Fragile (12 page)

“Please,” said Melody. “I know you guys think you’re grown up, that you know everything. But she’s just a girl. The world is not what you want it to be. It’s an unforgiving and dangerous place. Some consequences are forever.”

Maggie flashed on Sarah’s lean form, a hundred years ago, walking into the tall, black woods, the sky a slate slab above her. From Melody’s pleading tone, Maggie expected to see her tearing. But her face was grim, a stone mask of tension.

“Sometimes home is not a safe place, either,” said Brit, looking pointedly back at the older woman.

Melody blinked and shook her head as though she’d been struck. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Britney narrowed her eyes. “You know.”

The eruption was quick and fierce. Melody moved in to Britney, shouting something unintelligible, her face gone from stone to fire, flushing a hot red. Denise stepped forward to put her body between the two.

“Stay away from her, Melody,” she said firmly. “Stand back.”

When Maggie put her hands on Melody’s arms and pulled her back, Melody began to sob. It started low, then turned to a wail. She doubled over with the force of it. It was a terrible sound, something that frightened Brit, caused her to go white, her face to go slack. The sound connected to a place in Maggie’s center. Denise felt it, too, Maggie could tell. A mother’s fear for her child. Denise moved to Melody and put her arms around the other woman, led her away.

“What was she afraid of at home, Britney?” Maggie asked. They were good with each other; she knew Brit trusted her, knew that Maggie understood and accepted who she was, flaws and all.
You’re everything you need to be
, she’d told Britney in a session.
It’s enough to just be who you are
.

Britney looked up at the ceiling, then back at Maggie. “She was afraid of Graham,” she said.

Melody’s wailing grew louder; Denise had taken her to the couch in the sunken living room off the foyer.
Calm down, Mel. It’s okay. We’ll find her. We’ll find her
.

“How so?” Maggie asked. She was trying to be the measured and even one; but the stress of the situation was starting to get to her, too. “Did he hit her?”

Maggie remembered the shadow under Char’s eye a few weeks back. She’d asked the girl about it, but Char had laughed it off. Hit her head on the faucet in the tub when she bent down to pick up a dropped bar of soap. Silly. Stupid, she’d said. It didn’t ring true, but Maggie hadn’t pushed. Charlene didn’t present like an abused kid. Maggie knew Melody wasn’t a perfect mother, and Graham Olstead wasn’t anyone’s idea of an ideal stepfather. But what did an ideal parent look like? She wasn’t arrogant enough to think she knew.

Britney shook her head, seemed to measure her words. “He was
inappropriate
with her. Crude. Suggestive. She thought it was only a matter of time.”

“Until what?”

“Until, you know, he hit on her or something. Tried to touch her.”

Maggie looked back at Melody, not far from where they stood. If she heard Britney, she didn’t make any protestations. She had her head in her hands, was rocking slightly back and forth.

“But he’d never touched her before?”

Brit shook her head. “He said things to her—like, told her that she looked good, in a dirty way. Or he’d come into her room wrapped in a towel after his shower. Things like that. That’s what she told me.”

Maggie was aware suddenly of a terrible tension in her shoulders, a clenching in her stomach. She realized that Melody had never answered the question she’d asked on leaving the car.

“The stepfather thing is not always cool, you know, Dr. Cooper.” Britney had lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in close to Maggie. Brit was remembering her own stepfather, Maggie knew, Denise’s second, very rich husband. There’d never been any hint of abuse, just a sense Brit had that he didn’t want her around, that she was a nuisance in his marriage to her mother. But Denise had divorced him years ago, never married again.
I have money; I don’t need a husband
, Maggie remembered her saying.
I just want to be myself for the first time in my life
.

“Was she here tonight, Britney? I need you to be honest with me now. Have you heard from her?”

Denise had joined them again. “No one’s going to be mad. Okay, Brit?”

Britney looked at her mother. Denise’s beauty was maturing—fine lines and a softening around the jaw didn’t diminish her prettiness; Britney was blossoming—her face narrowing, losing its childish fullness, her prettiness becoming something more luminous. Maggie could see their closeness as Denise snaked an arm around Brit’s middle and the girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“I got a Facebook message from her earlier,” she said finally, pulling away from her mother. “I’ll show you.”

They walked through the house, Britney and Denise leading the way to the computer room, Maggie and Melody close behind. The long hallway was a photo shrine to Britney—the little blond cherub morphing into a fairy princess, at Disney, in Paris, climbing on a jungle gym, on her grandfather’s shoulders at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade—the privileged life of an adored child.

“What did you and Charlene fight about?” Maggie asked Melody again.

“What
don’t
we fight about, Maggie?” It wasn’t an answer. Maggie detected a stall. But she didn’t press; Melody was getting a glassy, haunted look that Maggie didn’t like.

Brit sat at the computer, and her fingers started dancing expertly on the keyboard. Some low music came from the monitor, and Maggie leaned over Brit’s shoulder.

“She updated her Facebook page. So I got an alert, but that’s it. She hasn’t called or sent me a personal message. So I don’t know where she is right now.”

“What does it mean that she ‘updated her page’?” said Maggie. She was annoyed with her own ignorance on this subject. Ricky had been urging her to get more current, even to create a page for herself.
You could connect with your old friends
, he’d said.
I’m too connected to them as it is
, she’d countered.
Your patients will think you’re cool. I don’t need my patients to think I’m cool
.

“There’s a box on the top of your page where you can type in what
you’re doing at the moment. Like mine says, ‘Brit is studying for her biology exam and wishing she was watching
American Idol
!’”

“What does Charlene’s say?” Melody asked.

Brit pointed to the list of status updates on her page. It read: Charlene is getting out of Dodge. Finally.

“I sent her a message to ask her what she was talking about.” She clicked over to her mail page and showed them the message: What’s wrong??? Call me!!! They were all looking over her shoulder; Denise had put on a pair of glasses. Melody was squinting at the screen.

“But she hasn’t answered,” Brit went on. “She updated at 7:09, and I sent her a note at 8:04. I tried to call her, but the call went straight to voice mail.”

“Is it unusual for her not to get back to you right away?” Maggie said. It was something Jones might ask.

Brit nodded, gave a slight shrug. “A little.”

Melody started to cry again. Then there was a loud, authoritative knock at the door, followed by an urgent, staccato ringing of the doorbell. Denise startled at the sudden sound and went quickly toward the door.

Maggie found herself following. As she moved from the hallway into the grand foyer, there was an odd, disconnected moment where she took in the triple-height ceiling, the marble beneath her feet. A round table stood in the center of the space, topped by a gigantic vase of flowers that gave no noticeable scent.

What had seemed opulent on entering suddenly felt disturbingly fake, the studied and purposeful display of wealth. She detected an emptiness beneath the beauty, a new-money cluelessness about taste; rooms chosen from a catalog or choreographed by a decorator but not reflecting the true style of the owner. But it was just a moment that passed and was forgotten when the room filled with cops, Jones first in the crowd, looking grim with purpose.

“What are you doing here?” she found herself asking her husband. But of course he would be there. There was a missing girl; she’d said the
words herself. He was head detective at the Hollows Police Department. She didn’t hear his answer, but when they locked eyes over the escalating noise, she saw something foreign on his face, a look she’d never seen before and couldn’t name.

It was 12:32 A.M.

10

I
t’s nice of you to do this,” she said. Her voice caught in her throat, and she sounded like she was crying. But she wasn’t, not anymore. There was a heavy scent in the air, cigarettes and something else unpleasant. Her sinuses were swelling, her head starting to ache from it.

“I want to.”

“Most people wouldn’t. It’s a long drive.”

“I’m not most people.”

She looked at him and smiled, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road to look back at her. She nodded.

“Well, thanks.”

She dug through her purse for a pressed powder to fix herself up. She knew she must be a wreck. She found it and popped open the mirror. Even in the scant, intermittent light from the passing streetlamps, she could see that she had raccoon eyes, her eyeliner and mascara making dark, wet smudges.

“I’m a mess,” she said, digging for a tissue and then wiping away the makeup. The white Kleenex came away black.

“You’re beautiful, Charlene.”

He was looking at her now. She gave him a weak smile.

“You’re sweet,” she said. Something about his gaze made her squirm.

She saw his jaw clench at that, eyes back on the road. He was a weird one, always had been. But what did she care? He was her ride out of this life, once and for all.

Gotham waited. She felt a clench of excitement mingled with an
unexpected fear. Hadn’t she been waiting for this? Didn’t she have plans? A place to stay? She wasn’t some clueless runaway.

She was sorry about Rick, about standing him up and leaving him behind. But he was such a baby in so many ways. Such a mama’s boy. For a while he’d acted like he might take off with her, not go to college, try to break into the music business with her. He was a good drummer, could be great if he devoted any real energy to it. But in the end, he’d balked. He looked cool, like a punk rebel. But on the inside, at his core, he was a good boy. And she was
not
a good girl. Most definitely not. They were wrong for each other. She’d take him places he didn’t really want to go. He’d hold her back. They’d wind up hating each other. He was a Hollows boy, just like his father. Or just like his mother. He’d leave to go to college, but eventually he’d come back. Charlene was never going back. She couldn’t. Not after tonight.

“So do you have a plan? Is someone expecting you?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been seeing someone in the city.”

“I thought you were with Ricky Cooper.”

“We’re just friends. No strings.”

He gave a sharp little laugh. “Does
he
know that?”

Charlene felt her face flush. And that smell was starting to make her feel queasy. Sometimes, on a long ride, she’d get carsick, start to feel that gray wobble of nausea, that expanding unwellness. All she needed was to get sick in this guy’s car.

“Can you pull over a minute?”

“Why?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

He pulled over quickly, and she got out into the chill of the night. She walked off the shoulder to the grass and sat, put her head on her knees. She could hear the rush of traffic, people racing toward whatever next event of their lives. Just like her, moving on, moving forward. She willed herself to be solid, to not fall apart by the side of the road. But it was no use. She managed to keep it off her clothes by getting on all fours, but she vomited until she was retching. It seemed to go on forever. When it was over, she sat sobbing.

“Are you all right?” he asked from behind her. She hadn’t heard him get out of the car, had forgotten about him altogether.

“Do I look all right?” she snapped. Then she remembered that he had gone out of his way for her, was her ride. “Sorry,” she said more gently. “No. I guess I’m not.”

She felt him just standing there, not saying anything. Finally, she got up and faced him. He was taller, bigger than she thought of him—when she thought of him at all. He opened the door for her, and she climbed back inside. The stink of the old car made her feel sick again almost immediately. She rolled down the window.

“I know it’s cold, but I need some air,” she said as he started driving again.

“It’s fine.” But he’d gone grim and sullen. Just like all men the minute you stopped being a sweet little flower. The second you ceased to please, they got shitty. Some of them, like Graham, got violent. She felt another wave of nausea at the thought of her stepfather, but she pushed the events of the evening away—a bad B horror movie she’d rented and turned off before the bloody conclusion. If she didn’t think about it, it wasn’t real. She could do that. Always had been able to. But her body was disloyal, puking by the side of the road, sobbing. Now her hands were shaking, adrenaline pumping for no good reason.

“Sorry,” she said again. “I’m not having a good night.”

But he didn’t say anything, just kept driving.
Well, fine, fuck you, too
, she thought. When the cold air got too much, she rolled up the window and leaned her head against the glass.

“Should we put on some music?” she asked.

“Radio’s broke.”

Her mother insisted that there was no way Charlene could remember her father. He’d died when she was very young, in a car accident on his way home from work. But she did remember him—how it felt to hold his hand or ride on his shoulder. She knew his face, a lot like hers, from the photographs she had of him. But that was not how she remembered him. Nor were there particular events in her memory of him. It was an essence, a feeling—just a good, warm feeling, a safe, secure
happiness. When she was younger, she could access that feeling simply by holding his picture to her chest and closing her eyes. But as she grew older, she couldn’t do that anymore. It became elusive, a shadow slipping around the corner while she gave chase. How could she ever get it? That wonderful feeling? The safety of being loved by someone who didn’t want to violate you in return, who didn’t want to
take
something that didn’t belong to him?