The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [65]
Pulling a silver compact out from the depths of her purse, Charlotte hesitated. She never powdered her nose or even applied lipstick in public. Such overt displays of vanity repelled her. Turning her back to the street, she stole a furtive glance in the compact and gasped. The furrows on her forehead, the deeply etched lines between her mouth and nose. She looked a hundred years old.
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, as if to erase the last hour with Dr. Greene, she vowed: I am not going to lose control now. I will not indulge in weak, embarrassing fits of self-pity.
When Charlotte’s phone began to vibrate, she was so aware of her every movement, pulling it out from her pocket, flipping it open, and placing it next to her ear, that it felt like those slow-motion split seconds before a car crash.
“Charlotte?”
She held the phone away from her ear. Her hand was shaking.
“Charlotte! Can you hear me?” The voice at the other end was braying. Shrill.
“Yes, Mother. I’m here,” Charlotte replied, robotically.
“No, Charlotte. You’re there. And I need you here. I don’t feel well.”
“I don’t feel well, either, Mother.”
“I’m dizzy, light-headed.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. Folding the phone neatly shut, she severed the connection. When it began to vibrate, again, she gently placed it at the bottom of her bag. The slow, deliberate movements calmed her down. Charlotte thought of the nightmares she’d had of running away from her mother and of her cartoon figure, its mouth open in a silent scream. She would take care of her mother. But right now, she needed to channel her fury somewhere more constructive.
Charlotte pulled the curtains snugly shut and collapsed on her bed. Touching the glass inside the silver picture frame, she imagined that her Aunt Dottie was there with her. Her silence was a signal, she thought. Proof that Dottie was listening. As she tried to explain to her aunt, this is why she had fallen so hard for Pavel. Because he was a man who could listen, too. And unlike Dr. Greene, she didn’t have to pay him for it. Just the thought of Dr. Greene was unpleasant, the way he’d poked and prodded; the way he’d cut her off today.
Lying there in the dark, Charlotte caressed the soft pilled sleeves of Vicky’s old sweater. Inserting her finger into a hole near the armpit, she began to tug. The yarn gave way and the hole became bigger. The sound of ripping comforted her. Gazing at the photo of her Aunt Dottie, she tried to imagine the day at Orchard Beach. She’d never been to an amusement park, not even Coney Island, but she wondered if her mother and aunt had shared a seat on the Ferris wheel; if they’d eaten pink cotton candy. She wondered who had taken the picture and thought that, perhaps, it might have been her grandfather. Charlotte’s only consolation that night was her newfound realization that she was no longer afraid of her dreams. She was done with running away from her mother. There would be no more sleep-curdling visions of rooftops, silent screams, and kitchen knives.
The phone rang during breakfast. Charlotte had been sitting there, hypnotized by the silvery reflections of light on the river. Like a mirror, she’d thought, thinking of her mother. After years of being tongue-tied, she wanted answers to her questions. When she picked up the phone, the voice on the other end was breaking up.
It was Pavel.
Charlotte’s muscles relaxed. She grinned.
“Charlotte, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Pavel. The connection’s not great. But I hear you.”
“Listen, I …”
Charlotte interrupted. “I’ve been trying to get you.”
“I know. But there are some problems in Moscow, Charlotte. I’ve had to leave.”
Her grin sagged. “What kind of problems?”
“I can’t really talk over the phone. But my credit is frozen …” Like the vapor trails of airplanes, little tendrils of pain