3. Charlie
I’m up bright and early this morning because I have a meeting with a prospective client on the calendar. To be honest, I’m up bright and early every morning. I’ve been like that for a long time. It probably has to do with something someone said to me after Momma died.
I was fourteen at the time, so it didn’t really sink in—but as the years have hurried on, as they seem to, those words have become tattooed on my brain somewhere.
After the funeral, our house was packed with all the people Momma knew, and she knew a lot. She’d been the local seamstress since before I was even born. There was always someone arriving at the house, day or night, looking for some adjustments to their clothes, drapes, or household wares. If it could be stitched, my mom could fix it. I think she even mended a tent once.
My childhood home, where my father still lives, is a huge old thing, situated on the outskirts of the town. Momma died in the summer, which was better in a way, I suppose. At least everyone wasn’t crammed inside.
The women of the town had done themselves proud, bringing a wide variety of foods to eat. Tables were erected in the garden, and bowls of food in all shapes and sizes were set out. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t in the mood for eating. Neither was Dad. He hadn’t been right for the two months of her illness, though. Which I suppose is no surprise.
When you’re young, you think things are going to be all right. More so for me, given that I had a pretty closeted upbringing. I was an only child and a lonely child. I didn’t make friends easily, because I was so quiet. Milly, of course, was my only friend.
When I look back now, the style of my clothes and my hair was far behind the times. But then, Momma and Dad were both quite old-fashioned in their ways and how they dressed.
Where was I? Oh, yes. The funeral.
While all the adults huddled together, I did my best to stay out of the way. At the bottom of our garden was a small swing set. When I was younger, it had been the place where I had all my adventures with my make-believe friends because I didn’t have real ones.
I’d been sitting there alone for some while. I think, if I remember correctly, I was trying to talk to God. I wanted to know if Momma was okay. I never did get an answer. Someone approached from behind, and when I turned, I saw Mr. Heaton. Yes, Troy’s father.
He asked if he could sit on the swing beside mine, and I nodded. He sat there quietly for some time, just rocking back and forth. Then he said, “You’re going to be all right, Charlotte.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I nodded again.
“Your mother was taken far too soon,” he said. “It’s a sad day for everyone.”
“Taken where?” I replied.
I cringe now when I think about it. But no one had explained death to me. I did say I had a closeted upbringing. During the months prior, Dad had been too busy looking after Momma, and all the adults that came to and from the house in that last month could barely look me in the eye. Besides, Dad was never good with words. Well, unless he was yelling at me.
Mr. Heaton looked down at me and smiled. He was a tall, broad man; I suppose he still is. He works hard, cutting down trees for his logging business. While he and Dad spoke sometimes, they were never best buddies. But for some reason, Mr. Heaton took it upon himself to come and talk to me that day.
“That, dear Charlotte, is the question everyone wants to know the answer to. We know what’s here,” he said, gesturing to the trees and shrubs around us, “but no one knows what the next part brings.”
“Maybe Momma will come back and tell us,” I said innocently.
“Maybe she will.” He sighed deeply then. “It’s just too short, this life of ours. I’ll give you a piece of advice, Charlotte. Live your life your way. Don’t waste a minute. Because one minute we’re here, and the next”—he snapped his fingers—“it’s all over.”
Of course, my childhood didn’t change. I whiled away the hours without a care. But as I’ve grown older, and I’m now in my twenty-seventh year, Mr. Heaton’s advice is more prominent in my brain.
* * *
After a tall glass of water and a coffee, my morning ritual, I put my iPod on and dance around the kitchen while I clean the mess left from last night’s cooking. I always like to clean the house before I go anywhere.
Maybe I watch too much TV, but those CSI shows always worry me. Imagine if I died in a car crash and those poor people had to come to my house. If it were a mess, I’d be mortified. Well, actually, I’d be dead, so I likely wouldn’t care, but I feel mortified just imagining it. They might judge me for my unwashed dishes or my dirty floor, and that just will not do.
After a quick shower, I get dressed and grab my small portfolio case from my home office; it contains the details of the client and an array of photos showcasing my previous work. Then I skip down the stairs. I’m grabbing my keys from my cute keyholder, which hangs beside the front door, when I notice a car parked in the driveway next door.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Clearly, Troy arrived late last night. But knowing that he is now actually inside the house makes me nervous. I know we’re going to have to see and speak to each other sooner or later, but I’d prefer it to be later. Besides, it’s too early in the morning. He’s likely still in bed. Stepping outside, I close the door behind me and walk to the car.
“Good morning.” The voice travels over the crisp morning air.
I stiffen in surprise. I hadn’t seen him in the garden and just assumed he would be in the house. Clearly, my assumption-making skills are way off. I’ll admit, his voice hasn’t changed much. It’s as deep and gravelly now as it was all those years ago.
I could jump in my car and drive away without speaking to him, but then I’d look like an idiot. He isn’t going anywhere. He’s not going to magically disappear. I’m going to have to face him one way or another, and with a huge sigh, I figure it’s going to have to be now.
“I’m your new neighbor,” he says, like I haven’t figured that out already. Does he think I’m dense?
Well, here goes nothing.I slowly turn to face him, already feeling wholly uncomfortable. He’s going to freak out when he realizes who I am. And as I turn toward him… yep. He’s freaking out.
Of course, he’s not the only one. I may have the advantage of forewarning, but it doesn’t stop my stomach from lurching when I see him standing there in a sports vest, those same bulging muscles pressed against the cotton like it’s a glove and not a shirt.
While his mouth falls open, my heart is thumping out of my chest, though I hold my expression. My face is like stone, while my insides go into overdrive at the sight of him.
“Charlotte?” he gasps.
I don’t want to go all weak in the knees during this first interaction, nor do I want my voice to give him any indication of what’s going on behind my passive expression. It takes some control, but mustering all the determination I have, I steady myself before I reply.
“It’s Charlie now,” I say, with as little emotion as possible. “No one’s called me Charlotte for years.”
And that’s the truth. When Troy up and left, there was a gaping hole inside of me, like he’d ripped something out of me and taken it with him. It took me nearly a year to get past that.
But at the end of that year, at the end of all the tears and the sorrow and the mourning, I was a different person. I’d grown, I’d matured, I’d been through a death of sorts. Then I reinvented myself. I was determined to get on with my own life. It took great effort to push the memories and the emotions deep down until I could see and feel them no more, but I did it. Eventually.
I’m still waiting for him to speak. Clearly, like me, he’s trying to process this moment. But I have an escape, and I have every intention of using it.
“Good catch-up,” I say flippantly. “I’ll see you later.” Before he has the chance to reply, I turn and jump into the car.
Hurriedly slipping the key into the ignition, I start the engine. Only, I don’t because the darn thing won’t start.
Of all the days! Are you kidding me?
The ignition turns over and over, but she just won’t fire, and I’m starting to panic. Not because I might be late for my client, but because I can see Troy moving across his garden in my peripheral vision.
“Start, darn you!” I yell at the dashboard. “You’ve caused me nothing but problems from the minute I bought you. I should have just gotten the Toyota.”
The panic rises as the seconds pass and Troy gets nearer and nearer. Frankly, I don’t want to have anything more to do with my new neighbor than absolutely necessary; the idea that he’ll end up being my knight in shining armor on the first day of our seeing each other again makes me feel sick.
But he’s near his gate now, and any second, he’ll open it and walk over to me. I know he knows what’s under the hood. He was always messing around with cars when he was younger. But the last thing I need is his help. The garden fence stands as a good barrier between us, and that’s exactly the way I want it to stay.
He’s yelling something, but I can’t hear him through the window that remains purposefully closed. He’s out of his gate and now on the sidewalk. One step. Two steps.
Start, you piece of junk.
And just as he reaches the end of my driveway, the engine fires into action, and I can’t put the shift into drive fast enough. Flying out of the driveway, I pin on a smile and blast past him. Catching sight of him in my rearview mirror, he’s still standing there when I reach the end of the street.
My heart continues to thump a few minutes later, even though the danger has passed. When I finally calm myself down, I heave a huge sigh.
This is going to be a nightmare of colossal proportions. A nightmare I really don’t need. I’ve only just gotten myself back together after Eddy tore my heart into pieces. I really don’t need any more heartache.
I look upward to the heavens, and with pleading eyes, I say, “Can you not cut me a break here?”