XXIX: Charlie's Medicine
When she was in California, Libby could not tell when fall blended into winter. The seasons seemed all one long expanse of heat and ocean breezes, and she was unused to that. The people all looked so young there, too – were they thirty years old? Forty? They all seemed the same – eighteen. Botox, surfing, a Vegan or Freegan diet, all contributed to the people looking so young. Even the patients at the institution had looked young, and she remembers how she had not been able to keep the word 'boy' out of her mind when thinking of the Reyes kid.
He calls himself Hurley now, and she does not know from where the nickname has come. There is a town called Hurley, in Ulster County, near where she came from, but the town and he have nothing to do with one another. At the institution, she had asked him once if he had ever been out of California, back when he was a patient, and he said that he had not. So he had not come to that town and adopted its name. She determines to find out, though. Surely it means something.
For now, though, she will let him read the manual and leave him to his own devices. Whatever the language is, it doesn't look one bit like Spanish, so she doubts he'll be any help there. Still, he wanted to read it, and it is not her book to say who can and can't take a look at it.
The weather is crystal-clear on the beach, so people are on it this afternoon. Someone has started an impromptu concert, and she knows who it is before she reaches the guitar player stretched out in a beachside hammock. "Charlie," she greets the Englishman. "Mind company?"
He shakes his head, moves his pick-bearing hand to tap on the hammock's free side, and she sits down, careful not to disturb him and his guitar too much, not lifting her legs from the ground for fear the hammock won't support the two of them. "I never listened to your band, Driveshaft," she begins, watching for his reaction.
He's clearly not surprised. He shrugs, looks over his sunglasses at her. "I wouldn't have thought you did." He hits a few more chords before speaking again. "It's all right, though. A lot of people haven't. Hurley says his girlfriend used to sell our CDs."
The word is out before she can think to avoid it. It's more certain than she would have liked, as well. "Starla."
Charlie stares at her for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I think that was the name." He whips off his sunglasses, drops his hand from the guitar, instantly transformed into a fountain of curiosity. "He told you about her? You've only been here three bloody days. He didn't tell me about her for the longest time!" He sounds a bit hurt, but not much. More than hurt, he sounds desperately curious. "You couldn't have known him. No. There's no way."
She looks away from him, studying the sand. Her bare feet, warmed from having walked in it, try to dig a hole in the surface, but end up only kicking the grains around. It's not wet enough to mold anything.
Her look away may have been as good as an acquiescence, she knows, and Charlie certainly interprets it correctly. "I can't believe it. I can't believe there's a connection between people here. Something's going on. Something must be going on. I swear, I'll tell Jack…" And he starts to swing himself from the hammock to do just that, so consumed with his sudden task that his sunglasses, forgotten, fall to the sand.
She leans down to pick them up, folding them carefully, studying their nearly opaque surface. She suddenly realizes she needs a pair. When they took off from the tail wreckage, she had left hers behind in the chaos. There was more left behind there, too – not just bodies. She chooses not to go down that road at the moment, though. The short blond man staring at her, aghast, commands her attention at present.
"It's no real mystery, Charlie. We worked together." She lies a bit, thinking, If I can help Hurley save face, it's worth it. There are so few people here, and Charlie is his closest friend. "When I worked at Bellevue, he was a janitor there." She extends the sunglasses to the young Brit. "Whatever you want to tell Jack about it, though, feel free. But it's not a revelation."
"So I'm just supposed to ignore it?" Charlie's voice is sharp. "No. I'm telling Jack." He grabs his guitar by the neck, slinging the strap around him, his eyes on her. "And you can naff off with your whining." He starts to stalk away, neglecting his glasses.
"Charlie!" Her voice is sharper than she intends. It makes the Englishman stop in his tracks. "Look. The reality of it is this – Hurley wasn't a janitor, all right? You can't tell him I told you." She smiles at him sadly, feeling like a traitor. "The truth is that he was in that mental hospital, Charlie. I know. I was the person that interviewed him for admission. There. Now you know. You can't tell him, though. He hasn't told anyone, and it wouldn't be right for me to just – to just air his secrets like that." You just did, a little voice tells her, but she ignores that.
Charlie's eyes are wide. "Hurley's a lunatic?"
"No!" she tells him hurriedly. "No, he's not crazy. He was just depressed." She shakes her head, her eyes wide. "He was treated and then he was released. He's better now. So if you go telling someone, even Jack, you'll screw things up for Hurley. Don't do that. It's not right to him, if you're his friend."
The young man stares at her for a moment, unable to decide the truth of the matter. He sighs at last, nodding. "All right. You're right. I hope you're bloody well happy, though. If it were up to me…"
"Thank you, Charlie," she cuts him off shortly. "Here. Your sunglasses." She extends them to him, noticing her arm trembling a little bit. She makes a concerted effort to steady it, and succeeds.
He stalks forward, grabbing the sunglasses from her none too politely. "This is bad, Libby. I feel like a bloody traitor knowing this and not saying anything about it."
"How do you think I feel for saying something about it? That doesn't make me feel good, believe me. Be nice to him, Charlie. Don't let on. You can do that." She does her best to give him an encouraging smile, then shakes her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned Starla. But I was just so surprised at recognizing it that I couldn't help it." She lifts a finger to her lips. "Mum's the word, though, as you'd say."
Charlie does not look amused by that. She wonders if the term is perhaps too old, but then he acknowledges it, still not looking pleased. "So how can we make him stop being crazy? Does he have drugs? Medicine? Something?"
"Not anymore. But you can be the medicine, Charlie. Just make sure that he's on an even keel." A sudden concern hits, and she voices it: "He has been, right? No sign of anything wrong?"
"No. Not as far as I can tell." She wonders about asking for an opinion on insanity from a rock star, and decides that musicians are probably all right candidates. He adds, "But I will keep an eye on him, Libby. Promise." He makes a cross-my-heart sign to seal the deal, and sets off, the guitar jouncing along as he walks away.
She should not have done that. Charlie does not strike her as someone who easily keeps secrets about others. She hopes he won't blurt it out to his friend, for if Charlie tells, who else would have told him but her? She only wants a few minutes back to rectify the situation, but then again, it could be far worse. There are far greater things that could have gone wrong. She is alive, they are alive, and as far as she knows, outside of the whole business with the search party, things are going all right.
This is a new place, but it is an all right place to be. She feels safe here at the new camp, with the new people. There is reassurance in the wind, the sky, the sand beneath her feet, a calmness to the waters that she had not seen in Atlantic or Pacific. She does not need to worry so much anymore. She does not need to be afraid. They have managed to get here, her camp and the others' group, and together, they will be all right here. She will get to know the rest of them, and there will be time enough for that.
There is space here for people to live, to breathe, to be themselves, and she resolves to do that. In a way, she thinks, it's a great opportunity. I guess we should feel lucky to have the chance to start over.
"Charlie was just here?"A young woman's voice breaks into her thoughts, Australian. She nods absently before turning to the young girl, smiling automatically at the sight of the baby. What was the baby's name? Moreover, what was the girl's name? "I'm Claire," the young woman supplies, as if she has read Libby's mind. "I wonder how he's doing. There was – we had a row. I kicked him out. He's doing all right, though?"
Libby realizes, She is not offering to take him back, only showing concern about him. She wonders about this, but it is not her place to inquire. Instead, she nods. "He's doing fine," she tells the young girl. "Nice to meet you, Claire. Libby. And this?"
"This little ankle-biter's Aaron," Claire introduces her to the baby, shuffling the boy in her arms as she sinks into the hammock. "He's not Charlie's; don't worry. He's only a few weeks old, aren't you?" Her attention turns towards the baby, and she toys with him for a moment, beaming at the child. Her smile is sudden and fresh, engaging, and Libby has to grin as well. "He's a good baby," Claire affirms then.
"He must be," Libby replies, still smiling. "It must be difficult to raise him here."
"Oh, it's a trick and a half! But it would be difficult anywhere. I was told that I should raise him myself, though, so I'm doing my best. Everyone else seems to have had experience at it, though, so I feel a right fruit loop trying to take care of him. And Charlie doesn't help anymore, and I don't want him anywhere near Aaron. But I do want to make sure he's all right."
Claire's firmness about Charlie startles her. She thinks, Perhaps I gave him too much credit by feeling that he was all right with Hurley's past. "What has Charlie done?"
"Loads of rubbish," Claire tells her seriously. "But I sprung him on something bad recently." She motions Libby to sit down on the hammock again, apparently needing a confidant in the matter. "C'mon. I'll tell you now, if you want. Aaron looks like he's about to have a kip, so I've got a few moments at least."
Libby is more than happy to listen, and Claire, it seems, is more than willing to talk. As Claire details things, Libby looks down at Aaron, thinking, Charlie messed that up. She loves him, and he ruined that. Hurley's his friend, and I can only hope he won't ruin that as well.