“She remembered. She called back. She asked me how much money I needed.” She called her father a string of foul names. “He’s too busy with his new trophy wife.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “If I was lying in a hospital bed, dying from an overdose, he’d tell his secretary to make sure I had a private room, private nurse, and send some flowers.” She dug in her jean pocket and pulled out a worn business card. “I want you to keep this.”
“Why?”
“If anything happens to me, you call my father.”
Scared, Carolyn shook her head. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Chel.”
“I’m not planning anything. You just never know when your time will come. I could decide to go swimming in that lake and drown. Or go down to the ocean and walk in with lead weights around my ankles.”
“I don’t like it when you talk so crazy.”
“Don’t I always?” Chel laughed again, sounding more like herself this time. “You really are something, you know that?” She cupped Carolyn’s face. “I love you. You’ve been better to me than any sister I could’ve had.” She dropped her hand. “Whatever happens, it’s not going to be your fault.” She gripped Carolyn’s wrist tightly. “Remember that. It’s not your fault.”
Worried, Carolyn kept an eye on Chel over the next few days. Chel smoked pot and drank, but not to excess. She still danced to the music, tossing her head and turning the way she had when they first came to Haight-Ashbury. Ash, the self-appointed leader of their little commune, watched Chel, too, especially when she turned up the music while he spoke his poetry. When he asked her to turn it down, she turned it up and danced right in front of him.
Carolyn thought everything would be fine then. Chel’s depression had lifted. She was back to the same smirking, defiant girl she’d been in Berkeley. Carolyn went to the park for some air, spending two hours in the sunshine. She sat on a bench and watched children play, thinking of Oma and Mom and Dad. Loneliness gripped her. Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried not to think about Charlie.
When she got back, Carolyn went upstairs and found Chel’s door closed. Carolyn put her head against the door, but didn’t hear voices. She tapped softly. “Chel?” She opened the door. “I’ve been thinking—”
Chel lay sprawled across her mattress. Her face looked so serene, Carolyn thought she was asleep. Then she noticed the rubber tubing coiled like a snake on the floor and a discarded syringe next to it. “Chel!” She knelt on the bed and lifted her. “Chel!” She shook her. Chel felt boneless, heavy. Sobbing her name, Carolyn let her go and screamed for help.
Voices. Footsteps running in the hall. “Everyone out!” Ash ordered. The door closed firmly. Carolyn heard the lock set. Sobbing, hysterical, she tried to speak. He clamped a hand over her mouth. When she tried to bite down, he slapped her, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved her face into the mattress. “Are you going to be quiet?” He pushed harder and only let her go when she started to pass out. Gasping for air, she scrambled away from him.
He put his hand on Chel’s neck, checking for a pulse. Taking his hand away, he looked furious, not aggrieved. He swore under his breath. “Stupid witch.”
“You don’t even care that she’s—”
“You were supposed to watch out for her.” He hit her. She tasted blood in her mouth. He shoved her from him and turned toward the window.
She made it to the door, but Stoner stood right outside, blocking her escape. “What’s the matter, babe?”
“Chel’s dead.”
“Bummer. Who’s gonna pay the rent?”
She stared at him.
Ash came up behind her, his hands firm. With a tone full of compassion, he reassured Stoner. “Everything will be fine.” When she tried to move away, his grip tightened. “We’ll call an ambulance. Someone will come and take her to the hospital. What was her name, Stoner?”
“Chel.”
When Carolyn opened her mouth, Ash’s fingers bit into her flesh. “Chel.” Ash spoke low. “That’s all we know. Her name was Chel.”
Stoner shrugged. “Yeah, man. That’s all I ever knew.”
Ash slipped his arm around Carolyn, pulled her back into the room, and closed Stoner out. He shoved her toward the bed where Chel lay dead. “You’ll do what I tell you, Caro. Got that? It’s your fault she overdosed. You said she was your friend. Where were you? You should’ve been right here with her every minute. I told you to keep watch.” He gripped her face in viselike fingers. “But you didn’t, did you? You did your own thing and had your little walk in the park. You put flowers in your hair.” He crumpled them and threw them on the floor. “And now she’s dead because you didn’t care enough to take care of her.” He let go of her and stepped away.
She’d once thought herself in love with this man. But he’d tossed her aside and moved on to another girl.
Suddenly solicitous, Ash drew Carolyn to her feet. He stroked her cheek. “It’ll be the way it was.” He whispered words of comfort now, words of endearment. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of you.” When he kissed her, she felt nothing but revulsion. He drew back, his dark eyes searching hers. “I’ll call for an ambulance. Sit with me downstairs. Be at my side.” He opened the door. Stoner and several others stood waiting. “We’ll light candles for our sister. We will say prayers.” He stroked Carolyn’s arms as though trying to smooth away the bruises.
The ambulance came within minutes. Two men got out. They unloaded a gurney and locked the vehicle doors before heading up the steps. One looked at her. When they came out with Chel’s body zipped in a black bag, she heard them talking. “Chel. Not much to go by.”
One unlocked and opened the back door of the ambulance. “She’ll be another Jane Doe.”
“Too bad. Pretty girl.”
Carolyn came down the steps.
“You need to move aside, Miss.”
“Her name is Rachel Altman. She came from New York City. She was an A student at UC Berkeley. They’ll have her records.”
His face filled with pity. “A friend of yours?”
“My best friend.”
“We’ll take good care of her.”
“You’ll be the first.”
Frowning, he searched her face. “Are you going to be all right?”
Carolyn walked away without looking back. He had a job to do. So did she.
* * *
It didn’t take long to beg enough money for a long-distance telephone call. Carolyn stepped into a phone booth and dialed the number on the card Chel had given her. She asked for Mr. Altman.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“My name is Carolyn Arundel. His daughter, Rachel, was my best friend. She died today. You can tell him that, or let me talk to him.”
“One moment, please.”
Less than a minute passed and a man’s voice came on the telephone. “My secretary says you have news about my daughter.” He sounded annoyed. Maybe she’d interrupted a business meeting. “Make it quick. What is it this time?”
“She died of a heroin overdose this morning.”
Silence. Then hushed anger. “Look. I’m in the middle of an important meeting. What kind of sick prank is she playing this time?”
“They picked up her body a few minutes ago.” Carolyn gave him the Clement house address. “I gave the paramedics her full name and told them the university has her records. But Chel said if anything happened to her, she wanted me to call you. So I’ve called.” She hung up.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Carolyn wasn’t sure where to go. She’d been happy in the park, walking in the sunshine, looking at the flowers. She didn’t make it. She walked half a block and squatted next to an old run-down Victorian row house, where she covered her head and sobbed.
She could hear Chel’s voice in her head. “It’s not your fault, Caro. Remember that. It’s not your fault.”
Carolyn wished she could believe it.
Dear Rosie,
Tr
ip has given up on finding Carolyn. He went to Berkeley several times looking for her, even went to the police, but they told him he is among dozens of parents whose children have “dropped out” and disappeared. Many have moved to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. Trip took days off work to look for Carolyn, contacting her neighbors and classmates, but so many of these young “flower children” hate authority, and Trip looks every inch the police officer he is, so I’m convinced, even if anyone knew of her whereabouts, they wouldn’t tell anyone who looks like a member of “the establishment” they despise.
I am grieved Hildemara has given up on Carolyn as well. She never mentions her, nor can she abide my doing so. I invite her to tea. She declines. She comes home from work and stays in the house while Trip hammers on something. They go to church on Sunday, where they have the dubious distinction of being the only parents in Paxtown who have lost a son in action. Being a star football player in high school made Charlie a favored son, but his death has made him a local hero to some, object of hatred to others.
No one mentions Carolyn. She is more dead to everyone than Charlie could ever be.
13
Time passed in a haze of misery. With no place to go, nothing to do, Carolyn wandered through Golden Gate Park. She loitered near the museums, knowing that was her best chance of finding food. Some people looked at her with pity. Others stared in disgust, drawing children’s attention away. Most pretended they didn’t see her at all. She wanted a drink, but had no money. Sick to her stomach and suffering tremors, she left the pathways and collapsed. When she heard someone coming, she crawled into the bushes. Curled up in her hiding place, she wished she could will herself to die.
She used the public restrooms to wash. She found better places to sleep. Her fringed leather jacket kept the dew from soaking into her upper body, though her skirt felt wet after sleeping on the grass.
Occasionally a police car passed by. She would sit still, arms wrapped around her knees, making herself as small as possible, like an animal hiding among rhododendrons and overgrown azaleas. She had always liked it there among the trees and flowers. The gardens reminded her of Oma’s cottage.
School buses pulled in every morning during the week, bringing children for field trips. Once when the children came out to eat their bagged lunches, Carolyn approached to beg, but a chaperone told her to leave the children alone. So she sat with her back against a tree and watched children laugh, eat, and casually toss their leftovers away.
Too hungry to have any pride, Carolyn rummaged in the garbage cans, looking for their scraps. Before a security guard ordered her away, she found a half-eaten bologna sandwich, a brown banana, a box of hardened raisins. One month rolled into another. She lived hand to mouth. Her stomach was empty most of the time, but the rest of her filled up to overflowing with shame. She grieved over Chel. Worse, the anguish over Charlie’s death returned. When he began haunting her dreams, she tried not to sleep at all.
* * *
One evening, Carolyn went to the end of the park and down to the beach. Sitting on the cold sand, she thought about Chel. She thought about Charlie, too, all the time now. She didn’t try to stop. The sun dipped toward the west. The light on the water made her eyes hurt. Her stomach ached. She hugged her knees against her chest, trying to stay warm. The surf pounded, waves whooshing up the sand while seagulls keened overhead. Two landed nearby and approached her, then flew off again when she had nothing to offer. The sky turned a beautiful rose-orange with pink streaks across the horizon.
Carolyn closed her eyes and imagined what it might feel like to walk into the surf, to go out so far there would be no turning back. She could spread her arms and drift weightless on the current until the warm water closed over her head. She imagined sinking into the blue, fish swimming around her, seaweed wrapping her in its embrace.
A blast of sand stung her face. The churning, crashing waves sounded angry, no longer inviting. The sea had come up. The mist turned cold. She got up and walked to the edge of the waves. The foamy sea lapped at her feet. In her dreams, it was warm, but this water felt ice-cold, so cold her skin and bones ached.
Courage failing, she turned away and saw a man in a military jacket sitting on the seawall, head turned toward her. Her heart quickened. Charlie? No. It couldn’t be. Charlie was dead. How long had the man been there? He swung his leg over the wall and stood on the walkway. He shouldered a duffel bag and guitar case and headed back toward Golden Gate Park.
Night approached, and it grew colder on the beach. Carolyn followed the same route the man had taken. The public bathrooms had been locked. She relieved herself in the bushes and washed her hands in a public drinking fountain. Leaving the sidewalk, she crossed a lawn and sat by a small lake. Guitar music drifted on the air as one by one the stars began to appear. Carolyn moved toward the sound. She spotted a black plastic lean-to and a sleeping bag spread out beneath it. The man sat on a log, head down as he played his guitar. Hungry, cold, desperate, Carolyn swallowed her fear and approached him. He lifted his head and smiled at her. “I hoped you’d follow me.”
“I like your music.”
“Thanks.” He had a kind smile. He was young, about the same age Charlie would be.
“Do you have any food?”
“Not much, but I’ll share.” He got up and dug in his duffel bag. He held out a Hershey’s chocolate bar. She would have to come close to take it from his hand. “It’s okay, miss. I won’t hurt you.” Though his face was young, his eyes looked old and sad.
“Thanks.” She opened it and ate half, offering the rest to him.
“You go ahead. You can share my fire, too, if you want.” He tilted his head and looked at her. “You look lost.”
“Are you a vet?”
“Yeah.” He went on playing the poignant, unfamiliar melody. “I’m still getting used to being a civilian.”
She thought of Charlie, and tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks. “My brother died in Vietnam.”
He stopped playing and put the guitar aside. “Tell me about him.”
She did. She let the words and pain flow out of her, wondering why it felt so natural to tell a stranger. She felt something happen inside her, a spark, a tiny seed of hope planted.
He told her about friends he’d lost. When he offered to share his sleeping bag, she thanked him and stretched out beside him. She didn’t ask his name and didn’t offer hers. The ground didn’t feel as hard beneath her. When he drew the flannel-lined sleeping bag around them both, she sighed. He kissed her; she kissed him back. He was kind. He was gentle. When it was over, he didn’t let her go, but held her tenderly. He cried. So did she.
She awakened once during the night, kissed him on the forehead, and walked away, the morning mist drifting through the trees. She thought she could find her way back, but she got lost again.
Exhausted, frightened, crying, she lay on the grass. She must have fallen asleep, for she awakened when someone touched her. A man whispered her name. Oh, she thought, relief sweeping over her, he found me. He stroked her hair so tenderly. Her body relaxed beneath his caress. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want him to stop. Warm and drowsy, she looked across the grass. Small white flowers bloomed like stars among the green blades. He touched her again, and she felt enveloped in love.
“I’ve been lost.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t find you.” She pushed herself up.
The sun rose behind him. Glorious color shone all around him. Carolyn raised a hand to shade her eyes.
“I found you.” Raindrops of sensation raced up and down her body. It wasn’t the young veteran who had found her. She couldn’t see His face in the light, but she knew His voice even though she had never heard it before. Her heart pounded wildly. He whispered again, and then He was gone.
* * *
Carolyn sat on the grass in the morning sunshine, holding tight to that one single moment when she felt loved, cherished, and for the first time in her li
fe, certain of what she was supposed to do next.
Finally, pushing herself up, she found her way back to the sidewalk. She ducked into a public restroom to wash. Someone had broken the mirror. She stared at her reflection, like a Picasso painting, hacked up and put back together at odd angles. She dragged her fingers through her long, snarled hair, trying to make herself decent. How did she do that after spending weeks living in the same clothing, sleeping on the ground, scrounging in garbage cans? Giving up, she went back outside. She walked for a while and then sat to rest on a green lawn that tapered down to a pond.
Jesus had told her what to do. She just didn’t think she had the courage to do it.
A young mother came down the slope holding a blanket and large picnic basket. A little boy and girl raced ahead of her, each with a small plastic bag in their hands. Bread crumbs for the ducks. One quickly swam their way, eight fuzzy ducklings following in her wake.
“Not so close, Charlie!”
Pain gripped Carolyn. Her heart pounded again, hard, fast, fluttering strangely as though she had just come back to life. The little boy looked older than his sister. He took her hand and pulled her away from the edge of the small lake. Protective.
Carolyn wanted to get up and move closer, but she didn’t want to alarm the mother. She knew she looked a fright, like any other alcoholic still craving a drink, a slut who slept with strangers to keep warm, a derelict who ate out of garbage cans and slept under the cover of bushes. What mother in her right mind would want someone like Carolyn anywhere near her innocent children?
The young woman spread her blanket and sat down a short distance away. She smiled at Carolyn. “It’s a perfect morning, isn’t it?”
Carolyn found it difficult to speak. “Yes.” Perfect. She watched the little boy. “You called him Charlie. My brother’s name was Charlie.” She turned her face away so the lady wouldn’t see the tears that came so quick. She wiped them away.
“Was? Did something happen to him?”
“He was killed in Vietnam.”
“When?”