Charlie dug through his luggage, looking for a little zippered pouch he kept all sorts of itty bitty knick knacks in when he travelled. He needed another guitar pick. "Charlie!" Claire called, walking over. He glanced up almost like a frightened deer. Almost. "Would you please go and get some water for the baby? I'm afraid he's getting dehydrated."
"Sure." His face was creased with worry for the fragile life laying on a blanket in the shade. "Can you find me a guitar pick in here while I go?" He pressed the pouch into her hands and climbed to his feet. Claire nodded and Charlie jogged down the beach, looking for Sawyer. He always had extra water. Always had extra everything, come to think of it. The hot sand was hot and dry beneath Charlie's callused feet. He had given up on battered checkered slip-ons some time ago. Now he only wore them when he went on one of those crazy quests with Jack. They had been much more frequent when they had first crashed. Now it felt like everyone had just accepted that the group was stuck on a supernatural island.
"Turnip-head needs some water." Charlie said, squatting next to Sawyer. They had made peace with each other after Charlie's first babysitting mission. Now Charlie had access to Sawyer's stash of goods. He suspected the terse man of having a soft spot for babies, but would never say so out loud. Sawyer put his book down, took his Harry Potter reading glasses off, and regarded Charlie. Finally he got up. "Water it is then."
"Thanks. I think I'm gonna run to the caves tomorrow and get some more. You know, for drinking and whatnot. I'll bring an extra bottle back for you."
"I'd appreciate that," replied Sawyer sarcastically. A couple people had decided to go visit the beach for a couple days. Claire claimed the sound of the waves soothed the baby. Sawyer came because…no one quite knew why Sawyer came, but Charlie had a pretty good idea. "You're turning into quite the little daddy, aren't'cha," Sawyer said, rummaging for the water.
"I guess." Charlie shrugged. He was happy to. Sawyer's tone of voice made it seem like a bad thing. Sawyer gave him the bottle and Charlie jogged back to Turniphead. Jack had suggested they give the baby extra water because it was such a harsh environment. It would be very easy for such a little thing to become dehydrated. They had improvised a bottle from a heavy, rectangular plastic bag by cutting off a tiny piece of one corner. Charlie pinched the tip shut and poured a couple tablespoons of water into it, ignoring his shaking hands. His skin was unpleasantly clammy where the plastic bags of heroin touched it. He had slept the night with them there, pressing against him, tempting him like some twisted prostitute.
"There's a rip in the lining, Charlie." Claire came over, still digging. "Some stuff had gotten between the lining and the outside layer of the pouch." Charlie had to turn his face away to hide the wince. That pouch had also served as a hiding place for small amounts of heroin. Claire was busy digging her beautiful fingers in there. She was too clean, too pure to be touching that dirty pouch.
"It's old," he said finally. The baby was drinking from the "bottle" thirstily, making a cute little humming noise. Charlie grinned down at the baby, it reminded him of other babies he knew.
"Hey, what's this?" Claire lifted out a slim, wallet sized photo album., "Mind if I look at it?"
Charlie paused. "No." he looked at the baby, willing his hands to be still. "Go ahead."
Claire opened it curiously, looking closely at the pictures inside. He knew exactly what she was seeing. Two little babies, identical twin girls. They had mops of dark blonde hair already. Stormy blue eyes graced both of the tiny faces. So did small round noses and cleft chins. "Are…" Claire had to stop and swallow before continuing. Charlie offered her the bottle of water, but she shook her head. "Are they yours?" A date was written on the bottom of one photo. It was just a couple weeks before the plane went down.
"My sister's." Charlie turned away, taking deep breaths to keep away all the emotion fighting in his chest.
Claire sounded very relieved when she spoke again. "I didn't know you had a sister."
"I don't anymore." Charlie sat down, finally giving up. "She died a little before we ended up here." He put his head between the knees he had pulled to his chest. Miri had always called him a "bendy little bugger" when he did that.
WEEKS EARLIER
Charlie wanted to rush straight down to the police station. He really really wanted to. But he was so fucked up he probably couldn't find his way out of the hotel, let alone all the way to the police station. He was forced to settle for watching the news.
"Pace was found in an alley in Manchester early this morning. The cause of death has been determined to be hypothermia. While it wasn't colder than forty degrees last night, prescriptions for the treatment of pneumonia were found on her person. Dr. Bethany Ward of the Royal Hospital in London, when asked by the police to release a statement on whether or not this could worsen hypothermia, said that it would be very easy for a woman in her condition to succumb to it, even in this mild of weather."
Charlie felt terrible for not noticing that his Miri was sick. He used to be so in tune with her. Before Driveshaft…before everything. It was difficult for him to pinpoint the exact moment when he and Miri were no longer friends. The closest he could get was after the first concert of Driveshaft's first tour.
"Pace and her twin nine month old daughters had fled an abusive marriage days before. The ex-husband, already in custody for rape and domestic abuse, is not a suspect. He has been in jail for the last two days and could not have been related to Meredith's death. Her brothers, Liam and Charlie Pace formerly of the band Driveshaft—"
"WE'RE STILL TOGETHER!" Charlie hollered at the television set, pitching a pillow at it.
It took Liam a week to track Charlie down and made him come to the nicer hotel he was staying at. Liam had received custody of Miri's girls. They cooed at Charlie as he held them. Charlotte and Lynna were their names. Charlie didn't wonder why. The only way he could tell them apart was because the police had put a "C" on the bottom of Charlotte's foot and an "L" on the bottom of Lynna's. When Liam took the girls with him back to Sydney, leaving Charlie alone again in Manchester, Charlie felt the lowest he ever had in his entire life.
He didn't go to Miri's funeral.
ON THE ISLAND
Claire was shocked into silence by Charlie's words. He'd never mentioned a sister. And now, three months later, for Claire to find out about his recently dead sister. "God," Claire whispered, "Why didn't you, you know, tell me?"
"What good would it do?" Charlie asked suddenly, lifting his head sharply, "She'll still be dead, and it'll still be my fault." Charlie got up and walked away, all the feeling suddenly drained out of him. He was numb, like when he fell through thin ice once when he was a kid. He knew he was supposed to be in pain or something, but couldn't be. He hated that feeling. It was so flat, so devoid of any passion. Even fear or anger or jealously would be welcome right now, just so he'd feel something.
Charlie wasn't sure where he walked or how long it took to get there. He wished he had brought his shoes because his bare feet were being scored and punctured by the unforgiving debris on the jungle floor. But he didn't feel anything. Midday found him sitting on the shore of an inland, freshwater lake. He stared out at the water, lost in a whirlwind of thought. It had been his fault that Miri died. He was the one who had thrown her onto the pavement and knocked her unconscious. He was directly responsible. Now her girls were parentless. Liam, sisterless. Now brotherless, too. Charlie was certain he and the other survivors of the plane crash had been left for dead long ago. He'd probably been buried near Miri and their parents in the churchyard in Manchester. The coffin had been empty, though. What was it like to bury and empty coffin? Did Liam, the last living member of their family, have even the foolish glimmer of hope that some of the survivors seemed to cling to? The one that kept saying they would be found soon. What did it mean to die? Did it hurt? Charlie figured his death had hurt. He didn't feel that pain now, though. God, he wanted to feel something!
Charlie didn't even notice when his hand went to the waistband of his jeans and removed a baggie of heroin. Habit moved his fingers, loosening the knot and pouring the white dust into his palm. It felt good when the powder provided the much-missed buzz in his veins. Finally, Charlie felt something.