Fragile (36 page)

Charlene shifted on the couch, folded her legs beneath her.

“There were rats down there. They were everywhere, scurrying on the dock, on the boat. I was afraid they would crawl on me, bite me. But they stayed away.”

The mention of rats got Maggie thinking about the attic at her mother’s house. She tamped back another sick swell of fear and anger. She’d deal with all that later. She could help Charlene. She couldn’t help Sarah.

“The second time he raped me, Marshall was there.”

Maggie thought about Marshall’s phone call, tried to figure out the timing. He’d already had Charlene. Where had he been calling from? She didn’t suppose it mattered now.

“Marshall was there when his father walked in. I remember hearing something just before. A loud bang. But I was so out of it by then, just numb. Starving, so thirsty, in pain—but in this really distant way.”

She was starting to get a glassy look. Maggie got up and took a small plastic bottle of water from the little fridge she had by the coffeemaker. She opened the lid, and Charlene took the bottle from her, drank nearly half of it in one gulp, as though she were still dying of thirst.

“He said something like, ‘Let me show you what they’re good for, Son.’ But then Marshall had a gun. I saw it, but his father didn’t. He was already … at me. I didn’t even have the strength to fight.

“Then Marshall started firing. God, I never knew how loud gunfire was. It was awful. I don’t know how he didn’t hit something, but his father
ran past him. Marshall turned to fire at him again, but the old man was there instead. Marshall shot his grandfather. Got him right in the chest. I remember that Marshall started wailing and wailing. And then he just walked off.”

She shook her head at the memory, as if she were trying to knock the pieces into place. “It’s like it all happened on a show I saw, a bad picture.”

“Just take your time with it. The mind distances itself from horror. It’s a survival mechanism.”

Charlene took another long sip of water.

“The next thing I remember is Mr. Cooper. He was hurt, too. But he saved me. I always thought he hated me.”

Maggie smiled. “He never hated you. He’s—he’s a difficult man to understand sometimes.”

“Well,” she said. “Tell him thanks for me.”

“I will. Or you can tell him yourself.”

Then, “What’s going to happen to Marshall?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

She knew he’d face charges: kidnapping, manslaughter, illegal firearms possession—these were all on the table. He needed a lawyer, that much was certain. She didn’t know if he’d be charged as an adult or a minor. Maggie was certain that her evaluation of his condition would have some impact.

“It’s weird, but even after everything that happened,” Charlene said, “I feel bad for him. He seemed so sad. So lost. I think he really needs help.”

“There are people who care about him.” Even as Maggie said it, she wondered if it was true. “There’s a system in place.”

“That’s good,” Charlene said. She sounded young and uncertain.

“Let’s talk about why you left in the first place.”

Charlene leaned back on the couch. “I had a fight with my mom. About the phone.”

“The phone Graham got for you.”

“Right. It was stupid. Everyone has a phone. Even Graham knew that.”

“Your friends—Britney and Rick, in particular—said you were afraid of him. That he was inappropriate with you. Is that true?”

Charlene shrugged. Maggie noticed that her eyes started moving around the room, looking everywhere but at Maggie. “I don’t know. He’s all right, I guess. Stupid. He and my mom have a really bad relationship. They bring out the worst in each other.”

Maggie wondered what she was holding back. “Your mother told Jones that she hit Graham with a baseball bat.”

Charlene looked up, surprise lifting her eyebrows. “She told him that?”

“They found blood in the kitchen.”

She nodded, looked back down.

“That’s when I left. Last time they fought, I got in the middle and wound up with a black eye. I promised myself it wasn’t going to happen again.”

“How was he when you left?”

“He was on the floor, moaning and cursing at my mom. She was screaming at him. I don’t even think they noticed me pack and leave. I don’t know what happened then. There was blood. He didn’t look good.”

Charlene shook her head. “Mom said he left and said he wasn’t coming back. I don’t really blame him.”

She was quiet a minute. Then, “I didn’t know my real father. He died. I think she really loved him. She talks about him all the time, even now. She thinks things would have been different if he was still here.”

Maggie had a vague memory of the man Melody had married, someone she’d met at college. She found she couldn’t remember his name. Brian, maybe? Or Ryan? He’d died in a car wreck, killed on his way home from work by a drunk driver. Strange. Maggie hadn’t thought about it in years. Melody had experienced a lot of loss.

“It doesn’t do us much good to think that way, how things might be if this or that hadn’t happened. We have to deal with circumstances as they are and adjust.”

Charlene didn’t answer right away, picked at a thread on the hem of her pants.

“But you almost can’t help it, right, when things are bad, to wish they could be better?” she said finally. “It’s natural.”

“It
is
natural. But it’s more productive to look ahead than to look back. We can make that choice even when it seems to go against the natural tendencies.”

“That’s why I wanted to leave, go to New York.”

“To be with your boyfriend?”

Charlene looked down at her feet again. She put her thumb to her mouth and started chewing on the nail. Maggie remembered that Melody did the same thing.

“He wasn’t—isn’t—my boyfriend.” She gave a little laugh. “He was just some guy I met who said I could crash at his place. They all say that.” She looked at Maggie and rolled her eyes, offered a self-deprecating smile.

“He had a band that plays at a couple of bars in the East Village. He said he was about to be signed.” She took her thumb from her mouth and released a sigh. “But I think that was bullshit. Anyway, he never even returned my calls. I thought I loved him. I always think I’m in love at first. It feels all fiery, so life-changing. Then it’s just gone. That’s not love, right?”

Maggie couldn’t help but smile. She remembered being Charlene’s age, remembered when every feeling was so powerful that you couldn’t believe anyone had ever felt the same.

“Probably not,” Maggie said. “Love is not just initial intense feelings, not just about that early rush. There has to be more to it.”

“Like friendship.”

“That’s right.”

Charlene gazed out the window again. “I’m so tired,” she said. “I feel like I’m going to be tired and sad forever.”

“You won’t be,” Maggie said. “But you have a lot of healing to do. I’m going to recommend counseling for a while to help you process everything.”

Charlene glanced back from the window; she wore a worried frown. “Can’t you be my shrink?”

Maggie hesitated. “Let’s have a few sessions and see how it goes. I’m a little worried that we might be too close for me to be an effective therapist for you.”

Charlene uncrossed her legs and slipped into the shoes she’d worn there, a beat-up pair of Chinese slippers with embroidered roses.

“Okay,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Maggie told her, keeping her voice light. “We’re going to get you through this.”

Another silent nod. But Charlene kept her eyes down.

“I was a virgin—before this.” She spoke the words softly; Maggie had to lean forward to hear her. “I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t some slut. I was always afraid you thought that about me, that I was sleeping with Rick.”

Maggie struggled to keep the surprise off her face. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway; the girl didn’t look up to see the reaction her words had caused. She just folded over and started to cry again. Maggie came to sit beside her, put an arm around her back. Charlene shifted to lay her head on Maggie’s lap, and Maggie let her cry it out, rubbed her back while she did.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through this, Charlene,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Maggie felt like she was saying that a lot these days, apologizing for how ugly the world was, how bad things could get, how unfair. She thought about her mother and Jones, about the terrible things she had discovered in the attic and what they meant for all of them. Out the window, the light was growing dim, and she felt a sudden urgency to face the things she was hiding from in this room, in the space where she helped others but often ran away from herself.

Everything looked different. She wouldn’t have been able to say how. But as she stepped out of Dr. Cooper’s office and into a misty rain, everything—the trees, the sky, the grass on the lawn, the wet driveway, even her mother’s car—seemed altered. She’d felt this way since she was first aware of herself again in the hospital. When she woke up in the semidark to see her mother sleeping in a chair by her bed, lights washing in from the half-open door, the edges of everything seemed indistinct, the colors not quite right, like in one of those old movies. There was an
empty bed beside her, and her first thought was to wonder why her mother hadn’t stretched out there. She looked so uncomfortable in the hard chair. It was a strange thing to think under the circumstances, but that’s what she wondered first.

Then she’d been aware of how much she hurt. How her body ached—her wrists, her back, her neck. Even
down there
she felt pain, inside and out, a bruised tenderness. Then she’d been aware of a scratchy dryness in her throat, a dull pressure behind her eyes. Everything hurt, but just a little, like after she and her mother were in that fender-bender a couple of years back. She felt as if her whole body had been shaken once, really hard. She knew she would get up and walk out of there. And it seemed wrong, because what she felt inside was so black and cold and ugly that she wished she was in traction, wrapped in a full-body cast, on life support. Because that’s how she felt inside, damaged beyond repair. It wasn’t fair that people couldn’t see that.

Charlene paused in the doorway, dreading the walk from the safety of Dr. Cooper’s office to the overwarm, smoky interior of her mother’s car. Somehow, now, the world seemed too big, too menacing. There were too many wide-open spaces where bad things could happen. And she felt so small. But she drew in a breath and moved quickly toward the car. She didn’t run, though she wanted to. Charlene didn’t realize she was holding that last draw of air in her lungs until she’d closed the door behind her and locked it. As she put on her seat belt, her heart was pounding as if she’d sprinted a mile.

“How was it?”

Her mother was staring at her in this new way she had, as if Charlene were some kind of alien, someone whom she didn’t recognize and didn’t quite know what to do with. But it wasn’t mean. It was tender, somehow, careful.

“It was—I don’t know. Good, I guess, to talk about it. You know, with a doctor or whatever.”

Melody gave a slow nod. On impulse, Charlene reached out for her mother and took her hand. Melody’s eyes widened a bit in surprise, then she almost smiled. But it dropped from her face quickly, as though it had no business being there.

“Did you tell her everything, Charlene?”

Her mother seemed so sad, all the power drained from her somehow. The lines around her eyes had deepened. And she hadn’t bothered with any makeup for a couple of days, leaving herself to look washed out and plain.

“You mean about Graham? No,” Charlene said. “Of course not, Mom.”

“It’s my fault. All of this. I know that.”

“No, Mom. It’s mine.”

Charlene felt that quaking within her again. She had the strong urge to put her head in her mother’s lap like she used to, even though a few days ago she’d have rather set her own hair on fire than cuddle up to her mom. Now she didn’t like Melody to even be out of her sight for too long. She didn’t want to be alone.

Melody put her hands on Charlene’s shoulders, gave her a gentle shake.

“No, Charlene. None of this is your fault. There are things that were set in motion before you were ever born.”

Charlene shook her head and fought back another rush of tears. It was exhausting to be crying all the time.

“Charlene,” Melody said. She looked down at the seat between them. “God, there’s so much you don’t understand.”

But it wasn’t true; she understood everything. She’d been there.

When Charlene came down the stairs, she’d found her mother on the kitchen floor weeping. At first Charlene thought something had been broken, spilling a dark, red, viscous fluid across the floor. Then she saw the bat beside her mother. And for the next few moments, she thought her mother was hurt—the way she was folded onto herself, as though doubling over in terrible pain.

And then she saw Graham, pale and moaning on the floor, a hand to his head.

“You goddamn crazy bitch,” he was saying, soft and low, over and over like a mantra.

“What happened?” asked Charlene. She kept her distance, standing by the doorway. This was new, Graham down and bleeding, looking like he was hurt bad. She remembered the price she paid for getting between them the last time. So she kept her distance.

Melody looked up at her quickly, surprised, as if she didn’t realize Charlene was in the house. And maybe she hadn’t. They might not have known she was upstairs painting her nails. Her mom’s purse was on the counter, a pile of mail next to it. It looked like they’d just gotten home from work. Charlene saw it then; the bill for her phone on top of the pile. She had forgotten to intercept the mail when she came home from school. She felt her stomach bottom out. Melody saw her looking at it.

“Where’s that phone, Charlene?” Her voice was surprisingly soft, almost sweet. “Bring it to me right now.”

“Mom. No.”

She wouldn’t give up her phone; it was hers. God knows she’d earned it by putting up with Graham. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone has a phone. I don’t use it in school.”

Charlene looked over at Graham. He looked really bad.
Was all that blood coming from his head?