Ivy Secrets (23 page)

Peter slowly chewed.

“The clothes you’ve seen me in—well, I either borrowed them from Marina or I got them at cost from the store I worked in last summer. These,” she said, looking down at her old clothes, “are the kinds of things I’m used to.” She wished he’d say something. Anything. The temperature in the restaurant seemed to have dropped.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and stared into the candle on the table. “I clean up in the kitchen at Morris House. I have to. It’s part of my work-study program.”

He nodded and continued chewing.

She leaned forward. “Will you please say something?”

He swallowed and took a long drink from his glass. “Are you trying to tell me you’re only dating me for my money?”

She shook her head. “In the beginning I guess that was one of the things that attracted me to you.”

“And now?”

“Now? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think if it was, I wouldn’t have told you the truth.”

He leaned back on his chair and put his hands into the pockets of his cable-knit cardigan. “Are you ashamed of being poor?”

“Not anymore. I was, I guess. But not anymore.”

He sat up straight again. “Money means a lot to some people,” he said. “It always has to my mother. She doesn’t trust people who don’t have any.”

Charlie tried to swallow.

“There’s a reason for that, though,” he continued. “She thinks that making money is the most important thing in the world.”

“Well,” Charlie said quietly, “I guess she wouldn’t think much of me, then.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re
not listening. The reason my mother thinks money is so important is because she never had any.”

Charlie blinked. “What?”

“Elizabeth Hobart, grand dame of the textile industry, was raised in a cold-water tenement on the wrong side of the tracks in Philadelphia. If she has no tolerance for poverty, it’s because it reminds her too much of her youth.”

Charlie twisted in her chair. “We have hot water,” she said. “Electricity, too.”

Peter squeezed her hand. “And you have a wonderful sense of humor. And a sense of yourself.”

Charlie looked down at his hand that held hers. “Now that you know the truth, are you thinking you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“No,” Peter answered. “I was thinking about how much my mother is going to like you.”

    Charlie saw Peter often. On Valentine’s Day, he gave her a small teddy bear bank that held a red rose. He told her the best way to have money was to save it. He’d even slipped in a quarter to “get her started.”

At the end of February Charlie went for her early morning jog along the pond. The air was winter-crisp, but it was nearly light, as the days began to reach out toward spring. Paradise Pond was still thick with ice, but Charlie knew that the slippery spots along the path would soon be gone, replaced by joggers and bicyclists and spring-fever walkers.

As she ran past the president’s house on the hill, Charlie thought about how happy she’d been these past few weeks. She hadn’t seen much of Marina, though she knew the princess was making plans for her junior year abroad. Tess was doing the same, though whenever Charlie saw her their meetings were brief. Charlie, of course, would not be going anywhere but here next year; here at Smith, and for that, she was grateful.

It would be odd, tough, not to hear Marina’s frequent Slavic-sounding mutterings in the room next to hers, not to see Tess parade down the hall in her most recent fashion choice—natural fiber caftans with huge sleeves and no waist. It would seem strange to be without her friends, and even more odd not to have Peter close by. Peter would receive his
bachelor’s this May, and though he promised to come in from Boston each weekend, he’d be at grad school at Harvard in the fall.

Despite the impending changes, Charlie felt good, for she realized she would have plenty of time to study, to achieve, and to ensure her future with or without her friends, with or without Peter. She’d also decided to make a change for herself: She was going to switch her major from education to economics. Teaching may be the dream her parents had for her, but teaching paid peanuts. She was going to go into business; she was never going to have to worry about layoffs or strikes or if 3-percent raises would keep up with inflation. As the cool morning air entered her lungs now, Charlie sensed a certain freedom in her confidence, a powerful feeling of being in charge of herself.

She headed toward the Quad—toward the home of the girls who had money but who did not have Peter, and who did not have a friend such as Marina. Suddenly Charlie thought she heard footsteps behind her. She turned without stopping, yet saw nothing, no one, just a few shadowy tree limbs stretching across the icy remnants of last week’s snow, a few shadowy tree limbs silhouetted in the dawn.

She picked up her pace. Suddenly someone leaped from the bushes and grabbed for her arm. Charlie stumbled to a halt. She swiveled and saw a small, excited face. The hand flashed up to her hair. Charlie gasped and tried to push it away. The odd face laughed a high-pitched laugh. “Such pretty hair. Such pretty hair.”

In an instant, Charlie knew who it was: that weird little guy she’d seen at Dell’s several times.

“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Leave me alone!”

He grabbed a fistful of Charlie’s hair.

She shrieked.

“I love you,” he cried.

She jerked herself free and started running.

“Come back!” he shouted.

Charlie looked back. He was chasing her, closing in on hen

Willie, she thought, her mind racing, her heart pumping. His name is Willie.

“I know who you are!” she shouted back. “Get away from me!”

His small eyes blinked rapidly. “Please. Oh please don’t run away.”

Charlie veered off desperately, turning toward the hill.

“Such pretty hair. Such pretty hair,” his mantra called into the wind.

Charlie looked around for help. For someone. For anyone. It was too early. It was too damned early for anyone else to be out. Anyone but her stupid self and … Suddenly she tripped. Her balance wavered. Her foot came down on a patch of ice. Just as Willie reached her again, Charlie fell.

He grabbed for her hair. A ripping tug yanked her scalp as she wrenched her hair from his fist. The ground beneath her gave way. She slid down the embankment and tumbled toward the pond. She crashed into something. Pain shot through her head.
A rock
, Charlie thought.
My head’s hit a rock.
Just before she passed out, Charlie tasted blood-metal in her mouth.

    It sounded like her mother’s voice. But the words were muted, garbled, as though she were underwater. She tried to open her eyes. She could not. She tried to speak. She could not. Something was in her hand. It felt warm, like flesh. Like someone else’s hand. She wanted to squeeze it. She could not.

Charlie lay without moving, struggling to hear the muffled words. And then they were gone, but she was still there, somewhere, somewhere.

Over and over, she moved from darkness and quiet to gray light, gray sound. Sometimes she heard nothing, sometimes she heard the dreamlike words. Sometimes they sounded like her mother … sometimes they sounded like … Tess? The sounds were like pieces—pieces of a puzzle—a large Sunday jigsaw people spread across the lace cloth on the dining room table at Grandma O’Brien’s.

The whole family was there. Mommy and Daddy and Bobby and Danny. But wait. Where was little Sean Patrick? And Maureen? And Sheila? She turned to ask Grandma, then realized that Grandma—and Grandpa—had died years ago. Why were they here now? How did they get here?

She heard another distant voice. A man’s voice. Then a woman’s. The dining room table vanished. She tried to listen to the voices. She could not understand them. Her head felt too heavy, and she was so tired. It was easier just to lie there, stay there, and ride the tides of sleep on waves of unknown words.

Finally, Charlie’s eyes opened. She stared at a white ceiling. She heard a chair move.

“Doctor!” It was definitely her mother’s voice. Charlie slowly turned her head. Her mother stood over her bedside, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Charlie!” her mother screamed and clutched her hand. “Dear God, you’re awake. Please tell me you’re awake.”

“Mom?” Charlie asked. Her throat scratched.

“Dear God,” her mother wept, and slumped back into the chair. “Dear God, you’re awake.”

Charlie looked around. A long tube snaked from her arm up to an IV bag. The sheet drawn across her was stiff and white. A large round clock on the wall read four-fifteen.

A door pushed open and a man in a long white coat appeared. “Well, well. Looks like you decided to come back,” the stranger said as he stepped toward the bed. “I’m Dr. Chalmers. Don’t try to talk. I’d like to remove your feeding tube first.”

Charlie looked at her mother, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the doctor stood over her, a nurse by his side.

“Okay, Charlie,” he said. “Just lie quiet for a minute.” He smiled. “You might feel a little discomfort, but it won’t hurt. I promise.”

His hands closed around her nose, and Charlie shut her eyes again. Then she felt a tugging sensation, as though a long snake were being pulled from her stomach, wriggling its way up the walls of her insides. Finally, it stopped.

“All set,” the doctor said.

Charlie coughed.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

“Confused,” Charlie said, and settled back again.

“Do you know where you are?”

She thought of the dining room table … Grandma … then she remembered her morning run, the boy named Willie … he’d grabbed her … she’d … stumbled …

“I’m in the hospital,” she said weakly. “Have I been here all day?”

“All day?” her mother said. “Dear God.”

The doctor took Charlie’s other hand and measured her pulse. “You had a nasty fall,” he said.

“Yes,” Charlie muttered. “I remember. Willie tried to …”

“Willie Benson,” the doctor said as he shook his head. “He said he was only trying to touch your hair. It’s a good thing you fell. There’s no telling what he would have done.”

A picture of the creepy little man came into her mind. A cold chill shot through her.

“They’ve put him away again,” her mother said. “A man like that had no business being let out in the first place.”

Charlie tried to nod, but her head hurt too much to move. “Why am I in the hospital?” she asked and realized what a stupid question that was. She knew why she was in the hospital. She’d stumbled … Why wasn’t her mind working right?

The doctor leaned forward. “You’re going to be fine, Charlie. But you’ve been in a coma.”

“A coma?” she asked. “All day?”

The doctor smiled. “A little longer.”

Charlie looked at her mother, whose tears seemed to have finally ceased. “When did you get here, Mom?”

Her mother flicked her gaze toward the doctor, then back to Charlie. “Almost three weeks ago,” she answered. “The same day it happened.”

Charlie looked back to the doctor. “Three weeks?” she asked, as though her mother might not be telling the truth.

“Comas are unpredictable,” he said. “I like to think they’re nature’s way of helping us heal without suffering the pain.”

Charlie closed her eyes. Three weeks? She’d been lying in this bed for three weeks? Three weeks of her life? Her eyes flew open again. “Peter.”

Her mother nodded. “Peter has been here every night. He’s a nice boy.”

“How did … how did he know?”

“Your friend Tess called him.”

Charlie closed her eyes again.
Tess
, she thought.
Poor Tess.

“Tess has been here every day,” Charlie heard her mother say. “And Marina. Dear Marina.”

“I’m very tired,” Charlie said quietly, so quietly she barely heard her words. “I’m so very tired.”

    The next thing Charlie knew the clock on the wall read seven-thirty. It was dark in the room, except for a small light glowing in the corner.

“Mom?” she asked.

She felt a hand touch hers again. “I’m here, honey.”

She realized the pain in her head had gone. “Mom, I’m thirsty.”

Her mother snapped on the light over Charlie’s bed and poured water from a blue plastic pitcher. She put in a straw and held it to Charlies lips. Charlie sipped slowly. The water was cool, soothing.

“I think I feel better,” Charlie said. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“That depends,” her mother said, as she relaxed in the chair beside Charlie’s bed. “Your father and I think you should come home.”

“Home? I can’t, Mom. I’ve got classes …”

“Your health is more important than your classes.”

Her mother was right. And the thought of her soft, warm bed at home was much more inviting than the hard mattress on which she now lay. Then, Charlie thought of Peter.…

“No, Mom. I want to stay here. I want to finish the semester.”

Her mother patted her hand. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said, as the door to Charlie’s room opened.

It was Peter.

He came to her bedside. He looked so handsome in his white turtleneck and gray flannel pants. He looked … older.

He is older, you fool
, Charlie thought.
He’s three weeks older than when you saw him last. He’s three weeks older and so are you.

She tried to smile.

Her mother stood. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’ll be out in the hall if you need me.”

She left the room. Peter sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. He grinned but didn’t speak. Then he reached down and hugged her.

“I must look awful,” she said.

“You look beautiful.”

She reached to touch the tightness she felt on her forehead. He moved her hand away.

“You have stitches there,” he said.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Am I going to have a scar?”

Peter smiled. “A battle scar, maybe. You can tell everyone you won the war.”

Then, for the first time since she’d awakened, Charlie began to cry.

“It’s okay,” Peter whispered as he stroked her hair again. “You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be okay.”