Earth to Charlie

by Justin Olson

  “Oh. Am I allowed to talk?”

  “Actually, now that you mention it, no. This is kind of nice. You just have to listen to me.”

  Seth nods and purses his lips shut.

  I smile.

  Not seconds later, Seth says, “Screw it. I’m going to talk.”

  I look over to him. “That didn’t take long.”

  “Funny,” he says dryly. “So we’re driving in your new truck on the day your grandma died.”

  We hit a bump.

  Seth continues, “Have you ever noticed that the things we do after someone’s death—particularly the little things—have such tremendous importance and power? Almost like it’s a statement to the universe saying, ‘I’m still alive. Feel my impact.’ Like, you’ll probably remember everything about this truck ride years in the future.”

  I pull the truck over to the side of the highway, and turn to him, mouth slightly agape.

  “What?” he says.

  “When did you become so philosophical?”

  Seth chuckles. “Let’s just say I have a smart friend who has started to influence me.”

  I smile. I put the truck into gear, and it sputters off down the road, and we continue our drive as we pass the tiny town of Waterloo.

  We both wave, but don’t stop.

  SURVIVOR SOUNDS

  • • • • •

  Geoffrey isn’t on his couch when I walk into his house. I actually have to take a moment to look around and make sure I’m in the right place. It’s been ages since I haven’t seen him on his green love seat.

  “Geoffrey? You here?”

  I hear music coming from the back of the house, and I head in that direction.

  “Geoffrey?”

  I see a large man sitting on a bed with a record player near him. A bunch of records are scattered on the bed and the floor.

  “Charlie!”

  “You’re up!”

  “I am,” he says, and smiles. “I can do some walking again. Never felt so free.”

  I am amazed at Geoffrey’s progress. He doesn’t look much different, but he’s moving. That’s definitely something. “So, what are you doing in here?”

  “Listening to some old music. Did you know I used to be in a band?”

  “Really?”

  I see Tickles lying in the corner of the room, curled up. “Hi, Tickles.” He stands up and wags his tail.

  “Yep. Back in high school and college. I actually was the singer. Some people said I had the voice of a young Dean Martin.”

  “Who?”

  Geoffrey looks at me like I’m the worst person in the world.

  “Sorry to hear about your grandma,” he says.

  “Thanks. The funeral is on Wednesday, if you can make it.”

  Geoffrey nods and says, “I’ll see what I can do.” I’m not sure if he’ll be able to make it, and I feel kind of bad for bringing it up, but I figured it would’ve been rude to not invite him.

  There are so many things about Geoffrey that I don’t know. I ask him to sing for me.

  He laughs and then coughs. “No, no. My pipes aren’t what they used to be. Probably full of dust and cobwebs.”

  “Come on,” I nudge.

  I think he’s considering it. He clears his throat and straightens his back. He begins to sing some song I’ve never heard before, and he sounds great. Deep voiced, very theatrical. He sings for about thirty seconds and then stops.

  I clap. “That was amazing.”

  “It’s something. Now. Can you help me up?”

  “Want me to clean up these records?”

  “Nah. I’ll have Judy do it tomorrow.” We slowly make our way to the living room, but Geoffrey is doing most of the work on his own. I’m just guiding him.

  I get Geoffrey back to the love seat, and he lowers himself with great effort. He exhales deeply when he gets situated. “Whew.” He wipes his brow. “This exercise thing is a bitch.”

  I laugh. “Oh! You know I just bought a new truck?”

  “Is that right? Well, I look forward to the day you take me for a ride.”

  “Me too,” I say. “Me too.” And I know it’ll happen.

  Tickles runs into the room, anxious for his walk.

  THE DAY THE EARTH STANDS STILL

  • • • • •

  Things have largely settled down for me. It’s funny how so many things can change and yet so many things stay the same. I’m in my familiar room in the same darkened house, but I’m staring out the window, and I sense an awkwardness to searching the Great Beyond for life, to something that used to feel so normal. Ever since school started and my grandma died, I haven’t been searching for the UFOs outside my house. I’ve been focused on chasing the UFOs in my heart. You know, my dreams.

  It’s Friday night, and Seth is on his way over. I finally agreed to let him see my room. I look around at the piles of dirty clothes, the dishes scattered with crumbs, the mess of Charlie Dickens, and I decide not to clean any of it. And not just because I’m lazy, but because this is me. This is how I am.

  There’s a knock on the front door, and I hear my dad yell, “Charlie!” He’s still largely confined to a chair and a bed. He’s watching TV in his bed, so the blue light is now relegated to his bedroom and not the entire house. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Though, there’s been one great thing to come out of the accident: I haven’t seen my dad drink a beer since. He’s actually, in a weird way, regaining the life he had before Mom left, as he heals from his fall. He’s healing.

  Seth is smiling as I open the door. “Here’s dinner.” He holds a large pizza.

  “Yum.”

  Up the stairs. My heart beats with every step I take.

  My bedroom door is closed. My heart thrums. Hands sweaty. Seth stands behind me in the hallway. Not sure what I’m thinking, but I worry he might not like me after he sees my room. Well, I used to worry about that kind of stuff. Now I think that Seth likes me because of me, which is why I finally agreed to let him come over.

  “Charlie,” he says, “open the door. The box is burning my hands.”

  The door swings open, and I wait for his first words.

  “Hot.” He tosses the box of pizza on the bed and blows air on his hand. He looks around at the four walls that so often confine me. “So this is the great Charlie Dickens’s bedroom.”

  I close the door. “Shut up.”

  “It’s nice. I mean, it’s a mess, but it’s nice.”

  “Let’s just eat. I’m starving.”

  “Oh. Is that . . .” Seth walks toward the picture that has been freshly hung above my desk.

  “It’s more beautiful now. I hated your taking it at the time, but I’m so glad you did.” I took it home the day she boarded that rocket.

  We sit on my bed, and Seth opens the pizza box. “What’s the movie tonight?” he asks.

  Seth and I recently started watching sci-fi movies and are making our way down the list of the “Greatest Sci-Fi Films of All Time” (at least according to some website).

  “It’s called The Day the Earth Stood Still. It was made in 1951.”

  “An old one. You know,” Seth says, “I’m really turning into a sci-fi fan.”

  We eat slice after slice of pizza as the movie plays on my laptop. But halfway through this old black-and-white movie, I notice the Montana UFO Sightings book on my bookshelf. I can’t stop thinking about the sticky note at the back. It’s keeping me from enjoying the movie.

  Seth notices that I’m distracted while the search is going on for the spaceman. “Something the matter?”

  I can’t stop thinking about the number. But I can’t say anything.

  Seth puts down his pizza and pauses the movie. “Charlie, what is it? You can talk to me.”

  I take a deep breath. “It’s—my dad. He told me recently that my mom . . .” I lose my words again; I can’t speak. I can’t say anything. It feels like my entire world is a lie, and I don’t want whatever rocky foundation I’ve built t
o come crumbling down. I don’t want this fragile house to bury me and Seth when it does come crashing down. I don’t want him to decide that I’m too much work, that I’m too messed up.

  I look at his eyes, which are pleading for answers. He looks concerned.

  “Why hasn’t she called? Or fucking emailed? Or even sent a stupid letter? Why did she let me think that she was taken?”

  My body feels like a taught string and if pulled any tighter, I’ll snap apart. Done.

  “Who? What are you . . . Oh.” Seth’s eyes flash with understanding.

  “What did I do to make her hate me? I thought she was the only one who didn’t.” I have to stand up because the pain of sitting here, the pressure of the moment, is too great.

  “Charlie,” says Seth, “you know that’s not why. Maybe she’s ashamed? Maybe she thought she had let you down and she couldn’t handle the guilt? She thought your life would be better without her?”

  “He gave me her new phone number. Told me to call her.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “I can’t. I couldn’t. What would I say?”

  “I don’t know. Start with ‘hi’ and go from there.”

  I feel tears building in my chest and flowing up to my eyes. But I can’t sob. I can’t cry in front of Seth. I can’t . . .

  I can’t hold the tears back anymore. I slide down the side of my desk to the floor.

  Seth comes over, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he reaches out his hands, encouraging me. I put out my hands, and he pulls me up. I’m barely standing before Seth wraps his arms around me.

  I feel my foundation crumbling. But he’s not letting it bury me. Or him. Or our friendship. I see the picture out of the corner of my eye. We’ll help each other up. That’s what best friends do.

  * * *

  Later that night, after saying good-bye to Seth, I notice the blue light coming from my dad’s room. Nervously I walk in. I’m not sure what I want to say to him.

  “Hey, Charlie. Did I hear crying in your room earlier? I wasn’t sure.”

  I clear my throat. “Ah. Yeah.”

  “Was it—Did you call your mother?” I see in my father’s eyes his genuine interest. His genuine love for me. I feel loved in a way that I haven’t felt from him in a long time. But maybe I’m also growing up. Maybe I’ve lived more experiences and can see that he’s loved me all along. Even when it appeared otherwise.

  “Not yet,” I say. “But—someday.”

  “Someday is the perfect time.” He smiles. Then he says, “And, Charlie, I’m here if you need me. You know that, right? I’ll be . . . around more.” His eyes fill with tears.

  I look at the man in front of me. A man who looks tired, who looks weak, who looks broken. I hate seeing that, so I bend over and hug him as best I can, given that he’s in bed.

  He chuckles. With a voice full of tears, he asks, “What’s this for?”

  But I just keep hugging him, and I feel his arms come around me. Then I say, “Thank you, Dad.” Thank you for doing your best. For trying to help me—even if you don’t always know how.

  “You’re welcome, Charlie.”

  “Dad?” I say into his chest. “I love you.”

  He holds me tighter.

  The earth stands still.

  THE LAST THING TO SEE

  • • • • •

  I’m dreading what I’m about to do.

  I stare at my phone.

  My stomach turns.

  I grab my Montana UFO Sightings book off the shelf. I open to the back cover and take out the sticky note with the phone number. I deleted my dad’s message but wrote the number down just in case I ever had the courage to . . .

  Today I woke up with that courage.

  I think some things needed to happen before I could try to call. I had to become friends with Seth, and learn that he has my back. I had to witness Geoffrey coming to terms with his own mortality, and have Tickles be my silent adviser through it all. My dad needed to fall and then get back up, and my grandma had to go on her last great journey. I needed to search and find and uncover all the possible aliens around me before I could ever reach out to the ones farther away.

  But mostly I needed to find myself. I’ll never tell Seth he was right, but I was too busy looking up and missing out on everything in front of me.

  She might have left me, but there are people who have chosen to stay, and they are my family.

  With a deep breath I begin to dial her number.

  It rings. And rings. I can’t stand the anticipation. . . . My head is being crushed under the strain. . . .

  “Hello?” she answers, and her voice is as soft as a cloud and as sweet as honey, just like I remembered.

  But no memories come flooding back.

  “Hello?” she says again.

  I have nothing. I’m blank.

  “Who is this?” she asks.

  I don’t know who I am with her.

  She’s an alien to me.

  I hang up and stare out my window. I take a deep breath, and a shooting star sears the crisp Montana night sky. I follow it as it dissipates into nothing, the universe not even remembering that it existed.

  The universe is so massive and unforgiving, and it begins to overtake my thoughts, making me feel alone and insignificant, and just when my thoughts begin to overwhelm me, my phone buzzes. . . .

  It’s Seth. He wants to know if I saw the shooting star. I pick up my phone, thankful that I’m not out there in the Great Beyond, all alone, burning out without a trace. Instead I’m here on earth with people who love me.

  I’m home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First off, this book would not be in your hands without the indomitable David Gale. This entire journey is because David read my email, asked to look at my novel, and saw the potential in Charlie’s story. Thank you, David, for making my dream come true. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  A debt of gratitude goes to my agent Robert Guinsler, who has helped me navigate the open waters of the publishing world. Thank you, Robert, for always having my back and believing in me.

  This book would not exist without the amazing team at Simon & Schuster. First off, a big thank you to the publisher, Justin Chanda. Also, thank you to Krista Vossen for a beautifully designed book. Further thanks goes to Tom Daly, Katrina Groover, Martha Hanson, Audrey Gibbons, Lauren Hoffman, Chrissy Noh, Christina Pecorale, Emily Hutton, Michelle Leo, and Sarah Woodruff. A special thank-you goes to Amanda Ramirez, who has been invaluable in helping this book find its way to the world.

  Thank you to Matt Saunders who brought a beautiful book cover to life.

  Earth to Charlie has had many readers since the very first draft back in 2015. A big thank-you to Mandy Haller, Janet Trumble, Brenda Lamb, Andrea Massaro, Natalie Kinsella, Trudy Wood, Tevin Stutzman, and Isabel Galupo for reading Charlie’s story, providing helpful notes, and giving encouragement along the way. This book wouldn’t be where it is today without you.

  Thank you to Amy Schiffman, for championing this novel in the world of Hollywood.

  To the Novel19s group—thank you for your support! I have made so many friends with you amazing writers, and I hope that our friendship continues beyond our debut year.

  There have been many people in my life who have championed my writing and who have taken the time to read my earlier novels. The support you have given me throughout the years has gotten me to this point. I sincerely thank each and every one of you. It means the world.

  Not going to lie, I had given up on getting this book published after 50+ agent rejections. Charlie’s story was going to quickly make its bed with the four other novels I had finished and couldn’t get repped. But then Jerell Rosales read it and loved it enough to say, “Keep sending it out. Get to one hundred rejections.” His words gave me the needed boost to restart the long and arduous querying process. But this time it worked! So a big fat hearty thank-you goes to Jerell for his unwavering suppor
t in this book. Our many talks and your continued support means so much to me.

  June Severance has guided my writing since way back when I was writing screenplays. I would not be the writer I am today without our many conversations over tea and your hand-written notes. I know you’d be proud of this novel.

  To all my friends, thank you for being by my side as we navigate this thing called life.

  To all my family, thank you for your unwavering support. (This includes my grandparents, Jack and Nancy Datres, and Arnold and Shirley Olson, whom I still deeply miss.) Also, a special shout-out to my brother, Jake, who has read this book and many of my others—making time even with his busy life in the world of science.

  Thank-you to the many librarians and booksellers—the real warriors of the book world—for championing this novel.

  I can’t forget to thank Yossarian. He won’t read this, but he’s been a great writing buddy. He keeps my world light-hearted and the journey interesting.

  I would be lost without my parents, who have supported my writing habit throughout the nearly thirteen years it took to get here. They’ve always believed in me, even if they were concerned when I would stare at the laptop for too long. (These books don’t write themselves.) Dale and Trudi Olson are the best parents I could have ever asked for. Thank you for all your love and all your support.

  Finally, thank you, dear reader, for picking up my debut novel. If you’re still reading these acknowledgements, then I’m guessing you probably liked my book (if not, what are you doing here?! Just kidding). I would be so honored if you could share or recommend Charlie’s story to other people in person or online. After all, any book’s success depends on readers like you supporting it. Also, while I’ve got your attention, support your local bookstores. Nothing beats browsing bookshelves and stumbling across something that has the potential to light up your life; and frankly, I find the prospect of no physical bookstores the beginning of a dystopian world. (Is that a new novel idea?)

  I think that’s it. Though now I’m nervous I forgot someone, and if I did, know that it wasn’t intentional. I’m just scatterbrained and trying to write a new book. Well, my coffee’s gone, so I’m going to wrap this up right here. Until next time.