“Yes, you can.” He drags me into the room. Along the way I see several guys who give Nate chin nods and questioning looks, but no one stops him. Maybe girls in the boys’ locker room is an ordinary occurrence.
We stop at the end of the locker room where there is an office door that says “Head Coach” and then another closed door that says “Training Room.” Nate opens the training room door. Inside are two long metal tables. Nate curses when he sees the bare tables. “Hold on,” he says and then leaves.
I stand there like a fool, wondering what I should do. I don’t really want to walk out and see things that should be unseen, but I also don’t want to wait around until someone who is supposed to use this room shows up.
I’m about to leave when Nate returns, shouldering his way in, his arms full of clothes and towels. He gives me a frown when he sees my hand on the doorknob and I guiltily pull it away. Curiously I watch Nate spread out the materials. There are a couple of pairs of workout pants, the kind that have snaps on the sides so that the players can quickly disrobe. Stripper pants, I liked to think of them, although I’m sure if I said that to any of the guys they’d give me deeper frowns than the one that Nate shot me when he returned. Nate carefully positions the pants so that there isn’t much overlap. Over the pants go three large sweatshirts. When he’s done, he pats the table. “Hop up.”
“What?”
“Hop up,” he repeats.
I stand there like a dummy because I don’t get what he wants me to do. Nate shakes his head and in two steps reaches my side and propels me forward. “Charlotte, you spent your lunch hour vomiting, right?”
I really hate Claudia. She must have heard me before and decided to rat me out to Nate. “So what if I was?” I sound snippy, but I don’t even care one bit.
“So you’ve got to be worn out. You go home and pass out, our parents are going to suspect something. Work with me here,” Nate pleads. Understanding dawns. Nate wants me to take a nap while he practices football, and he hopes the extra sleep will make me appear healthier at home.
“This is really nice of you, Nate, but you don’t have to do this for me. I’m fine,” I lie, giving him a big smile.
“Charlotte, stop. If I was sick, wouldn’t you do anything you could to make me feel better, help me heal?”
I give a reluctant nod of my head.
“Then why is it pity or wrong for me to want to do the same for you?”
Shamed, I look down at the bed of garments that Nate had spread out. My throat tightens at the gentle care he’s showing me. Not wanting Nate to see me cry, I climb onto the makeshift mat and immediately I am struck by how very tired I really feel. My whole body seems to loosen up. Nate lays two towels on top of me like a blanket.
“We’ll get some better bedding in here for you,” he murmurs, stroking the side of my cheek with one long finger.
“How will you keep this a secret?” I close my eyes and revel in the sensation of his caress. I don’t know that he’s ever touched me so tenderly before.
“Only a few guys know, and they won’t say anything. They don’t care.” His voice is sounding further and further away.
“I love you, Nate,” I whisper as I let go and let sleep take me away. I dream that I hear him say “I love you” back.
7
Nathan
Charlotte, Nick, and I go to the Halloween party. Charlotte insisted when Nick and I suggested we just have an Xbox tournament and hand out candy to the kids in the building.
She is Peter Pan, which she says fits her short hair, which is growing in downy soft. Somehow Nick got to be Hook, and I got shoved into wings and a scratchy tutu. I drew the line at tights and makeup, though. A dozen different girls and a couple of guys have stroked their hands down my legs, making me wish I’d chosen a longer skirt. It is like bare legs and a short skirt are an invitation for people to touch. I’ll have to make sure Charlotte never wears a short skirt again.
“What’s this thing made of?” I ask Charlotte, bringing her another cup of punch. Claudia Amsden’s condo is full of people, although Charlotte and Nick are among the youngest ones here.
“Tulle,” she says.
“It’s scratching my tool,” I joke, but when I see Charlotte flush I want to curse at myself for making such a stupid joke in front of her. “Sorry,” I mutter and sit down next to her.
“Sorry I blush so easy?” she asks, taking a sip of the punch. She tries to hide a grimace, but I see it. My parents have said that her chemo and radiation can screw with the taste buds. By the look of Charlotte, I wonder if there is anything that she enjoys eating anymore. Before she got sick, she was slender but muscular. Now, her bones are becoming more and more prominent. I know if I say anything it will make her feel bad, so I bite my tongue and pretend I don’t notice. I’m doing a lot of that lately. Pretending to not see that she doesn’t eat or that she’s throwing up a lot or that she looks exhausted all of the time.
We both survey the crowd. Most of the girls are wearing the barely-there version of some costume, like a police uniform transformed into a shirt that buttons only at the waist paired with hot pants and platform heels or a construction uniform transformed into a jumpsuit that is unzipped to the belly button and ends just slightly below the girl’s ass. Surprisingly there are a number of guys dressed up like me, fake cross dresser. A couple of guys are wearing Wonder Woman costumes, and one guy is dressed up as fake Katniss Everdeen. We all look like fools, but it’s Halloween. I think we’re supposed to look silly. Or sexy.
Charlotte looks neither silly nor sexy. Instead, the slight flush that had appeared earlier has faded and her skin looks almost translucent with a slight green tint to her complexion. I wonder if it is from the costume. The glass in her hand shakes lightly, and she cups her other hand to steady it. Even her mouth looks tired, as if she doesn’t have the energy to show any emotion. All the signs worry me, but I know that if I suggest leaving, Charlotte will be even more distressed. She worked on us for the last three weeks to convince us to attend this thing.
“Can I find you a quiet place?” I ask.
She glances around and then nods, revealing exactly how poorly she feels. If she had any resources left, she’d say she was having the best time of her life. I want to lift her in my arms and carry her out of here, but I allow myself just to help her to her feet. She leans heavily against me and again, I tamp down the urge to sweep her up and carry her away. Across the room, I see Nick rise from his seat, but I give him a short shake of my head. Charlotte isn’t going to want to see both of us Jacksons rushing to her side. He gives me a reluctant nod and sits back down.
Down the hall I find an empty guest room and give in to the urge I’ve been fighting. Sweeping Charlotte into my arms, I carry her to the bed. She doesn’t even protest, only sighs with relief. I lay her down on top of the comforter, and her head lolls to the side. She isn’t even awake. Panic sets in. There’s no way she fell asleep in the time it took to enter the room and for me to place her on the bed. I tap her cheeks lightly, cheeks that are waxen and cold.
“Charlotte!” My voice is loud and insistent, but she doesn’t respond. I tap her a little harder but she still lies like she’s out cold. Fear is chasing down my spine as I lean over and place my head on her chest. Her heart is beating, but I don’t know if the pace is normal or too slow or too fast. It feels fast. I place my fingers over my own pulse at the base of my throat and count. God, what did I learn this past summer about CPR? Count the beats for fifteen seconds and then multiply by four, but, fuck, my heart is racing. I press my fingers hard against Charlotte’s neck and count. About thirty beats go by in the fifteen seconds. Charlotte’s heart feels like a bird.
I fumble in my pocket and call my dad but he doesn’t answer. Uncle Bo’s phone just rings and rings too. Then I remember that they are hosting a party for clients at Dad and Aunt AnnMarie’s office. Scrubbing my hand over my mouth, I rifle through a bunch of options. Calling 911 seems extreme. Charlotte would be
so pissed at me if I dragged EMTs to break up Claudia’s party. But fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s nonresponsive.
Giving her another chance, I shake her lightly. Nothing. There’s a bathroom attached to the room. I race inside, gather water into my hands and, leaving the faucet running, run back to drop the water onto Charlotte’s face. Still nothing. My heart in my throat, I type in the emergency number. But I wait. A second. Then two. Charlotte lies there, her heart racing, looking like a waxen doll.
Hesitating only one second more, I press send and make the call. I recite my location, Charlotte’s symptoms, and am told someone will be there shortly.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I’d rather have you hate me than for you to be dead.” I kiss her cold cheek and then run out to get Nick.
“Charlotte’s sick. I’ve called 911—” Before I can get the rest of my words out, Nick runs into the bedroom. I hear him shout Charlotte’s name. I pull Varner, a friend of mine and a defensive lineman on our team, aside. “Charlotte’s sick. EMT is coming. Make sure they get up here ASAP.”
Varner claps me on the back and says, “On it, brother.” I don’t waste another minute and head back to Charlotte. Inside, Nick has her in his arms. His eyes are wide and a little red. “Has she said anything?” But I can see it’s a useless question. Charlotte’s arms hang down by her sides like there is no life in them.
“No,” he answers and hugs her closer. I want to be hugging Charlotte too, but I need to keep an eye out for the EMTs. Each minute seems to drag by, but the EMT services arrive quickly. Claudia’s address is a wealthy one, and there are no delays for rich people.
The EMTs won’t allow either Nick or I to ride to the hospital in the ambulance. Nick has to hold me back when I almost deck the EMT driver when he bars me from the back of the ambulance. We catch a cab, and it is on the way to the hospital that I finally get Dad on the phone.
“What’s wrong?” he barks into the phone.
“Charlotte,” I choke out. The emotions of the evening are catching up to me, and my throat is thick with them. My dad doesn’t hesitate.
“Where should we meet you?”
“Hospital,” I say.
This time there is a moment of silence before I hear my dad curse. “Which one?”
“Rush U.”
“We’ll be there.” He’s gone before I can say another word.
“She going to be okay?” Nick asks, his voice sounding small and scared. I put my arm around him and that he allows it, that he actually puts his head on my shoulder like he used to when we were younger, makes me feel horrible. Guilty and sick inside.
“Yeah,” I say trying to overcome those feelings, trying to put on a good front. “Charlotte is a fighter. Stronger than both of us.”
Because Charlotte can’t die. She can’t die and leave us. I won’t allow it to happen. Charlotte belongs in this world, with me. With all of us but mostly me. Inside my head I’m screaming and praying and bargaining. Please, please, please, I plead silently, I’ll do anything. Anything.
By the time that we arrive at the hospital, Charlotte is nowhere to be seen and no one is telling two teenagers anything. We wait in the lobby for our parents and hers to arrive. They burst through the doors. AnnMarie and Bo run past us to the desk. Dad stops in front of us.
“What happened?” he commands. Bo turns toward us. He looks big and menacing.
“We were at the party, and she looked tired. I thought she needed to lie down so I took her to the guest room, but by the time we got there she must’ve passed out.” I ran through the next events. “I tried to rouse her, but she wouldn’t come to. I called you both, but there was no answer.” I hear AnnMarie’s voice catch and then a cry which brings my mom to her side immediately. My gaze swings back to Dad. “I called 911.”
Uncle Bo steps forward and squeezes my shoulder with his big hand. I’m almost as tall as him, almost as tall as my dad, I realize absently. “You did good, son,” Uncle Bo says and gives Dad a chin nod.
Dad leads both Nick and I away, but we don’t want to go. We drag our heels, anxiously trying to overhear something, but Dad is implacable and we do what he says. Mom comes over and holds our hands. It’s a little comforting but not much.
It seems like hours before we get any news, which I figure must be good. Finally someone comes out and speaks to Charlotte’s parents. Whatever the news is I can’t hear because Dad is standing in front of Nick and me, like he’s blocking us from getting to them. When AnnMarie collapses into Bo, I try to break away from my dad but his big arm stops me.
The doctor walks over to us with Charlotte’s parents right behind him.
“How long has she been vomiting at school?” the doctor asks us. Nick and I share a glance, a guilty one, that my mom reads instantly.
“Nathan and Nicholas Jackson, what have you been hiding?” she asks sternly.
Nick pipes up immediately. “She didn’t want to say anything because she knew you would take her out of school.”
“This isn’t something you can keep to yourself. It’s not like drinking my Scotch on New Year’s Eve and pretending you don’t know anything about it. Pretending like Charlotte isn’t sick doesn’t make her better,” Dad growls
“I was making sure she rested too,” I stupidly say.
“Where?” Uncle Bo asks.
“The training room.” I look down at my shoes and realize for the first time that I’m standing here in a fucking tutu and wings. I tear the wings off and pull down the tutu so that I’m now just wearing gym shorts and a tank. Unfortunately, taking off the ridiculous costume doesn’t make me feel one ounce better. I shouldn’t have covered for her, but how was I supposed to know that she was too sick to be at school. Maybe I should’ve known. Maybe all this is my fault.
8
Charlotte
I’ve messed up bad. Dad’s face looks like a thundercloud, and Mom looks like I’ve danced all over her heart.
“You and those Jackson boys,” Mom mutters. I’ve never heard her refer to Nate and Nick as the “Jackson boys.” Those guys are like her sons.
“Mom, it’s my fault. I begged them to not tell you.”
Mom closes her eyes, I guess praying for patience. “Your doctor says your throat looks like you ate a Brillo Pad, it’s so red and sore. You must be vomiting daily, at least once or twice a day. I know you’ve been losing weight, but I thought maybe if I just kept quiet, you’d eat.”
I press my lips together to keep from crying. I was trying to be strong, but obviously I’d gone about it in a stupid way.
Mom continues, “So now, you’re going to have to be fed intravenously until your weight gets back up. You’re dehydrated and undernourished. We can’t allow you to go back to school, either.” She presses her face to my fingers. “Baby girl, we love you, and if you can’t take care of yourself then we’re going to do it for you.”
“I’m sorry.” My tears are coming, and her tears are wetting my hand. “I’m so sorry. I was stupid. Please don’t blame Nick or Nate. Please.”
“We won’t.” Dad finally breaks his silence and sits on the other side of the bed. “Those two would break their arms off before they’d hurt you intentionally. But, Charlotte, this is one reason we thought you might be better off leaving Chicago to get better. Those boys, they love you so much, but they’re too young to know how to help you. You three are bumbling around like blind mice inside a big maze. It’s okay when you’re all healthy but like it or not, you’re a sick little girl. You can get better but not by hiding stuff from us.”
I nod, but Dad presses on. “You oughta think what you are doing to those boys. Think hard because your illness could be distracting for them. Make it hard for them to study or focus on their other stuff because they’re too worried about you.”
He’s right. I look down at my sheet-covered body. Tonight Nick and Nate had to be talked into going to the Halloween party. If I hadn’t insisted, they would’ve stayed home. I can see it now. Every party or event or i
nvitation will be weighed against whether I am well enough to go and if I’m not, they’ll both stay home. They’ll laugh and tell me that they’d rather be with me, but the truth is my illness will be making them prisoners—just like it is holding me hostage. I won’t do that to them. To either of them. I love them too much. I don’t want them to miss even one thing because I am sick. That seems too stupid for words.
I squeeze my mom’s hand. “I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland.”
9
Nathan
Getting into Charlotte’s bedroom isn’t exactly easy but it’s doable. Both penthouse condos have security, but it’s outwardly focused, meaning that the cameras and alarms are on the elevators and the entrances. When Uncle Bo built the Randolph Towers, he put a long hallway between the kitchens of the two condos. There’s a service elevator there, but it shuts down every night at 7 pm. Anything sent up after that would set off an alarm.
Dad explained this to Nick and me when I was ten and Nick was eight after he caught us trying to pry open the elevator doors to see if we could climb down the shaft and pretend we were Woody and Buzz from Toy Story. Shortly after, we found ourselves enrolled in rock climbing classes so we’d have harnesses for the next time we thought about rappelling down the inside of an elevator shaft.
Nick and I’ve had some dumbass ideas over the years. Mom says it’s a miracle we’re still alive, so there’s some kind of sick ass irony over Charlotte being the one so sick, her health so fragile that she has to move away. She never tried to climb down the rooftop terrace onto the balcony¸ and she covered her eyes when Nick and I played Frogger on Michigan Avenue.
But of all the stupid ideas that Nick and I have come up with over the years, not one of them comes close to Charlotte’s belief that leaving me—us—would make her better. The edict came down from Mom today that Charlotte would be leaving us. Her lip quivered while Dad sighed a lot. Nick stormed off and sat stone stupid at the table. I need to talk her out of it, which is why I’m creeping down the service hallway between our two homes and into her bedroom at midnight.
The Charlotte Chronicles Page 4