Title: Charlotte's Web (Chapter Seven) by Lexikal
Rating: M for graphic violence and language
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Patrick Jane has lived his life obsessed with the capture of Red John ever since finding his beloved wife and daughter slain by the maniac's hand. Now, 10 years to the day after that horrific night, a young woman appears in Patrick's life, someone who threatens to destroy everything his life has become in the interim... if not his sanity, itself.
Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews. Keep them coming. I don't know Spanish, I am Canadian. We don't learn Spanish up here in school. So I have taught myself a little, but if someone is reading this and knows I am butchering the language, please, my apologies in advance. I couldn't find Patrick Jane's birthday online, so I made it May 23rd, 1968. I made it May 23rd because that is the birthday of Franz Mesmer (May 23, 1734-March 5, 1815), the German physician who theorized that there was a natural energetic transfer between all animate and inanimate objects (animal magnetism/magnétisme animal). Mesmer believed a "life energy" resided in the bodies of all animate bodies (living things that breathe) and also that animate and inanimate objects (the planets and minerals for instance) contained a form of magnetism. To cut a long story short, Mesmer developed theories which became the basis for new techniques such as hypnosis, "magnetic healing", the laying on of hands, New Thought and Spiritualism. In France today, some energy healers are still called "magnétiseurs" after Mesmer's theories of Animal Magnetism, and the english word "mesmirized" comes from him. Because he was sort of the founding father of a lot of theories which became used to create different psychological techniques (hypnosis and self-hypnosis as applications sprung from his theories) I thought he was a perfect person for Jane to honour, by giving them the same birthday. In the colloquial sense "animal magnetism" is used to describe someone who is charismatic or sexy. ;) So it works on more than one level. The toys mentioned at the end of this chapter actually were released in 2003 and really do exist. You can look them up. And Charlotte's behavior is classic C-PTSD, in case anybody is wondering why she isn't "normal".
"Perhaps all pleasure is only relief." - William S. Burroughs
"Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war."- William S. Burroughs
"It is much safer to be feared than loved because ...love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails." ― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince
"Guys!" Rigsby said brightly, upon seeing them enter the lobby. Rigsby's eyes immediately turned downwards, to the young girl amongst them. Jane's kid. Jane's daughter. Charlotte.
"Charlie, this is Rigsby," Jane said by way of introduction. That was the second time he had called the girl "Charlie", a pet name he had no doubt used with his daughter back before Red John had come along and messed up Jane's life, Jane's family's lives. If Charlotte minded the term of endearment it was impossible to tell from her demeanour.
"Wayne Rigsby. Right. Hello," the girl said, letting everyone else know she had, at least, a basic understanding of them and their functions. She put out her hand and Rigsby shook it, a bit too hard. He reminded Lisbon of an over-enthusiastic puppy meeting a kid paying attention to it for the first time. Down, boy. Also, he was nervous. Only Cho seemed unaffected by Charlotte's presense. Jane was doing well, Lisbon thought, but was much more gentle in his speech, much more protective in his body language, than she had ever seen him.
"Um, so the room situation is this: 2 separate rooms side by side, and directly across the hall, we have one room connected to another. Two beds in one. One bed in the other.
"Lisbon and Charlie will be sharing, Rigsby." Jane said, looking over at his daughter to gauge her reaction. No reaction. Good enough.
"So you'll be in the single adjoining? And Cho and me, we get our own rooms?"
"Right."
"Okay. And the keys-" Rigsby said, and handed Jane a key, Lisbon a key. Cho a key. Charlotte watched the keys get handed out, a small, rueful smile on her face. Rigsby smiled at her nervously.
"We should go outside to tell him..." Charlotte said softly, darting her father a look. Jane nodded and began to walk back towards the front doors.
Rigsby followed, looking puzzled.
"Guys?" He said.
"Our emergency knock is this..." Charlotte said, and banged lightly on a street lamp pole. The sound was hollow and tinny, eerily empty.
"4-2-3? Emergency knock?"
"To make sure nobody has been intercepted by Red John," Jane said quickly, looking over at Rigsby. Rigsby nodded immediately, his eyes wide and saucer-like.
"We will change it at least once a day," Charlotte said, looking over at her father. Jane nodded immediately. Whatever you need to feel safe, Charlotte, we will do.
"Oh, I should probably warn you guys, in case you have any friends in local law enforcement..." Charlotte said, then, voice sounding a little amused.
"What?" Jane said, smiling at her pleasantly, mirroring her own amusement back to her.
"Before I left my apartment tonight? I shot all the creatures out. And most of them are... poisonous. Whoever enters that apartment first-or second- is at risk of being bit by something venomous."
Lisbon looked at Charlotte, stunned. Had to admit the kid's actions made a dark, violent sort of sense. But still... Jesus.
"No, I don't have any friends in the local PD," Jane said simply enough, as if the idea of someone entering and being bit by one of "Charlie's" deadly pets didn't bother him in the slightest. Lisbon shot him an incredulous look.
"Really, Jane?" Lisbon said under her breath, shooting Jane a dark look which he promptly ignored.
"I am pretty sure Red John knows I am gone by now. He tends to be aware of developing news stories," Charlotte said, and chuckled. An honest-to-God laugh. Jane didn't think he could manage a similar laugh. Didn't even try. The smile on his face felt forced now.
"Right."
"But he no doubt might still send somebody, to sift through my stuff, see if I have left anything. Although... yeah. He probably knows I am with you by now."
Jane stared at his child silently. He nodded.
"I bet he is pretty pissed off right now, don't you? Not sure he thought I'd go all AWOL on him."
Jane wanted to smile at that comment, he really did. But there was too much pain surrounding this for him to smile. This wasn't a game. This was his daughter, his baby, alive all these years and raised by a monster. No. He couldn't force a smile for this.
"He's probably very, very angry. Yes."
"I bet he starts killing again. I mean. Big time now. Baby lost his ba-ba and a tantrum is imminent." Charlotte's words were acid, her pupils huge in the gloom. She had a dark smile on her face, each tooth reflecting a little streetlamp light. Sharp little teeth, they were. Lisbon felt chilled by the words. She never thought she'd hear someone speaking about Red John with such a cavalier disregard for his abilities, and yet, here was Charlotte Jane-Ruskin, raised by the maniac, doing just that. Calling him a "baby" to boot.
Jane didn't say anything to that. Lisbon looked over at Jane. She could feel how much this hurt him. She knew Charlotte wasn't trying to hurt her father, just had no way to gauge what was appropriate and what wasn't. The girl's sense of what was appropriate, what hurt, what didn't hurt... had all been turned upside down and shaken.
"Um... so... you guys want me to show you where the rooms are now?" Rigsby said then, sensing the growing tension or maybe the way Jane's shoulders seemed a little too rigid. Rigsby the wonder-dog.
Jane's eyes never left his daughter's. This was her show.
"Can I have a cigarette before we go in?" Charlotte asked her father. He nodded back. She pulled a pack of Pall Malls from her jeans' back pocket, stuck a smoke in her mouth and offered Lisbon a cigarette. Cho. They both shook their heads.
"Rigsby?"
"No, but thank you," Rigsby said, unusually formal. Charlotte nodded. Pulled out a tiny orange lighter and cupped her hands around the cigarette, lit it. She inhaled greedily, blew out a plume of blue-grey smoke and smiled at Jane through the smoke screen.
"Honestly, it's like you people are trying to live forever, or something." Such a young voice, such a young face, and such ancient torment in those green eyes.
Rigsby had pointed out the rooms. He and Cho had gone off for the night, to sleep. Jane, Lisbon and Charlotte had entered the room with two beds. Charlotte glanced around, as if looking for monsters. Actually looked under both of the beds. Went to the little closet, pulled the door open. Nothing but wire coat hangers and cupboards built into the wall for socks and underwear. Charlotte went into the bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain. Looked under the bathroom sink. Picked up one of the mini soaps, turned it over. Red John, are you hiding under the soap? Put it back down. Came back into the bedroom, snatched the remote control off the bureau and turned on the television. Sat down on the bed nearest the TV. Jane watched her silently. Lisbon took the opposite bed, sat down. Jane kept standing. Wasn't sure what to say. How to act.
"You like movies?" Charlotte asked, eyes on the television screen. She had the video rental screen up and was scrolling through the available movies.
"Some movies," Jane allowed. Charlotte nodded, glanced over at Lisbon. Lisbon smiled. Nodded.
"Or are you too tired?"
Lisbon didn't say anything. Jane did.
"I bet Lisbon is pretty tired, Charlie." This said as gently as possibly.
Charlotte glanced over at Lisbon again, as if sizing her up. Nodded.
"Yeah. Okay. Nothing good on here except The Purge and I saw that in the theaters. If I go and get a shower right now, will you stay awake and guard the door?"
This comment was directed at either of them. Both of them nodded immediately. Charlotte nodded back, took her green backpack into the bathroom and carefully, almost silently, closed the door. Jane could hear the lock being put on. He waited a beat, eyes on the door. Until the water faucet turned on, the spray of the shower.
"My bet is she will be out in three minutes. Showering is an inherently vulnerable act," Jane said, walking over to Lisbon and sitting down on the bed next to her.
"Are you okay doing this? Watching her?"
"Yes. Of course," Lisbon said. Jane's eyes were scanning her face, a bit worriedly.
"She has... she might say things that upset you. Or... are hurtful. I don't know. I don't want you to get hurt, Lisbon."
"I am not going to get alienated by your daughter, Jane, you don't need to worry about that," Lisbon said. Jane glanced back at the door.
"She doesn't seem brainwashed by Red John. Not... not like the others."
"No," Lisbon agreed. "She has a lot of her dad in her."
Jane looked back at Lisbon, smiled a tender little flower of a smile.
"I hope that is it and that this isn't an act."
"Act? You said you know that is Charlotte-"
"It's Charlotte, alright. That's not what I meant. Why come back after all this time? Why now?"
"You think she might be... what Jane? Dangerous?"
"I don't know. But I don't want you to get hurt." His eyes were now locked on the door.
"Jane, I'm not going to get hurt. I don't think I could fall asleep tonight if I wanted to. And I'm a girl. It makes sense I room with her."
"Yes. I know. I just... something is wrong. Her behaviour is not normal." This last sentence had fallen to almost a whisper.
"Did you expect it would be?" Lisbon asked seriously. Jane, not looking over at her, shook his head no.
"No. That's exactly it. You'd expect anyone who has endured what Charlotte has to be traumatized, unstable... maybe have some antisocial traits. But I don't know the end game, here, or even if there is an end game. Did Red John send her to us? Or did she come of her own free will, and if so, why? Why now?"
"Maybe she started questioning where she came from? Or began questioning Red John, or her memories of you? Or..." Lisbon trailed. Thought about how she wanted to phrase what she wanted to say next.
"What?" Jane prodded.
"Maybe Red John wanted her to do something that she couldn't bring herself to do?" Lisbon said, and that sentence was filled with terrible potential.
"Murder," Jane said solemnly.
"Or murder... you," Lisbon ventured. She hated the sharp blossoms of pain in Jane's eyes, mini explosions. He nodded.
"He wanted you to join him. You didn't. He had your daughter, a piece of you, as his protégée for all these years. What better way to show a master your devotion and loyalty than by murdering your own father?" Lisbon said this in a rush, and shot a glance over at the bathroom door.
"So she would have sought me out, if the alternative was to live with Red John and... kill me."
"Possibly," Lisbon said, eyes darkening, darkening with pain for Jane, hatred for Red John.
"Or..." Jane prompted. His mind wouldn't let him go there, but he could see Lisbon had ideas his own mind wouldn't let be formed.
"Red John is theatrical. He likes to think he is smarter than everybody else. Just killing you might not be enough. Maybe... gaining your trust first? Making your own daughter gain your trust? What better way to dominate the both of you?" Lisbon hated what she was saying. Felt the need to say it anyway. How horrific an ending would it be for Jane to be slain by his own child after all of this madness, all these years of guilt and despair? And if Charlotte ever recovered enough to realize what she had done? She'd have to live with the guilt and despair Jane had lived with, thinking his actions had gotten *her* killed. Made a sick sort of sense. Poetic, in a hellish way.
Jane shook his head. Stood up. Paced a few feet away from Lisbon, paced back towards her, distraught.
"No, that's not it," Jane said softly, words barely audible. Lisbon just watched him. Watched him pace a few more lines.
"How do you know?" Lisbon said as kindly as she could.
"I know Charlie. She wouldn't be able to do that."
"Maybe this isn't the Charlie you remember?" Lisbon said, not unkindly. Jane glanced back at the door and she thought she caught a shiver run through him. But he shook his head again.
"No. You're wrong, Lisbon."
The water stopped then. Charlotte was done with her shower. This talk was over.
She came out fully dressed, even wearing her socks, shoes and army jacket. She obviously meant to sleep fully clothed, ready to run or hide at a moment's notice.
She sat down on her bed. Looked over at Lisbon, visually sought out her father.
"You're still here," she told Jane, and in that moment she seemed so factually obvious that she struck Lisbon more like a 6 year old than a 16 year old. Jane nodded.
"You wanted to talk to her about me," Charlie said, not bothering to phrase it as a question. She lay down on her bed, unzipped her backpack and pulled out her stuffed animal devil. There was silence for a few beats. Charlotte crossed her arms, lay her head on her arms. The devil perched at the head of the bed, a plush pet from cartoon Hell. She shut her eyes, as if testing out sleep, like a shopper in a grocery store testing out deli meat samples.
"That's cute," Lisbon said a bit awkwardly. Charlotte slit her eyelids open and looked out into the world, the place where that voice had come from.
"My devil?"
"Yeah," Lisbon said. Jane had walked over to the room's desk and sat down in the chair.
"His name is Bunsen. He plays Elvis," Charlotte said, and pressed the button on the toy's foot that triggered the music.
You look like an angel
Walk like an angel
Talk like an angel
But I got wise
You're the devil in disguise
Oh yes you are
The devil in disguise...
The music shut off then. Apparently it only played that bit of the song.
Jane reached over, turned the desk lamp on. Got back up and wandered over to the light switch. Turned the lights off. Charlotte shut her eyes again. Jane returned to the desk.
Jane, at the desk, watched her. Nobody said anything. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Was Charlotte asleep? Jane glanced over at Lisbon.
"I'll stay if you want to go and get a shower," he said in a lowered voice. Lisbon nodded, shifted herself off the bed and picked up her luggage bag.
Jane heard moans. Scared, feeble things. At first they filtered into his dream, a bizarre dream he was having of children with bird beaks instead of human noses and mouths. The children were being kept in wire cages over a pot of boiling water, and the bodies of some of them (human bodies apart from the bird-beaks) were floating on the top of the boiling, roiling water, like perogies that have finished cooking. In the cage was a little girl bird-thing and next to her was a crow, with bloody eyes sockets. The feeble little moans were coming from the little girl-bird-thing.
And then Jane was slowly coming back awake, into awareness. His head was on his arms, and he was sitting at a motel desk. He shook himself awake, then, and peered around. Lisbon was still asleep, dead to the world, in her bed, her covers over most of her. Charlotte lay on top of the covers, quietly moaning in her sleep, small feet in their converse all-stars kicking out jerkily. Jane got up and went to her, kneeled down. Put his hand on her shoulder. Tried to comfort her.
One of the moans became a strangely shrieky shout. Jane shook her then. The shout died down and turned into low, scared moans again.
"Charlotte? Wake up," Jane said, and shook his daughter a bit more forcefully. Her eyes opened then and she pulled back reflexively before realizing it was Jane who had touched her. Her eyes scanned the motel room. First Jane. Then the door. Then Lisbon. Lisbon was still asleep. Eyes back to Jane immediately.
"What time is it?" Charlotte said in a hoarse voice. It was the voice of someone who has screamed themselves silly, but Jane knew she hadn't screamed. Moaned. But not screamed. Jane checked his watch.
"Almost 6 a.m.," he said.
Charlotte nodded. As Jane watched, a drop of blood fell out of her left nostril. Then a drop from her right. Then her nose began to bleed in earnest. Charlotte's eyes bulged slightly, and Jane thought he heard a strange little moaning sound of panic as she sat up. Jane ran to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel and came back with it. Handed it to his daughter. She pressed it to her face and the fear in her eyes lessened, just a little.
Jane said soothing things to her for the next few minutes. It's probably the dry air. You're okay, Charlie. I get them too, sometimes (a lie). Made chit chat, but Charlotte was still half asleep, half-asleep with a bloody cloth pressed to her face.
"Why'd you wake me up?"
"You were having a nightmare," Jane said truthfully.
"Oh. Yeah. I know. But how did you know that?"
"You were making noise," Jane clarified. "Moans. Whimpering."
"Was I saying anything?" Charlotte said from behind the hand towel. Jane shook his head no. She seemed relieved.
Finally she pulled the hand towel away from her face. Stared at the blood soaked into the fabric like a bizarre Rorschach. Stared at it. Showed it to her father.
"If this was an ink blot you were being shown in a shrinker's office, what would you say this was?"
Jane stared at it. Charlotte was trying to get to know him. Maybe she wasn't employing the regular chit chat, but she was trying to gain insight into her father. Jane was touched, though his facial expression didn't change.
"It looks sort of like a frog to me. Maybe a toad. Some sort of amphibian after a large meal."
"I think it looks like a curled up armadillo. Well, mostly curled up," Charlotte said, and put the bloody hand towel down on the bedside table, under the lamp. Her eyelids were hovering at half mast, already. "I like armadillos."
"Oh yeah? What do you know about armadillos?" Jane said, smiling at his kid. He had used the same phrase on her as a little girl, whenever she claimed to "like" something, then had grinned as she listed off whatever she knew about the subject matter. If she hadn't known anything about the subject he had smiled at her and prompted "how can you like something if you don't know anything about it?"
"Superorder Xenarthra, same as sloths and anteaters. Their name means little armored one in Spanish, and the name the Aztecs had for them meant turtle-rabbit, but I forget the exact name..." Charlotte's voice was lowering as she drifted back into sleep. "They can stay under water for up to six minutes. Giant armadillos can weigh up to 130 pounds and be the size of a small pig. The pink fairy armadillo is only the size of a chpmunk though. They usually have litters of 4 identical babies. They generally have low body temperatures, about 93 degrees. They are used to study leprosy because their low body temperatures make them susceptible. Also, people can get leprosy from them by handling them if they are infected in the wild, or eating their meat. In Texas and Louisiana... so you don't eat armadillo meat.. unless you want to risk leprosy..." Charlotte's words staggered off and then were none. She had fallen back to sleep. Jane went over to the closet, pulled out a throw blanket he had seen in there when Charlie had checked the closet out the night before, and came back over to her. He gently pulled the throw over her, careful not to rouse her again.
"I guess you know enough about armadillos to like them, then," Jane said softly to her as she slept.
Lisbon woke up at half past seven and blinked into the early morning light, screened by the tacky orange window curtains. Jane had gone across the street to the 7-11 and come back with a Super Big Gulp of Pepsi and an overpriced box of strawberry frosted pop tarts. He was sipping from his mammoth reservoir of soda when Lisbon sat up and blinked.
"Morning," Jane said. He'd been sitting and watching both of them sleep all night, except for the quick dart to the convenience store for his soda and breakfast pastries, and he looked it. He had been fine at first, but when he was paying for his items he had suddenly been filled with dread. Would he get back to the motel to find Charlie had run away or disappeared? Or that she had been killed for running away from her keeper? Jane had hurried back, heart in his throat, but like he had known intellectually all along, she had been fine, still sleeping on top of the covers with her thumb corked in her mouth and her devil in her arms. Jane smiled at the memory. His hair was mussed up and his eyes had that over-glassy sheen of someone who needs sleep.
"You were up all night?" Lisbon said, yawning tiredly. Jane shrugged. Offered Lisbon the box of Poptarts. Lisbon made a face.
"Charlie likes them," Jane said, eyes falling on his sleeping daughter. Lisbon nodded. Smiled.
"Did you always call her Charlie?" She asked softly. Jane nodded.
"She doesn't seem to mind," Lisbon confirmed. "Should I call her that?"
"If she'll let you," Jane said, looking over at the woman he had come to view as his partner. "But she doesn't know you, so Charlotte might be better for now."
Lisbon nodded at that.
"I'm going to brush my teeth," Lisbon said, still waking up, walking to the bathroom. Jane nodded, but he was still watching his child sleep, mesmerized. Her existence seemed to be proof of a God he had never believed in.
He knew that was a silly way to think. But he was thinking that, anyway. Lisbon watched him for a second from the bathroom door, smiled to herself, and gently shut the door.
The day got really busy, fast. Charlotte woke up and brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her naturally-wavy hair, washed her face with the little motel soap. Dug lip gloss out of her bag and dabbed some on, a little bit of mascara which somehow looked out of place on such a baby face. Jane offered her his gigantic cup of Pepsi and she shrugged and took a few sips. Saw the box of poptarts and took one when Jane offered, tearing off the foil wrapper with sharp, white little teeth. Rip, rip. The pop tart was all but inhaled. Then its twin was gone. Jane held the box out and Charlotte took another foil wrapped pair and ate those two almost as fast. Jane watched her eat, a rueful smile on his lips. She reminded him of a wild, skittish animal being fed by humans. Wolfing the food down without tasting it.
"You like poptarts?" Charlotte asked her father when she was done with her meal. He nodded, and to show her that he did, he took a pair of them from the box. Began to eat. Slowly.
Rigsby drove them back into the city twenty minutes later, stopping at McDonald's first so he, Lisbon and Cho could get breakfast food and coffees. Charlotte ordered a black coffee with extra sugar and sat in the backseat this time, wedged in between Jane and Lisbon. Rigsby was talking about a dream he had had the night before, talking while eating and driving, and Charlotte smiled a little to herself. Cho drank his coffee and eventually said:
"I don't understand why you are telling us your dream."
"I just thought you might be interested!" Rigsby said, sounding wounded. "I haven't dreamed I was turning into a wolf since I was a little kid!"
"You had dreams like this as a child," Cho said flatly. Not really a question. Rigsby shot him a look. In the backseat, Jane grinned, polished off the last of his egg McMuffin, leaned forward and threw the wax paper wrap the sandwich had come in into the paper bag with the rest of the garbage.
"Turning into a wolf is not boring! I'd say that is a frightening dream for a little kid to have!"
"Okay. It's frightening," Cho said, looking out the passenger side window.
"Oh yeah? What sort of nightmares did you have as a kid, then?" Rigsby challenged. Jane was still grinning. So was Charlotte, wedged in besides him, the same mischievously delighted grin as her father's stretched over her face.
"What sort of dreams did I have? Ever hear of the Kuchisake Onna? Slit-mouthed woman? I dreamt my mother was a Kuchisake Onna."
From the driver's seat, Rigsby snorted laughter. "You mean that Japanese urban legend? Asks you if she is pretty, and if you say no after you see her ugly face she kills you? How is that scary? All you have to say is she's pretty! You couldn't even come up with your own monster!"
"Oh, and you came up with the idea of a wolf?" Cho said dryly, glancing over at Rigsby for confirmation.
"Which one do you think is scarier, boss?" Rigsby said then, turning to look at Lisbon. Lisbon held up her hands, was about to say something when Jane said:
"Boys, boys... neither of them is very scary."
Sitting beside her father, coffee in her hands, Charlotte wheezed laughter. Rigsby shot Jane an exasperated look and turned back to the road, muttering under his breath. Something like "wolves are too scary". Cho smiled, took a sip of his own coffee. Jane, hearing his daughter's tinkling laughter, grinned in earnest. Delighted with himself.
Small pockets of time like this were candles in the darkness.
They took Charlotte to a forensic lab to be fingerprinted. All standard operating procedure in a case like this. But of course, cases "like this" were almost unheard of. Jane stood beside her as each small finger tip was pressed into black ink and rolled onto paper. The tech was gentle but Jane kept sending Charlotte concerned looks, as if having her fingers inked and pressed onto paper might somehow harm her.
Charlotte didn't look at her father. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, a bit glassy. The next stop was to a medical clinic for a blood draw. Small, basic looking medical lab with other people milling around with paperwork from their doctors. Charlotte's eyes bobbed around and over all the surfaces, richochetting BBs, and she seemed fine until she saw the needle. Then she pulled back. Fear bubbled up behind her eyes. Jane saw it. Even Lisbon saw it.
"Wait," Jane said, before the needle could pierce her vein. He bent down.
"You don't need to have blood drawn if you don't want. At least not right now."
His daughter was very determinedly not looking at the needle. She was doing her best to give off blasé vibes, but too much of the whites in her eyes were showing for the act to be compelling.
"No. You will want to know for sure. Then you will know for sure."
"Charlotte, I already know who you are. This is a technicality. You don't need to do it, if you don't want to," Jane said, body between her and the phlebotomist. Charlotte gazed down at her arm, already tied off with the rubber tourniquet. Charlotte was looking at her arm, at the vein bulging, ready to be pierced. She looked back up at her father. Eyes anguished. She obviously didn't want to go through with this. Didn't want to look weak, either.
Jane remembered back to the time she had cut her teeth through her lips at the pool, the summer before Red John had taken her. The way her face had gone white with fear, the way she had held onto him, smelling of sweat and adrenaline as needles were pushed into that lip and each suture was pulled through in the clinic he had driven her to. Eyes fluttering. How she had panicked later, when he bought her the popsicle and his own popsicle, cherry-red, had reminded her of blood. The sudden tears. Not during the injury, not even during the stitches. But later, the repressed emotions she hadn't felt then bubbling out. Crying over the dripping red of that popsicle. Charlotte had always been like that. She didn't get upset when most people expected it, instead, she "stored" up her sadness and fear and frustration and vented it all at once. No way would she admit weakness now, in front of him. In front of Lisbon, and the lab tech.
Jane reached forward, gently tugged the tourniquet off her arm. Gently pulled Charlotte to her feet. She had that same startled, scared expression on her face he remembered all those years ago. Trying to look tough, but scared out of her mind. His daughter had been phobic of blood her entire life. Had living with Red John only strengthened that phobia, or made her dissociative? Jane wasn't sure. Didn't want to do anything to her that would, in any way, tell her subconscious that she still had to be on guard. Not with him.
"What are you doing? I have to!" Charlotte said, almost a whine, but Jane was shaking his head no.
"Come on. Let's go," He told her, darting a meaningful look over at Lisbon. She nodded back at him. On the way out of the clinic Jane snaked his hand out and pulled one of the cheap dollar store toys from a pile meant for little kids who had been stuck with needles. At the door he handed the toy- a ring pop candy- to Charlotte. She smiled up at him, looking dazed, unsure, overwhelmed. What had just happened?
While Charlotte, Jane and Lisbon were doing their thing, Cho had gotten a call. His wallet had been found at the airport. Rigsby had been in contact with Van Pelt all morning. She had stayed behind in Sacramento in case Jane "turned up" locally and needed a team member, and had been out with the exhumation team all night, after Cho failed to come in. She was keeping Rigsby up to date on what was going on, and he was relaying the information to Lisbon. They had dug up the coffin of "Charlotte Jane Ruskin". The small, decayed body was in a local morgue right now, under flourescent lights, utterly exposed under the light. They had taken a mold of the teeth and were running them against Charlotte's dental records. They had also exhumed Angela Jane Ruskin and were fingerprinting her, running her dental records. Just to be Pelt had stayed with the little body the entire time, only stepping out to pee and coming straight back. She had tried not to look at it, but found her eyes kept darting back over to it, to take furtive glances at it, that little black shell of a child swallowed whole by the ground this last decade.
Back in the car, slumped in the backseat, face smooshed against the glass, Charlotte said: "What do we do now?"
Everything was moving so fast. Jane hadn't had much time to plan out the next steps of this journey.
"Now, I guess we go home," Jane said, looking over at Charlotte from the front passenger seat. Lisbon was driving. Cho and Rigsby were already at the airport, waiting.
"Oh. How do we get there?" Charlotte said, looking incredibly tired. No wonder. Jane felt like taking a nap himself. He felt exhausted. Red John was a mosquito, and he had been filling himself on the Janes for over a decade now. Jane shot Lisbon a glance for confirmation.
"Um, we're going to take a plane back," Jane said. "It's faster."
"Where am I going to stay when we get back? Where is home, anyway?"
Jane thought about how to answer this.
"We're going to Sacramento. That's where I live now."
Charlotte nodded at this. Sucked at her ring pop. Shut her eyes.
"Where do you live in Sacramento? Is it safe?"
Jane glanced over at Lisbon. How to answer that? Finally decided just to tell the truth.
"I live in the attic at the CBI. I think it's safe."
Lulled almost to sleep by movement of the car, Charlotte said: "No. That's not too safe." But she had fallen asleep. Or nearly.
"Lisbon should stay with us," Charlotte said, eyes closed.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Red John will be very mad right now. If he can't get at me, and he can't get you... maybe he will try to go for Lisbon. She means a lot to you. She should stay with us."
Jane looked at Lisbon. The look on her face told him she would do whatever was suggested to her at this point.
"Okay. Lisbon will stay with us."
"Good," Charlotte said, sucking loudly on her ring pop. "I like Lisbon."
Jane smiled over at Lisbon. She was grinning.
"Good. I like Lisbon, too.."
There was a pause. Jane thought Charlotte had fallen asleep when she asked: "Are they digging me up?"
Jane thought about those words. At first his mind didn't make any sense of that question. Then he understood what she was asking. All in a span of two seconds.
"We..." Jane started. How to phrase this. Finally: "Yes."
"I wonder what is going to be in the coffin. Maybe a doll? Or a chimpanzee?" The words were blurred with fatigue. "I would have put in a doll or a chimpanzee corpse. As a joke. If I was Red John."
"You're not Red John," Jane said, a little too tensely. No. There hadn't been a doll in that grave. Or a chimpanzee. There had been a real little child, a real little murder victim.
"I know that," Charlotte said drowsily from the back seat. "Red John is smarter than I am. No sense of humour, either."
"This..." Jane stopped talking. Forced himself not to sound anguished. "This isn't funny, Charlotte. It's not a joke."
From the back seat, Charlotte yawned. Shut her eyes and slid the Ring Pop back into her mouth.
Lisbon kept her eyes on the road. She couldn't think of anything to say right now. What was there to say?
After a minute of silence: "Red John doesn't kill children. At least not back then."
Jane turned in his seat, eyes blazing. "What do you mean?" Red John does kill children.
"Red John didn't kill that kid. That one you thought was me."
Lisbon risked a quick glance at Jane. She could see a blood vessel standing out on the side of his temple. Could see his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, hard.
"How do you know that?" His voice was amazingly stable.
"That kid was already dead. He got her from a funeral home, before she was slated to be burned. Stole her out of the coffin. Nobody ever noticed her missing, or cared. When they give you back ashes, that is the leftover bones that don't burn up, not really the ashes. They're bones. They grind them up. That is what they give you in those little jars after they cremate you. Her parents probably got some ground up pig bones or something."
Jane blinked at that, hard. Like trying to wake up from a nightmare.
"How do you know that?"
"He told me. That kid died of leukemia. But... he did kill..." and her voice trailed off. The quality of her voice changed. Lisbon shot a worried glance over at Jane, but Jane was no longer paying attention to Lisbon, not even really aware of where he was. He was 100% focused on his daughter, the drop in her voice, the way her eyelids slit open, the change in her body movements, her body language. He already knew what was coming, what she was going to say, but he wanted to be wrong. Knew he wasn't wrong, but wanted- desperately- to be.
"What, Charlotte?" Jane probed. Charlotte shifted. Her eyes flickered fast, a sheen of what might have been the beginning of tears. There. Then gone. Her face was composed again.
"He did kill her, though."
"Her?"
"My mother," Charlotte said simply. "He killed her."
"Charlotte?" Jane prodded. Her name was enough of a question. She turned her focus on him, eyes blazing with her own anguish, her own fire. For a second, Jane thought he saw anger. Anger at him? It was hard to say, because that dancing emotion in her eyes was walled off almost instantly.
"I know he did. I saw him do it. He strangled her. Then he cut her lungs out. Little lung-y wings. The room smelled like hot, wet iron. Salty, hot death. The first red room I was ever in. Painted both their faces red and left you his sigil. It felt like watching a TV show on a black and white TV from far away. Except for the Sigil. That was in colour."
"The sigil," Jane repeated numbly. Lisbon's attention was 100% on Jane. Jane's was 100% on Charlotte, and Charlotte's focus was back in her early childhood, reliving the genesis of a never-ending nightmare. His voice sounded like someone about to faint. Good thing he wasn't driving. Lisbon doubted Charlotte had noticed the difference in Jane's voice.
"The bloody smiley face? I call it Mitchell the Sigil, but he doesn't think that's cute. You know what that means? The smiley face?"
"He's taunting us," Jane said when he found his voice. Charlotte shook her head.
"No. That the life of the person he killed is so ultimately insignificant that they are happier being dead than they were alive. Happy because Red John gave them his undivided attention while he killed them. Even if the way he shows it is with a knife, they still got the Father's attention. That's better than living an entire life and dying and never having him pay any attention to you, at all. Most people he never even bothers with. At least the ones he chooses are special."
Jane was silent until he was certain he could speak without his voice cracking. "The Father?"
"You know, like God? Because next to most people, he's like a God?"
Jane sat and stared at his child. Didn't want to, but couldn't help the flood of emotions and horror that were crashing over him. He wanted to choke the life out of someone with his bare hands. His eyes never left her still, half-asleep form but she had finished with him, with what she wanted to tell him, at least for now. She had slumped back in her seat. Face against the glass again. Back to sleep, cheeks flushed like a toddler's, warm flesh against cold glass like a bizarre science experiment. Creature in a jar. Little girl floating in bottle.
Back to sleep. A curl of golden hair pressed with sweat against her forehead. How could she sleep after reliving that?
When Charlotte dreamt, what the hell did she see? Jane watched her and after five minutes, he knew she was asleep. Her turned around in his seat, eyes unfocused, fuzzy. The word was a curse and a lamentation and a broken cry for help all at once, almost silent and yet, achingly loud: "Jesus."
Lisbon very carefully kept her eyes on the road, on the other cars, only glancing at him for the shortest of seconds. Wondered if she was dreaming all of this. Then some asshole cut her off and she knew she wasn't. They were almost at the airport.
It took nearly 7 more minutes for Lisbon to get them to the airport and find a place to park. Then, she and Jane sat in the car for a few minutes, not saying anything. Just absorbing. Charlotte was asleep, nursing on her ring pop in her sleep. Finally the lack of movement woke her and she cracked her eyes open, yawned. Looked around.
"We here?"
Jane nodded dully.
"I'm going to have a smoke," the teenager said, cracked the door open and crawled out of the vehicle. Jane watched her walk a few paces from the car, eyes instantly alert and wary, hunting for danger. She pulled the little red box of smokes out of her back pocket, stuck a cigarette between her lips, cupped her hands around the lighter's flame and lit the smoke. Watching her, Jane smiled sadly. So little and yet so old at the same time, but nothing in between. No youth. Just... extremes.
"Jane? You okay?" Lisbon said softly, following Jane's line of sight to his daughter. Jane turned to face her, nodded.
"I'm okay, Lisbon. Hate that she smokes."
"She's... very strong," Lisbon said softly. Jane nodded back his agreement.
"She is."
:"I used to smoke. When I was about her age," Lisbon informed Jane. hoping to ground him a little. He nodded at that. Charlotte's earlier comments had thrown him for a loop, and Jane wasn't easily thrown.
"I know, Lisbon."
"She'll be okay, Jane," Lisbon said gently. Jane turned sharp eyes on her.
"Will she?"
Lisbon glanced back at Jane's kid. "I think she'll be okay. She's feisty. She sought you out, didn't she?"
Jane nodded, but didn't say anything to that. Fifteen feet from the car, Charlotte flicked ash onto the macadam and looked back over at her father, at Lisbon. As if making sure they wouldn't evaporate. Jane smiled at her reassuringly and she smiled back.
"She's resilient," Lisbon clarified, glancing back in the direction of the teenager. Jane nodded to himself.
"And I'm guessing... stubborn?"
Despite his sadness, Jane smiled for real at that comment. "Oh, you have no idea, Lisbon."
"So, a lot like her father, then?" Lisbon said, grinning despite the mood. A real grin. It was the second time Lisbon had drawn a comparison between Charlotte and himself, and Jane knew why she was doing it. He, Patrick Jane, had lived through Red John's madness. If Charlotte was like her dad, that meant she would be okay, too.
Except, Charlotte had been raised by Red John, had been exposed to violent depravity at an extremely young age, been lied to, manipulated constantly and had feared for her life day in and day out since Kindergarten. That changed things. Jane did appreciate Lisbon's attempts to soothe him, however optimistic. But he couldn't overlook the obvious facts of the matter.
"I want to check her possessions. Make sure she's not... I want to check her stuff for poison." Jane said then, mind made up. Lisbon glanced over at him.
"I am going to need you to distract her, somehow. Get that bag away from her, maybe that jacket," Jane clarified.
"Jane-" Lisbon started, but now was not the time to discuss this. Charlotte was already coming back to the car. She had finished her smoke, flicked the still lit cigarette into the street to burn itself out. Jane reached out and opened his door, stepped out and went to her. Lisbon followed suit, scanning the outside of the airport for signs of Cho, or Rigsby. Someone was going to take the rental back and catch a cab back. Not the best plan ever, but this was not a commonplace situation.
The plane ride back to Sacramento was uneventful. Mostly. Charlotte was quiet, watchful, attention focused out the window.
"You ever been on a plane before?" Lisbon asked the teenager brightly. It was hard to speak to Charlotte. Treating her like a normal teenager felt wrong, but she wasn't a little child, either. Lisbon was unsure of how to act.
"Can we smoke in here?" Charlotte asked no one in particular and pulled out her cigarettes. Stuck one between her lips. Lit it. Lisbon could see so much of Jane in his kid. Lord help them all.
"I don't think smoking is allowed," Jane muttered under his breath. "So if you're going to smoke, be quick about it?"
Charlotte shrugged and nodded at the same time and sucked in smoke.
"Charlie's been on a plane before," Jane said, when it became apparent "Charlie" didn't want to answer Lisbon's question, for whatever reason. "Haven't you, Charlie? Disney World?"
"I'm not a baby," Charlotte said, throwing Jane an exasperated look.
"What's wrong with babies?" Jane said. Charlotte stared at him, deadpan, but Jane was grinning back at her.
"I'm a baby," Jane admitted, going for the throat.
"Are not. Stop smiling," Charlotte groused, but the corners of her mouth were turning up into a smile, too, now. She took another drag of her cigarette. She turned, looked at Lisbon.
"I've been on a plane before, yes."
Jane grinned at Lisbon. "See? Told you. She has been on a plane before."
A stewardess came by then, looking annoyed.
"Uh, miss? No smoking on the plane!"
Charlotte stared at the young woman blankly. Tilted her head. Jane watched her, amused.
"Did you hear me? Put that out, please!"
"No hablo ingles," Charlotte said in a faux-Mexican accent. Lisbon cringed but she could feel Jane grinning stupidly away beside her. Charlotte was in the window seat, Lisbon in the middle, Jane on the aisle seat, the protector of the group. Charlotte took another drag and blew it out slowly, a look of confusion on her face. The stewardess turned to Jane, obviously catching the family resemblance.
"Sir?"
"I'll tell her. Charlotte. Apagar tu cigarrillo. Si?" (Put out your cigarette. Okay?)
Charlotte widened her eyes. "No fumar?" (No smoking?)
"No, no en el avión." Jane said conversationally. (No, not on the plane.)
"¿Por qué es eso?"Charlotte shot back in fluent Spanish, taking another puff of her cigarette. (Why is that?)
"No me preguntan! No es mi regla." (Don't ask me. It's not my rule.)
"Sir!" The stewardess snapped, sounding utterly exasperated. Jane looked over at her, lifted a finger to indicate that she should give him a few more seconds, feigned an awkward smile. Charlotte reached forward, dropped the cigarette into the empty pepsi can she had been using as an ash can and widened her eyes innocently.
The stewardess stormed away, muttering.
Lisbon turned to Jane, turned to Charlotte. Both wore almost identical, evil grins.
"What the hell did I just witness?" Lisbon said, looking amazed. "You know what? Don't tell me. This... whatever you do, Jane. It's genetic?"
Both grins grew even bigger at that.
"I've been trying to tell you that for years, Lisbon." Jane said, still grinning away.
They got a taxi back to the CBI. Charlotte seemed to stiffen up when she saw the place. Jane took notice of her reaction, but didn't quiz her on it. Jane stood next to her as Lisbon led them in. Showed them their offices.
"That's Rigsby's desk. That's Cho's," Jane said, pointing out their workspaces with his finger. Charlotte nodded.
"Van Pelt works on the computer, there," Jane elaborated.
"Where is your desk?" Charlotte asked Lisbon.
"Lisbon doesn't just have her own desk, she has an entire office. It's over there-" Jane said, pointing at Lisbon's office. Charlotte turned to look.
"You have your own office?" Charlotte clarified. Lisbon nodded.
"So you can lock annoying people out of it when you're trying to work?" Charlotte asked, feigning innocence. Lisbon's face split into a grin. Jane scratched the back of his head.
"I suppose I could. Do you want to see it?"
"Sure. Where's your desk, Patrick?" Charlotte said, turning to look at her father.
"They wouldn't give me one. But that is my couch," Jane allowed, jerking his head in the direction of the brown leather bridgewater. Charlotte walked over to it. Inspected it.
"Looks like the couch we had in the living room," Charlotte said, poking it like a sleeping beast. She sat down on it, tested the cushions by bouncing on them. Laid back and crossed her feet. Shut her eyes. Laced her fingers together on top of her chest. Lisbon looked over at Jane and raised her eyebrows. Laying on the couch was a mini-Jane. Female and punk but otherwise...
Charlotte sat up and opened her eyes.
"This is the couch from the living room, Patrick."
Jane looked down at her. Nodded. "Yes."
"You moved the couch from the living room here?"
"I did," Jane said.
"Why?"
"I... didn't you want to see Lisbon's office?"
Charlotte slit her eyes. "You're evading the question."
"It's a comfortable couch. Lisbon?"
Lisbon nodded. Smiled down at Charlotte. Held out her hand. Charlotte took it, stood up. Saw something that made her stop. She was looking at Jane's shoes.
"Are those the shoes I got for you? The last birthday you had... when I was home?"
Jane glanced down at his shoes. Nodded.
"You kept them all these years?"
"Yes," Jane said.
"They weren't very expensive shoes, Patrick. 4 months allowance at 5 bucks a week. Why did you keep them?"
Jane stared at his daughter. Smiled a small little small. Blinked. Isn't it obvious, Charlotte? No words were nodded.
"Did... did you keep anything else? Any of my stuff?" Charlotte ventured, obviously hoping he had. Lisbon watched Jane carefully.
"Yes," Jane said again, and nodded.
"Really? What did you keep?"
"All of it."
"Really? You kept it all? Even my bed?"
Jane nodded.
"Even that jointed pegasus from Germany?" Charlotte ventured.
Jane nodded again. Still had that small, pleasant little smile on his face.
"And it's all in the CBI attic upstairs?" Charlotte said, looking towards the ceiling.
"No. It's back at the house. In the attic."
"The house? You kept the house, too? In Malibu?" Charlotte sounded incredulous.
"I did."
"But... you live in the CBI attic?" Charlotte said, looking over to Lisbon for help. Lisbon made an awkward-closed-mouth-smile.
"I needed a place to hunt Red John. This was more convenient."
"But..." Charlotte trailed. Sighed. "I am going to live in the CBI attic with you now?"
Jane scratched the back of his head again.
"Until we work out something more permanent. We can go to a motel if you want?"
Charlotte shook her head. Looked over at Lisbon.
"Is there space for Lisbon in the attic? How big is it?"
"Uh..." Jane trailed, smiling just a little. "Maybe a motel is better, for now."
Charlotte nodded. She was looking at Jane's shoes again. Scuffed shoes, polished repeatedly. New soles to replace the old ones that had worn out ages ago. Her eyes rose to his face, scanned his face. Settled on his sad, haunted eyes. Smiling eyes. Sad eyes. Suddenly, everything in her world was covered with a sheen of tears. Lisbon saw it. Knew Jane had, too.
"Charlotte-" Jane murmured, stepping forward to hug her, but she immediately stepped back. Dropped her eyes to his shoes. Her chest rose and fell with effort, with barely restrained emotion. She wouldn't look him in the eyes anymore. Lisbon saw that the girl was near tears. Near full on crying. She took a deep breath, her hands turned to fists, and you didn't need to be a mentalist to figure out she was struggling to control her breathing. She didn't want Jane's love right now. No. Tenderness would make her cry. Lisbon knew how she felt, because Lisbon had been the same. Was the same, still. As was Jane. They all mourned in private.
"Is there a bathroom around here?" Charlotte said, eyes focused on the hardwood floor of the bullpen. Jane was watching her closely, but he didn't speak. Lisbon caught his eyes and he nodded to her.
"Yeah, there is," Lisbon said, infinitely gentle. Charlotte nodded to confirm she'd heard, and with that nod a tear shook out of her eye and fell to the ground. Left a bright, wet drop on the floor. Charlotte stared at it. Rubbed it away with the sole of her right all-star. Traitorous tear.
"Where?" Charlotte said, still staring at the floor. Her eyes were slits now. If she opened her eyelids much, the tears would fall out. She knew it. Lisbon knew it. Jane knew it. She wouldn't let them fall, anyway.
"It's, um.. it's down the hall? The way we came? Do you want me to show you?" Lisbon said, still gentle. Her voice was cotton batting, as careful as it ever got. Charlotte shook her head, just a little.
"No, thank you. I can find it. Thank you." And with that, she was walking away from them, head lowered, hands turned into fists at her side. No doubt her fingernails were leaving little crescent-moon shaped cuts on those slender palms.
Lisbon watched her go, ruefully.
"Should I go with her?" She asked Jane, but Jane's eyes had turned sad, now, too.
Jane shook his head. Sighed. An actual sigh.
"It wouldn't do any good, Lisbon. Charlotte never liked crying in front of others. If somebody saw her cry, that made her cry more. You know?"
Lisbon nodded. She knew exactly what Jane was talking about. She'd been the same her entire life. Intensely private, devoted to looking tough and together, always. How much stronger was that desire for Charlotte, who had been raised by Red John?
"I should have changed my shoes. I wasn't thinking-"
"Jane-" Lisbon cut him off. He looked, in that instant, almost as small and upset as Charlotte had. Lisbon hugged him. He went rigid at first. Then let her.
Charlotte found the womans' room, pushed the door open. Immediately locked the door. Walked over to the stalls, pushing each stall door in, checking. She was alone. She went back to the bank of sinks at the front, stared at her tear-glazed eyes in the scarred mirror. Bloodshot, glassy. Her skin looked a little too oily, hair more messy than usual.
"Christ, you look a mess," Charlotte told her reflection. Since getting on her own, away from Patrick and Lisbon, the urge to cry was lessening. Charlotte was relieved. She blinked her eyes, rubbed furiously at them. Turned the cold water on and splashed cold water on her face, ran her wrists under it, back and forth, back and forth. Cold water was good for calming people down, especially if you ran your wrists under it. It lowered blood pressure. It lowered pulse rate. It lowered body temperature. It was a physical thing, impossible to resist. When a person was near-tears sad- or stressed- their pulse rate went up. So did their blood pressure, and their body temperature. There were stress hormones which were released in tears, emotional tears, but tears also showed others you were weak, and for that reason they made Charlotte angry on an instinctive level. If you were sad, if you were hurting, you were weak. Charlotte ran her wrists under the water, forced her breathing to become slow and even again. So Patrick had kept those shoes. So what. It didn't prove a damn thing. Except that he had kept them. That, in and of itself, meant nothing.
She kept her wrists under the water until they began to prickle, felt numb. The temperature of the human body became elevated when the human animal was under stress. The body temperature tended to drop when people shut down, when they became depressed, but when they were stressed, the core temperature, as a general rule, became elevated. During a panic attack, the extremities felt cold as blood was pumped to the vital organs, but chronic, insidious stress raised it. Cold water helped. Likewise, for people with chronic, low-level depression, artificially raising the body temperature in conjunction with sunlight therapy was proven to be beneficial. Charlotte ran these facts through her mind. Imagined the urge to cry as a toxin, a poison, that she had inhaled. Exhaling it was getting rid of the poison. The sound of the water was helping. That soothing gray nothing sound of water through old pipes.
When the urge to cry had almost gone, Charlotte turned the water off. Dried her face on the front of her shirt, rubbed her hands on the sides of her jeans and pulled out her box of Pall Malls. Stuck a smoke in mouth and lit it, blowing the smoke directly into her own reflection. The cigarette was helping, too. Nicotine withdrawal was a bitch. Low blood sugar. Nicotine withdrawal caused low blood sugar, and low blood sugar caused mood swings. Low blood sugar was one of the main reasons people attempting to quit smoking so often failed. They got blood sugar crashes more often than expected, as nicotine told the pancreas to release sugar. When that nicotine stopped coming in, your blood sugar fell. It started after a few hours, and just cutting back could cause it. An easy was to remedy these crashed was to eat high protein snacks at scheduled intervals to keep the blood glucose level as stable as possible. Or to start smoking again. Either one was a good choice.
That's all this was. All this was, this moodiness, the sudden urge to cry like a little whiny baby. Nicotine withdrawal. Low blood sugar.
Simple.
But then, just like that, she was remembering. Her mother holding her hand as they strolled through a mall.
"I thought you were saving your money for a Celebration Castle?" Mommy was kneeling down. The Celebration Castle with the baby Pink Sunsparkle. Charlie nodded. She had been saving her money for the celebration castle for her My-Little-Ponies. She was carrying around Gobbles, her piggy bank. Daddy had laughed so hard when she had told him the name of the bank was Gobbles. Had told her that sounded more like a name for a turkey. She had explained Gobbles was named that because he gobbled all the money. He had laughed again. Told her it was a good name, then.
Mommy had offered to buy her a present for Daddy, for his birthday. May 23rd. It was a week away. Daddy would be turning 35 in one week. 35 was a huge number. He deserved something special for making it to that age. Charlotte wasn't sure, but she didn't think it was easy to get to be 35. That was a lot of days you had to go through, a lot of work. That was her age multiplied by 7.
"Charlie, Daddy doesn't expect you to spend your allowance on him. Why don't you get him a card, and we can get him some chocolates? Okay? And draw him a picture, maybe? And I'll buy a nice frame for it?"
She shook her head.
"No. A pair of shoes. I am getting him a nice pair of shoes. For the big three-five. Because everybody needs to walk, and you need shoes to walk in a city."
"Shoes are expensive, Charlie-" Mommy was talking, trying to talk her out of it, but Mommy had a huge smile on her face. Trying to "dissuade" her, Daddy would have said. But she was not easily dissuaded. She was stubborn, just like her Daddy. It was a trait they both had. It was something called congenital.
She wandered into the shoe store. A nice shoe store for men only. All leather shoes. A fancy place. She couldn't read the sign, but had seen this place several times before. She marched up to the sales clerk and he smiled down at her.
"Can I help you?" He asked her.
"I want to buy my Daddy a pair of leather shoes. For his birthday. It's the big three-five."
"Wow, that's quite an important birthday," the man behind the sales desk said, and his smile got even bigger.
"He likes leather shoes," Charlotte insisted. Mommy came up behind her, then, and she had a smirk on her face, similar to Daddy when she was saying something that made him want to laugh and he was trying not to laugh. It wasn't funny. Nothing funny about a good pair of shoes.
Adults were strange sometimes.
"Do you know your Daddy's shoe size?" The man asked her, coming around and bending down. That was another thing adults sometimes did. Bent down. Like your eyes weren't good enough to see them if you looked up at them.
Charlotte sighed. Shook her head. The man glanced over at Mommy.
"Mens' 10, I think," Mommy said. But Charlotte sighed. "I think" was a guess, and a guess wasn't good enough when it came to shoes. Or birthday presents. A guess meant you didn't know, and if you didn't know, you could make mistakes. Making mistakes when it came to birthdays was a recipe for disaster. You could ruin them that way. Daddy, he claimed to "guess" a lot, but they weren't really guesses. His guesses were mostly knows that he was pretending weren't knows. He was good at paying attention, and good at remembering whatever he paid attention to. He was good at deduction, which was a fancy word for putting a bunch of things you observed- or saw- together and figuring out the most likely reasons for what you saw. For instance, if someone had scratches on their hand and that same person was buying Friskies cat food, they probably had a cat, or looked after a cat. Far less likely was the "deduction" that they had scratched their own hand and liked to eat cat treats instead of potato chips or peanuts or something.
"I traced his foot while he was sleeping," Charlotte said, and pulled a folded piece of notebook paper out of her Osh Kosh B'gosh pocket. She had planned this very carefully. There, on the piece of paper, was Daddy's foot, outlined in green crayola crayon. Charlotte handed it to the shoe salesman and smiled hopefully.
Mommy stared at the paper, then the man. Then Mommy began to laugh. The shoe salesman laughed a bit too, but not mean laughter, so Charlotte let it pass without comment.
"Can you tell his foot size from that tracing?" Charlotte asked the man, hoping to make him stop laughing. He looked like he was biting his cheek. Mommy muttered something that sounded a lot like "Jesus, Charlie" but her eyes were sparkling.
The man nodded. Took out a little ruler that was all rolled up inside a metal shell, and measured the tracing, from the top of the big toe to the end of the heel. Measured the width of it, too.
"It's good you brought this in. Your Daddy is a size 11."
"Does that mean he has big feet?" Charlotte asked. The man grinned widely.
"A lot bigger than yours. Do you know how much money you want to spend on these shoes?" The man asked, and glanced at Mommy. She nodded a message to him and Charlotte sighed.
"I want to spend all this money. But you can't let my mom help pay for it. It has to be this money, or the gift is not really from me," Charlotte explained, and unscrewed Gobbles' nose. She began to pull 1 and 5 dollar bills out. Counted them out on the counter slowly. Then shook out the coins. The man helped her count.
"89.53. That's a lot of money," the man said. Charlotte nodded.
"I have been saving up my allowance for 4 months now."
"Four months?! How old are you?"
"I am 5 years and 7 months old. And what day is it?"
"Wow. So you have been saving up for a long, long time, then."
"Yes."
"And you're sure you want to spend all this money on shoes for your Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Okay. That is... your Daddy is going to be very impressed, I think."
"Why impressed?"
The man just smiled. Scratched his head like he was confused or didn't know what to say.
"Do you know what sort of shoes you want to get for your Daddy?"
"Brown shoes."
"Brown shoes," the man said, nodding his head. "Do you know what sorts of brown shoes?"
"Brown leather shoes," Charlotte clarified.
Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror. With the memory came the emotions. The annoyance she had felt at being laughed at. The sight of her Daddy, opening the shoebox and pulling each one of them out, the huge grin on his face. She hadn't had enough money to buy him a card so she had made him one, instead, and wrapped the shoe box in the Sunday funnies. Mommy explaining how Charlie had spent all her money on those shoes. Stating that fact several times, even though Patrick had obviously heard her properly the first time. How her father had pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head.
The surge of sadness came back then. He was still wearing those exact same shoes. Ten years later, he still was wearing them. Jesus. Let go, Patrick.
"Stop thinking about this, Charlie," the teen told herself, looking at herself in the mirror. Her cigarette had burned down to almost nothing. She took a drag and then stubbed it out in the sink. Sniffled. Pulled off her backpack and riffled through it for some of the Little Debbie chocolate pies.
Her blood sugar was obviously still low.
(That's it for this chapter, please review)