Love and Other Unknown Variables (14 page)

4.1

I
falter a moment before knocking on Becca’s door. I finally convinced Greta and James to go, saying I was going to shower and sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed counting silently, holding on to the numbers like they could stitch me back together. Numbers can do many things, but they make lousy bandages. I comb my fingers through my damp hair and knock.

“Yup,” Becca calls.

I open the door and peer in. Becca is reading and Charlotte is sketching. “Everyone in here feeling all right?” Jesus! That’s how I open the conversation? This is not going to go well.

But the girls just smile. “Some of us can hold their liquor better than others, big bro.”

“Yeah. That was rough.”

We all stand there looking at each other for a minute before Charlotte asks, “Did you need something?”

“Oh, yeah. Um…I need help with something for your sister’s class. Would it be cheating if I asked you?” The discomfort in my voice thuds louder than the music.

Charlotte closes her sketchbook and stands.

I study her, looking for a sign pointing to her cancer. Were there dark circles under her eyes last week? I don’t remember her MOMA T-shirt being so baggy on her. Has her hair always been so short? She looks tired and as if she needs a shopping intervention, but there’s nothing screaming, “Death is coming.”

Charlotte shakes her head and sighs, like I’ve disappointed her somehow. Did she know I was scanning her like a human MRI?

“Be right back, Bec,” she calls over her shoulder. Standing in front of me she says, “Let’s go get a drink, Charlie.”

I can feel my pasty skin go even paler at the mention of drinks. Becca laughs. I try to smile, but I’m afraid it looks more like a facial tick, so I drop Charlotte’s gaze and nod.

Once we reach the kitchen Charlotte opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of tea. I grab two glasses and fill them with ice, then watch her fill them with the cold, brown brew. We lean on opposite ends of the kitchen island and don’t touch our drinks.

“So, listen,” I start, but can’t find the words to finish.

“Are you asking me out again?”

I blink, the foggy memory of my head in Charlotte’s lap swirling around my mind like water in the toilet bowl. It makes me nauseated. How could I ask her out like that? She deserves better.

“That’s a no?” Charlotte tries to smile, but the lines of worry between her brows make the smile look painted on. She gives up and pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. “How’d you find out?”

“Find out what?”

She opens one blue eye in a challenge. “There’s only one other thing I can think you would want to ask about that would make you look this uncomfortable around me.”

“Greta’s mom is a shrink.”

“What about the whole confidentiality thing?”

“Our principal has no volume control. He suggested your sister meet with Greta’s mom to talk about—”

Charlotte heaves a giant sigh. “Awesome.”

“Is it true?”

Charlotte stares at the ice in her glass. “It’s complicated.”

“Shouldn’t be. It’s either true or false.”

“Maybe in your world, but not in mine.”

“Jesus, Charlotte. We live in the same world. I deserve to know the truth. Answer the question.” My palms are sweaty, so I press them up against the cold glass. Now the question is out there, I don’t want to know the answer.

“It’s true I have cancer. Brain cancer.”

The words sink into the space between us.

“How long?”

“Seven years, five months, twenty days.”

A spark ignites in my chest. “Seven years, five months, twenty days? How can they be so exact?”

Charlotte’s brow furrows under the dark curls there. “Here I was laboring under the delusion you were smart.”

“What?”

“I’ve
had
cancer for seven years, five months, twenty days.”

The little spark flickers out.

“I meant how long until you die?”

“How long until
you
die?”

I open my mouth to snap back at her, but nothing comes out. It’s a ridiculous question. How should I know? Average lifespan for a middle-class Caucasian male is 76.5 years. But I’d like to think I’m above average.

“You don’t know either, do you? True: I have terminal cancer. True: I will die. False: Charles Hanson will live forever. See how true and false gets complicated?”

“But you’ll die before me.” The words have fallen out before I can stop them.

“Prove it.” Her whole body is trembling, except her hands. They are perfect statues, squeezed into tight fists.

“You want me to do the math? Because statistically speaking, I’m right.”

Charlotte leans over the counter and grabs the front of my shirt in one of her fists, like an old gangster movie. She pulls me closer to her so I’m standing on tiptoes to breach the kitchen island between us.

“Keep pushing me, Hanson, and I might kill
you
to prove my point.”

I wrap one of my hands around hers. At my touch, her grip loosens.

“Charlotte, I’m worried about you,” I whisper.

Fury pours through the cracks of her thick walls as her grip tightens on my collar again. Her other fist pulls back and shoots forward like a rubber band let loose.

The moment Charlotte’s fist makes contact the world explodes around me. Everything goes from red to black and the only thing holding me up is Charlotte Finch’s other fist wound in the fabric of my shirt.

Subject:
Charlotte Finch,

Method:
Try to console her after learning of her cancer,

Result:
Punched in the face.

There it is. The beating I’ve been expecting since the moment I laid eyes on her at the Krispy Kreme. I knew I’d end up getting hurt.

I crumple onto the counter when Charlotte lets me go. I can taste blood on my lips, but can’t be sure where her punch landed because my entire head is pounding—again.

Keeping my cheek on the counter, I wrench my neck to watch for Charlotte’s next attack. She’s reaching into the freezer and mumbling something I can’t make out through the ringing in my ears. She slams the freezer door so I know whatever she’s saying isn’t nice.

She advances on me with a paper towel in one hand and ice cubes in the other.

“Here,” she says, thrusting them both at me. “You may want to clean up.”

I take the towel and dab it on my upper lip, which is starting to feel like a hot air balloon. The towel is red in no time, so Charlotte hands me another one.

“I’ve got something in my purse to help,” she says, stalking upstairs.

I wobble over to the mirror by the back door. My lip isn’t the source of the bleeding; it’s my nose. Did she break my nose? A girl punched me in the face
and
she broke my nose?

Charlotte catches me at the mirror. “It’ll be fine. Your good looks are still intact.”

“You punched me,” I choke out, blood pooling in the back of my throat.

Charlotte’s face crumbles into what looks like an apology. Before she gets it out though, she changes her mind. “Yes, I punched you,” she says evenly, her hands tearing open the wrappers of whatever she retrieved from her purse.

“Why’d you punch me?”

“You were being a jerk about my cancer.”

“No, I was being…”

“I don’t come here for pity. I get that at home and school and pretty much everywhere else I go. Don’t ruin this for me, Charlie. Your house is my cancer-free zone.”

We watch each other for a moment as my nose bleeds.

Charlotte grabs my wrist and pulls me over toward the sink. “You’re making a mess,” she says as blood drips into the sink basin. I silently pray Mom won’t be getting back from the grocery story anytime soon. This would not go over well.

Charlotte takes a long cardboard tube from one of the wrappers. “Let me stop the bleeding.”

Gently, she presses on the bridge of my nose, feeling the cartilage. “It’s not broken. Just burst blood vessels. You may have some interesting bruising.” She pops a white cottony thing out of the cardboard and shoves it in one nostril, then does the same with the second.

“You’re a doctor now?”

“I’ve spent enough time with them to have earned an honorary degree.” She wipes the blood away from my chin. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “All done. Don’t take them out for at least ten minutes.”

I blink back tears from the stinging in my nose, like an entire hive of yellow jackets flew up there. I turn away from Charlotte and look in the mirror again.

My reflection peers back at me with two cottony cylinders protruding from my nostrils, complete with pull-strings for easy removal. I grab one of the strings to yank, but Charlotte stops me.

“I said leave them alone.”

“First, you punch me, then you shove tampons up my nose?”

“Trust me,” she says, retrieving the ice from the counter and wrapping it in a paper towel. “It’ll stop the bleeding.”

She guides me toward the kitchen table. “This will help the swelling,” she says, holding the compress to the bridge of my nose. She cups the back of my neck with her free hand to keep me from jerking away from her. The coolness of her fingers there makes me shiver.

“I’m sorry I roughed you up,” she says.

“You aren’t the first girl to punch me.” The worried wrinkles on her forehead slide away as she smiles at me. “You won’t be the last.”

Her smile flickers. “I get it, okay? Cancer freaks people out. It’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to look at me like this.” She shifts the compress, and I try not to flinch. “Everyone needs time and space to process it when they find out.
Everyone
. Some of them don’t ever bridge that space to come back to me. Cancer has made me selfish. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Does Becca know?”

Charlotte nods.

“Did you punch her, too?”

“No. She handled it with more grace than you.”

That seems about right. It’s hard to get a rise out of Becca.

She removes the ice pack and hands it to me. Standing, she leans forward and brushes my forehead with a light kiss. “Try to remember, Charlie, please. I’m more than my diagnosis.”

I close my eyes to keep the room from spinning. When I feel steady enough to open them, Charlotte has disappeared.

4.2

G
reta and James are impressed with my rumpled face. When I step into the kitchen where James is making a taco dinner, he drops the wooden spoon and cries out, “C-man got smacked.” I think he may piss himself from laughing so hard.

Greta tries to remain cool, but it doesn’t last. She pats my arm. “It’s okay, sweetie. A little makeup will fix it. Maybe a paper bag, too.”

“What’d you tell your parents?” James asks.

“I walked into the door while texting Greta. Dad said, ‘For a genius, you can be pretty dumb.’ They’re both proud of me.”

James laughs, but Greta says, “Wonder what everyone at school will think.”

“Forget it,” I say, grabbing a handful of chips and joining Melody and Ella on the couch to watch cartoons.

Melody’s honey brown eyes bunch up when she smiles her gap-toothed smile. “You look like Mr. Incredible, Charlie.”

“Oh yeah?”

She points at my eyes. “You’re wearing a mask.” She and Ella dissolve into giggles.

I don’t feel like Mr. Incredible.

After dinner, James, Greta, and I go out to get some ice cream. On the way home, I can’t help but turn down Charlotte’s street. I slow the car across from her house. There are no lights on in the front, but Charlotte’s silver Civic is in the driveway.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” James asks.

I work my jaw to loosen the stiff muscles there. “No.”

I drive around the corner and park the car on the side of the road.

“What’re we doing here, Chuck?”

“I don’t know.” I open my door and get out. James and Greta follow. “I’m going to take a quick walk.”

James throws a massive forearm around my shoulders. “Want some company?”

His expression is like a plate glass window, so I can see all the emotions lining up behind it. At the front of the line, friendship looks out at me.

“Thanks.”

We walk up the greenway running behind Ms. Finch’s house.

Once we’re nearby, Greta goes street side to check the numbers painted on the mailboxes. Recognizing it from the back is tricky. I think we’ve passed it already.

James and I toss stones in the creek while we wait for Greta’s report.

I try to judge the weight of a stone in my palm before tossing it. When I hear it hit the water, I calculate the time it will take for it to sink to the bottom.

“You really like her?” James asks, interrupting my math.

I’m not sure I want to talk about Charlotte right now. My nose aches as I wrinkle it. “Does it matter?”

“Let’s do a little experiment to answer that question.” James shifts his weight next to me, and I think it’s to pick up another rock, but instead, his right shoulder crashes into my chest as he shoves me into the creek. I land on my butt in the murky sludge coating the bottom.

While it’s not exactly cold in the south in late October, Sycamore Creek did not get the memo. The water temperature is chilly enough that my manly business shrinks to a size even the Hubble telescope couldn’t pick up.

“What the hell was that for?” So much for all that friendship I thought I saw a moment ago.

James levels me with a rare look for him—gravity. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. It’s cold, and I’m soaked.”

“How much do you like Charlotte? I dare you to tell me it doesn’t matter.”

It’s like the air is being squeezed from my lungs.

“See. It matters. Greta’s here because she’s loyal to you. I’m here for Greta. Why are you here, freezing your nuts off, for Charlotte Finch?”

And it’s there. The answer is there, like it was always part of me. “Because she matters.”

“Right. If I were to lose Greta, I’d never be the same. Look at my mom, for Christ’s sake.” He pauses, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he’s trying to grasp the words right out of the air. “Without Dad, she became a shell, Chuck. And no matter what my sisters and I did, we couldn’t fill her up again. It’s been five years and I’m only beginning to see signs of life in her. Loss like that has a long half-life. This
matter
has a mass so heavy it could crush you if you’re not careful.”

I shiver from the creek, looking up at him with nothing to say. The pain in his eyes says it’s true. His shoulders soften away from his ears as he takes a deep breath and blows it out.

“Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t help this girl, but you should know what you’re getting into. I’m also not saying you really have a choice when it comes to your motives. I get that. No one wants to fall and get hurt.” He steps closer to the creek’s edge. “I’m just saying to prepare for heartache, because it’s always harder to be the one still hanging around.” He reaches a hand out toward me, clasping mine firmly in his and pulling me from the water.

“And know I’ll be here to help pick you up,” he says once we’re both standing on solid ground.

I need to reevaluate. James isn’t just Greta’s boyfriend. James is my other best friend.

Greta reappears, her mouth falling open at the sight of me, drenched from chest to toes. “Do I even want to know why Chuck is soaking wet?” she asks James.

“He’s learning,” he says over his shoulder.

“He pushed me,” I splutter.

But Greta looks pleased to see me soaked. “When you’re done with your lesson, Chuck,” she calls, walking in the direction she’s pointing, “Finch’s house is three down.”

James chuckles as I wring creek water from the hem of my sweater. He throws an arm around me.

When we approach the back gate, Greta hisses, “Someone’s outside.”

We all hit the dirt, my sopping clothes squelching on impact.

Ms. Finch is pacing on a patio behind the house with her phone. “Dad, she’s being ridiculous.”

She stops pacing and drops the phone from her ear, looking up to the star-filled sky. Returning to the phone, she says, “We can’t
make
her do anything.”

She goes quiet again and picks up the pacing. “Look, I’m sorry. Can you calm down? I’m not trying to upset you.” Just behind her, I make out the back door, lit by a globe light. As Ms. Finch moves away from the door, I see a flap at the bottom quiver. Suddenly, the hellhound pokes out its head, its long nose quivering as it scents the air.

Greta smacks me on the shoulder. “She has a dog?”

James mutters, “It’s not a dog. It’s a freaking wolf.”

“In the wake of the whole cancer announcement I may have forgotten to mention it. So sue me,” I snap.

Luna’s supersonic hearing must be engaged because her ears stand at attention, and I swear, she stares right at me before tipping her head back and howling.

Ms. Finch jumps and growls back at the dog, “Luna, hush.”

She peers out into the yard for a moment before pushing Luna back through the little door. “Hold on, Dad,” she says. The door closes behind her and the light above the patio goes dark.

My brain is stretching, trying to figure out what Ms. Finch could be talking about. What is it Charlotte is refusing to do? Clean her room? Take the SAT? Go to the university next year?

How am I supposed to figure any of this out when new variables keep popping up in the problem?

James and Greta belly crawl through the brush back to the path. I stay and watch the house. One of the upstairs windows is lit, framing Charlotte’s silhouette.

“Chuck,” Greta calls. I wave her off.

Charlotte is sketching in her familiar sketchbook, making furious slash marks at the page with a pencil. As I watch, she throws her book across the room, her chest rising and falling like a hummingbird. She collapses in on herself like a dying star, and I watch her wipe her eyes and rock.

Charlotte is crying.

I’ve arrived at an event horizon and there’s no turning back from the black hole sucking at all of the pieces that make me whole. Those pieces fly away from me at the speed of light. All but one. The only piece that matters. The one with Charlotte’s name burned onto it.