The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

by Ben Sherwood

  It was Sam.

  “Hey, big bro,” he said with a smile.

  Charlie couldn’t speak. Gone were his brother’s Sox cap, baggy shorts, and high-tops. He was wearing a bomber jacket, jeans, and boots.

  “Look at you!” Charlie said.

  “What?”

  “You’re a man.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m finally a man and I can do what I want.”

  They were face-to-face now, and Charlie realized that his brother was glimmering like a hologram with luminous surfaces. Sam was now a reflection of the past and the present and a projection of the future—all he had been and all he wanted to be.

  Charlie threw his arms around his brother’s evanescing shape and was stunned that they couldn’t touch. His grasp held nothing. Sam was no longer in between. He was ether now, but Charlie could still feel his warmth and the strength of the connection.

  “You crossed over,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “And how is it?”

  “Beyond anything we ever imagined, Charlie. It’s mind-blowing. You’ll see.”

  “So how did you get back here? I didn’t realize you could return.”

  “There are lots of things you don’t understand,” Sam said. “But don’t worry. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Then they wandered into the forest, sat on the log by the pond where the catfish and sunnies hid from the great blue heron, and told each other about the last few days.

  “You mad I broke the promise?” Charlie asked.

  “No,” Sam said. “It was time. We were holding each other back.”

  In that moment, Charlie realized what he had truly lost in those thirteen years. They had never shared an adult conversation. Sam had not grown up, and their relationship had been frozen in time.

  Charlie wished he could wrap his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “That was you out there on the water the other morning, wasn’t it?” he asked. “You know, with the spray and the wind?”

  “Sure took you long enough to notice!”

  “What can I say? Negligence in the first degree. Guilty as charged.”

  “Negligence, noun,” Sam said, starting to smile. “The sexy nightgown a girl forgets she’s wearing when she goes to work in the morning.” He laughed and slapped his knee, and Charlie roared. He studied the translucent outlines of his brother who had grown so much and yet was still the same.

  “I guess I have only one regret,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry I held on to you for so long.” He wiped tears from his face.

  “It’s okay,” Sam said. “I held on just as much as you.”

  There was a long silence, then Charlie asked, “You think we’ll ever play catch again?”

  “Of course,” Sam said. “We’ll be back together in the blink of an eye. And then we’ll have forever.”

  “Promise you won’t leave me,” Charlie said.

  “Promise.”

  “Swear?” he said, amazed to find himself repeating the very same conversation from all those years ago. This time, however, it was Sam who comforted Charlie.

  “I swear,” his kid brother said.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Hope to die,” Sam said. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” The brothers stood up.

  Sam went to the larch tree at the foot of the pond. There was a thick, knotted rope hanging from a lower branch. “One last push?” he said.

  With a whoop, Charlie pushed, and Sam began to swing out over the water. “Bye, big bro,” he shouted, letting go and reaching for the sky. He tucked into a tight forward somersault with a twist. Gone were the gangly arms and legs, and Charlie felt blessed that just once he had seen him in all his glory.

  Then Sam was gone, vanished, and the clearing was absolutely silent except for the swinging rope and a flurry of crimson oak leaves on the wind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE LAST CLOSING TIME, THE LAST ZOOM AROUND TO collect an elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit on the Vale of Serenity.

  “Evening,” Charlie said.

  Palmer Guidry’s hair was wavy and white, and as he poured the last drop from his red watering can, his old cassette recorder played Brahms.

  “Well, hello, Charles!”

  “We’re shutting down for the night. Can I give you a lift?”

  “Why, thank you. So good of you.”

  Mr. Guidry folded his dust rag, switched off the tape player, and made a final inspection of the crimson bloom of a tall plant.

  “Hollyhocks were Betty’s favorite,” he said.

  “I think you told me once.”

  “You know, Betty planted the whole backyard with pink hollyhocks one time. They grew seven feet high!”

  “Oh really?”

  He climbed into the cart and tucked the watering can under his legs.

  “Night, Betty,” he said. “Sweet dreams, my love. Be back soon.”

  “Want to come over for dinner tonight?” Mr. Guidry said as they approached the iron gates. “I’ll whip up one of Betty’s favorites. Finest meat loaf on God’s green earth.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “I’d like that. In fact, I’d like that a lot.”

  Mr. Guidry hesitated for a moment. Even with Alzheimer’s he knew something was different. Something had changed. Something wonderful. His eyes twinkled, and his face displayed a hint of recognition. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you always say?” It was another little miracle, one of those mysterious moments of clarity in a confusing world.

  “Not anymore,” Charlie said. “I’ll follow you home. Just don’t drive too fast.”

  “I’m at Cow Corners on Guernsey and Jersey,” Mr. Guidry said. “It’s the old gray house with green shutters.”

  “Gotcha.”

  As Charlie pushed the great iron gates shut for the last time, he smiled at the ancient, creaking sound. Someone else would get to squirt oil on those giant hinges. Now he stood on the outside and peered through the metal grille across the cemetery where the willows bowed toward the lake, the fountain was quiet, and not a soul stirred.

  He let go of the iron bars, turned and hefted his two duffels into the back of his Rambler. Mr. Guidry pulled out onto West Shore Drive in his Buick, and Charlie followed him down the street that skirted the edge of the cemetery. He looked out the window and waved good-bye to the rows of monuments, the acres of lawns, and his world within a world. And Charlie St. Cloud, dearly departed caretaker of Waterside Cemetery, never looked back.

  THIRTY-SIX

  MARBLEHEAD HUMMED WITH THANKSGIVING WEEK contentment. The chilly air carried the comforting scent of burning logs. Hibernating boats huddled on winter dry docks and dreamed of warm weather. Twinkling Christmas decorations made their merry debut. Around Engine Company 2 on Franklin Street, life was especially good. There hadn’t been a big blaze since the School Street Fire.

  Charlie was wearing the uniform of a full-time paramedic at the station, now also his home until he found a place of his own. On this utterly uneventful Friday, as the clock in the rec room chimed six—time for a shift change—Charlie grabbed a coat from his locker and headed out to the Rambler. With a few extra turns of the key, he brought the old car to life. Sure, it was almost ready for the scrap yard, but it was a good ride, and sometimes he could drive all day and late into the night just to feel the road rushing beneath him.

  Tonight Charlie had only one place to go. He headed down Pleasant Street, veered onto MA-114 toward Salem, and within minutes pulled into the parking lot of the North Shore Medical Center. He walked right through the lobby, waved to the admission nurses, and went straight to Room 172. He knocked gently, then opened the door.

  Tess was alone and asleep in her coma. Bandages and ventilator gone, she was pale, but was breathing on her own now. Her hands were folded on her chest, and she seemed completely at peace. He had memorized every single detail of her oval face, her pale lips, and her long eyel
ashes. It was so strange. He had touched every inch of her that night in the cottage, and yet he didn’t know her physically at all.

  In eight weeks, Charlie had studied all sorts of books and articles on brain injury. The longest, best-documented complete recovery from a coma was two and a half years, but he had uncovered even more-amazing cases, like the Albuquerque woman who had arisen from a sixteen-year sleep one Christmas day and had asked to go shopping at the mall, and the fifty-three-year-old Toronto shopkeeper who had fallen into a coma and had awoken thirty years later wondering, “What’s on TV?”

  Those were the extreme examples, but he knew something miraculous could also happen for Tess, and, in a way, it already had. God had answered his prayers. She hadn’t vanished from the cemetery because she was moving on to the next realm. She had disappeared because she was trying to return to this life.

  He had spent so many hours here by her bedside in this room that had been made homey by Grace and her friends. There were plants from Kipp’s Greenhouses and get-well cards from Mrs. Paternina’s science class. Hanging over her bed, an autographed poster of Tom Brady, the Patriots quarterback and Super Bowl hero, said, Get well soon. Photos of her dad fishing on his lobster boat and of Querencia in sea trials crowded the bedside table.

  “Big weekend for your boys,” Charlie said, sitting down beside her. He pulled The Boston Globe sports page from his coat pocket and read her the highlights. “Looks like the Jets plan to challenge your linebackers with some new tight end they drafted.”

  This was Charlie’s ritual now, but he was nonetheless watchful that he not slip back into his old habit of following a fixed routine. Sometimes he stopped by in the morning. On other occasions he dropped by after work. One week he would skip a few days, then another he would show up steadily for a stretch.

  He wanted to be there for her, but he also wanted to live his life. He had picked up tickets for a New Year’s trip to the Pacific Northwest to see his mother. And he was planning a backpacking adventure across Africa and Asia a year from now.

  With each visit, Charlie always gave Tess the latest. Today he shared the delicious new scandal in town. Reverend Polkinghorne had been caught naked on the dock of the Eastern Yacht Club with two—yes, two—of his flock: Sherry Trench and Gena Carruthers.

  Charlie believed Tess was listening to every word of every story. He tried to make things quick and funny. He wanted to charm her, even in her sleep. Sometimes he imagined her throwing her head back in laughter. Other times he pictured her giving him grief when he went on too long.

  When he was tired of talking, he went to the window to watch the sun go down. “It’s gorgeous tonight,” he said. “You ought to see it.” He still felt that alarm inside warn him that he needed to be in the forest. But then he saw the moon rising and he knew Sam was still out there.

  It was dark now. The hospital was silent. It was time to go. “Night, Tess,” he said. “I sure miss you.” He kissed her on the cheek and had started through the door when he realized he had forgotten to say something. “I’m having dinner with Tink tonight,” he said, going back to her. “We’re heading over to the Barnacle. I wish you warned me how much that guy could eat. There aren’t enough clams in the ocean to fill him up.” He reached forward and pushed her bangs away.

  Then Charlie saw her lashes flutter and her incredible emerald eyes open, and he wondered if he was imagining them.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MIST SHROUDED THE GROUND, MUFFLING THE SOUNDS OF the world. She couldn’t see anyone else around. She could have been anywhere or nowhere. It didn’t matter. Charlie was gone, her father had never come to greet her, and she was all alone.

  Ever since leaving the cemetery, she had been in this same place. It was like the deep ocean on a moonless night. The sky was a blanket of black without familiar stars to give her bearings. In the distance, vague shapes like thunderheads seemed to shift about. Sometimes voices emerged around her, then went away.

  She had tried to call for help but no one answered. She wanted to cut through the gloom but couldn’t seem to budge. And so she had waited, watching for the moment to make her move.

  Now was the time.

  At first, with darkness slowly giving way to light, everything was blurry. Her brain, the room, and the man looking down at her. “Tess,” he kept saying. “Tess, can you hear me?” Of course she could hear him. She wanted to form words in response, but she couldn’t make sounds. How strange. She tried again, but her mouth and throat were parched. When at last she found her voice, it was raspy and barely audible. “Tess,” she said. “Tess.”

  “Yes, Tess!” the man said. He was so excited.

  “Yes, Tess,” she repeated.

  “You’re back! My God, you’re back!”

  “You’re back,” she said. She knew she was just repeating his words, but it was the best she could do.

  “How do you feel?” he was saying. “Does anything hurt?”

  In fact, she couldn’t feel a thing. Her body was numb and her head groggy. She moved her eyes around the room. “Where?” she began tentatively. “Where am I?” That wasn’t bad, she thought. Where am I? A complete sentence. She smiled faintly, and the skin on her cheeks felt tight.

  “You’re in the hospital,” he said. “North Shore Medical Center in Salem.”

  The words didn’t register entirely. “Where?” she said again.

  “The hospital. You had an accident. You were injured. But everything’s okay now.”

  Hospital. Accident. Injured.

  “What accident?” she said.

  “You were sailing,” he said. “Your boat caught fire in a storm. Do you remember?”

  Fire. Storm. She didn’t recall a thing. “Boat,” she said. “What happened?”

  “It was destroyed,” he said. “I’m sorry, but Querencia burned and sank.”

  Querencia. She liked the way that sounded, and the lilt of the syllables brought back fragments of memory and meaning. “Querencia. Spanish, safe place.”

  “Yes!” the man said. “You’re right. It’s Spanish.”

  She was trying to focus. More thoughts were taking shape.

  “Water,” she said. “I’m thirsty.”

  The man hurried to the sink and poured her a glass. Gently, he held it to her lips, and she took a sip, swirling the cool liquid in her mouth. She squinted toward the window, where the branches of a tree were blowing in the wind. “Window,” she said.

  “Yes, window.”

  “Open it, please.”

  The man rushed over, threw the bolt, and slid it up. “There you go.”

  An amazing breeze wafted into the room, and Tess closed her eyes as it rustled her hair and soothed her. Water and wind. Yes, she loved them both.

  The man reached for the phone. “I’m calling your mom. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Mom.”

  The man punched the numbers and began to speak rapidly. She couldn’t follow what he was saying. When he put it down, she asked, “Who are you? Doctor?”

  “It’s me, Charlie. Remember?”

  She didn’t remember. Her memory was blank.

  “Tess, please, try to think back,” he was saying. “It’s me, Charlie.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember . . .” Then she saw tears streaming down his face. Why was he crying? “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just so happy to see you.”

  Tess smiled, and this time her face didn’t feel so taut. “Your name?” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie St. Cloud.”

  Charlie St. Cloud. She crinkled her nose. Things were coming back faster now. Files were opening in her brain. “St. Cloud,” she said. “Not a Marblehead name.”

  “You’re right,” he answered. “Minnesota. Long story too.”

  “I like stories,” she said.

  And then Charlie sat down beside her and explained how his name came from a Mississippi River tow
n where his mother had grown up. The original St. Cloud was a sixth-century French prince who renounced the world to serve God after his brothers were murdered by an evil uncle.

  Tess liked the deep timbre of his voice. It reminded her of someone but she couldn’t place it. When he was done telling her the story, she reached out and touched his hand. It felt so warm and strong.

  “The Patriots have a big game this weekend,” he was saying. “You love football, remember?” She studied his gentle face with a dimple in one cheek. There was something different about this man.

  “Tell me another story, Charlie.”

  “Anything you want,” he said, and he began to talk of sailing around the world to distant places like the Marquesas, Tuamotu Islands, Tonga, and Fiji.

  Every word came like comfort, so she eased back into the pillows and basked in the warmth of Charlie’s caramel eyes. Slowly, her edges began to soften, and she wondered how she already knew that she could listen to this man for a very long time.

  It was past midnight.

  The doctors had finished checking Tess and, incredibly, had determined that her physical and cognitive functions were intact, and her memory would likely return to normal.

  A writer and photographer from the Reporter had rushed over to ask questions and snap pictures for a special edition of the paper. Tink and the crew from the sail loft had paraded through with encouragement and news from the company. Her joy exceeding her energy, Grace had finally gone to sleep on a pullout cot in the next room.

  Now all was quiet.

  Wide awake in the waiting room, Charlie stared at the fish tank with its neon tetras darting back and forth. Grateful as he was that she was back, his mind stuck on one question: Would she remember him?

  Their first kiss . . .

  Their night in each other’s arms . . .

  As friends and family surrounded her that evening, Charlie had watched as she gradually recalled Querencia’s struggle against the storm. She had even started planning her next solo race around the world, calculating that it would take one year to outfit a new boat and to train properly. Whenever her gaze turned to Charlie in the back of the room—and it was often—she had smiled but seemed unsure who he was or why he was there.