Charlie, Presumed Dead

by Anne Heltzel

  You hate those cloaks you slip on for them, but they keep you strong. You read the book, you study, you impersonate. It’s what works. It keeps you feeling good. It’s these other times, these times away from them, when all of it sets in: the post-adrenaline crash, the exhaustion, the panic from the couple of times you almost slipped up. Then the rage boils up.

  But you love them. That’s all you need.

  Sometimes, though, it feels like a kind of death. Lambs to the slaughter. It’s a phrase that’s lodged itself in your mind. It’s ugly, that phrase. When you start thinking that way, you get shaky. It becomes hard to focus. What gives your brain relief? Pot. You only openly smoke pot around Lena. (Aubrey doesn’t like it.) And even then only occasionally. Here, in the privacy of your dorm room, it’s all the time. Focus. It helps you focus on how much you love them, your little lamb, the gentle one—and your loris, the one full of poison. And how angry you are that you’re making mistakes.

  10

  Lena

  It’s obvious something’s up the second we sit down in Kala Ghoda Café. We do this awkward dance where first Adam moves toward Aubrey’s side of the table at the same time I do, and then he doubles back and lingers at the chair across from her before settling into the one across from me. Like it’s about something bigger than just which chair to plant his ass in. Kala Ghoda Café is little and mostly empty—it’s just across the street from Trishna’s, the seafood place famous for its garlic king crab, but somehow it escapes the crush. I thought of it because I knew it would be quiet—it’s where my mom and I used to go to read Vogue India and eat carrot cake and avoid my dad’s obsession with organized tours. Plus it’s beautiful, with its whitewashed walls and lofted ceilings and black-and-white photographs decorating the walls. But as we sit down I realize it’s too quiet, as in everyone’s-gonna-hear-everything-we-say quiet.

  Adam’s good-looking, I notice right off. Not my type, but sexy enough in his athletic way. He’s not the I-moved-to-India-and-became-a-hippie type. He’s wearing a faded blue T-shirt with the state of Texas outlined in white, cargo shorts, and brown leather flip-flops. The boy might as well be wearing a sign that says American. I never met Adam during the year he and Charlie lived together. I heard about him, but what I’m seeing surprises me. Adam’s tan and muscular, with short blond hair. And he’s loud. Charlie was friends with everyone . . . but this guy’s so not Charlie, to the point that I’m wondering if Charlie kept me from meeting him on purpose. Aubrey’s met him before—a fun fact that makes me seethe.

  “So you guys met, what, once?” My question’s as innocent as it gets, but Aubrey’s head jerks up and her knee bangs the table. I raise an eyebrow. “Jesus, Bree. Nervous much?” I’m needling her on purpose, and I can’t even figure out my motives. I like Aubrey. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend in all of this. I don’t know what’s prompting me to hurt her.

  “Right,” she says fast, looking at the table. “In D.C. Around my birthday.”

  “So that was . . .” I raise one eyebrow again, partly because I can do that and it’s awesome, partly because I’m still foggy on the timeline here.

  “Your birthday’s in December, yeah?” Adam breaks in. “The third, right?” Aubrey’s head snaps up again, and she stares at him, then nods really fast.

  “Yeah,” she says. “But we were in D.C. the weekend before, Thanksgiving break. The twenty-ninth. For Charlie’s birthday.”

  “I know,” Adam says easily, and Aubrey blushes. I glance from him to her. What’s going on here? If I didn’t already know that Aubrey has the biggest stick up her butt ever, I’d think she and Adam have a thing. But that’s impossible.

  “We only met the one time,” Aubrey clarifies.

  “Right,” I say in my most patient voice. “Because we just covered that particular base.” Adam’s eyes dart from me to her and back again, looking confused.

  “I know,” I tell him. “It’s totally weird. Charlie had two girlfriends at once. Take it all in while you can.”

  “So what can I help you guys with?” he finally asks, shifting in his chair. I’ve made him uncomfortable. I’m good at that.

  “As you may or may not know,” I tell him, “Charlie’s missing, presumed dead.”

  “Of course I know.”

  “Well then, of course we want to know anything you can tell us about Charlie in Bombay. Think hard. Maybe we can start with who he was around you.”

  “Who he was?” Adam screws up his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

  “Charlie was lying to us,” Aubrey explains. “About more than the fact that there is an us. He lied about random things. Stupid things. The way he liked to dress, his favorite foods, books he read. We just want to get a sense of how his personality was with you.”

  “And then we want to find him and castrate him,” I add. Adam raises an eyebrow and Aubrey blushes. Then Adam opens his mouth.

  “I don’t have much to say,” he says with a shrug. “We only knew each other for about a year. Less than a year. Charlie always kept to himself. It was hard on him, I think. He came into high school during senior year. Most of us had been here the whole time. Girls liked him, I guess. I mean, he had kind of a reputation for getting around . . .” Adam blinks, and he gives Aubrey and me a stricken look. “He liked attention. Maybe a little too much. He was that guy, the new guy. Plus he was funny; he knew how to tell a joke. Right—maybe I’d better stop talking.” I feel cold all over. Adam’s giving Aubrey this puppy-dog look, all worried, and he puts a hand on her wrist. But Aubrey wasn’t even dating Charlie then—I was. Something here’s not right.

  “It’s fine,” I say to Adam. “I don’t know why any of this is coming as a shock, after what we’ve already figured out.” Adam doesn’t bother looking in my direction. “So when did you two start hooking up?” I fire the question at Aubrey. It’s a gamble, but I have this gut feeling about it. I’ve always been good at reading people—except for Charlie, I guess. Bree’s face pales and Adam jumps in.

  “What’s your deal? You this hostile to everyone?”

  “Just to people who are hiding Charlie’s secrets,” I tell him. “How long did you know Charlie had two girlfriends? How’d you manage to keep that one from Aubrey, even after you met her? Is it such a stretch that you might have hooked up with Aubrey too? Maybe felt like Charlie didn’t deserve her?” Adam’s expression is priceless: open-mouthed, even disgusted. I find that all of a sudden, I can’t contain my rage. I grab the water bottle I keep stowed in my bag and pull off the top, chugging it until my throat loosens. I blink hard.

  “Chill, Lena,” Aubrey says, her voice sharp, stronger than expected. Aubrey almost never lashes out like this, not lately. “Adam’s here to help.”

  “I didn’t know Charlie had two girlfriends,” Adam says, his voice softer now. “I thought he was just this single, ladies’ man type, not a world-class douche. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know Charlie all that well after he left Bombay. We only met up that one time in D.C., but even that was kind of random. He called me up out of nowhere that weekend, and I had nothing else going on. Like I said, when he was here he was new. And he was gone all the time on weekends, so—”

  “Gone where?” Aubrey’s the one with the confused look now. “Did he really visit you that much, Lena?”

  “No.” My face burns. I can’t tell if I’m angry or embarrassed. “No, I only saw Charlie three times when he was in Bombay. Because it was so far.” Three lousy times. It was a miserable year. When he went away to college, it got better. But for so long, I thought Charlie wasn’t in love with me anymore.

  “He went to Kerala a couple of times,” Adam tells us. “Maybe more. He knew a guy who owned one of those tourist boats. The kind that take people out for a hundred bucks, float around the backwaters for a night. He said this guy, Anand, could hook us up—a boat, weed, booze—” Adam pauses, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I think he wanted to be friends with my crew. I think that’s why he offered, b
ut we never took him up on it. I don’t know who he went with when he went.” All of a sudden I’m embarrassed for Charlie, for us. My body burns with it. My eyes meet Aubrey’s, and then hers flicker down to the tabletop again; but from the way she reaches for her coffee and just barely sips it, her cheeks heating red, I can tell she’s embarrassed too.

  “God,” I mutter. The whole thing has taken on this absurd quality, and part of me wonders if I want to go on. What do I have to gain from this chase? Another look at Aubrey and something tells me not to stop. “So. Do you still have the information? About the guy with the boat?”

  Adam looks up, surprised. Then he nods. “Somewhere,” he tells me. “In my email, probably.”

  I look to Aubrey for help, but she’s silent. What, Aubrey, not so certain he’s dead anymore? “Don’t you want to find out for sure if he’s alive, Aubrey? Or is it more convenient for you to keep on blindly believing he’s dead?” I know what drives me to say it, even though part of me hates myself for hurting her. I know my motive and so does she, and she feels the full weight of my words as she shoves back from the table and runs outside, her chair clattering to the floor behind her as she goes. Adam shoots me a furious look and runs after her, confirming everything I already suspect. I’ve hurt her, something I’ve thought recently I couldn’t do. But she’s betrayed me. I was starting to think we were becoming friends. I was beginning to trust her. I watch them as they stand outside, Aubrey crying and him wrapping his arms around her. I’m not done. That was just a bite. There’s a lot more in me.

  11

  Aubrey

  Charlie could have slept with me, but he didn’t. He knew I wasn’t ready, so he waited for me, and it never wound up happening. It’s something I’m both grateful for and regret. Early on, Charlie said all the right things, did all the right things. It was something he was especially good at.

  The Jefferson Hotel in Montreal was lovely. It was in Mile End, a trendy neighborhood—walkable—its streets lined with shops and cafés. It was only my third time out of the country, the first being France with my parents when I was little, and the second Niagara Falls just last year, which hardly counts for anything. My parents thought Charlie and I were on a trip with Charlie’s parents; they also thought Charlie’s parents were just as much a unit as they were—strong and steady and loving. Not the kind who’d rent us a private suite in a five-star hotel for the express purpose of our private vacation.

  Charlie’s parents, they didn’t think like any of the adults I knew in Illinois.

  It made me nervous. But they were cosmopolitan, cultured. They treated Charlie like an equal. “They trust me,” he said over and over when I said, gaping at the lobby—which resembled an old gentlemen’s club from another era—“Are you sure this is okay?”

  “If it’s not okay, Bree, it’s too late now,” he told me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. I remember leaning into him, responding in such a natural way to his touch. His wool felt pea coat tickled my cheek; it was cold in Montreal—a chilly autumn, just a few months after we met. It all felt so grown-up—like we were playing house. But I wanted to assimilate well to this world; I figured it was no better or worse than the one I came from, just different. I wanted to understand it, to be a part of it. To maybe decide whether to belong to it.

  I wasn’t sure, having met Charlie, whether I could ever go back to the way things were, when I was just a suburban girl in Illinois. That’s what happens when you meet someone different, I thought to myself as I stood there, taking in the grandeur of the hotel. Your world opens up just a little. I felt scared then, because I was certain I’d never stop craving that expansion, bit by bit, relationship by relationship, person by person.

  The thought made me cold; I didn’t know where it had come from. I hugged Charlie tighter, waiting for him to complete check-in. There was a staircase to my left, stretching upward in the tradition of the kind of European elegance I’d seen in books. It was wide and sprawling and covered in thick carpet in a shade of dark green. On its underside, facing out into the room, were row upon row of books. They weren’t just for show. I wandered over and ran a finger over the titles as Charlie got everything organized. They were mostly classics: hardbound, with the kinds of spines that have visible stitches. The kind I was used to finding in my grandparents’ house when I was a kid.

  A young family took up a large portion of the room. Two blond children were playing with a chessboard while their parents discussed something quietly in nearby leather chairs. Their mom was also blond—and glamorous, in a tweed blazer with elbow patches and brown leather riding boots. Their dad was sturdy and handsome, like maybe he played one of those highbrow sports like polo. The little girls spoke with British accents, and their suitcases were made of pink leather.

  In Illinois, my parents were probably just sitting down to dinner. Maybe they were smiling at each other across my mom’s famous turkey tetrazzini casserole, saying things like “I hope Aubrey knows what she’s getting herself into,” and “You like this boy, don’t you, Mac?” and “As well as any other boy her age, I guess, though they’re all a pretty sorry bunch. This one doesn’t follow any sports teams, not even college football. He’s not my kinda guy; but I’m not the one dating him,” and “I just want her to be safe. Did you hear her say he isn’t any kind of religion at all?” In my imagination, their smiles faded and their brows creased and they leaned toward each other over the vinyl floral tablecloth, spooning turkey and noodles and mushroom sauce into their mouths as they lapsed into a worried silence.

  Charlie tugged on my sleeve as I stared at those books, bringing me back to the present. I clasped his hand tightly, letting the warmth of his palm seep into me. I remember thinking: I have to stop being this way. I need to start believing this stuff is real, because sometimes it all felt like I was playing a part in a story. Stuff like this only ever happens in novels.

  “Here,” Charlie said, handing me a glass of sparkling wine. “This is for us. Complimentary at check-in. We can take it up to our room.”

  “Don’t they—?”

  “Shh! No. They think we’re of age. I am of age.” He winked a little devilishly and pulled me toward the elevator bank. We ascended three stories, four, five, and then we were there. The hotel on this level was carpeted in red, its halls narrow. There were photographs on the walls: women on horseback, men leaning on croquet mallets in front of mansions. I felt my fear creeping into my throat as we drew closer.

  Then Charlie opened the door and the suite spread out in front of us: a long leather couch and two pale blue crushed-velvet chairs that almost looked as if they’d been vacuumed, since their texture was mottled with uniform streaks from changes in the fabric. There was a little bar to our left; a vase full of white hydrangeas rested on its granite surface. A bowl of truffles lay in the center of a long glass coffee table, and a large wall-mount TV oversaw the whole thing. It took my breath away; and yet I was having trouble entering.

  Charlie took my hand and pulled me forward. “The best part isn’t here,” he said softly. He swung me around, fast, and I laughed awkwardly. Then his arms were around me from behind, and he was walking me forward, one foot in front of the next. “It’s here,” he whispered, pausing at the threshold of the bedroom.

  The bed was beautiful: king-size and covered in a fluffy down comforter. It did nothing to distill the panic that worked its way into my throat. I breathed in sharply and Charlie must have taken it for awe, because he began kissing my neck, my cheek, moving toward my lips. “I knew you’d love Montreal,” he told me. “I’ve been wanting to take you here since I met you.”

  I was okay dipping a toe into Charlie’s world, but I wasn’t okay with this. It suddenly became obvious: Of course Charlie expected this. Of course this was a given. I should have realized it the second he suggested a whole weekend away. He had made all of these assumptions, and all of a sudden I was furious with him for not asking me and with myself for not anticipating the situation.

&n
bsp; “I’m not going to sleep with you,” I said, whirling to face him. “I can’t sleep with you. I’ve never slept with anyone and I’m not ready. I’m sorry. I know that’s why you brought me here, and I should have known, and I should have told you sooner, but I was stupid, and I’m sorry.” I stopped, breathing hard. Charlie stared back at me, his face a caricature. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. After the last apology he seemed to snap back to himself, like some internal rubber band.

  “Hey,” he said. “Why would you apologize? You should never apologize for something like that. Hey, come here.” He started to lead me toward the bed, then caught himself and changed direction, pulling me to the long leather couch in the main room. “Sit.” He patted a spot next to him. Then he drew me into him, pulling my head to his shoulder, and I promptly started to cry.

  “Hey, shhh. Aubrey, listen to me. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize any of that. I should have talked to you first. I don’t expect that. Really. I’d be happy holding hands all night if that’s what you wanted.”

  “Holding hands.” I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Holding hands is way underrated,” he said. “It’s actually way better than all that other stuff.” I raised my eyebrows at him, but he managed to look sincere. “I’m totally serious,” he continued. “You know why?” I shook my head, and he touched the tips of my fingers with those of his opposite hand, the one that wasn’t already resting on my shoulder. A tingle worked its way up my spine. “It’s better,” he said, his voice low, “because it means more. You don’t hold hands with just any girl.” Then he wrapped his fingers through mine all the way and pulled me into his chest, and I nearly stopped breathing.