“I feel like I have to prove something to him, but I’m not sure what,” she said, tracing the flower design on Jessica’s bedspread. “You were right, by the way.”
Jessica turned around, brushing her hair absently. “He wants to see you tonight. I think that’s a great start,” she offered. “Just let him spend some time with you. He’s been through a lot. Remember, from his perspective, he saw you die, right in front of his eyes.”
Charlie laughed, a soft, forced sound, then was silent. “I’m just worried about him. And I can’t even help him, because”—she broke off—“Jessica, do you remember him telling me something important that night?” Something in her tone changed: it was subtle, just a hint of strain. Jessica kept her expression neutral, pretending not to notice.
“Something important?” Jessica asked.
“Something … that I would remember. Should remember.” She kept her eyes on the bedspread, still tracing the pattern like she was trying to memorize it. Jessica hesitated. She could still see it all, as vivid as the present, though it gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Charlie was trapped in the twisted, broken Freddy suit, with just her arm free; John was holding her hand—Jessica shuddered, that terrible, singular crunching sound echoing in her head.
“Jessica?” Charlie asked, and Jessica nodded briskly.
“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know, you and John were alone together for a few minutes. I’m not sure what he said. Why?”
“I think it’s important to him that I remember,” Charlie said, back to tracing the bedspread. Jessica watched her for a moment, suddenly ill at ease in her own bedroom. As if sensing it, Charlie stood and met her eyes.
“Thanks, Jessica,” she said. “Sorry again for breaking in. I mean, I didn’t break in, the door was unlocked—but you know what I mean.”
“No problem, just … announce yourself sooner next time?” Jessica smiled, feeling a rush of warmth for her friend. She hugged Charlie good-bye at the door. Charlie walked a few steps and picked the apple up off the ground, then handed it back to Jessica.
“I think this belongs to you.” Charlie smiled, then turned to walk away. When she had closed the door, Jessica sighed. The anxiety that had risen while Charlie was in her room had not abated. She leaned back against the door, replaying what had just happened. Why would John want Charlie to remember the last thing he said to her? She tossed the apple a few inches into the air, then let it fall back into her hand.
“He’s testing her,” Jessica said to the empty apartment.
* * *
Outside Jessica’s building, Charlie stopped in the parking lot, frustrated. What did he say that was so important? She walked across the baked pavement to her car. Charlie climbed into her car, slamming the door shut with more force than she needed to. She stared petulantly at the steering wheel. They’re lying to me, she thought. I feel like a little kid, with all the grown-ups keeping secrets from me. Deciding for me what I should and shouldn’t know.
She glanced at her watch—the clock in the car was either an hour ahead or an hour behind, and she could never remember which. She had about twenty minutes before she had to meet John. “I can’t show up early,” she said plainly, “then he really won’t believe it’s me.” Trying to shrug off her bad mood, Charlie put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.
When she got to the restaurant, she could see John through the window, seated at the same table they had sat at last time, all the way in the back. He was staring into space, as if he were deep in thought, or completely zoned out. She followed the hostess to his table, and it was only when she was standing right beside him that he seemed to realize she was there. When he did, he stood hastily. Charlie started to move toward him, but he sat back down, and she quickly sidestepped and did the same.
“Hi,” she said with an awkward smile.
“Hi, Charlie,” he said quietly, then grinned suddenly. “You’re dressed a lot nicer than last time we were here.”
“It probably just seems that way because I’m not covered in dirt and blood this time,” Charlie said lightly.
“Right.” He laughed, but there was a quick instant of appraisal in his eyes. That was a test. The thought sent something cold through the pit of her stomach. She had known it would happen, but knowing did not make it easier to have his eyes, usually so warm, look at her with calculation.
“What was that movie we saw?” John asked, seeming to fumble at an answer. “Last time I visited, we went to that theater down the street, didn’t we? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Zombies vs. Zombies!” Charlie said.
“Right, I knew it was about zombies,” John said thoughtfully.
“So, what have you been doing since then?” Charlie asked, attempting to shift the topic. “Are you still doing construction work?”
“Yeah,” John said, then cast his eyes down at the table. “Actually, maybe not. I just got fired.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it was my fault. I showed up late, and—there was some other stuff—but I really liked that job. Well … it was a job at least.”
“There have to be other building sites,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, I guess.” He looked at her searchingly, and she looked back, trying not to shrink under scrutiny. Believe me, she pleaded silently. What will it take for you to believe me?
“I’ve missed this,” she said instead.
He nodded, his eyes softening for a moment. “Me too,” he said quietly, though she knew it was only half true.
“You know I didn’t leave because of—it wasn’t because of you,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry if it seemed like it was; I just had to get away from everything and everyone. I—”
“Are you folks ready to order?” the waitress asked brightly. John straightened his posture and cleared his throat. Charlie looked down at the menu, glad of the interruption, but the pictures of food looked strange, as if she had heard food described, but never seen any. “Miss?” The waitress was looking at her expectantly.
“I’ll have the same,” Charlie said quickly, and shut the menu. The young woman frowned confusedly.
“Oh, uh, okay. I guess I should order then.” John laughed.
“Anything will be fine.” Charlie sat patiently. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” She got up from the table hastily and headed for the bathroom, leaving John to take care of things.
Walking into the bathroom, she was struck with a jarring sense of déjà vu. I’ve been here before. Trapped in a box, I was trapped in a box—Charlie slammed the door shut and locked it. I’m not trapped. She ran her fingers through her hair, though it didn’t really need adjusting, and washed her hands; she was just killing time, stealing a moment away from John’s scrutiny. Every time he gave her that level, untrusting look, she felt exposed.
“I am Charlie,” she said to her reflection, smoothing down her hair again nervously. “I don’t have to convince John that I’m me.” The words sounded thin in the small room. Who else would I be? Charlie washed her hands again, straightened her shoulders, and went back out into the dining room. She sat down and put her paper napkin in her lap, then looked John squarely in the eye.
“I still don’t remember,” she said abruptly, seized by an obstinate recklessness.
John raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“I don’t remember what you said to me that night. I know it’s important to you—I know maybe it’s why you think what you think about me, but I just … don’t remember. I can’t change that.”
“Okay.” He slid his hands off the edge of the table and let them rest in his lap. “I know—I know that. Um, a lot happened that night. I know.” He sighed for a moment but then smiled almost reassuringly. Charlie bit her lip.
“If it’s that important, why can’t you just tell me?” she asked gently. Instantly, she could see that it was the wrong thing to say. John’s features hardened; he drew
back from the table slightly. She looked down at the napkin in her lap; she had been shredding the corner of it without noticing. “Never mind,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, letting several long minutes pass. “Forget I said anything.” She looked up, but John didn’t respond.
“Excuse me for just a minute. I’ll be right back.” He got up and left the table.
She stared at his empty chair. The waitress approached and cleared her throat; Charlie heard her, but did not move. She wasn’t sure she could move. This is going horribly. Maybe I’ll just sit here forever. I’ll be a statue of myself, a monument to Charlie-that-was. Charlie-that-will-never-be-again.
“Miss?” The waitress sounded concerned, and it was enough for Charlie to, with herculean effort, turn her head. “Is everything all right, miss?” the waitress asked, and it took Charlie another long moment to comprehend the question.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Could I have another napkin?” She held up the first, half-shredded, as evidence of her need, and the waitress went away. Charlie turned back to John’s empty chair.
John slid back into view and sat down, breaking the line of her vacant stare.
“Everything okay?” he asked. She nodded.
“The waitress is getting me another napkin.” Charlie gestured vaguely in the direction the waitress had gone.
“Right.” He opened his mouth to go on, but before he could speak, the waitress returned, carrying Charlie’s napkin, along with their food. They were both silent as she placed it in front of them, and John smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said. Charlie stared at her plate: it was some kind of pasta. She took her fork carefully but didn’t start to eat.
“Can I ask you something?” John finally said, and she nodded eagerly, setting the fork back down. He took a deep breath.
“That night, how did you survive? I—There was so much blood …” He stopped, at a loss for words. Charlie looked at him, at the familiar face that had somehow turned against her. She had been trying to piece together a story for him, but now she just spoke.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I—There’s time missing, when I try to think about it my mind—flinches away, like it’s hit something sharp.” The distance in John’s eyes faded a little as she spoke. “I’d been in a suit before,” she went on. “I think I must have figured out how to get away somehow, or at least how to position myself.” She looked anxiously at him, and his gaze sharpened.
“I still don’t understand. How did you manage to get away … undamaged?” He looked her up and down again, seeming to examine her.
Charlie’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned away from him, staring fixedly out the window at the parking lot.
“I didn’t,” she said tightly.
* * *
John didn’t answer, searching Charlie’s half-turned face for a spark of something he could recognize—or not recognize. She was saying all the right things, in all the right ways, and her hints—more than hints—at the unshakable trauma she had gone through that night made his stomach clench. As she gazed off into the middle distance, her jaw was clenched; she looked like she was fighting something off, and John was seized with a sudden urge to go to her, to hold out his hand and offer his help. Instead he picked up his fork and began to eat, looking down at his plate instead of at her. She knows what I’m doing, he thought, chewing grimly. She’s giving me the right answers. Some detective I’ve turned out to be. John took another bite and stole a glance at her; she was still looking off at the parking lot. He swallowed and cleared his throat.
Before he could speak, Charlie turned back to him. “After that night, I had to get away,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, and her face was strained, her features seeming harsher than before. “I had to leave everything behind, John. Everything. My whole life has been haunted by what happened here, and the last couple of years … even before that, too. It’s just been my whole life.” She met his eyes briefly, then looked away, blinking rapidly like she was holding back tears. “I wanted be somebody different; I had to or I’d go insane. I know it’s a cliché to think you can change your life if you change your hair and your clothes”—she gave an ironic half smile and flipped her long hair over her shoulder—“but I couldn’t be your Charlie forever, that naïve little girl, scared of her own shadow; living in a shadow. Honestly, I don’t even know what you saw in that girl—selfish, scatterbrained, pathetic.” She said the last word so caustically that she almost shook with it, a sour look coming over her face as if loathing for her past self had overwhelmed her.
“I never thought you were any of those things,” John said quietly, and looked down. He ran his fork along the rim of his plate, not knowing what to say. He made himself look up; Charlie’s face had softened, and now she seemed anxious.
“But it’s still me.” She shrugged, her voice breaking. He couldn’t answer; he didn’t know where to start. Charlie bit her lip. “You still think it, don’t you?” she said after a moment. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, ashamed, but Charlie pressed on.
“John, please, I don’t understand. If you think I’m not me, then … what do you think? Who can you possibly think I am?” She looked utterly bewildered, and again John felt himself wavering.
“I think—” He gestured graspingly at the air, catching nothing. “Charlie, what I saw—!” he exclaimed, then stopped short, remembering they were in public. He glanced around, but no one was looking at them: the restaurant was not busy, but everyone there was occupied, the guests talking to the people they came with, the staff talking among themselves. “I saw you die,” he said, lowering his voice. “When you walked into that diner the next day, Charlie, I wanted to believe it was true—I still want to believe it, but I—I saw you die,” he finished helplessly. Charlie shook her head slowly.
“I’m telling you that I’m alive, how can that not be enough? If you want to believe me, why don’t you?” The pain in her voice sent a pang of guilt through him, but he met her eyes calmly.
“Because I’d rather know the truth than believe something just because it would make me happy.”
Charlie looked at him searchingly. “So, what do you think is the truth? Who do you—” she swallowed, and started again. “Who do you think I am, if I’m not me?”
John sighed. “I’ve thought about it a lot,” he said at last. “Almost constantly, actually.” Charlie nodded slightly, barely moving her head, like she was afraid she would spook him. “I thought about a lot of things, I guess—theories—um …”
“Like what?” Charlie asked gently.
“Well …” John’s face was getting hot. I should never have agreed to see her.
“John?”
“I—I guess maybe I thought you might be Sammy,” he mumbled; she looked puzzled for a moment, like she had not quite heard him, then her eyes widened.
“Sammy’s dead,” she said tightly. John looked up at the ceiling and put his hands to his temples.
“I know,” he said, and met her eyes again. “But, Charlie, look: I don’t know that. Neither do you. The last thing … you remember, of Sammy, what was it?”
“You know the answer to that,” she said in a low, level voice.
“You saw him being taken,” John said after a moment. She made no response, and he took it as license to continue. “You saw him being kidnapped, not killed. By Dave, or Afton—Springtrap. So, what if he wasn’t killed? What if Sammy was raised by William Afton, twisted, and brought up by a murderous madman to replace you—to replace Charlie—after her death? Also, Sammy could be short for Samantha. I forgot that part. Sammy could have been a girl all along.” Charlie was motionless across the table; she scarcely looked like she was breathing. “I know how it sounds when I say it out loud,” John added in a rush. “That’s why I mostly don’t.” Charlie had covered her face with her hand, and her shoulders were shaking. He broke off as she looked up: this time she was laughing. There was a manic edge to it, like it might turn back into crying at any moment,
but John tentatively tried to smile.
“Oh, John,” she said at last. “I don’t even—You know that’s crazy, right?”
“Is it crazier than anything else we’ve seen?” he argued without much conviction.
“John, you took me to see the grave yourself, remember?”
John paused and looked confused for a moment, trying to reconcile what he’d just heard.
“You took me yourself, to Sammy’s grave.”
“I took you to the cemetery, but I never saw Sammy’s grave, or your father’s,” John corrected.
“Then go look sometime.” Charlie’s voice was patient. John felt immediately foolish.
“Aunt Jen warned me not to come back to Hurricane.” Charlie looked down at the table. “She’s three for three at this point. Have you heard from her, by the way?”
“From your aunt?” John asked, disconcerted by the sudden change of subject. “I figured you were living with her after you moved out of Jessica’s place.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said.
“You were living with her?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Why would I have seen her?” John asked slowly, suddenly feeling a bit lost in the conversation. He had seen Jen twice: once as a child, and once on that terrible night, crouched beside the twisted, broken Freddy suit in a pool of Charlie’s blood. But Charlie didn’t know about either. “You know I’ve never actually met her,” John said, watching Charlie’s face. Her expression was pensive, and did not change.
“I just thought she might try to get in touch,” Charlie said idly.
“Okay. I’ll let you know if she does?” John offered.
“Please do, thanks,” Charlie said. It was only then that she seemed to register his confusion. “I haven’t seen her in a while. She rescued me that night,” she said. “She took me home and cleaned me up, made sure I was okay.” She flashed John a quick half smile, and he returned it warily.
The Fourth Closet Page 5