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“She’s been trying to reach you?” For some reason this nugget has piqued her interest.
“Yes. I got a letter. Didn’t say much but it said she was living in Ann Arbor. It’s important that I get in touch with her.”
“It sure is,” she mutters under her breath.
“Would you happen to have her phone number?”
She considers this for a moment. “Her number, no, but I can give you her address. Wait here.”
I have a feeling that she does, in fact, have Charlotte’s number, but I let it go. When we talk, I don’t want it to be over the telephone. I want to see her in person, so the address is even better.
“Go see them, and don’t give my girl Charlotte any trouble. You give her trouble and Lawrence will bust your helmet, you got me?”
Bust my helmet?I want to ask who Lawrence is, but I don’t want to engage this crazy lady for one second longer than I need to. I nod, careful as I take the paper from her hand. “Thank you.”
She watches me until I’m back in my car. Powell, Michigan. I map the address and see that it’s way, way up north. Seven hours north. It’s no matter. I’m so determined to see her that I wouldn’t care if I had to drive all day and night. So I stop at another little café, one where it looks like I can grab a sandwich, another large coffee and take a leak before I head out. It’s not until I’m back in my car and biting into my egg sandwich that it all sinks in. The drawing hanging on Charlotte’s front door, the odd way her neighbor eyed me, her words: Go see them…them.
I nearly choke, my hands shaking as I reach for some coffee to wash the mouthful down. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions, that Charlotte and this guy Lawrence make up “them”—that’s who the strange woman was referring to.Don’t go imagining crazy shit, Simon.It’s not possible, don’t be an idiot.I’m talking myself down, which only adds intensity to my freak out.
Instead of heading north as planned, I find myself driving back to Evanston. I need to know what was in that letter before I see Charlotte. I need to be prepared.
* * *
Charlotte
“Thanks, Wes. Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon.”
The call ends with me feeling better than I have the past few times we’ve spoken. After dropping in on me last summer, Wes began writing to me regularly. For the most part he’s kept things casual, but I know he would like nothing more than a place in my future. The ball is in my court. I’m always careful and on guard when I interact with Wes. I don’t want to hurt him, don’t want to lead him on.
I broke down and called him after Janelle died, during a stretch when I was feeling particularly awful. And he was so good to me. Even offered to drop everything and come out to help me through it. When I made it clear I wanted him to stay put, he respected my wishes but supported me with phone calls and care packages for both me and Ethan. One of those phone calls ended with him telling me he loved me. I know I hurt him when I said I couldn’t be serious with anyone when I still had so much unfinished business in my own life, but that was the truth.
In the days that followed, I began to ask myself when exactly I planned on addressing that unfinished business.
I waited a few days before I looked him up online. Waited a few more days before I got serious and tracked down a contact number for him. Avoided looking at the number scribbled on the wall calendar for another week before I worked up the nerve to call. When I called and a woman answered, I nearly hung up but didn’t. She took my name and number and said she’d give him the message. Two weeks passed before I tried again. Same woman answered. Yes, she gave him the message last time, yes, she’ll tell him I calledagain—clearly, I was trying her patience. I asked her to tell him it was important. The clipped way she repeated my words,it’s important, settled it: this girl was his girl. Probably the beautiful swan who was gliding alongside Simon the day I saw him in Chicago. When a month passed with no return phone call, I’ll admit I was angry.
Detached and cold, I knew the flip side of Simon Wade all too well. Did he receive my messages and then choose to ignore me? History does often repeat itself, so I wouldn’t put it past him. Studying his profile picture again, I can almost feel the cold sting of his stare, feel the pain of being judged and then dismissed by that troubled teenage boy. He set out to hurt me back then, more than once. But then he loved me, loved me with an intensity I fear I may never experience again. The man in this picture, which version of Simon is he? With his sharp suit and his gel-slicked hair, he looks every bit the future power player Simon was striving to be.
“Maybe,” I speak to his image on the screen, “I don’t know you anymore.”
Simon is the father of my child, he was the first man I ever loved, and I haven’t opened my heart to anyone since. But time has passed, a lot of time. I don’t know him anymore, that’s true, and he doesn’t know me. Those two damaged kids back in Pennsylvania don’t exist anymore. Maybe it’s childish of me to continue to look back on that time as special. I can’t deny that I still long for Simon, but I need to face the very real possibility that he doesn’t feel the same. What we had back then, maybe it was never all that significant to Simon.
Once I let that sink in, I’m able to let go of the anger. I am ready and able to sit down and write the letter. It doesn’t take three messy, tear-stained drafts like the last time. Now older and wiser, I’m clear and concise. I state the reason I decided to keep the pregnancy from him and express my sincere hope that he can someday find a way to forgive me. I let him know he’s welcome to come and meet his son if he wants to, and if he does not, I’ll respect that decision as well. I wish him happiness then simply sign it: Charlotte.
Reading it over, I know there’s one big fat lie in there. Ethan is the most precious thing on this earth to me, so I will forever think of Simon as a coward and a jackass if he chooses not to meet his son.
I slip a recent snapshot of Ethan in with the letter. He’s smiling ear to ear, with his arms wrapped around his pal, Moe. I take a deep breath when I drop it into the mailbox.
That’s that.
In the days that follow, I prepare to take cover, to weather the storm I’ve just set into motion. When a week passes and then two, when the cold winter wind gives way to sunny days and springtime, well, that’s when I give up.
* * *
Simon
“Samantha’s not at her place. Is she here?”
Eyes wide, Mrs. Westfield takes me in, backing away a step before regaining her composure. I’m sweating, my clothes are rumpled, and I’ve been dragging a hand through my hair in frustration for most of the four-plus hour drive back to Evanston. I’m sure my eyes have taken on a feral quality by now.
