The Downside of Being Charlie (25 page)

“Should we wait?” I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess, but will she come back?” he asks.

I look around and spot her purse on the floor next to the bed. “Her purse is here,” I say, gesturing to it.

Dad picks it up. “Wallet, too.” He starts taking out different items and throwing them on the bed; keys, cinnamon gum, a ton of receipts, a book.

I pick up the book and study the cover. It's old and beat up. It says:
Crossing the Water
by Sylvia Plath.

“I didn't know Mom liked poetry,” I say.

“Yeah, she did. When we were in college, she got a poem published in the university magazine. She never wrote anything more after that, so I thought she just, you know . . .” He looks up at me and shrugs his shoulders, and I know exactly what he means. Somewhere in our attic were half-finished mosaic tables, warped pottery, badly knit beginnings of what were meant to be scarves or sweaters. All had started out with Mom's usual over-the-top enthusiasm only to be forgotten a
few days later.

I start looking through the book as Dad pulls out more receipts. It's riddled with notes written in the margins, most of which I can't make out. The writing kind of scares me, though. It seems frantic and rambling and there are exclamation points screaming off the pages and several words viciously underlined, some causing small rips. I run my hands over the pages, over Mom's writing, over a poem titled,
Mirror
, that was earmarked. This must have been the last one she was reading.

“Dad?” I say and work up the nerve to ask what I'm not really sure I want to know the answer to. “Do you think Mom will be okay?”

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and rubs his forehead.

“Yeah, she'll . . .” He looks at me and then stops. We're both struck; we've crossed some invisible line. We've never been here before. We can't go back. He shakes his head and lets out a long sigh.

“Honestly, Charlie? I don't know,” he says. “I have no idea if she's going to be all right.” The honesty catches me off guard. Him too, I think. He searches for what to say next. “I know I've been a jerk . . .” He looks down at the floor. “But I'm going to be there for her from now on, for both of you. I promise. I don't know how I let everything get so bad.” He shakes his head. He looks lost. I've been wanting him to feel bad. I've been wanting him to say it's all his fault. To let him feel like shit for a change. But now that he does, and is admitting to me that he's been wrong all along, I don't know if it's what I ever really wanted.

I shrug. Maybe he wants me to say something that will make it all not his fault. I wish I could give him that, but if I say it's not his fault, I know I won't really mean it. And if I say that it is his fault, I know I won't mean that, either. So I don't say anything, because nothing is truly black and white. There are so many shades of gray.

“I've known she's needed help, and I didn't . . .” He stares at her purse in his hands. “I mean, I hope she'll be fine, but I, I don't know if she will be.” Those last words clip the air. They sound too final, too ominous. He realizes it and quickly tries to fill the hanging silence.

“I mean, she'll . . . we'll get her help . . . just as soon as we find her.” He looks down. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

“Yeah,” I say because it's all that comes out.

The knock at the half-open door startles both of us. It's Jim from the lobby.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he starts, “but a couple a' fellas said they think your lady saw y'all and slipped out right before y'all came in here.”

“Yeah, looks like she's gone,” Dad mutters.

“It's not really my business, but, well, I've seen her wander around here sometimes late at night, so maybe she's still around here, waiting to see if you leave.” He smacks his lips. I know he's trying to be nice, but I'm suddenly bothered that this old man knows more about Mom than I do. And I hate that he's probably right—Mom would be waiting for us to leave.

“Let's go look for her,” I tell Dad. He nods and we head outside.

It's not really cold outside, but just enough for me to see my breath as I start jogging around the motel, looking for Mom. Dad heads in the opposite direction. The old man limps behind me, his hands in the pockets of his overalls, and I start to wonder if maybe he's not as nice as he seems. What if this was some kind of trap? What if he was trying to split up Dad and me? The two guys that were sitting outside could be attacking Dad right now. They could've done something to Mom and just lured us here to rob us or something. I speed up. The old man keeps up, too.

I don't know if I should call out for Mom or not. Maybe she needed my help. Or maybe she was hiding from us. I listen, but don't hear Dad calling for her either. I don't know if that's good or bad.

The motel is like a maze and everything I pass looks exactly the same. The same paint-chipped doors, the same eerie balconies. Balconies. Maybe she'd gone up to the second level where she would have a good view of us leaving. I race up the stairs, the old man shuffling behind me. I run around to what seems like the back of the motel and look down.

The view below is dark with only dim bulbs outside each room serving as light, making it hard to see. But I can make out what looks like a pool in the motel's back patio, and it strikes me as odd that such a rundown fleabag place like this should have a pool. It's dark and only the reflection of the moon on the water let's me know it's there.

The old man comes up right next to me, and he squints in the same direction. “Jesus Christ, son . . . ,”
he whispers and starts half limping, half running, back to the way we came. “Somebody call an ambulance! Somebody call a god-damn ambulance!”

I look frantically in the direction he was looking in, and I know I should be moving, running, and yelling, but I can't. Not until I see what he saw. And then I do. There's a limp, dark figure floating on the surface of the pool. Mom.

I run and head down the stairs, screaming and yelling. I run past the old man.

“Mom! Dad! Mom!”

“Charlie!” I can hear Dad's voice in the distance somewhere and the voices of other men. Some doors creak open as I pass, as I try to figure out how the hell to get back there.

“Dad! The pool! She's in the pool!” I yell in a voice that I don't even recognize as my own. I run faster, hoping it's not too late. I round a corner and finally see the pool ahead, and Dad finally comes from the other side, and then he jumps into the pool. But it's all happening slowly now.

“Carmen!” Dad yells. “Carmen!” The two other men who were outside when we first arrived at the motel come to the edge of the pool, yelling directions, grabbing at the giant, ragged leaf in the pool that Dad is trying to get to safety. I try to run over to him but fall and crash onto the concrete. My face scrapes across the ground, but I don't feel anything. I scramble to get up and race over to help and jump in.

The water is freezing, and we pull and push, but she doesn't move. The big green sweater she's wearing
wants to swallow her whole. Her face is an eerie pale color; the light of the moon giving everything a surreal hue. I'm scared. I'm scared of her being dead.

We finally get her out of the pool. Dad pulls himself out. Someone is screaming and sobbing. Dad is counting, pressing Mom's chest. I feel like someone is punching my chest. Who is crying? I think it could be me. What's been in the pit of my stomach all this time comes rushing out. All my screams have now escaped; they rush out and flood me. I watch Dad kiss Mom and breathe life into her tired body. Then he presses her chest and counts again. Somewhere else a siren blares. But it's all too slow. The old man's face floats in front of me; he's talking to me, but I don't understand words anymore. I think I'm underwater. All I hear are gurgles.

There are more hands, hands pushing Dad out of the way, hands under my arms, hands pulling me up and dragging me out of the way, hands on Mom, people around her. Dad next to me. His chest heaving, waiting, for a sign. We wait. I can't breath. The gurgling is too loud.

“We have vitals,” someone yells. Dad crumbles.

“Let's move,” someone else says.

They take her away.

M
y sneakers squeak on the hospital floor as we come in. Dad is frantic and demands to know what's going on with her. A nurse tries to calm him down, but he won't, so she shoves him into a seat and tells him to wait and she'll go find out. I sit next to him. I'm still wet. Dad is still wet. Mom just tried to drown herself. Mom just tried to kill herself. This kind of stuff doesn't really happen, does it? I think back to the last time I was in the hospital for Mom. I think of how scared I was as I watched the doctor hand Mom over to Mr. Killinger like she might break. I think of how this is the second time I've raced to a hospital for Mom. Yes. This kind of stuff is really happening.

Nurses glance up at us, and one comes over and hands Dad a clipboard. They speak in subdued voices. A doctor comes through a pair of swinging doors.

He quickly introduces himself, before telling us the only thing that matters. “She's stable,” he says, “the CPR you administered probably saved her from being deprived of oxygen too long. She's not quite coherent, and we have to run tests to check for any further complications.” He chooses his next words carefully. “The medics on the scene explained this was nonaccidental?” He looks to Dad
for confirmation of what he already knows.

“No, not accidental,” Dad mutters. The doctor nods his head.

“I think you should know we had to pump her stomach, too. She took a large dose of aspirin in addition to . . .” He hesitates and looks at me before looking back at Dad. “I'm sorry. I'll send our social service coordinator over to talk to you in just a minute. She can give you more information. I'll update you regularly, but as of now, I can tell you for sure that she'll have to stay for observation,” he says.

“Can we see her?” I ask.

“I'll send a nurse to get you as soon as that's possible,” he answers. “In the meantime, I'll have Ms. McKnight come out and speak with you.” He pats Dad on the shoulder, and goes back through the swinging doors.

A woman in regular clothes with a hospital employee badge comes out after a period of time and takes Dad to a room. She won't let me go with them. I wait. Sick and broken people come in. Sick and broken people leave. The clock ticks. I wait. I wonder where Mom is waiting. The ceiling is a bunch of cork tiles. The floor is dull and scuffed. The nurses eat chips. I imagine eating too. I imagine throwing up. I picture the chunks floating in the toilet. I'm hypnotized by the chunks, by the water with gray ribbons that strangle mom. I think hours go by. I think part of me is still on the concrete back at the motel. I look at the cork ceiling again. The scuffed floor. The sick and broken people that come in. I can't let my mind go back to the dark places where Mom was. I can't let it go to that pool. A nurse comes over and cleans my face.

Finally Dad comes back and takes me to see Mom. I gasp for air. He knows where to turn, what room to go into. He's seen her already. He stops suddenly.

“Charlie?” he turns to look at me and takes a deep breath. I know he's trying to prepare me somehow.

“Dad, I know.” I don't know what I know . . . but I know what this is like. He nods.

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to me, and starts walking again. He points to let me know she's in room 216. I stop outside the door and try to take a deep breath. My hands shake. I cross my arms across my chest to stop them, brace myself, and walk in.

Mom looks slight, even on the small hospital bed, barely noticeable under the thin white sheets. She's facing the closed windows. I want to cry. I want to sit on the floor, where she can't see me, and cry until all of this goes away.

I clear my throat, “Mom?”

She doesn't stir or look my way. Dad walks around to the other side of the bed and bends down so his face is level with hers. He takes one of her hands in his.

“Carmen? Charlie's here,” he whispers. I walk around next to Dad.

Mom's pale face stares back at me, her eyes dark and dull and flat, like two buttonholes on a limp rag doll. There's a mottled bruise on the side of her face that goes from her cheek down to her jaw. I don't know how she could have gotten that, and even though she almost died, it's this bruise that I can hardly handle. I swallow the lump creeping up my throat. Dad looks over at me to see if I'm all right. I'm not, but I bite down hard and
set my face in what I hope looks like strength.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice, afraid if I say something there might be one last scream that escapes me, and I'll be stuck with it forever ringing in my ears. I'm too scared to touch her. I don't know what to do with myself.

“Need to go outside?”

I shake my head. I don't want to see her like this, but I can't leave her.

I pull the chair next to the bed closer and sit down. I can't stand anymore. I lay my head down on the bed and close my eyes. Dad sits on the chair on the other side of the room. I'm relieved, I don't want him to see the tears rolling down my face. If we had loved her enough, she would have stayed. We would have been enough, and she wouldn't have to escape to strange motels, to dark, dangerous, bottomless places where she wanted to die. I open my eyes, escaping images I don't want to relive. I focus on the quiet TV. Sports announcers are laughing. The world doesn't make sense. Everyone should stop. How can they laugh? My head hurts from plugging up my tears. The sports announcers keep laughing.