A Likely Story

17. darkening

 For a few moments, it was as if Prospero himself had stepped out of the copy of The Tempest that I was clutching to my chest and frozen us all in place. I found myself wondering why I was so shocked. Of course Charlie had a mother.

“Mum?” Charlie's voice broke the fragile silence that had formed, thin as cracking ice as he repeated the word.

There was silence, and I found myself looking up towards the door, wondering why she wasn't saying anything. Then I saw the tears streaming down her face, in such abundance that for one bizarre moment I found myself worrying that maybe she'd drown if someone didn't do something. She shook her head, her lips pressed together so tightly that it looked painful, and suddenly I felt the need to look away, to run away, to get myself out of this situation that was so plainly private and so obviously not for me.

I gathered up the books as quickly as I could and stepped away in an attempt to make my way towards the stairs. Then inadvertently, I looked back and saw her hands clenched so tightly together that they were almost complete white and devoid of blood. Her face was white as well, although she still looked beautiful in spite of it all.

Her mouth opened suddenly, and a word escaped in the form of a heaving sob. “Sorry,” she said incoherently, and then it was as if Charlie had stepped out of a trance. He snapped into action, and moved towards her so quickly that one moment he was standing near me, and then he was next to her, dwarfing her petite frame with his tall lanky one. Then they were hugging as if they'd never let each other go, her sobbing wildly into his shirt. “My baby,” she said disjointedly, “I am so sorry.” And I saw him nod.

***

Maureen founding me shelving books in the deepest corner of the book maze fifteen minutes later. She leaned against the shelf next to me, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of her canary yellow cardigan. She watched me for a few seconds. My hands trembled as I slotted 1984 in beside Coming Up For Air, and then without looking her, I asked abruptly, “Why do you always wear yellow?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “George's favourite colour was yellow, and it always makes me smile when I see it.”

“George?” I asked, putting Keep The Aspidistra Flying in its place with unnecessary force. I saw her flinch slightly, but she didn't say anything, and her expression was unchanged.

“My husband,” she said quietly. “He passed away a few years ago.”

“George,” I said contemplatively, holding Animal Farm in my hands.

“He loved George Orwell,” she said, a sweetly reminiscent smile gracing her face for a moment.

“I'm sorry,” I said, a little late.

She frowned, but smiled at the same time, so it was weird but weirdly nice, because I knew she wasn't angry. “Don't be,” she said, and I'd never thought of it like that before.

We stood there in silence for what felt like quite a while, and I continued shelving books, moving onto another bookshelf.

“So, you met Charlie's mum,” she began carefully.

“Not really,” I said, keeping my eyes training on the shelf in front of me.

“What?” she asked, puzzled,

“I thought I ought to leave them,” I said, still not looking at her. Then I did, biting my lip. “It felt like I shouldn't have been watching.”

She nodded understandingly. “That's only natural, especially when the people you're watching haven't seen each other for a year.”

“A year?” I stared at her uncomprehendingly, holding the book immobile in my hand. “Has she just got back from a long trip or something?”

Maureen frowned, as if she was surprised at how stupid I was being. “She was in rehab for 12 weeks, and then she wasn't allowed to see Charlie at all after that.” She saw my expression, and realisation dawned slowly on her face. “You didn't know that.”

“For what?” I asked, feeling as if my heartbeat governed my movements, keeping me rooted silently to the hardwood floor. “What was she in for?”

“She was an alcoholic,” Maureen said gently, “in a big way.”

The orange juice and chocolate. I suddenly recalled asking him how he'd found the perfect hangover cure. “I knew someone who was very familiar with them.” And I'd thought he'd been talking about his friends. I had even been a little jealous. Charlie.

“But why wasn't she allowed to see him?” I asked, feeling like I was trying to peer through a fogged up window. I tugged absentmindedly on my sleeve with my fingertips, trying to pull it down over my fist. “I mean, I know she was an alcoholic, but I swear that doesn't affect whether they're allowed to see each other or not after she gets out of rehab.”

Maureen looked at me, pressing her lips together. “Abuse does.”

I stared at her, startled. “Abuse?” I repeated. She nodded, her eyes sad.

“But-” I started, and stopped. I'd been about to say that Charlie didn't have any scars or bruises or anything- even though I knew that terrible things didn't need proof to be true- but then I remembered his face. I'd gotten so used to seeing it on a daily basis that I'd simply forgotten, which I supposed under different circumstances would have been a very nice feeling. “What happened?” I asked, my voice dry and cracked as baked earth.

Maureen shook her head. “It was on Charlie's birthday. She was very drunk and trying to make herself a mug of tea, and we all know that handling boiling water is risky when you're sober, lethal when you're as plastered as she was. From what I've gathered, Charlie told her that she needed to stop drinking, and she threw it in his face. The scalding water,” she added.

I stared at her mutely, my mind buzzing. Why hadn't Charlie told me? Because you were too fucking self-absorbed, a bitter voice replied. It was on Charlie's birthday. It was then that I understood why he had lied, and I felt riddled with shame. Too self absorbed with your own little problems. My cheeks flamed hot with mortification, and Maureen touched my hand with her cool one. “It's alright, sweetheart,” she said quietly. “You weren't to know.”

“Has she always been an alcoholic?” I asked shakily, after a moment in which I had attempted to collect my hastily scribbled thoughts.

“Only after Charlie's dad left a few years back,” Maureen said.

“The one who sent him the shirts,” I mumbled, almost by accident.

“Sorry?” Maureen asked, her brow creasing, and I shook my head slightly.

“Nothing; go on.”

“It got really bad last year. She always used to try and disguise the fact that she was drinking by hiding it in water bottles, or things like-”

“Eyedrop bottles,” I interrupted.

“Yes, exactly,” Maureen nodded. “She's not a bad person, Lula,” she continued, her voice painfully earnest. “We had a talk just now, and she says she hasn't touched a drop since. Charlie loves her like anything, more than anything. He was completely devastated when he wasn't allowed to see her, and he hasn't been the same since- emptier, somehow. This is a good thing.”

As she took hold of my hand, dread took hold instead

Author's note:

And Bella is baaaccckk!! 

Oh dear, I owe you all a major apology! Mocks were horrific, but I battled my way through- the only slight dampener on things is the fact that I have actual GCSEs in a few months, which kind of isn't fun... :/ So we have met Charlie's mother!! Poor Charlie, I feel like a bad person for putting such a lovely boy through things like this! 

As always, thank you all SO much for reading, you are all completely wonderful and amazing and I hope you know it! :)

Lots of love xx