Back in 1968

It was doubtlessly the sound of a door opening and closing repeatedly within the span of several seconds that brought Patterson, the maintenance man, from the hall he was working in.

"Everything okay here?"

Charlotte continued to open and close her work room door repeatedly, at various speeds, testing under which conditions it could be done so softly. It was an exercise in futility, she knew. But still, there had to be a logical explanation…

"I know, those hinges need to be oiled again. Getting pretty noisy, huh?" she heard Patterson continue behind her.

"Exactly. So there's no way..." she trailed off as she tried once more to open and close the door.

But it had never opened in the first place, had it? She had looked up… and there he was. And he'd left just as quickly. This door had never moved. Yet how was that possible?

"…Miss Leyton? Are you okay?"

"Shhh!" Charlotte snapped unwittingly, staring at her work room door. It unnerved her to have someone standing there asking a question she didn't even know the answer to. "I was… I'm…. someone was in here. Someone got in here and I don't know how they did it."

Opening the door one final time, Charlotte went in and grabbed her purse with shaky hands, not even taking the time to straighten the work room up for the end of the evening as she usually did. But the continued crackling of the Victrola was too eerie a sound for her to leave, so she briskly went over to move the needle.

"Someone got in here?" Patterson had followed her in, alarm in his voice. "Let me go check the doors. I'll check everything. I'm so sorry Miss Leyton, are you all right? I mean I… obviously you're not," he reached up to rub the back of his curly head. "I saw a guy in the back alley last night that looked shady, I should have called the police then—"

"It wasn't the guy from the back alley," Charlotte maneuvered around him to make her way out of her work room and head briskly toward the building exit. Her face felt wet, and she vaguely registered that it was from tears. "It was…" she shook her head quickly as she reached for the door to the outside.

"Miss Leyton." Patterson dashed to keep up with her. "Did he… did he do something, did he bother you?"

"No, he didn't bother me." Charlotte's voice broke, and she reached up to swipe the tears from her cheeks. "I've got to go home. I've got to get out of here…"

Patterson finally stopped following her at the door, but she could feel his eyes watching as she briskly walked to her car. She didn't mean to concern the gentle maintenance man, or take any of her raw emotion out of him. But this was too much, and she had to get away.

Charlotte got into her car, locking each door, and sat still in there for a moment, listening to each shaky inhale and exhale.

Either she was hallucinating, which she had never before done in her life… a mean, nearly impossible prank had been played… or…

Now that the whole thing was over, she felt the peculiarities trickle over her mind like ice water.

The voice that came from the man was definitely Bobby's, but it didn't sound entirely right for more reasons than just the presence of a rasp. Toward the end it had begun to take on a tinny quality, as though it were being broadcast over a radio from far away or from one of her records. The way his eyes seemed to gain and lose light had also seemed peculiar…

I don't know what's happening.

Something's happened. You've got to help me, Lotte.

It all went wrong.

Charlotte felt something indefinable break inside of her as his words echoed in her head. Whether it was her sanity, her heart, or both, she wasn't sure, but she finally dared herself to speak out loud.

"Bobby, you're gone aren't you?"

The words had been hard to choke out, and they hung on the stiff air of her car, unanswered.

"I mean, really gone."

When she could finally move again without feeling she'd fly to pieces, Charlotte rested her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. The only sound she heard was her tears thudding against the rubber bottom of the steering wheel as they fell.

If Bobby were dead – if he were truly dead and what she had seen was his spirit, which was already far beyond anything Charlotte believed in – then why would he ever come here, to the Disney Studio? To the place where the mess had started for him? Why would he ever want to be here again?

Unless he hadn't been able to let go completely. Unless the pain was pinning him here, to this building. To her. To the secret she'd kept from him.

Feeling the keen need to escape, Charlotte finally sat up to turn on her car's headlamps.

... And promptly let out a strangled cry.

Bobby stood there again, in front of her car, the harsh light accentuating the devastation on his face.

The words fell soundlessly from his lips, but she could read them all the same:

"Charlotte, please… don't leave me here …"

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head, watching him for another moment. Overwhelming grief and fear churned together in a toxic, paralyzing mixture.

"I can't help you." She finally forced her lips to speak, in a voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what you want…"

His gaze never wavered, and the agony in it never eased as Charlotte put the car into reverse, readying the steering wheel to turn her away from him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered words of salt as tears entered her mouth and she felt they would drown her.

As Charlotte drove the roads home by instinct, the deep bass of grief was slowly drowned out by the treble of raw fear.

She expected every man she passed walking down the dark sidewalk to turn back to her with Bobby's face. Her eyes nervously slid from the rearview mirror of the Corvaire to the side mirrors, then back. At any moment, she expected to hear the hollow sound of not-quite-Bobby's voice speak her name right behind her ear. But the drive was quiet with the exception of her own blood pounding in her ears.

The sound was too much to take when she pulled in to the driveway of the house she'd grown up in, and she hastily got out of the car and made a quick dash for the front door, the clicking of her heels echoing hard against the pavement. She fumbled for her keyring to get in when the door opened on its own.

Charlotte let out a sharp cry and dropped the keys on the front walk.

"What on earth is the matter with you?!" her mother jumped, the tin cans she was using as hair rollers clinking together.

Dropping her keys a second time before making it inside, Charlotte shut the door and bolted it.

"Well no need for all that," Marlyss Leyton reached back out to unbolt the door. "I've told you, I don't like to lock this door at night. What if the house catches on fire?

Cool annoyance filled Charlotte's veins as she hung her purse on the coat rack. "Mom, we've talked about this. This neighborhood isn't as good as it used to be. It's dangerous to keep the front door unlocked all night long. I can promise you the chances of someone breaking in are higher than the house catching on fire," she sighed. "Unless of course you do us in yourself by smoking cigarettes in the bed like always."

Not that locking the door matters for some things, Charlotte thought as she reached up to wipe her eyes one final time. Locked doors had done nothing for her an hour ago.

She looked around at the familiarity of home, of all her mother's figurines and the new television set in the corner. Down to her and her mother's constant bickering over the door, everything felt so normal. Was it possible for her to have dreamed the last hour of her life?

"You have makeup running all down your face, Charlotte. Were you at the pictures?"

"No, I was at work." Charlotte turned away, wiping harder at her face with her pocket handkerchief. "You know that…"

Her mother waved her off and picked up her wine glass, heading over to the liquor cabinet. "Of course, it's all you ever do. Work. No male callers,no dates…"

Charlotte looked all around the room for a moment, uneasiness slipping back underneath her skin.

"You're almost thirty. Do you know, I read in Family Circle yesterday that women over thirty are two times more likely to get hit by a speeding car than t—"

"I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Mother. Keep the door locked," Charlotte murmured, heading down the hall.

But as predicted, sleep was a joke.

Charlotte lay in bed, all of her lamps on, until she realized it didn't make things better. She kept the radio on as well until Wolfman Jack went off the air around midnight. Then, there were records.

Finally, around 4am, Charlotte drifted into a semi-sleep while focusing on the words to The Walker Brothers' soulful "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore."

It was during that restless transition that memories washed over her as though they had happened that very night.

November 1952

She had been passing by the conference room on her way to pick up the new measuring tape from the receiving room for Aunt Lila when she heard it.

It was Mr. Disney's voice that first came from the room, a sound which always made her pause to listen.

Walt Disney – the man behind everything she and the other seamstresses worked for here at the studio – was a charismatic individual with an infectious laugh and an aura of excitement hovering over him at all times. Charlotte always loved to hear him talk about his ideas, which he seemed to be doing every time she saw him. She hadn't ever imagined that he knew her personally, so it had surprised her when she'd passed him in the cafeteria the first summer she had worked there and he had referred to her as "Little Lila" with a fond sparkle in his eye. She wasn't sure how she felt about being known as a smaller version of her aunt, but the fact that Mr. Disney had noticed her at all, and had an inkling of who she was, was enough to cover a multitude of displeasures.

And so on this day, as usual, Charlotte paused outside the door to the conference room to listen in, excited for the chance to hear what the genius of a man might be planning next.

"After the release," she heard him reply to another man's voice as she came closer. "I want to wait until the release in February. The last thing we need is a big stink made about letting our lead star go. People love Bobby; do you really think they'd come to support Peter Pan after hearing he was prematurely released from his contract? No, no. We've got to bide time. The moment for this has to be just right…"

Charlotte stared ahead blankly, letting the words register.

Another voice chimed in. "And you're sure there's nothing else we can give him? No way we can keep the boy? He's been here for years. He idolizes you, Mr. Disney."

"I know," Charlotte heard Disney sigh. "I know he loves me, and I'm rather fond of the young fellow too. But we have to be practical and think about the future here. Bobby Driscoll is our past. Nothing can be done about it, really. It's those telling pock-marks on his face what's done it, and of course I'm very sorry he hasn't been able to get rid of them. Why, he might make a good enough villain or bully in the next picture, but even at that…"

She couldn't listen to more. Pushing away from the wall, Charlotte continued to walk blindly, digging her fingernails into her palms as she clenched her fists.

His face.

Bobby had a beautiful face. Sure, she'd noticed that over time, he was prone to breakouts, and it seemed that lately the red blotchiness of acne had settled in to stay for awhile. But that was no different than it was for so many boys in her grade, and beyond, at school. Why on earth should Bobby lose favor with Mr. Disney because of something that would surely go away in time?

The makeup they were putting on him was working just fine. She had seen it. It might be freakishly thick at moments to keep the hot stage lights from melting it off, but it worked, didn't it? Mostly?

I've got to tell him, was her first thought. Bobby had to know, he had to have the opportunity to talk to Mr. Disney himself. To clear up his face. To do something, anything, before February.

She pushed open the heavy door to go out into the employee courtyard, needing air and time to reflect on how to handle this. However, just as she was stepping outside, there stood Bobby, about to push his way in with a brightly wrapped box.

"Lotte!" he smiled brightly.

Charlotte's hand flew to her chest nervously. "Bobby…? Hi, let's… go back inside a different way." She put her hand on his arm to steer him to go with her.

"Oh… okay, well I was coming to find you anyway. Did you think I forgot your birthday this year?" he asked mischievously.

Shoving the troubling thoughts from her mind, Charlotte let out a small chuckle. "You never forget my birthday, Bobby. Not even once, and I still can't believe it."

"Yeah, well this year I got you more than just a cupcake. I hope you like it." He paused with her by a picnic table, handing over the box. "I even wrapped it myself. Are you proud?"

"Always." How she wanted to be able to look into his smiling face and return his enthusiasm. But it took about everything Charlotte had to act normally after what she had heard just moments ago. "But you know you didn't have to get me anything."

"Course I know, but I wanted to. I know you miss your dad, and I want to help you feel better," he said, sitting down to watch her open the gift.

Charlotte was careful in the unwrapping, feeling somehow extra-sensitive about undoing his hard work by tearing into the paper. Opening the box, she blinked. A small alligator purse was nestled there in tissue paper.

"Isn't it great?" Bobby beamed. "I knew you wanted one. I remembered you saying so that day you saw my mom's, and I hope it doesn't bother you that… uh, this one's not perfectly new, because Pat carried it just for a little while. I asked it off her to give you. She'd said it wasn't really her style. I told her I'd buy it from her, but you know she wouldn't make me do that."

Charlotte felt the smile overtake her face for the principle of what Bobby had gone through to secure her a real alligator purse. If she thought long enough about the fact that it had been his girlfriend's, she knew it could really rankle her. But she'd long ago come to accept that what he felt for her had nothing to do with what he felt for these other girls. She and he were friends, and the chances of that ever changing were slim to none.

But she could be thankful for that much, and she was. More than he knew.

Heat rushed to her face as she once again remembered what she'd just heard from the conference room. For shame that Mr. Disney would ever—

"Charlotte, I… I'm sorry. Does that upset you? That it was Pat's, and it isn't brand new? It's close to it, though! I really do swear I only saw her carry it maybe twice…"

Charlotte looked up again, surprised. Bobby rarely called her by her actual first name, though it sounded lovely wrapped in his voice. "No! Bobby, I love it," she smiled at him. "Really, this is… this is a beautiful purse. Nicer than anything I think I've ever had, probably." She took it out of the box and began to look through it. "If Pat doesn't want it, then her loss is my gain, right?"

"Yeah. That's what I said," Bobby chuckled. "Now look, you're fourteen! Almost caught up with me."

"I am." She gave him a coy smile, wondering if he had noticed at all that she had been trying her hand at makeup ever since he'd come to visit her at home earlier in the year.

But if he'd noticed, he didn't let on. Standing up, he patted her arm. "Sorry it's a couple days late. I was just tied up, you know."

Charlotte swallowed. "Yes… I know, you have been. And it's okay, I knew you would remember." She barely managed to look back at him and give a warm, earnest smile before putting her purse back in the box. "Thank you for this, again. I want to go back and show Aunt Lila."

"Sure. I've got to be going anyway. What were you saying earlier, about not going that way?" he looked toward the door that lead back into the building, down the hall that would pass right by the conference room Charlotte sought desperately to keep him away from.

"Right," she replied quickly. "They're, um… mopping there, and the floor's wet. Go in the other way." She pointed to another door, leading to a different wing of the building.

"Okay. Always looking out for me, Lotte. Thanks." He winked, and Charlotte felt her emotions turn completely sideways again. But before she could even say goodbye, he was off.

Bobby was always like that – high energy. Heading from here to there quickly, yet somehow managing to take the time to get it all right. It was only one of the many things she found special about him…

And she did wonder if he knew how very special he was to her. Boys could be dense, but there was no way he couldn't have detected the blush that rose to her cheeks when she'd performed his latest fitting. She had quietly made a mental note of the extra inches his shoulders and biceps had broadened. Slight changes, nothing to write home about, but they indicated that he was no longer a boy. Having boasted an excellent poker face most of her life, Charlotte had let her composure slip at the worst moment during that particular measurement session after having taken a little too long to bask in Bobby's closeness before turning to write the new numbers down in her tablet. He had turned his head slightly to look at her, doubtlessly wondering what had given the cause for delay.

How close his face had been that day, and how easily she could have leaned in to test if his cheek was as soft against her lips as she'd imagined it would be. But instead, she'd forced herself to meet his eyes, mustering up a blank expression. What resulted was an awkward physical proximity that caused them both to break into a laugh. "What?" she'd implored nonchalantly when she'd recovered.

"Nothing, I was waiting for you to keep going," he'd chuckled.

Thus, she had averted his suspicion for a day. If it was up to Charlotte, she'd keep it that way for pride sake if nothing else. Goodness knew she had already let her guard down considerably more than she'd ever dreamed she could have with this boy.

But whether Bobby could read her mounting affection or not, Charlotte knew she had definite interference to run for him, for all the kindness he had shown her: she had to somehow keep the very worst from happening.

That night Charlotte sat in the kitchen, eating apple pie straight out of the pie plate. Since her weight never really went anywhere no matter what she did, she had finally settled on just eating what she wanted.

"Oh jeez, Charlotte. What are you thinking?" her mother bustled in, reaching down and taking the pie plate from in front of her daughter just as Charlotte's fork was coming down.

To keep herself from letting a newly learned curse word bubble to the surface, Charlotte quickly brought her glass of milk to her lips. When she was done drinking it down, she got up to set it in the sink, hoping to catch her mother before she disappeared again into a cloud of cigarette smoke and dime-store novels.

"Mom, what can be done for acne?"

Her mother paused after dumping the entire pie plate in the garbage. "Acne? Why? Thank God that's not your particular problem, is it?"

Charlotte sighed. "No, clearly not. But I know someone who's got a really bad case of it, and I want to know what to tell him to do to get rid of it."

"Oh?" her mother smiled coyly. "Him?"

"He's a friend," Charlotte explained quickly, glancing away.

"Hmm. Whatever you say. Anyway, the very best thing for a clear face is… oddly enough…? Urine. Wash your face with your own urine every morning." Her mother turned to face her, hands on her hips, expectantly. "Want to go tell a boy that?"

Charlotte's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Absolutely not! You're kidding me! Are you drunk?"

Her mother sighed and tossed her hands up. "You asked me, I told you. And no, I'm not drunk. You know I've stopped drinking."

In fact, Charlotte knew her mother hadn't stopped drinking for long. In the last couple months, after the initial shock of her husband's departure, Marlyss had begun to introduce the wine bottles back into the house a little at a time, hiding them under her bed. Charlotte had spotted them herself while changing her mother's linens during their Saturday morning cleaning ritual.

But she could tell her mom was at least being honest about right now, as none of the usual telltale signs of too much nipping were visible.

"Well I can't tell him to do that. Isn't there a cream or something…?"

"Benzoyl peroxide was what girls always used when I was in high school. And… probably boys too, though I was far too crammed in your father's ear back then to notice much about other boys," her mother turned back to open the Frigidaire.

"How much is it?"

Her mother turned to look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Just a friend, right?"

"Mom, I'm serious about this. It's… a friend who could lose his job. And he has a great job, one he loves with all his heart. I don't really even know if he realizes what a big deal this could be for him yet."

"What kind of job could you use just by getting acne?" her mom shook her head, but thankfully didn't ask more questions. "Hmm…"

She turned back to survey the contents of the Frigidaire, finally picking up a bottle of lemon juice. "I remember some people saying lemon juice helps dry up face oils. I've also heard about bee venom, not sure how true that is…"

Charlotte was stunned. "How do you know about all this?"

"I read lots of magazines, Charlotte, and I told you – it's a common thing. Kids dealt with it when I was in school, they deal with it now. Nothing seems to really work completely, though, in getting rid of it once it's already there. It's usually something that will go away on its own over time."

Charlotte reached over to take the bottle of lemon juice. "You said Benzoyl peroxide… bee venom… what else?"

"Tea tree oil…" her mom had taken to tapping her chin with her finger thoughtfully. "…And that's all I know. But the urine trick is the best for prevention. I know, because I never got acne."

Charlotte paused to stare. "You put pee on your face?!"

"Charlotte Olivia, that doesn't leave this house," her mother closed the Frigidaire door abruptly. "It was something my grandmother believed in, and I… bought into it for a little while. A little while. No one even knows about it but you."

A tendril of warmth snaked itself around Charlotte's heart, and she glanced back at her mother. The very idea that her emotionally distant mother would think of telling her a personal secret caused a sense of happiness to flood a place inside her she had forgotten was even there.

"I won't say anything. I… obviously wouldn't say it to him, so I think you're safe. Meanwhile, I'm going by the drugstore tomorrow to look at some things. I'll use some of my money Aunt Lila gives me for working." Charlotte tucked the lemon juice protectively under her arm and headed toward her room.

"Charlotte?"

She glanced back.

"It's alright, really, if he's more than just a friend."

Charlotte shook her head slightly. "He isn't. But… I guess there's always the hope, maybe, of something else. Someday. If I can make him really see me."

She turned and made her way back to her room to count her money for the next afternoon.

"Hiya, Lotte…!"

Bobby's voice held an edge of surprise as he came out onto his front step, still holding the door. Behind him, Charlotte could see a couple of guys standing in the foyer, glancing out curiously. Her timing evidently could not have been worse, as he and his friends were clearly heading out somewhere.

But Bobby moved to the side, making hasty introductions. "Oh, this is Dean and Sherwood, a couple of my pals. Fellas, this is Charlotte from the studio. A…" he paused, and the suspense regarding how he would define her caused Charlotte's heart to speed up a bit. "Measurer?" he chuckled. "In the sewing department."

She felt that familiar tightness in her chest, but chuckled, giving a little wave and shifting the paper sack on her hip. "I guess that's kind of right."

Bobby stepped out fully onto his porch then, closing the door behind him. "It's a surprise to see you here, but nice of you to stop by. Though I'm curious, how did you know where I live?"

Charlotte shifted the bag again. "I had to do some asking around. I hope you don't mind. And I won't stay long, I just… had some things to give you."

Not knowing exactly how to proceed, Charlotte simply handed over the brown sack.

Bobby took it. "Um… thanks." He stared down at it for a moment. "Can I open it?"

Charlotte bit her lip. "Yeah. But, I want to explain what all it is." She began to recite the list. "Lemon juice… tea tree oil… benadryl perozide… sorry, benzoyl peroxide… and some cold crème that's supposed to be really good."

Bobby turned his eyes up to her. "Cold crème? That's a girl thing, Lotte. What's… all this for?"

But she inwardly cringed at the sense that he already knew. His ears were turning redder by the second.

"I… um…" she took a deep breath. "I just thought… well, I know someone said you hated having to wear so much makeup these days onscreen. So I wondered if I could find some stuff for you so you didn't have to."

Bobby turned his eyes back to the bag he held awkwardly in his arms, straightening slightly.

This had been a complete botch up. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage.

"So it's for my face." He lifted his chin and locked his eyes on hers.

Charlotte swallowed. She could just tell him the truth about what she knew, about why she was doing this. But if she could possibly manage to help him help himself without his having to know those upsetting details…

"I-I just thought…"

She trailed off then, because evidently she hadn't thought - not enough, at least, to realize how humiliating it might be for someone to show up on your doorstep bearing acne care products without any good explanation. That was always her problem, jumping headlong into working out solutions without taking time to really consider their ramifications from every angle. And now Bobby would be going back inside with a paper bag full of junk to stash somewhere while his friends wondered what exactly an unpretty "measurer" from Disney had come to his nice house to burden him with.

"Yeah. Okay, I get it." His jaw hardened into a firm line. "I've been hearing about it already, a lot. From my mom… from some other guys at school, and now from you. Which, I guess I'd like to know, what's the idea, Lotte? Because I've never… I would never… tell you something like, go eat an apple or skip an entire meal." His voice rose slightly at the end of the sharp comment.

Charlotte felt her mouth drop open. The blade of those words coming from Bobby's mouth twisted in her chest.

"I've never wanted to be just another one of those people in your life who harps on you about—"

"Being fat?" Charlotte snapped before she could stop herself.

Bobby visibly hesitated, his forehead pinched in frustration. "Yeah. Okay? You said it yourself." His eyes flashed in a way she had never seen before. "But never once have I said anything about that, because it was none of my business what size you were, and who really cared about that anyway, Lotte? You were a great girl, a good friend. So why the hell do you want to come over here and tell me to wash my face for no good reason other than that you're 'concerned'?"

"Th-there is a good reason!" Charlotte stammered, but still she stopped.

How could she do it? How could she tell him what she'd heard the man he admired most in the world say about him? No matter how much he was hurt by what she'd just done, knowing what Mr. Disney was about to do would hurt way worse.

So she set her own jaw.

"I don't want anyone to make fun of you. I don't want… anyone saying anything about your face. That's all. I was trying to help you and I didn't know how to. And by the way. That apple? I've eaten it. That meal? I've skipped it. Want to talk about exercise, too? I walked all the way over here from my house, which is across town with the 'commonfolk' by the way, to bring you this stuff I spent my own money on. And here's about what it all amounts to." Charlotte opened her arms in a circle around herself in a vulnerable gesture that brought tears to her eyes. "I was just hoping it wouldn't be the same thing with you, that this was something maybe you could do something about."

"Well believe me," Bobby shot back, seemingly unaffected by her spill. "I've tried it all. So, I tell you what..." he set the bag back into her arms with a fierce clunk. "Won't you keep it? I'll know exactly who to go to when I need more gunk to put on my face. Now I really gotta go, we're headed to town."

He turned and made his way back into the house, leaving Charlotte standing there staring at the door closed heavily behind him, with an armful of face products, and tears in her eyes that threatened to spill over.

Turning quickly, she stalked back down his driveway, pausing long enough to open the Driscolls' trash can lid and toss the entire bag inside.