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She is Peter Pan, which she says fits her short hair, which is growing in downy soft. Somehow Nick got to be Hook, and I got shoved into wings and a scratchy tutu. I drew the line at tights and makeup, though. A dozen different girls and a couple of guys have stroked their hands down my legs, making me wish I’d chosen a longer skirt. It is like bare legs and a short skirt are an invitation for people to touch. I’ll have to make sure Charlotte never wears a short skirt again.
“What’s this thing made of?” I ask Charlotte, bringing her another cup of punch. Claudia Amsden’s condo is full of people, although Charlotte and Nick are among the youngest ones here.
“Tulle,” she says.
“It’s scratching my tool,” I joke, but when I see Charlotte flush I want to curse at myself for making such a stupid joke in front of her. “Sorry,” I mutter and sit down next to her.
“Sorry I blush so easy?” she asks, taking a sip of the punch. She tries to hide a grimace, but I see it. My parents have said that her chemo and radiation can screw with the taste buds. By the look of Charlotte, I wonder if there is anything that she enjoys eating anymore. Before she got sick, she was slender but muscular. Now, her bones are becoming more and more prominent. I know if I say anything it will make her feel bad, so I bite my tongue and pretend I don’t notice. I’m doing a lot of that lately. Pretending to not see that she doesn’t eat or that she’s throwing up a lot or that she looks exhausted all of the time.
We both survey the crowd. Most of the girls are wearing the barely-there version of some costume, like a police uniform transformed into a shirt that buttons only at the waist paired with hot pants and platform heels or a construction uniform transformed into a jumpsuit that is unzipped to the belly button and ends just slightly below the girl’s ass. Surprisingly there are a number of guys dressed up like me, fake cross dresser. A couple of guys are wearing Wonder Woman costumes, and one guy is dressed up as fake Katniss Everdeen. We all look like fools, but it’s Halloween. I think we’re supposed to look silly. Or sexy.
Charlotte looks neither silly nor sexy. Instead, the slight flush that had appeared earlier has faded and her skin looks almost translucent with a slight green tint to her complexion. I wonder if it is from the costume. The glass in her hand shakes lightly, and she cups her other hand to steady it. Even her mouth looks tired, as if she doesn’t have the energy to show any emotion. All the signs worry me, but I know that if I suggest leaving, Charlotte will be even more distressed. She worked on us for the last three weeks to convince us to attend this thing.
“Can I find you a quiet place?” I ask.
She glances around and then nods, revealing exactly how poorly she feels. If she had any resources left, she’d say she was having the best time of her life. I want to lift her in my arms and carry her out of here, but I allow myself just to help her to her feet. She leans heavily against me and again, I tamp down the urge to sweep her up and carry her away. Across the room, I see Nick rise from his seat, but I give him a short shake of my head. Charlotte isn’t going to want to see both of us Jacksons rushing to her side. He gives me a reluctant nod and sits back down.
Down the hall I find an empty guest room and give in to the urge I’ve been fighting. Sweeping Charlotte into my arms, I carry her to the bed. She doesn’t even protest, only sighs with relief. I lay her down on top of the comforter, and her head lolls to the side. She isn’t even awake. Panic sets in. There’s no way she fell asleep in the time it took to enter the room and for me to place her on the bed. I tap her cheeks lightly, cheeks that are waxen and cold.
“Charlotte!” My voice is loud and insistent, but she doesn’t respond. I tap her a little harder but she still lies like she’s out cold. Fear is chasing down my spine as I lean over and place my head on her chest. Her heart is beating, but I don’t know if the pace is normal or too slow or too fast. It feels fast. I place my fingers over my own pulse at the base of my throat and count. God, what did I learn this past summer about CPR? Count the beats for fifteen seconds and then multiply by four, but, fuck, my heart is racing. I press my fingers hard against Charlotte’s neck and count. About thirty beats go by in the fifteen seconds. Charlotte’s heart feels like a bird.
