Chapter 3: Past Imperfect
For Disclaimer and other notes, see Chapter 1
Can you hear me call your name?
If we changed it back again
Things would never be the same
Roxette, "Things Will Never Be the Same"
"Mumma?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Wanna Charlie."
Claire closed her eyes, cuddling Aidan close to her chest. The bed felt too big without Charlie to share it, and Aidan's small body was warm against the lonely chill. "I know, honey," she murmured, kissing the top of his head. "I miss him, too." She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. "Go to sleep, Aidan. Shh…"
Stroking his hair soothingly, she waited until his breathing had evened out before sitting up with a sigh to perch on the edge of the bed. Resting her elbows on her knees, she rubbed her face tiredly. This had been the longest day of her life. The argument had left her drained and shaky, and when Charlie didn't come back after a couple of hours, she added terrified to the list. A few hysterical phone calls later and she managed to establish that he wasn't at any of the places he usually went, and a few more proved that he wasn't anywhere she was looking. This sent her into fresh hysterics, because it meant she had no idea where to start searching for him, and no hope of him surfacing of his own accord. If Charlie had proved one thing on the island it was that he was stubborn as a mule. If he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found.
When her mother came home an hour later to find Claire sobbing on the couch, the older woman hadn't said a thing. First she went upstairs to check on Aidan -- who was playing quietly in his crib -- then she went into the kitchen and made a plate of sandwiches. Coming back into the living room, she put the sandwiches on the coffee table, gathered her daughter in her arms, and let Claire cry on her shoulder.
"He'll come back, my baby girl," she'd soothed, rocking Claire gently, as though she truly was a baby. "The good ones always do."
That had been this afternoon. There had been no word from him in the hours since then, and Claire had been forced to tell Aidan the "walkabout" story, because she couldn't think of anything else. She debated asking the media for help, but thought better of it when she remembered how much he hated the attention his fresh fame had garnered. He was already angry at her; what good would it do to make him MORE angry?
A wave of white hot rage rolled through her. Angry at HER? What right did he have to be angry at her? HE was the one who had stormed out of the house like a petulant teenager. HE was the one who had scolded her like a child. HE was the one who had tried to forbid her from seeing Thomas again. Forbid her! As though she were his cavewoman bride and he was the Alpha male of a Cro-Magnon tribe!
"Shut up," she muttered to herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Please shut up? Please…"
Her brain hurt. She was tired of thinking, tired of worrying, tired of feeling so helpless and raw. Her eyes were sore with exhaustion and grief. She had cried more today than in the past two years combined; hours and hours of useless tears. An ocean for him, and he didn't even have the decency to call so she could apologize. Even worse, half of her didn't want to apologize; what did she have to be sorry for? For having her own mind? For holding up a mirror for him to look into? Was making him face his fears really worth all THIS?
It was the letter that had done it. She should never have read Liam's letter. Perhaps he would have forgiven her if she'd just shown him the envelope, forced it into his hand. Maybe that self-imposed wall he'd built around himself would have chipped a little, and she could have whittled away at it piece by piece until she finally got him to cave in and call his brother. Why was it so important to her, anyway, getting him to contact Liam? If memory served her, they'd been perfectly happy on the island without Liam's intrusion; why would it be any different back here on the mainland?
Because you don't call someone Little Brother unless you mean it, Claire, she thought weakly. Not unless they mean something to you, and you meant something to them once upon a time.
There was no getting around it. Liam was a huge piece of Charlie's life -- a piece he'd been blithely able to forget on the island. But they were back on the mainland now, and all the emotions Charlie had been bottling up over their years of isolation -- anger, frustration, blame, guilt -- had come bubbling back to the surface. They were swallowing him like a steadily rising tide; isolating him in a flood of forgotten emotion. He lashed out at his friends, his loved ones, at the fame he used to crave… It was only a matter of time before he snapped on her. She should have seen it coming. She DID see it coming; that made it even worse. And now he was out there in the world, and she was twisting in the wind of the void he'd left behind.
Charlie had told her once that he took his first hit of heroin after an argument with Liam. Heated words were exchanged, cruel things were said, Liam stormed out, and Charlie became a junkie. As quick as that. Now Claire sat on the edge of their bed and worried herself sick about what he was doing, and who he was doing it with, and how much of it he might be doing. Horrid visions of him flat on his back in an alley with a dirty needle in his arm swam through her mind, and she stood up quickly to shake the image loose.
Crossing to her dresser mirror, she took a long look at herself. Her hair was a bird's nest, and her eyes were the color of cinnamon gum. She had tear tracks down her neck from where her foundation had run, and pillow creases on the side of her face. It was like watching a horror movie and she was the plucky heroine's best friend who ended up dead at the end of the second act. "You're a mess, Claire," she muttered, tugging limply on a brittle lock of hair. "Why do you always let them do this to you?"
She could stand there for hours blaming all this on Charlie being childish, but she knew it was as much to do with her as him. "And Aidan's my son. Any questions?" Why had she SAID that? It was a textbook course in calculated cruelty. Yes, she was Aidan's mother, and yes, she'd given birth to him; but Charlie was his father in every way that Thomas WASN'T -- every way but blood. To act as though everything he'd done for them meant nothing… Claire never knew she could be so heartless. It terrified her, especially when she realized that for that split second during the argument, she hadn't been looking at Charlie anymore. He'd changed into Thomas. Thomas and his sophomoric, selfish attitude. Thomas jogging down the stairs and out of her life. And she'd bottled up all the vitriol that had built in her stomach for over two years and threw it at him like a Molotov cocktail made of words.
And Aidan's my son. Any questions?
"Yeah, I have a question," she sighed to her reflection. "How do I fix it?"
Staring at herself wasn't accomplishing anything except to depress her even further, so she turned away from the mirror, resting the heels of her hands on the dresser and staring at Aidan, sleeping snug under his favorite blanket on her bed. Her mother had bought him a teddy bear their second day back from the island, and the stuffed animal hadn't left his side since. Claire smiled as she watched Aidan sleeping peacefully, Fluffy Bill tucked under his chin as he unconsciously sucked on one of the bear's ears. Charlie would often tease her about that. "The kid's got an oral fixation," was his favorite joke. "Not that I blame him. I mean, if I grew up nursing on a breast like yours, I'd miss it, too."
A hiccuping laugh escaped her, and she raised a hand to nibble her fingers and muffle the noise before she woke Aidan. "Oh, Charlie," she murmured as a grin suffused her face, forcing fresh tears to roll down her mottled cheeks. "I miss you."
Thomas' letter lay open and unfolded on her nightstand, glaring like an angry eye. Claire glared right back, funneling all her anger and blame towards the offending sheet of paper. One sheet. He hadn't even used both sides. She debated taking it outside, setting a match to it and watching it burn. A fitting end, she thought, considering the hell Thomas had put her through, both before the crash and since the rescue.
Crossing the room, Claire snatched up the letter and stared at it; not reading, just staring. His handwriting was more florid than she remembered; no doubt his artistic nature taking over. She imagined him with a goatee and beret, painting strange impressionist canvases in shades of coral and turquoise blue, dedicating them to My lost love, Claire. Once upon a time she would have thought that was romantic. Now she found it pathetic.
Picking up the cordless phone from its cradle on the nightstand, she walked to the window and leaned on the casement. Ironically, she noticed the cell number he'd given her in the letter was the same one she still had on speed dial. Ignoring the shortcut, she laboriously typed in the full number, brought the receiver to her ear, and stared out the window at the rising moon as she listened to the line ring.
Ring…ring…ring…
"….Hey, it's Claire," she said when he picked up the other end. "….Yeah, I got your letter. You have nerve, you know that? And guts. Most men would realize areas of their anatomy would be in danger if they tried to contact a woman they'd scorned……. I'm glad you think I'm kidding…." She rubbed her eyes. "Shut up, okay? Just stop talking. Honestly, if I never hear your voice again I'll be thrilled. Here's how it's going to work. Next Wednesday by Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park. Noon. If you're not there by 12:15, I take Aidan and we leave….Aidan's his name…. I don't care if you like it. Didn't I tell you to stop talking? I'm doing you a favor here, not vice versa. When I say we're done, we're done, and that's it. Aidan and I go home, and you go back to whatever sorry life you've been living since you walked out on us…. I'm not being harsh. You've never heard me harsh, Thomas, but you will when I see you. Next Wednesday. You've already missed two years of his life -- I think you can free up fifteen minutes."
And she hung up. Tomorrow she was going to erase him off her speed dial. No, she'd go out and buy a whole new phone.
Next Wednesday. One week. Maybe Shannon would let them stay with her down in Sydney.
With a sigh, Claire leaned her head against the window casing, holding the receiver against her chest and hoping it would ring. Please, Charlie, she thought silently. Call me up and change my mind.
But the phone stayed stubbornly silent, while the moon rose higher and out of sight.
The sun had barely risen when the bus pulled in to Copper Springs. Charlie woke out of his doze and watched through grimy windows as the arid suburb rolled along on the other side of the glass. The only reason he'd been able to remember the place was from the oxymoron of the name. Copper Springs was dry as a bone left in the desert for a century. No doubt water had flowed here once, when the copper mines that gave it its name were still thriving; but as the mines had died, so had the town. He was reminded of the stricken mill towns of his own northern England, only baked by sun rather than mired in rain. Hollow places waiting to be filled.
Oughta fit right in, he thought humorlessly.
The bus rolled to a stop at the station, engine clicking. Charlie grabbed his guitar case and stood up, working his way down the narrow aisle. Stepping out into the morning sun, he was reminded again of how odd it felt having backward seasons. It would be wet and miserable in Manchester this time of year, with Christmas creeping up around the corner. He was a stranger in a strange land.
Rather than asking for directions, Charlie let his feet lead him away from the station, trusting instinct and faded memory to lead him where he was going. People ignored him for the most part, with the occasional passerby glancing at his guitar, but nobody said anything. Perhaps they noticed the anti-social aura he was exuding, or maybe they got enough drifters in this town to know it wasn't smart to talk to them. Charlie didn't care one way or another. He wasn't in the mood for witty banter with strangers.
The house looked much the same as he remembered. The exterior paint was peeling more than it had been two years ago, and the boards of the swayback front porch were even more bleached, but other than that, identical. Charlie stopped at the foot of the cobbled front walk -- old and decaying, with patches of moss and uncut grass growing up between the flagstones -- and stared at the curtained windows. He didn't know why he was here, except that it was the only place he could think of when he was at the bus station buying a ticket. Instinct again, like a kicked dog shuffling to a favorite corner to hide.
Heaving a sigh, Charlie made his way up the uneven walkway, climbing the creaking stairs gingerly before ringing the bell. An oddly cheerful chime rang in the house, playing a tinny version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. After a minute of no response, he rang again, amusing himself by imagining Judy Garland singing along to the scratchy tune. When almost another minute passed he debated turning around and leaving, finding somewhere else to spend his time. But just as he was preparing to turn, the door opened and a familiar face appeared on the other side of the screen. "Yo?" the young man asked blearily, squinting into the sun.
Charlie resisted the urge to laugh. "Over two years since I saw you last, and all you say is Yo?" he joked.
The other man squinted more, focusing on his face. "Charlie man, 'sthat you?"
Charlie nodded. "Hey, Roach."
There was a pause, then Roach let out a war whoop. "CHARLIE!" The screen was flung open and Charlie stumbled back to get out of the way. The other man came leaping through the door to catch him in a bear hug. "Where've you been, mate?" he asked, squeezing the breath out of him.
"Stranded on an island."
"Hey, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Deliberately?"
Charlie sighed. "No, Roach, not deliberately. That's why I said stranded. We got rescued a few months ago. Don't you watch the news?"
"Haven't got a TV. Don't get the paper. Only got the CD player for tunes."
Charlie chuckled, extricating himself from his friend's embrace. "Well, now you know," he said. "Can I come in?"
"Hell yes!" Roach jumped back into the house, beckoning Charlie to follow. "Come on in!"
Charlie stepped over the threshold into the dark, hazy environment of the house. The air was aromatic and thick with incense and…other things. Roach hadn't gotten his name from the bug, after all. The walls were hung with tapestries to hide bubbles in the wallpaper, and a sharp pang stabbed at his stomach when he saw a sarong working as a substitute door on one of the rooms along the dark hallway. Claire liked turquoise and coral, which was all that kept him from breaking down completely, because THIS sarong was scarlet and purple, thank God.
"Still got the guitar, I see," Roach said, leading him down the hall and ducking under the sarong. Charlie followed, and found himself in what passed as a living room, with bean bags and large cushions spread out on the floor. Roach had never been one for traditional furniture.
"Guitar, yes," he affirmed, settling down on one of the bean bags. "Bass, no. You still have your drums?"
"Somewhere." Charlie watched the other man rifling through a stack of CDs before choosing one and slotting it into an ancient stereo. After a few seconds, the familiar chords of DriveSHAFT's "Squeaky Brakes" started to play, and Roach spun around, grinning ear to ear. "Remember this one?" He mimed air guitar in time with the melody.
Charlie laughed, remembering when he'd written the song. "How could I forget?" he said, watching DriveSHAFT's former drummer dance around like a marionette on a string. "I wrote a perfectly harmless song about my car's brakes, and you and Liam somehow turned it into a song about masturbation. How EXACTLY did you manage that again?"
"Skill, and a complete lack of regard for any kind of moral high road."
"Right. I'd forgotten that." Charlie grinned, sitting back and letting the darkness of the room soothe his frazzled nerves. Roach had changed little since his days in DriveSHAFT. Longer hair and a penchant for wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, but that was all. Same wire-thin body, same sharp features, same huge grey eyes that looked like something out of ET: the Extraterrestrial. Everything was the same, down to the trust fund his rich parents back in London had set up for him, which helped pay for this "deluxe" bachelor pad. His designer hashish business brought in the pocket money.
"So what brings you down this way, C-man?" Roach asked, flopping down on the cushions next to Charlie and propping up on his elbows. "Have you talked to Liam lately?"
Charlie resisted the urge to flinch at that name. "No, not lately," he hedged, staring at the laces of his sneakers, already scuffed and dirty after only a few months use. "I haven't seen him since we got back, actually."
"Really? That's a bit of a rub, isn't it? You two were close."
"Yeah." Charlie shrugged, looking around the room. "Things just haven't settled down enough to search him out, you know?"
"Things? Like what things?"
"Just…things."
"Like things with tits and an ass worth dying for?" Charlie couldn't fight his grin, and Roach howled with laughter. "I knew it!" he yelped, pounding his fist on the cushions and sitting up. "Our little boy's all grown up!"
"Oh, please, I've had plenty of women, Roach, and you know it."
"Yeah, and I've drunk plenty of Pepsi, but Coke is the ONE. So, tell me about her."
Charlie sighed, feeling his smile fade, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't think so, Roach," he said, letting his head fall back and staring at the water-stained ceiling.
He saw the other man nodding sagely out of the corner of his eye. "Girl troubles, huh? That's what brings you 'round these parts."
"Let's just say if things were hunky-dory at home, I'd be with the T&A, not here with you. No offense meant."
"None taken. I yield to the power of a nubile young body."
"From what I remember, you'd yield to the power of just about any body."
"Well, obviously."
Charlie laughed again. It was amazing how easy it was to laugh here. Some of it was likely due to a contact high, but not all of it. Roach didn't have any expectations, and Charlie hadn't felt really comfortable around anybody since leaving the island. People expected him to be a certain way here -- they expected him to be the Charlie Pace who clung to DriveSHAFT until his fingers and gums were bleeding. Nobody expected the Charlie Pace who'd lived through a fiery crash, fought down some pretty serious demons and come through alive. It was disheartening, to say the least. More than that, it was dispiriting to discover he didn't know how to fight those perceptions, and he was sinking further and further into that old life again. He thought he'd found himself on the island -- his true self. But it turned out he'd only misplaced himself for a while. They hadn't been back three months, and he'd already lost his way again. Where was he going to be in six months time?
Would Claire bother to help him find his way back?
He wanted to kick himself for storming out on her the way he had. Childish, acerbic, self-serving… Everything that defined Charlie Pace pre-crash. He was spiraling backward with frightening speed, and he saw no way to slow his descent. He didn't blame Claire if she never wanted to see him again. God, he'd spent all that energy deriding Tom-ass, but then he'd turned around and done the SAME BLOODY THING. He'd abandoned them: Claire and Aidan. Things had gotten difficult and he'd walked away, leaving them in the dust. Just like Tom-ass.
"I've got a plane to catch."
Just like himself.
"C-man, you all right?" Charlie looked up to see Roach watching him with a puzzled look on his face. "You went spacey there for a minute, and you haven't even smoked anything yet."
Charlie forced a smile. "Yeah. I was just… thinking."
"Well don't. You look like a Commerce Secretary -- grim and pissy."
Charlie chuckled. "I'll try to remember that."
"Don't bother. I'll remind you if you forget. You want a drink?" Roach leapt to his feet and went to a mini bar fridge beside the stereo. "We've got rum and coke, gin and tonic, seven and seven…"
"Do you have anything NON-alcoholic?" Charlie asked, amused.
"You really HAVE been away, haven't you? Here." He took a wine cooler out of the door of the fridge and tossed it to Charlie across the pillows that littered the floor. "I keep it for the birds, but since your tender stomach probably can't take anything harder…" Roach winked at him.
Charlie snorted. "I can still drink you under the table any day of the week, Roach, and you know it." Still, he wedged the glass bottle against a loose baseboard and gave it a tug, popping off the sharp metal lid. Taking a deep swig, he let the sweet, fruity alcohol coat his throat. It was virtually Kool-Aid for all the kick it gave him, but on an empty stomach after years without a drop of liquor, he could already feel a warm buzz in his lips.
"So you're on the outs with Liam," Roach said, settling next to him with a glass of something that looked like scotch on the rocks, "and your bit of stuff kicked you out on the street. You're having a rough week."
"Try a rough life," Charlie sighed, swirling the wine cooler in its bottle before taking another drink. "A long, rough, pitiful fucking life."
"So why'd you come here?" Charlie looked at him, perplexed, and Roach shrugged. "No offense, C-man, but we weren't exactly best buddies when we were in the band. We were friends, but I don't think you ever spilled your soul to me, and ditto the other way 'round. Why'd you come HERE for moral support? You could have called the Samaritans or something."
Running a hand through his hair, Charlie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I was standing in the bus station, staring at the signs, and the little man behind the counter asked me, Where to? And I said Copper Springs." He shrugged. "It was instinct."
"Ah. Instinct I understand. Instinct is our basest animal impulses, the barest minimum for survival." Roach grinned. "I know what you want."
"A new life?"
"Would be nice, I'm sure, but this'll have to do." With a flourish, the drummer produced a perfectly twisted marijuana cigarette. "A roach from Roach is like a Hallmark card," he paraphrased, complete with Kenickie accent. "You care enough to send the very best."
In hollow places you find hollow people, and all their inventive ways of filling up again.
Charlie stared at the cigarette for a minute. The buzz in his lips had moved to his fingers, and they were literally itching to reach out and take the joint. It would be so EASY. He could already taste the smoke.
It took him completely by surprise when he realized he was shaking his head. "No thanks, mate," he said. "Not interested."
Roach arched an eyebrow at him. "You sure?"
"Yeah, positive."
"If you say so, C-man. More for me." He flicked open a lighter.
"But Roach?"
The other young man looked up from the flame. "Yeah?"
Charlie swallowed. "You got anything stronger?"
To Be Continued…