Chapter 5: Maybe It's Just You
For Disclaimer and other notes, see chapter 1
to tell me that it's over,
tell me that it's over,
it's plain to see.
And this time
we won't be starting over…"
"Did I wake you?"
"Nah, I just wear the bathrobe so I don't get anything on the clothes when I'm having lunch. Dude, you want something? A drink? A snack?"
Charlie sat carefully on Hurley's recliner, enjoying the butter soft leather as it wrapped around him. A week on a threadbare mattress couldn't begin to compare. "No, I'm good, mate," he called back to his friend in the kitchen, setting his guitar on the floor by the chair.
"I'll get you some apple juice."
Charlie laughed. "Hurl, I just said I'm good!" He looked around the apartment approvingly. The walls were what a designer would have called "mellow gold," accented with strong reds and deep browns in the furniture. The recliner was part of a set, with the rest of the living area taken up by a three-seater sofa and another recliner, all in the same supple brown leather. The glass-topped coffee table was COVERED in comic books. Stacks of magazines, movies and newspapers were everywhere the eye could see. Hanging in a place of honor above the entertainment center was what Charlie could only assume was a first-print, original promo poster for Star Wars: A New Hope, signed by Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher. Warm sunlight poured through the French doors at the back of the apartment, giving the place a lived in, comfortable glow. The air smelled like toast and chocolate, and despite his earlier protests to the contrary, Charlie realized he was famished.
Just as he was about to call out to Hurley to inquire about getting a snack after all, he found a plate being shoved under his nose. On it was the biggest roast beef sandwich he'd ever seen, complete with tomatoes, lettuce, pickles and Swiss cheese. His mouth started watering the instant he caught a whiff of the mustard.
"Take it," Hurley said, and Charlie quickly reached up to take the plate from his friend. The other man put a tall glass of the promised apple juice on a coaster on the end table at Charlie's elbow before taking a seat on the leather sofa. "You look like you haven't eaten in a week. Desert island chic is so yesterday, dude."
Charlie chuckled. "You sound like Shannon," he said around a mouthful of the sandwich, grinning at his friend. Under the bathrobe his friend had been wearing a pair of designer khakis and a t-shirt that made him look way hipper than Charlie could ever achieve himself. Hurley had slimmed down considerably over his two years on the island. Since being back on the mainland he'd gained back a few pounds, but nothing close to his previous weight. He looked healthy, as Charlie's mother would have put it. Healthy, not skeletal.
Not crack-addict skinny, Charlie thought grimly, and the roast beef turned to sand in his mouth. Nope, only special people and supermodels can pull that one off.
Hurley shrugged. "It's kind of my business now, man." He picked up a magazine off the coffee table and tossed it in Charlie's direction.
Catching it one-handed, Charlie glanced over the cover, which was graced by a picture of Hurley in a pair of pants that were obviously ten sizes too big for him. "The Island Diet?" he read aloud, looking up and meeting the other man's eyes. "You're going into business now?"
"Hey, people like diets. Well, okay, no one likes diets, dude, but I figured it worked for me. Might as well share it with everyone else."
"So what are you going to do, take groups of fifty people at a time and strand them in some kind of survivalist camp where they have to fend for themselves for a week?"
"Sort of. It's going to be groups of fifty people at a time, but we bring them to a really plush resort with all kinds of amenities, and the menu is going to be all kinds of pork and fish and tropical fruit. And there's rock climbing, and hiking, and swimming-"
"And golf?"
"-and golf, yep, can't forget that. And spelunking, because why not. Shannon and I have been working on it together for the past month or so. She's getting her mother to put up the funds to get it under way."
"Shannon? Really?"
"She grew up, dude. And she's the most vicious bitch of a haggler you'll ever meet. We were talking with these investors from California, right? And they were giving her a real hard time about the spelunking business. And she just RIPPED INTO them. It was like Princess Leia strangling Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi. Their eyes were bugging out by the end, and she had them signing on the dotted line in no time. It was awesome."
Charlie laughed and took a swig of his apple juice. "Well, good luck to you, mate," he said, tipping his glass in salute in Hurley's direction.
"Yeah, it's going to be awesome. What've you been up to, dude? I keep checking my mail waiting for a wedding invitation from you and Claire, but no beans yet. What's up with that? Weren't you swearing left, right and center on the boat that you were going to make her an honest woman or something?"
Charlie stared into his apple juice. "Yeah…," he hedged, swirling the liquid around in the glass. "Something like that…"
"Oh…" Hurley shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Something happen, man?"
Charlie shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "I just don't really know what." He took another long drink of apple juice, wishing it was scotch or whiskey or bourbon. Something that burned.
"Um… I'm guessing it was something pretty BAD, if that helps. When did it happen?"
"A week ago."
"Dude, a WEEK? And you don't know what it WAS?" Charlie didn't answer. "Geez, man, give her a call! Patch things up!"
Charlie shot him a glance. "Why?"
Hurley snorted. "Because you two were made for each other?" he suggested. "I dunno. Because you were inseparable on the island, and stuff like that doesn't usually go away? Because you look like hell, and I'm pretty sure it's not all motion sickness from the bus ride here."
Charlie tried to keep up the glare, but failed miserably. With a heavy sigh he put the plate on the coffee table, his glass back on the coaster, and buried his face in his hands. "Hurley, there're too many layers here, man," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He could feel his body burning through the heroin like a coal furnace. He was going to start twitching soon. "Claire doesn't want to see me right now, and I really don't think I can see Claire." No matter how much I want to, he added silently.
"Why not?"
"Things."
"That's not an answer, dude."
"Just THINGS, Hurley. Bugger, Hurl, when did you become such a nag?" He threw himself back in the chair and twisted his head around to the side so he could stare out the French doors and pretend he wasn't being such an asshole.
"Oooookay," Hurley said, drawing out the O. "So, lemme get this straight. You haven't seen Claire in a week because of some argument that you're really not too clear about. You don't think she wants to see you, but you haven't talked to her to actually have her TELL you that. And you don't THINK you can see Claire, even though everything about your body language is screaming that you want to." He nodded. "Sure, dude. Makes sense to me. Nothing weird there."
Charlie began bouncing his foot. "You weren't there, Hurley, all right?" he said, tapping his fingers on his knee. "You didn't hear the things we said to each other. They weren't very nice, all right? Trust me, Claire doesn't want to see me."
"What about Aidan?"
Charlie closed his eyes and stopped moving. He didn't want to think about Aidan. "She doesn't want me seeing him either, I imagine," he murmured after a moment. I don't want me seeing him either, he thought, uncomfortably aware of the baggie in his pocket.
"Dude, you're putting words in her mouth. You know she HATES that."
That made Charlie smile. Claire HATED when people talked for her. She said it made her feel like a Muppet. "Yeah," he murmured. "I know." He sighed, his smile fading. "Which just goes to show, I'm really not her kind of guy, right? More fuel for the evidence fire."
Hurley rolled his eyes. "Dude, I don't know what you two were fighting about, but I can almost guarantee you it's not as bad as you're making it seem." He stood up. "Look, I have to run out for a bit. You just crash here and I'll be back later this afternoon. Use the phone -- I don't care if you run the bill up to a million bucks, but CALL HER. All right? And take a bath."
"What? Why?"
"Because you reek, dude."
"Oh." Charlie sniffed himself and grimaced. "Sorry."
"Yeah, look, I have some spare clothes I haven't worn yet. Shannon bought them for me to wear to business meetings and stuff, but I'm never gonna wear them. They itch like crazy. They're in my bottom drawer. I think they'll fit you, but they might be a bit long. Take 'em, wear 'em, and burn what you've got on now. I think that's the only way you're gonna kill whatever's living in the creases."
Charlie managed a smile. "Thanks, man."
Hurley smiled back. "Sure thing. Love you like a brother, Charlie, but let's not hug, all right? You know, until you take that bath and all."
Charlie nodded. "Yeah," he agreed with a chuckle. "Sounds good."
Hurley nodded, clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door, wiping his hand on his pants leg as he went.
Charlie waited until he heard the door lock behind the other man before reaching into his pocket and taking out the familiar baggie. It was noticeably smaller than it had been even yesterday when Roach gave it to him. He wondered if there had really been three day's worth to begin with, or if he was unconsciously taking larger doses than he was supposed to. Roach was a professional -- he was willing to believe the latter.
With a heavy sigh he dragged himself out of the chair and stumbled to Hurley's bedroom. Rifling through the other man's bottom drawer he found a pair of black pants and a white button down -- one of several -- in a plastic bag from some high end retailer he'd never heard of. Taking them, he wandered back into the living room and then into the guest bathroom, which was a soothing shade of blue. He wondered if Shannon had hired Hurley an interior decorator, because if there was one thing Charlie and Hurley could agree on, it was that you couldn't beat plain old beige when it came to walls.
Stripping out of his clothes, he took a moment to stare at himself in the mirror as he drew a bath. His arms dangled by his side like matchsticks; his ribs pressed through his skin like a washboard. Black eyes stared at him from out of an ashen face.
He was holding the phone.
When had he picked that up?
Looking down at it, his eyes automatically dialed Claire's cell number: 555-1532. He knew it by heart, even if it was only a couple of months old. She'd bought it almost immediately upon returning to the mainland. Charlie had held off and not gotten one for himself; a piece of him still wanted to cling to the isolation of the island. But Claire had thought a cell phone would be a good idea with Aidan around, as an emergency contact if nothing else.
He wondered if she had it turned on.
He ran his thumb over the buttons of the phone. 5-5-5-1-5-3-2… They formed an inverted pyramid, if you followed the pattern with your eyes. He wondered if that was symbolic of something. Maybe that his life was going downhill? Maybe that everything he cared about was swirling down the drain? Maybe that he was going to hell?
Sighing, he put the phone down on the top of the toilet and shut off the faucet. Stepping into the tub he sank down into the warmth, feeling his muscles loosen, careful to keep his bandaged hand out of the water. Scrubbing at himself with his good hand, he tried to imagine all the grime and misery of the past week sluicing away. Dunking his head under the water, he shook his entire body, as if trying to shake off every particle of disappointment that had come to rest on his skin in the past two months.
When he finally surfaced thirty seconds later, gasping and dripping, he turned his head and eyed the phone. Reaching out, he wrapped his bad hand gingerly around the receiver and brought it closer. After a few seconds of staring, he brought his thumb to the ON button and pressed it. He could hear the dial tone, and for a second he almost put the phone down again. But then his thumb drifted over the 5.
He pressed it.
There. That hadn't been so hard. Just six more to go.
5.
Five more.
Four… three… two…
One.
Charlie realized he was shaking, his thumb hovering over the 2. He didn't want to get into another fight. He felt like he'd been fighting everybody -- Claire, Roach, his brother, himself -- for a straight week. All he wanted was some peace and quiet. Worse, his high was beginning to wear dangerously thin. The tremors were already starting. He could see his hands shaking, could feel his stomach twisting anxiously in his abdomen.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head to clear his thoughts. Don't be a coward, Charlie, he scolded himself angrily. Or are you just going to walk away from this, too?
"Dammit…!" he hissed under his breath, pounding his head once against the edge of the tub. "You're a wanker, Charlie Pace," he sighed miserably. "God I hate you."
Pressing the receiver against his forehead he tensed every muscle in his body, screaming internally; a deep, primal scream that shook his bones and stretched his lungs. Pressing the ON button again, he listened to the dial tone wink out before letting out an animal howl and throwing the phone with all his strength into the living room. He heard it hit the far wall before clattering to the floor. Covering his face with his hands once again, he sank under the water -- heedless of his bandages -- and screamed into the water, letting it absorb his fury. The ripples of his rage rebounded around him, and he debated ever coming to the surface again.
"Aidan, sweetheart. Come here, baby," Claire called, holding out a hand to her son, who was toddling away from her. "Don't go out of mummy's sight, sweetie."
The little boy turned around, clapping his hands and beaming. "Log!" he exclaimed, pointing with Fluffy Bill to the carved image of Theseus defeating the Minotaur that was one of the focal points of Archibald Fountain.
Claire laughed. "I'm sure Mr. Locke would love to know you think he looks like a Greek hero, sweetheart," she said with a chuckle. "Come 'ere," she added with a smile, holding her arms open for him. He scampered back to where she sat on the edge of the fountain and buried himself in her embrace. She hugged him tightly. "Ooh, my good boy!"
Hyde Park was lush and green in the sun, and the area around the impressive fountain was bustling with tourists, families, and friends meeting up for a day in the city. She'd chosen this spot as a way to blend in, hoping all the people would keep her from making a scene when Thomas eventually appeared. Maybe he'd stay true to his stripes and not even come. She could hope, right?
"Hi, Claire."
She closed her eyes. Well, so much for hope.
"Hello, Thomas," she said evenly, opening her eyes and sitting up to level him with a disinterested gaze. "Long time no see, for obvious reasons."
He looked almost exactly as she remembered: tall, lanky and dark-haired. There was no beret, as she'd imagined, but he did have what looked like the early beginnings of a goatee, which almost made her burst out laughing. What struck her the most was how plain he was; a throwaway face in the crowd. If she'd seen him on the street, she wouldn't have distinguished him from the rest of the passersby.
She'd cried bitter tears for THIS guy?
"Is that him?" Thomas asked; to fill the silence, she suspected. He sounded a little nervous, but that was to be expected. He was probably in fear for his life.
"No, he's someone else's little boy," she said deadpan. "I decided I didn't like mine, and she didn't like hers so we swapped. Good deal, huh? After all, he's just a kid, right? Not important or anything." Thomas shot her a look, which made her laugh derisively. "Oh, don't look at me that way, Thomas. I'm just trying to see what it must be like to think like you. It's fascinating."
Ignoring her, Thomas squatted down to be eye-level with Aidan. "Hey there, little guy," he said with a smile. "I'm your daddy."
Aidan watched him placidly, sucking his thumb.
"He has a daddy, Thomas," Claire told him plainly. "You're not him. You might want to try something else."
Thomas sighed and looked at her. "You're not being very helpful," he said.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I supposed to be? Because I don't remember that being part of our arrangement."
"Claire, I'm… I'm TRYING to make up for what I did to you. To both of you. All right?"
"It's a bit late for that, Thomas," she snapped, rubbing Aidan's back. "You had plenty of time to make up to us WHILE I was pregnant. Months and months of time, to be exact. This feels more like a way to allay a guilty conscience than a way to make up for walking out on us."
"And is that so bad, Claire?" he asked, standing up. "For me to want to feel less guilty? I was an absolute wreck for six months, thinking about you. I barely ate, I couldn't sleep…"
Claire gazed at him coolly. "So what were you doing for the last year and a half?" she asked. "Playing checkers?"
"That's not fair, Claire. I had to move on. We ALL had to move on."
"Fair enough. But why weren't you at the dock when we got back? Hmm? My mother was there, and we weren't exactly on speaking terms either, before the crash. She was there with open arms. Where were YOU?"
"I didn't think you'd want to see me."
"Good guess. You should have stuck with it."
"Look, I wrote to you, didn't I?"
"TWO MONTHS after the fact!" she argued accusingly. "What took you so long, hmm? If you were really wracked by such a guilty conscience, I'd have thought you would have been sending me letters once a day every day from the first day I got back. Maybe calling the house. Maybe dropping by to see how we were doing. You know what, Thomas, I don't think you DO feel guilty. I think you wanted to see Aidan so you could tell everyone you DID, because what kind of monster wouldn't want to see his own son after the little boy and his mother had been rescued from a desert island after two years?" She put on a simpering face. "Oh, aren't you special for making the effort to see your little boy? It's been a nightmare for the past two years, thinking about what an asshole you'd been. Oh, yes, you were such a terrible person. See how you make penance? See how you lay yourself on the altar?" She snorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder and hoisting Aidan into her lap. "Newsflash, Thomas. Selfish people don't change their spots unless they're forced to change. Everything isn't about YOU. I doubt you were glad when I disappeared, because I think you're human; but I bet after a week you stopped thinking about it. Guilty? Why would YOU feel guilty? YOU didn't do anything. I was the one who got on the plane, after all. Right? It was MY choice, not yours. Am I close?"
"Why are you sniping at me, Claire?" he asked, holding his hands out to either side. "Does it really matter why I'm here? I grew up while you were missing. I had time to think about things; about you, me, the baby. I want to see you, I want to see Aidan. Isn't that enough?"
Claire stood up. "No, actually, it's not," she said, staring him down. "I grew up too, Thomas. A lot more than you did, I can guarantee that. And you know what I figured out? I don't NEED you. Isn't that wonderful? You're free! You don't ever have to worry your vacant little head about us again. So why don't you go on home so I can take Aidan home and give him his nap?"
Thomas crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm his FATHER, Claire," he said. "Shouldn't I be allowed to see him?"
Claire stared up into his eyes. "I told you," she said, trying to keep her voice from boiling over with rage. "He has a father, and you're not him."
"Then where is he?"
"That's none of your business," she said bitterly. "Goodbye, Thomas." She hoisted Aidan more comfortably onto her hip and began to walk away.
"Did he walk out on you, too?" Thomas shot after her, and she stopped walking. "Is that it, Claire? Did you run another one off with your plans and your rules? Did you try to make someone ELSE fit into one of your picture perfect frames, and they bolted?"
She turned slowly, eyes simmering with rage. "You bastard," she whispered. "Don't you dare try to blame me AGAIN for what you did."
"I'm not talking about me, Claire," he snapped. "I'm talking about YOU this time. You can say all you want about how I'm a selfish son-of-a-bitch, and maybe that's true. But there are two sides to every break-up. Have you ever stopped to look at yourself?"
Shaking with anger, she stalked back to him, raised her hand and slapped him sharply across the face. His head snapped to the side, but he didn't wince.
"Meeting over," she whispered, voice trembling with fury. "But one last thing. Aidan?" The little boy looked at her, sucking absently on his teddy bear's paw. She pointed at Thomas' face. "Tom-ass," she said, very clearly and distinctly, her eyes locked with Thomas'. "Remember that, sweetheart. THIS is Tom-ass."
Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed off through the gathering crowd. So much for not making a scene.
On the bus ride back to Shannon's apartment, she buried her face in Aidan's soft blonde hair and breathed deeply, trying to rein in her emotions. That had felt good. After so many years of bottling up all her rage, finally being able to let it out was the most cleansing catharsis she'd ever experienced. It was as though a thousand pound weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
If Charlie would just talk to Liam-
The thought choked off and she felt her breath hitch. There had been a grain of truth in what Thomas had said. Sure, he was a selfish bastard, but she'd fallen in love with him, hadn't she? She'd known what he was like -- the free-range, artistic type. Why had she believed he'd want to be anything as regimented as a father? Why had she tried to make him into something he wasn't?
Was she doing the same thing with Charlie? Was she trying to make him into someone he wasn't? Was she trying to force her square framework of right and wrong onto someone whose life was a circle?
No, she thought desperately. Charlie's self-destructing. I'm just trying to help…
No. She was trying to fix him. He had to fix himself, or it would never stick. Only one problem -- he didn't WANT to fix himself.
"Oh, Aidan," she murmured, resting her forehead on the glass of the bus window and sighing. "What's mummy supposed to do, sweetheart?"
"Dada," he said solemnly, patting her cheek.
Claire smiled at the little boy. "Mummy misses daddy, too, sweetie," she agreed, taking his tiny hand in her own and rubbing her thumb over his palm. "I wish he was here."
She got off at the next stop to get a bite to eat at her favorite downtown cafe, because she didn't feel like talking to anybody just yet and the anger had made her hungry. She ordered a hamburger with everything imaginable heaped on top, and Aidan shared her fries. When they finally made it back to Shannon's apartment later that afternoon, her spirits were flying high.
"So, how did it go?" Shannon asked immediately as Claire stepped through the door.
"As expected," Claire said, sitting down as the other woman locked the door. "We fought and I left." She put Aidan on the floor and he immediately started running around. She laughed, watching him.
"I'm pretty sure there was more to it than that," Shannon said, flopping down next to her on the couch. "Talk."
Claire opened her mouth to begin, but shut it when the phone rang. "Hang on," Shannon said, reaching backwards to grab the phone off the console table behind the couch. "Shannon Rutherford?" she said into the receiver. Her face lit up. "Hey, Hurley!" Claire smiled at the name. "What? Yeah, she's here, why?" Shannon shrugged her shoulders at her, and Claire furrowed her eyebrows, confused. "What? Oh my G… Yeah, hang on! I'll give you to her." She took the phone away from her ear and held it out to Claire. "It's Hurley, Claire," she said, eyes serious. "It's about Charlie."
Claire gaped at her for a second. "Oh God…" she breathed, feeling her life drain out of her toes into the rug. "Oh no…"
She dived for the phone.
To Be Continued….
PS -- You're all going to kill me now, aren't you? le coughie