“Yes, it is.” Her shoulders tense, and I know I’ve hit a sensitive spot. “It gets to be a lot to handle. I probably should join some clubs. A book club, or cooking or gardening. Anything to keep me occupied.”
“Your work seems to keep you busy,” I say.
“It does.” Charlotte keeps the ice propped to her cheek. “Teaching students is such a gift.”
“That’s why you’re so smart.”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem well educated.”
“Just with books. My main focus area is literature.”
“That’s one of my worst.”
“Reading?”
“Yeah, I just find it hard to focus.”
“It can be, and if you’re uninterested in the subject matter, that’s the kiss of death.” Licking her lips, Charlotte whispers, “Speaking of death, I saw my life flash before my eyes tonight. It was surreal, like I was standing outside of my own body, watching it happen in slow motion.”
“Was it the gun that made it seem real?”
“I don’t think so. It was the entirety of the chain reaction of events.” She stares into the flames. “But it made me question why I brought my own gun back in the house.” Under her breath she murmurs, “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”
“Why did you lie . . .” As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I regret it, and her head swivels toward me. Smoothly, I rephrase. “Poor choice of words. What I meant to say is: Why don’t you want the cops to know about your gun or your experience with having them?”
“Because then I’d have to talk about my past.” She gives me an intense stare. “Imagine if you have to keep reliving the worst periods of your life, because of who you’re tied to in your past. That it’s not just your pain or secret alone. That anyone can look it up online and know who you are.”
“But I thought the person who hurt you disappeared on their own?” I play dumb. “Or did I get that wrong?”
Her puffy cheek looks more pronounced because of her evident distaste for the question. “I didn’t want you to find me in an online search.”
“How come?” I tilt my head.
“Because you’d have questions and want to talk about it.” She sighs. “I don’t want to feel forced to keep dredging it up. Does that make sense?”
I wish I could argue with her logic, find fault in it, but I can’t. Who would want the general public finding out details and ripping off old Band-Aids when they discover who Charlotte was, as opposed to who she is?
She’s a bystander, and though I’m not ready to use the word innocent yet, she’s caught in the crossfire of her past.
I must’ve sighed loudly at the fire, because Charlotte looks at me in surprise. I’m no different from Charlotte, I suppose, because I’m also caught in the choices of my father, and even my mother. They call it family and blood for a reason.
“What are you scared about, when it—”
A ringing interrupts my question, and I’m surprised to see Charlotte stand and disappear into the kitchen. Peering over my shoulder, I watch as she rests her shoulder against the open door of the pantry, speaking in a hushed voice on what looks to be a landline.
I didn’t even know these relics existed or that I’d see one in my lifetime. Though I suppose, since her cell phone was stolen, she’s smart to have a backup.
I hear her say, “Good point, thank you.” And then, “Hold on, please.”
As I pretend to read a magazine I found in a woven basket next to the chair, Charlotte reappears by my side. “Noah just gave me a second reminder they could try and use my credit cards. Would you mind grabbing my laptop for me?” She scans the room, as if trying to conjure up where she last left it. “Hmm . . . it’s probably upstairs in the office, second door on the left.”
“Sure thing.”
I walk upstairs. Before going into the office, I twist a knob, checking that the door that wouldn’t open before is still locked, and when I get to the office I notice a pair of reading glasses perched on the window seat next to a striped laptop case.
Darting my eyes to the door, I close it halfway so Charlotte won’t see me from down below if she decides to check on me.
Pausing first to make sure I still hear her hushed voice, I open the closet door.
I move my eyes upward and notice a couple boxes of various sizes resting on the top shelf.
One in particular stands out to me, since every other bin or box is labeled with its contents.
But this one isn’t.
It’s nameless.
I have to stand on my tiptoes, and my fingers barely make contact with it, but I’m able to jump up a few times, catching the corner of the box with my hand; I then give it enough of a pull to heave it an inch forward off the shelf. The cardboard edge hangs over the side, and, grunting one last time, I’m able to tug at it enough for it to tumble to the ground.
Unfortunately, my timing’s off and I don’t catch it, and instead it lands with a clatter on the floor. Holding my breath, I wait for something breakable to add another crash. When nothing but silence follows, I stand for an instant, relieved.
Cursing, I realize I am directly above the master bedroom and that Charlotte’s probably on her way up, wondering what the thud was.
Sneaking a peek out the door, I anxiously wait, expecting to see her haggard face.
The box is closed and expertly taped, and there’s no opening it without having to retape it shut. I’ll need packing tape to close it back up.
Most of the desk drawers are locked, and Scotch tape is all I can find in the desk drawers.
I bring Charlotte’s laptop case downstairs and set it on the coffee table. I can hear Charlotte in the kitchen, so I tiptoe out to the garage in search of some packing tape. Relieved, I find a roll balanced precariously on a Tupperware container, like it was left there as an afterthought.
I have an excuse ready if I run into Charlotte as I come back in the house. I’ll tell her it’s to tape the gaping hole in my sneakers.
Holding my breath, I want to run the entire way up the staircase, but that would cause louder footsteps. I duck into the office, swiftly shut the closet door, and lift the box before carrying it to the bathroom.
After locking the door behind me, I use a pair of scissors to open the box, and, as I cut through the tape, I’m careful not to damage the cardboard.
My stomach is filled with dread as an invisible hand wraps around my neck muscles, tensing my back and shoulders.
Sinking on my knees, I rip off the last piece of tape and delicately peel away the flaps. Inside is a sonogram of a baby, and, checking the date, I see it’s from 2010, which lines up with when the accident happened.
Except for one thing . . .
The father listed is not Jonathan Randall. It’s Noah Wilder.
In fact, as I thumb through stacks of papers, I discover a few yellowed pages of medical records that indicate that Noah was the actual father, based on a paternity test.
My heart sinks.
Is this what happened when my dad went to prison? Did he find out the baby wasn’t his and lose his shit on her?
And why did Charlotte tell me it was Jonathan’s and not Noah’s?
I sigh, and the truth of this new information makes me believe all the more that my father’s guilty. This doesn’t help his case, that’s for sure. I’m starting to feel hopeless, like there are so many buried memories and half truths and no one seems to know who exactly is at fault anymore, and everyone has a percentage they’re responsible for.