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She bows her head, shuffling her feet nervously.
Something is off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
We’re interrupted as Will asks to walk over to this magic show that’s about to start. He grabs her hand, and with his other, he grabs mine. He happily chats away, and although the kid can ramble nonstop, I like the thought of having my own son one day.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Curious to see who’s calling me on a Sunday night, I pull it out and check the screen. Bryce. Shit! I have missed several of his calls, but something warns me he’s trying so desperately to get in touch with me for a reason, so I excuse myself to take the call.
“Mr. Edwards, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I managed to get my hands on some personal information regarding Miss Mason.”
I move further away from where Charlotte stands, listening to Bryce mention dates.
“She was admitted to a Connecticut private hospital for five days. I’m unable to get any information regarding her illness.”
“Okay, so maybe she had appendicitis or something?”
“Mr. Edwards, September 21st was the day Althea Mason passed away.”
Her grandmother. So she was admitted to hospital the day her grandmother passed away? Maybe it was the shock of losing a loved one. September 21st is two days away. There’s a strong possibility that her moods are up and down due to grieving her grandmother’s death anniversary.
?
??Mr. Edwards, there’s one more thing. The reason I was unable to retrieve any further information on her illness was because—” The phone cut out, the crackling sound barreling down the speaker.
“Mr. Edwards, are you there?”
“Yes, Bryce, I didn’t get that last part.”
“She was in the psych ward.”
The words are like dynamite, leaving me stunned and confused. My eyes drift toward where she stands, gazing at her, lost for words.
The psych ward is heavy stuff. I know this back from my medical degree. It’s traumatizing, and the grief of losing a loved one can have emotional side effects, but to be placed in the psych ward? I can’t get my head around this.
Charlotte is smart. She’s headstrong. Something else must have been plaguing her, something else weighing her down for her to break down and be diagnosed that way. My imagination is running wild, but then I think of it logically. Having your boyfriend leave town with a knocked-up wife never to speak to you again, moving across the country to live with someone you barely know and making decisions on which college to attend and what career path to choose, then to have your grandmother pass away suddenly, without any warning. Okay, that’s a pretty fucked-up six months she had to endure.
My stare fixates on her face, but something has changed in the few minutes I’ve been lost in my own thoughts. With a vacant stare, her smile has disappeared. Around her, people are laughing at the magician, but her mouth is set in a hard line, her shoulders slumping while everyone appears relaxed and at ease.
The image looks familiar, and I rack my brain as to why.
Fuck, what the hell is going on here?
Then it clicks.
The photograph of her grandmother and her on the porch swing. How gaunt her face looked, how her eyes had no spark left in them. How she so desperately tried to force a smile for the camera, but it only revealed what was blatantly obvious—she was broken.
I broke her, there’s no denying that.
But I have no idea how much.
CHARLIE
