Down where the blue-eyed grasses surround the sparkling creek, there's an old wishing bridge that stretches from one side of the marshy bank to the other. It's not much to look at; it's rickety and splintery with the marks of a thousand fishing hooks. The centre is paved with the thump-thump of children's bare feet; lovers have stood, staring into the water, kissing under a sunset-streaked sky. It's everyone's bridge, but Charlotte has always felt that it belongs only to her.
When the shadows fall; the dangerous clink-clink of ice in a glass gets too close for comfort, Charlotte sneaks down, through the cotton fields, over the pine-chipped path, not caring if her bare feet hurt or if her little legs get scratched from the brambles on that scary forest path, because she might laugh; or she might cry, or she might even try to catch fireflies as they drift down over the bridge railing, falling precariously close to the creek. Mostly, though, she stands and stares at the moon's funny face in the water below and when the asthma threatens to take hold of her little body again, she inhales and exhales, inhales and exhales, the scent of water better than any medicine.
It's the quiet night that breaks me.
I cannot stand the sight of this familiar place.
It's the quiet night that breaks me,
Like a dozen paper cuts that only I can trace.
All my books are lying useless now.
All my maps will only show me how to lose my way.
Slumped over her desk – yes, she sleeps there sometimes. She often will wake up, blinking in confusion, to find her head pillowed on a pile of charts, the pale light from her computer screen hurting her tired eyes. The large window that she never has time to look out of will be streaked with pink, or green, or even gold, depending on the time of the day, and she'll feel foolish. It's why she keeps a spare set of dress clothing in the locker beside her desk. It's why sometimes the hollows under her eyes are more pronounced than ever, but her manner is twice as efficient to make up for being a human being.
It's not as if home is much better. No, it's tastefully decorated; she's got pictures of European cities she's never had time to visit and classical music piled on the shelf beside the stereo. But the bed's too soft and empty; she lies awake at night with the cat's eyes glowing green in the dark and the curtains fluttering at the window, and although she can hear the sea, she can't see it, and sometimes that's the hardest of all.
Charlotte Annalee King is the last of four children; the tiniest and the strongest. Born on a hot August night under the Georgia haloed moon, she was premature and blue at birth. Even though the facilities were far away, she was rushed to Atlanta's premier hospital and placed under twenty-four hour watch. She was not expected to live. Of course, people who know Charlotte King know not to expect anything of her. She beats the odds, every time.
Charlotte survived, with respiratory problems that kept her hooked up to an apnea machine for the first six months of her life. She had a hired nanny that made sure she was fed, dry and comfortable, but her mother couldn't bear to lay eyes on her until she was a thin baby, all eyes, lying in a basket in the corner of the verandah. She listened to gossip and soft Southern accents until she was old enough to walk. She doesn't remember it, but brandy on her soother ensured that she was too fuzzy-minded to cry about anything important. Diaper rashes from lying in wet clothing all day; a growling stomach and the consequent upset; this was Charlotte's babyhood. She got used to discomfort and never expected anything better.
As a child, she snuck around the property, trying to remain invisible. She never attracted her father's rage like her brother, Alexander; she never felt the sting of rejection like Francine, her sister. Instead, she hid under beds and behind potted plants; her blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her blue eyes wide with fear. Only once did she end up feeling the sting of the belt. Her father's eyes, blue like hers, bored into her terrified gaze; her arm bruised where he grabbed her and her bare bottom bled, but no one said a word; no one heard her screams. Her mother poured more gin in the bedroom; her nanny cried around the corner, and her brothers and sister edged away from the house as fast as they could because they knew they'd be next.
Oh, call my name.
You know my name.
And in that sound, everything will change.
Tell me it won't always be this hard.
I am nothing without you,
But I don't know who you are.
Sometimes, it's easy to forget the humid Georgia heat and the velvet Southern skies among the land-starlit city of Los Angeles. After medical school (because she could save others if she couldn't save herself), after she learned to speak with a modulated accent and not the thick Southern twang she had been used to, she'd closed up. Became a shell. The little girl who had been so curious about her world was still curious, but Charlotte vowed not to let anyone else hurt her. She was no longer the little girl who had to hide. Instead, she became the best in her class; the best in her year; the best damn surgeon in her hospital who rose to Chief of Staff at the age of thirty.
What she didn't realize is that becoming the best means that you lack in other areas of your life. At first, she didn't care. What was the point? And then, she met Ben.
Remembering Ben is like remembering something that you're not sure really happened. Ben was a Jewish general surgeon; Ben fell hard for the blonde, blue-eyed beauty with the set face; Ben loved Charlotte but Charlotte didn't know what to do with that love. Wild sex turned into two people lying side by side in the too-soft bed and having absolutely nothing to say.
He fought to break through her shell. She fought to keep him out because her experience with men is that they use your softness against you. She forgot how to be a woman. He finally left, driven out by the sting of her words and the knives of her screams. The little house with the view of the bay was a prison, and Charlotte watched him drive away for the last time with little to no regret.
Little to no regret, that is, until she turned back into the house and realized that she didn't know how to be alone, either.
It's the crowded room that breaks me
Everybody looks so luminous, and strangely young.
It's the crowded room that's never heard.
No one here can say a word of my native tongue.
I can't be among them anymore.
I fold myself away before it burns me numb.
Charlotte hates people. Well, that's not really true. Charlotte longs to be like the people she hates. Hiding behind her tough shell, staring out at a world that's too hard to live in, it's easier to be the bitch than to reach out. No man is an island? Charlotte's way out in some rough ocean, trapped against the waves of laughter and happiness and joy.
On the wishing bridge, she could be anyone she wanted to be. Sometimes, she pretended to be a princess, sweeping back her shoulder-length hair, imagining a crown perched on her head. Sometimes, she was some great hero, and everyone admired her. Staring down into the still pool below, she'd sit for hours and sing, or imagine, or compose stories in her head that she never bothered to write down. Some children escaped in books; Charlotte lived every story.
Sitting, swirling a glass of gin and tonic (no ice), she still imagines who she could be and she knows, inside her, there's someone who wants to be loved. Inside, there's that scared little girl who never knew her parents, but still longed to be cuddled. All the science in the world can't change that fact.
Life is so damn lonely, you know? And it's her fault – she knows it. But she doesn't know how. She doesn't know how to distinguish the bad laughter from the inclusive type. And she doesn't really want to, at this point in her life. She's a lost traveler and she's standing in the middle of nowhere screaming, but no one can hear her. And you know what? Eventually, you get tired of screaming to the sky.
Oh, call my name.
You know my name.
And in your love, everything will change.
Tell me it won't always be this hard.
I am nothing without you,
But I don't know who you are.
She has a prayer on her lips: she prays it every day. Let her first do good. Let her help and not hurt. Let her get through the day without mishap. Let her make a difference medically in people's lives.
In the middle of the night, when she can't sleep and the cat won't stay, a different prayer gets whispered brokenly in the dark.
Let someone remember she exists. Give her someone to care for.
Let her be loved.
I am nothing without you,
But I don't know who you are.
