The Downside of Being Charlie (18 page)

“Hello?”

“Um, hi, Mr. Killinger? This is Charlie, Charlie Grisner.” There's a slight pause on the other end before he answers.

“Hi, Charlie. What's up?”

“I know this is kind of weird, but I was hoping . . . I, uh, kind of need help,” I say, trying to speak over the lump in my throat that feels like it's cutting off my voice and breath.

“Okay . . . what's going on?” he asks.

“I need a ride to the hospital.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No . . .”

“Charlie?”

The lump is getting bigger. My eyes burn and any minute now I know I'm going to start the kind of crying that shuts you down—makes it impossible to talk.

“Um . . . it's my mom . . .” My voice is shaking. “She's there, and I . . . they just called, and I . . . need
a ride because my dad's out of town and I can't . . . ,” I explain, trying to get out all the words.

“Okay . . . Charlie? Listen, just relax, okay? Where do you live?” I give him my address.

“I'm on my way,” he says, and I nod even though he can't see me. I hang up and the tears I've been trying to hold back win out. It's all my fault. I knew she was too upset to drive, but I didn't stop her. I close my eyes and press my hands on them hard, crushing my eyeballs, but the tears keep coming anyway, and soon my nose is stuffed and I can't breath. My mom could've killed herself, and I would have blamed myself forever for not stopping her. I press down harder on my eyes, but I can't stop. I can't stand being such a wimp and crying like this. If I could, I would punch myself in the gut right now.

Get up and stop being a freakin' wuss!
I tell myself.
Mr. Killinger will be here any minute
. I run to the bathroom to blow my nose and splash water on my face before running downstairs. Five minutes later, I see a blue Volvo coming down the road slowly. I go outside and stand by the curb. Mr. Killinger speeds up and pulls up in front of me.

“Hey, you all right?” he asks as I get in. I nod. “Is she at Hunter County?” I nod again.

I stare out the window as we drive to the hospital. Mr. Killinger doesn't say anything else, and I'm grateful because I don't think I can talk. I watch the bare trees rushing past us, the blur of dead grass, and lean my head on the cold window. I'm glad the day is gray and cold.

Once we're at the hospital, Mr. Killinger asks me my mother's name and inquires about her. A nurse leads us to a small room, where I find my mother sitting on a cot, hunched over, mumbling something to herself. The nurse whispers, “I'll be back in a minute,” and she leaves us standing in the doorway. Mr. Killinger steps over to the side to give us some privacy.

I look at her, scared to go toward her, scared she might explode again. This mumbling woman sitting here, hunched over like she's scared of the world, like she's taking cover from danger, can't really be my mother. I feel the tears start to burn my eyes. No . . . this crazy woman, who makes my life hell, who makes me have to call teachers I barely know, who embarrasses me, is my mother.

“Mom?” Her head snaps up like she's just been shocked with electricity. She has some small cuts on her face and a piece of gauze on her forehead.

“Charlie?” she relaxes. “Hey, bud . . . what are you doing here?” She says it so casually, like we're at home, like she isn't sitting in the hospital after having driven into a parked car.

“Are you okay?”

She looks confused. “Okay? Yeah, of course . . . oh,” she says as her hand flies up to the bandage on her head, “this. It's nothing. I'm fine.” She looks at me and smiles. If I wasn't so mad at her, that smile would have broken me because she looks so sad.

“Mom,” I say, but my voice doesn't work. What was she thinking? Why did she do this? And why did she always make me feel so guilty? Even when she's the
one always screwing things up, I'm the one who always feels bad.

An old man with glasses and a white coat comes in. “Hello,” he says and smiles. Why was everyone so cheery? Why was everyone acting like nothing had happened?

“I'm Dr. Yan and you must be Charlie,” he says. I look at him. “I just spoke to your friend out there,” he explains. “Well, Charlie . . . your mom's okay. Some bumps and a small cut. She'll be just fine.” He smiles at Mom. “Won't you dear?” Mom nods.

“She's not badly hurt,” he says, looking in my direction, “but she was hysterical, so we gave her a little something for her nerves.” Hysterical. Automatically, I look around and search for any evidence of the same thing Mom had done to Dad's office.

“So, here are some directions on how to clean those cuts and stitches, as well as some literature on . . . mental health and helpful resources.” He turns and hands me all the papers in his hands. “Is your dad home?” he asks.

“On a business trip,” I say. Mom starts crying, and I pray to God that the mention of my dad won't set her off again.

He nods. “Just give him those brochures there. I'll be calling him myself a little later on today to explain everything, including insurance and payment information, so you don't have to worry about that, Charlie. Does he have a cell phone number?”

I give him Dad's number.

“Okay then, I'd say you guys are all set to go. Any questions?” He looks back and forth between Mom and
me. I shake my head. She smiles at him.

“Well, it was a pleasure, my dear, though I don't hope to see you here again.” He laughs and takes her by the arm. “Let me help you up.”

Mom looks at him gratefully. “Thank you, Dr. Yan, for everything. You know, you are very kind.” Mom says this like she has to think very hard to remember each word.

“Thank you, dear. Now you just get some rest and listen to your family,” he says as he leads her out of the room and into the hallway where Mr. Killinger is still waiting.

“Who are you?” she asks as she looks at Mr. Killinger.

“This is Mr. Killinger,” I tell her, “my photography teacher. He gave me a ride here, Mom.”

“I hadn't even thought of how you got here,” she says to me, looking up and shaking her head as if to clear it. Dr. Yan hands Mom over to Mr. Killinger, like a delicate artifact, giving him instructions to hold on to her as she walks because she might be a little dizzy from the medication.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Grisner,” Mr. Killinger says calmly as he takes hold of her arm.

“You are all so kind and helpful,” she says.

I get a sick feeling in my stomach at those words. Mom clings on to Mr. Killinger as if she's afraid of sinking into the floor. I follow behind them and notice how the nurses look up and stare at Mom as she makes her way down the hall.

My phone rings as we get to the parking lot. I look down and see Ahmed's number, but I can't talk now. A second later, it pings with a new text message.

I don't have it in me to begin to answer that. I slide the phone back into my pocket.

Mr. Killinger helps mom into the front passenger side of his car and I get into the backseat. I watch as Mom talks to Mr. Killinger about how she hates this gloomy weather, and how she really actually prefers a warmer climate where the sun is always shining.

Another text from Ahmed:

I take a deep breath and type out a response that I hope will stop any more questions.

When we get home, Mr. Killinger tries to help Mom out of the car, but I don't want him to come inside. I tell him we'll be fine, but he looks uneasy. I keep thanking him, but he still makes no move to get back in the car. Finally after I promise him that yes, I will call him again if I need to, he gets back in his car and drives away.

Mom and I go inside and she retreats to her room, which still reeks of bleach. An hour later Dad calls, but I ignore it. Why is he calling? Like he cares. Like
I
should care that he remembers us and actually picked up the phone. After several tries to my cell number, he
tries our home phone, then cell again, and finally just leaves a voice mail. I listen to it, even though I wish I didn't want to.

I resist throwing my phone across the room. Dad can shove his apologies up his ass. This house is a freakin' mad house, and all I want is to get the hell out of here—just go somewhere far away where I don't have to pick up the pieces of my mom or make excuses for my dad. Anywhere other than this suffocating, life-sucking box we live in. But it's hopeless. There's nowhere for me to go. I know there's Ahmed's house, and if he and his mom knew about all the shit that just went down, they'd kill me for not heading straight over there. But the truth is, it's hard to
constantly
have to admit how screwed up my family is. It's hard to constantly need to be saved. I don't want to have to need anyone, and I want to be on my own; I don't care where I go, where I end up, or how I get there. I just know I have to leave
here
.

And that's when it hits me. Why not? Apparently it's okay for everyone else to leave. Apparently it's okay to abandon everyone and worry only about yourself. So why shouldn't I leave? There was really no reason to stay. This isn't my mess. I'm not the one who royally screwed up all of our lives. So let them deal with it. And me, I'll take off, just like they do. I'll even leave a
note; I'll let them know so they won't send out some search party or anything. Actually, screw the note. They probably won't even notice it.

I run upstairs and grab my old knapsack out of my closet. I throw in a couple of pairs of jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and socks. I run to the bathroom and grab my toothbrush. My heart is racing. Can I do this? Everything in my body tells me no, but I have to get out of here. I come across an old pack of Turkish cigarettes Ahmed swiped from his dad last year. I'd forgotten I still had them. We had tried to smoke them, but both of us agreed they pretty much sucked and made us sick. It was kind of a blow to Ahmed who thought he'd look much more Rat Packish if he smoked. I throw them in my backpack, along with my iPod, phone, and a book. I lift my mattress and grab the envelope of money I've saved up from birthdays and holidays and shove it in my pocket. I zip up my backpack and throw it on my back. The heaviness of it feels good. I keep moving so I don't have time to change my mind.

I pass Mom's door and stop. She's crying and all I can do is think of her on the other side, shut up in her room. No. I wasn't going to get reeled into this again. I couldn't think about her. I wanted to open the door and tell her to shut the hell up, but the sound of her crying makes me want to stay and help her somehow, even as it simultaneously makes me want to get as far away from her as possible. My backpack feels a hundred pounds heavier. No. They had to fix this. I'm done.

I race down the stairs and out the front door. I take several deep breaths. The cold night air fills my lungs
and dissipates the heaviness in my chest. I close the door behind me, take out my iPod, crank up the music, and don't look back.

I walk out of our neighborhood and down the main road that eventually leads to another main road riddled with restaurants, gas stations, fast food places, and other businesses near Rennington College. I take out the cigarettes and the lighter hidden inside the pack. I don't know why I ever bothered to hide them when neither of my parents were ever around to find them. I could hide a prostitute in my room for a month, and they'd probably never notice. I light one of the cigarettes, inhale deeply, and start coughing. They taste like crap, but I keep smoking, and when I'm almost done, I light the next one with the end of this one and keep walking, music blaring in my ears.

I can't believe this is my life. I can't believe these are my parents. I should just live by myself. I mean, I am eighteen. All I have to do is get a job. Mom wouldn't really care since she'd barely be around to realize I'm gone, and Dad could start a new life somewhere else with Kate.

A car pulls up next to me and comes to a severe stop a couple of feet ahead. For a minute I think I'm going to get abducted, but then I recognize the car. It's the rumbling black Mustang that Mark has had since sophomore year. The passenger's side door opens and out steps Charlotte VanderKleaton. I pluck the earplugs out of my ears.