Eileen saw right through Charlotte, and for once Charlotte was glad somebody could. Here it was, at last, and they both sensed it as only mothers and daughters can. It was what they'd waited for their whole lives and longer: for Eileen, a
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chance to test-drive her "mother's intuition," and for Charlotte, a chance to have The Talk.
"Mom?" Charlotte stumbled as she searched for the right words to say.
"Yes, sweetie?" Eileen asked expectantly.
"There's this guy...," Charlotte began.
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Chapter 6 You Can Do Better than Me
Love is a grave mental disease.
--Plato
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Critical condition.
Just as love blinds us to imperfections in others, it magnifies those we see in ourselves. But if this is true, then the opposite must also be the case. We can take comfort in the fact that our faults will be invisible to those who love us. The success or failure of any relationship depends not just on how we feel about each other, but on how we make each other feel about ourselves.
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Charlotte, look at it this way: it's your first fight. That's the mark of a real relationship," Pam said, trying to lift Charlotte's spirits as they headed to the office for what was, for better or worse, the last time.
This was not the time for "I told you so," though it took every ounce of spectral strength from Pam and Prue not to blurt it out.
"It just hurts me that he doesn't get that he's the main reason I want to stay," Charlotte said. "He's so casual about us."
"What 'us'?" CoCo butted in as she joined them on the way. "Have you ever even talked about the both of you as a couple?"
"No, not yet," Charlotte said.
"Maybe you're too afraid to find out what he really thinks," Prue added.
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"I'd rather just vomit than be nauseated all day," CoCo said. "Know what I mean?"
They looked at CoCo, knowing there was a point, but unable to figure out what it was.
CoCo let out a sigh of exasperation and explained: "Just because you're afraid of what he might say, afraid of rejection, doesn't mean you just ignore it altogether. I would want to know."
"Let's not get too dramatic," Pam wisely advised.
"Maybe he thinks I'm not cool enough for him," Charlotte moped, her insecurities creeping back.
"He's a guy, Charlotte," Prue tossed off. "He's probably not thinking anything."
"And you are totally overthinking," Pam said. "This is the old you talking, Charlotte. Don't let yourself fall back into that trap."
Charlotte smiled a bit anxiously and realized they were probably right.
"At least he's getting sent back with us so you can keep your eye on him," Pam pointed out rationally.
"Yeah," CoCo tweaked. "Leaving him behind could be dangerous now that Polly is here."
"Thanks a lot," Charlotte grumbled. "I feel much better now."
Pam and Prue laughed good-naturedly and nudged Charlotte as they approached the phone bank. Charlotte didn't see the humor in any of it just then. Just the injustice.
"Why so glum, man?" Mike prodded Eric, who seemed uncharacteristically stuck in a funk. "I thought you were looking forward to getting back."
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"I am," Eric said weakly. "It's just, you know, Charlotte's kind of bumming me."
"Don't fret," DJ chided, proud of his guitar pun. "This is not like you."
"I don't know," Eric said. "This trip is really bad timing for us."
"It's perfect timing!" Mike shouted, punching out an air-drum roll in front of him. "You don't want to be tied down with all that living tail that's gonna be around."
"Brodown!" DJ shouted, anticipating his first boys' night out in quite some time.
Subtlety was definitely not a priority for this crew, but judging from the look on Eric's face, they could tell they might have gone a little too far.
"Aw, she'll be cool," DJ assured him, reeling the conversation back. "She's got plenty to keep her busy."
"What do you mean?" Eric asked, taken aback.
"Damen," Mike explained indelicately. "He's the whole reason she's here."
"She died trying to hook up with him," DJ continued. "Good thing too, or we'd all still be there."
"Yeah, good thing," Eric mumbled.
The entire office staff arrived on time for a change. All were anxious to hear from Markov. All except for Charlotte, that is.
She snuck a nervous peek at Eric, as she usually did, and he nodded back and smiled, which she hoped was a good sign.
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A not-so-good sign was that her Dead Ed teacher Mr. Brain wasn't there. His presence was always comforting, especially for Charlotte, but his absence was not exactly surprising. After all, his most recent graduates had just arrived on campus, and he really only showed up for super-special occasions now.
Charlotte figured this return engagement that Markov had booked for them probably didn't qualify. They'd been told they were going back, but not much else. It was all very mysterious, and the tension in the room was palpable.
"Today," Markov began, "is the first day of the rest of your afterlives."
The audible groan from the Eric-Mike-DJ section in the back was contagious and, not surprisingly, Markov quickly began to lose the room. He sounded like a personality-challenged straight-A student giving a hackneyed valedictory address. Bor-ing.
"That's original," Eric, who had set himself up as a bit of a nemesis to Markov, opined sarcastically.
"Yeah," Charlotte continued. "Should we remember to always reach for the stars and follow our dreams too?"
Chuckles rolled through the room, but not from Pam and Prue, who found the back talk irresponsible and really out of character for Charlotte. Eric was always a bit of a class clown, but for Charlotte, this was virgin territory.
"Trying to impress the boyfriend?" Pam chided Charlotte dryly.
"That's original," Prue concurred. "What a rebel."
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Given the divisive mood in the room, it was clear that Markov was not the best person to deliver this message, but he was not easily deterred. He not only commanded their attention, he demanded it. Markov took all this very seriously, and after a false start, the interns began to as well.
"I have a question," Call Me Kim announced, thrusting her arm up, before Markov could utter another word. "Are we being promoted or fired?"
Kim had been an A student in life, a team player in Dead Ed, and an exemplary employee at the phone bank. As a firm advocate of the merit system, she could not imagine being replaced on a whim. So maybe it was neither. Maybe this was what the end was: obsolescence. The new kids had arrived to man the phones, and they were no longer needed.
"I know you are all a little confused," Markov offered.
"That's like saying Silent Violet is a little quiet," Charlotte huffed.
"Don't drag me into this," Violet demurred, seeking to remain neutral.
"Change is a part of life," Markov said. "Of learning, of growth."
"And death?" Charlotte queried, frustrated. "You don't grow after you're dead?"
"Not true," CoCo interjected, peeking out from her Hermes scarf. "Your hair and nails do."
"Coooooool," Metal Mike droned, imagining his hairy,
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jagged-toed corpse busy transforming into a human can opener in its casket.
"But what if you're all changed already?" Charlotte pressed. "What do we get then? Just to... rest in peace?"
"Don't you know the answer to that question by now, Charlotte?" Markov continued. "Resting in peace is a fantasy created to placate the living." He paused. "Not the dead."
"It's just that there was finally time," Charlotte mumbled, glancing at Eric. "Time to do the last things we wanted to do."
"Don't worry, Charlotte," Markov chided. "You'll live."
Charlotte didn't find his little joke funny in the least, and he realized that immed
iately.
"You completed your internship and now, now it's time for a little on-the-job training," he added.
"Think of it as a working vacation," CoCo soothed, offering a unique take on things. "Sort of an executive perk, like walking the Dior showroom after hours."
"Or the plumbing supplies aisle at Home Depot," Bud added, keeping it real.
"Or crashing an after-hours house party," DJ beamed. "Uninvited."
"We get to go back, knowing what we know now...," Violet said, unusually chatty.
"There's nothing to stop us," twins Simon and Simone said in unison.
Charlotte was all alone now in her convictions. Even Pam, her B.D.F.--Best Dead Friend--had flipped on her.
Markov was determined to get things back on track.
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"Well, sorry to disappoint you all, but it's not going to be a dead-kids-gone-wild kind of thing," Markov instructed. "You're each going to have an assignment."
"What now?" Charlotte relented, asking on behalf of the assembly.
"As I already told you," Markov informed, "you are going back."
"Back where?" DJ asked.
"To where you came from," Markov said. "Hawthorne."
Charlotte suddenly perked up. Back to Hawthorne meant back to Scarlet.
"Why there?" Eric asked, disappointed. "Couldn't we go someplace, you know, cooler?"
He was hoping for a bigger pond to swim in. One where he might be able to showcase his mad guitar skills at last and just maybe get a taste of the fame that escaped him.
"Start small and work your way up," Markov advised, talking as much about Hawthorne as about Eric's "career."
"I don't need a dress rehearsal," Eric gruffed.
"This isn't a debate society or a democracy," Markov snapped, his expression darkening. "You are being sent where you are needed."
"I don't get it," Kim persisted. "To do what, exactly?"
"Whatever is necessary," Markov said simply, perusing the list he had been holding. "You'll just have to figure it out."
Charlotte was alarmed immediately. If they were going back, something must be wrong. All reservations about returning melted away. She put on her game face.
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"You were right," Eric mouthed to Charlotte, no longer so anxious to get back. "This is bogus."
Charlotte didn't react at all. She seemed focused, motivated. He had never seen her like this. And he wasn't sure how he felt about her eagerness to return all of sudden, given the gossip from Mike and DJ about her ex.
"Listen up, people," Markov barked. "Here are your assignments."
"Is this some kind of test?" Suzy asked, nervously picking away at her phantom forearm scars for the first time that she could remember.
"That's one way to think of it," Markov said brusquely. "I prefer to call it a mission."
"Mission?" Charlotte asked. "What kind of mission?"
"Your mission is to help the living deal with their problems," Markov detailed, ignoring the interruption. "Not to solve big issues like war and peace, but rather the petty problems that plague their lives and consciences--the little things that paralyze them and sometimes stop them from living."
"Little things?" Charlotte asked, hoping for some clarification.
"There is nothing bigger," Markov answered.
"Wait, so we're the ones who are dead," Eric said, "and we're supposed to help these living losers see how good they have it?"
"Right," Markov said. "It's what you've been preparing for here."
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"But we're not experts," Charlotte complained. "Who will help us help them?"
"The new class will be here as your lifeline," Markov assured them. "So will I."
It was a surprisingly supportive statement from Markov, and they knew he was a man of his word.
"So, we're sponsors?" Prue asked. "Like in some kind of supernatural intervention?"
"Sounds more like spiritual guides to me," Pam added.
"Like angels," Charlotte said succinctly.
"Technically, yes," Markov said. "But not in the white toga, wings, and halo sense."
"Thank God," CoCo added. "Halos are a hair-don't."
The interns stared ahead wide-eyed as Markov scanned down his list, pairing each with what seemed to be a random counterpart at Hawthorne. Mike, DJ, Suzy, Abigail, Jerry, Bud, Simon, Simone, Violet, and Kim each left to say their farewells to family as their names were called and assignment given.
"CoCo," Markov continued. "Your pairing is with... Petula Kensington."
Wow, Charlotte thought to herself. Not so long ago she would have been so jealous for anyone but her to get Petula.
"Ciao!" CoCo gave a quick wave, grabbed her purse, and split.
"Pam," Markov went on, "Wendy Anderson is all yours."
"Lucky you," Prue laughed.
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"Prue," Markov announced. "You've got Wendy Thomas."
Prue almost choked on her own tongue as Pam had the last laugh. They both made devil horns on their heads and departed.
"With all the problems in the world?" Charlotte pleaded skeptically. "There's got to be something more important for us to do than go back to help some spoiled rotten high school kids with their relationship issues."
"No," Markov answered definitively. "There really isn't."
Charlotte and Eric were the only two left in the room. They felt like the final two contestants on some hidden-camera game show. Charlotte sort of felt like the fix was in, however, because she knew what was coming next. She'd get Scarlet and Eric would get Damen. How weird, she thought, but at least she'd finally get to introduce Eric to two of the most important people in her past.
"Charlotte," Markov read. "Your partner will be..."
"Yes," she chirped expectantly, clapping her hands in excitement.
"Damen Dylan."
Charlotte was stunned. Once upon a time, she would have fainted at such news. But now? What could possibly be the point of all this? Eric misread the look of amazement on her face and felt an unfamiliar emotion take hold of him: jealousy.
"Isn't he the reason you're here?" Eric prodded. "The love of your life?"
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Charlotte still couldn't speak. There was still one person left to be assigned.
"Eric," Markov concluded. "You've got..."
"Scarlet Kensington," Charlotte mouthed along with Markov.
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Chapter 7 Swing the Heartache
Envy slays itself by its own arrows.
--Author Unknown
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Lovesick.
Rather than heal us, love can also harm, unleashing a pandemic of debilitating emotions that transform us into a person we barley recognize and cost us that which we so desperately desire. Sudden outbreaks of insecurity, jealousy, obsession, or just plain fear can be contributing factors in our heartache. And though the symptoms of lovesickness may be many, they all share a single cause and single cure: You.
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Valentine's Day started like any other day at the Kensington house, other than the foul moods it tended to generate. The only real difference was that the newspaper resting on the stoop outside was barely visible, covered by the flowers, candy, and balloons left on the bluestone steps by not-so-secret admirers. It was an annual ritual that Petula had come to expect as much as the Thanksgiving Day parade.
Actually, it was more a memorial. All Petula's admirers knew that she would stab them in the heart without batting a Colossal lash and would normally just kick everything off on her way to school, but today, she was a little bit more touched.
"Hey, baby-killer, go see if there are any dark chocolate caramels out there," Petula yelled from her room. "Nothing less than seventy-two percent cocoa, please."
"I don't have time to work out antioxidant content right
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now," Scarlet yelled back. "I'd spell it out for you but I don't have any crayons with me."
"A little tense, are we?" Petula
chided as she glided down the stairs. "Maybe you should chow down on a piece of that dark chocolate and get your blood pressure in check."
"Thank you, Doctor Google," Scarlet snarked. "You are a regular search engine scholar."
"I'm just trying to be helpful," Petula said. "You don't want to turn your pretty pale face red before Damen gets back."
"He's not coming home," Scarlet said, trying to play it off.
"Ouch," Petula consoled, barely masking her glee. "Absence makes the heart grow fungus, I guess."
Petula picked up Scarlet's baby and began talking to it in her trademark passive-aggressive way.
"I know she appears to be heartless," she said to the baby. "But don't worry: I'm sure she has four or five backup hearts in the freezer."
Classic Petula, Scarlet thought, going right for the jugular like that. For every flicker of compassion she occasionally showed these days, she could still flame-broil you with cruelty. The frosty relationship between them had thawed somewhat since "the coma," but lately Petula just seemed more distant than ever. Scarlet figured they were like strangers who clutched each other tightly during a rough flight but returned to business as usual once the pilot regained control and the plane landed safely.
"Hate you," Scarlet called out sweetly as Petula made her way out the front door.
"Hate you too," came the sugary reply.
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Much like Scarlet's wardrobe, her decor was evolving too. Long gone, courtesy of a wet sponge and sharp straightedge razor blade, were the band bumper stickers that had transformed her bathroom into a museum-quality reproduction of a stall at a punk club. They had been replaced by strings of exposed lightbulbs hanging from the vanity in bunched bouquets. It was her modern interpretation of a 1920s chandelier.