caused a fuss ya know, yelling at people for no reason, screamin'. I tried talkin' to her, but she just yelled and cried and carried on. But, she always ended up going back to her room so . . .” The old man squints at me and back at Dad. “Anyway, caught some good-for-nothin' tryin' to break into her room the other night, so I figures I'd try to track someone down. When she came here, didn't look like she was from here, ya know what I mean?” He looks at Dad and he nods his head. “Besides, her credit card run out, ain't workin' anymore, and I ain't runnin' no shelter here, so you gonna have to take care of this first.” He shoves a bill in Dad's face. “And best to get rollin' outta here soon.” He keeps looking over at me and squinting. I don't think he has teeth, but it's hard to tell through the dirty gray beard covering his face. “Room seven,” he says after Dad pays. He throws a key in Dad's direction and turns back to an old TV where a show is desperately fighting through the static.

We pass the same guys on the way out, and I wonder if it was one of them that tried to break into Mom's room. We walk quickly and I hope to God they don't follow us.

Five seconds later we're in front of a door with a crooked seven on the front. Dad doesn't seem to contemplate what's on the other side like I do. He just
knocks and calls out, “Carmen, it's Doug.” Maybe he does this so she doesn't get startled, maybe he half expects her to open the door with a smile and a kiss. I don't know, but it seems weird and I almost laugh, which makes me think I must be like the biggest freak on the planet. I don't know how you can feel like laughing and screaming at the same time, but you can.

Dad looks at me and I swallow the crazy laughter that threatens to explode out of me. He puts the key in the keyhole, turns the knob, and opens the door.

I'm not sure what I expected. I guess nothing would have surprised me. If Mom had actually opened the door with a smile and a kiss, maybe it would have seemed oddly normal. If she lay broken in a million pieces, scattered over the dingy motel carpet, maybe I would have just started sweeping her up. I don't know. I was ready for anything, which is why when I see that the room is empty, I'm surprised, but not. She's not here. And I'm worried, and I just want to see her. I have to tell her I'm sorry and that I get it, or that I'm starting to get it. But we have flown all the way here, navigated through Satan's fucking garden, and arrived at the front of crooked number seven's door only to find she's not here.

“Where is she?” I whisper.

Dad walks in first. Only the faint light from the bathroom illuminates the dark room. I walk in behind him and the smell of sweat, piss, mold, and old food hits me immediately. Was she really staying here? Is this really where she chose to hide? How could anyone in his or her right mind stay in a place like this?

The place would be disgusting even without the
scattered take-out containers on the bed, floor, and night table, but the addition of it definitely made it worse. The bed has some clothes piled on it that I think might be Mom's but I'm not sure.

“This is it,” Dad says, even though I see him glancing at the number on the door that we left open. “If not, the key wouldn't work.” He runs his hand through his hair. “What the fuck?” he says, shaking his head as he takes the place in. I've never seen him so completely awestruck. I didn't know he was really capable of being shocked, not after all the crap we'd been through with Mom.