“Like I said, it’s none of my business, but is he—” Marge pauses, trying to be delicate. “Is he treating you okay?”
Charlie knows she could—and should—tell her about Josh. Marge would believe her. Watching the waitress furiously dab at her coat, worry wrinkles joining her regular ones, Charlie begins to doubt the spill at the table was an accident. Marge is a pro, and that was a rookie mistake. It’s more likely she saw Charlie looking distressed, got worried for her, and devised a way to get them alone. Now that they are, all Charlie needs to do is tell her what’s going on, ask to use the diner’s phone, and call the police without Josh ever knowing a thing. Then this long, horrible night will be over.
But it might already be over. It all depends on if Josh is serious about leaving her behind. Charlie doubts he is. Josh has been dishonest all night. Why stop now? Either way, it doesn’t mean she should get Marge involved. Doing so might make things worse. If Josh isn’t planning on leaving her behind and does get wind that Charlie told Marge about her suspicions, it could put both of them in danger.
Charlie doesn’t want that. Marge is a good person. A nice person. And nice people shouldn’t be mixed up in what she’s going through.
“I’m just tired,” she says. “It’s been a long drive.”
“I understand,” Marge says. “Especially this time of night. All I’m saying is, you’re welcome to stay here awhile. If you don’t feel safe with him.”
“I’m fine,” Charlie says. “Really.”
Marge gives the coat two more dabs before studying the result. “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like the club soda worked.”
She holds up the coat, revealing only a wet patch where the tea stain had been. Handing it back to Charlie, she says, “Give it a little while to dry and it should look like new.”
Charlie examines the wet spot. The wool there is now pilled slightly and specked with bits of lint from the washcloth, but she’s okay with that. Maddy would have said it added character.
Marge pauses by the door. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with all those questions.”
“I know. And you didn’t. Everything’s fine.”
“I was just looking out for you,” Marge says. “Women need to do that, you know. Look out for each other. There’s a special place in hell for those who don’t.”
“I appreciate it,” Charlie says. “I really do. But I’m doing great. Thank you for cleaning my coat.”
Marge nods and slips out of the bathroom. “Anytime, sweetie.”
Left alone, Charlie slips into the coat and stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, shocked by how pale she looks. Like Greta Garbo. That’s another one of Nana Norma’s sayings. You’re as pale as Garbo.
In this case, it’s true, although it looked good on an icy beauty like Greta Garbo. Charlie just looks sickly, as if she’s going to pass out. She assumes that’s because she is. Her legs are weak and wobbly, and her vision comes in and out of focus, thanks to the tears. Charlie wouldn’t be surprised if, at any second, she crumpled to the floor. Considering the night she’s having, who could blame her?
Staring at the ghost of who she had once been, Charlie assures herself she did the right thing by not telling Marge the truth about Josh. It’s better this way. Now only one of them is in danger.
She also knows it’s a lie. Just like thinking that no one will believe her if she tried to get help. Or that Josh will charm and fib his way out of it. Or that he has no intention of leaving without her, despite flat-out stating he does.
They’re all lies.
Ones different from what Josh has been feeding her all night, but lies nonetheless. Meager excuses to hide the truth: that part of her doesn’t want to get away from Josh.
Not just yet.
Charlie had left home with only a vague understanding about all the dangers young women face. Youngstown wasn’t Mayberry. Bad things happened there all the time. Date rape and abuse and a hundred tiny threats directed at women. But Charlie hadn’t given them much thought. Not even after her high school health teacher did a lesson on sexual assault. Or on the day she left for Olyphant and Nana Norma gave her that tiny pink bottle of pepper spray. Or during the self-defense class every female Olyphant student had to take the week of orientation.
It took Maddy being killed for her to understand the brutal truth that there are men out there who won’t hesitate to hurt women.
Men like Josh.
After Maddy’s murder, Charlie had assumed there was nothing she could do about it. She loved Maddy and Maddy loved her and they would have been friends forever, no matter what Robbie thought. But then she was gone and all that remained was a burning rage. So Charlie internalized it and blamed herself.
For leaving Maddy behind.
For telling her to fuck off as she departed.
For not being able to identify Josh after she saw him outside the bar.
She blamed herself and hated herself and punished herself because that’s what women are taught to do. Blame themselves. Blame the victims. Tell themselves that since the Angela Dunleavys and Taylor Morrisons and Madeline Forresters of the world had sat through the same lessons on assault, received the same tiny bottles of pepper spray, and endured the same self-defense classes, it must have been their fault they were attacked. Or raped. Or killed.
No one tells women that none of it is their fault. That the blame falls squarely on the awful men who do terrible things and the fucked-up society that raises them, molds them, makes excuses for them. People don’t want to admit that there are monsters in their midst, so the monsters continue to roam free and the cycle of violence and blame continues.
A thought pops into Charlie’s brain, so sudden and jolting she can actually hear it. A light click at the back of her head as her synapses explode like fireworks.
If Josh leaves, she’ll be safe. But nothing will stop him from hurting someone else. Someone like Maddy. The world is full of them. And none of them are safe while Josh roams free.
Marge was right. There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. Charlie knows it well, having spent the past two months dwelling there. Now it’s time to get the fuck out.
Something in Charlie’s chest begins to harden.
Her heart.
Shattered after Maddy died, it’s now being put back together, its jagged pieces fitting into place, bound together by anger.
Another look in the mirror confirms it. She is changing. Her face has gained some color. A pink flush—brighter than the bathroom walls—spreads across her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
Like her heart, her eyes have also hardened. Where once she had seen only despair, Charlie now sees a flicker of fire.