On a Cold Dark Sea(47)
“It’s natural to have regrets,” Charlotte said. “Especially when you’re still grieving.”
“I failed him, in the end.” Esme nearly whispered the words, not sure she was going to say them until they were out. “He had a tough time, recently. Wall Street bankers aren’t very popular these days.”
There’d been angry letters and threats of a lawsuit. A furious woman pounding on the front door, accusing Charlie of stealing her life savings. Esme hadn’t known how to get rid of her without calling the police, which only brought more attention to the whole sordid matter. She’d ignored the late-night phone calls, the headlines that said Charlie’s bank was on the brink of collapse. Charlie had laughed it all off, seemingly as indestructible as ever. Esme hadn’t realized how much the years had weakened him, too.
“Charlie died in a car crash, as you’ve probably heard. I had to identify his body.”
Esme paused, remembering the splotch of blood on the coroner’s otherwise pristine white coat. It had been all she could look at as the man explained what had happened to Charlie’s face. He had taken pains to be thorough, telling Esme which part of the car hit which part of the tree, and how that particular angle and force tossed Charlie’s body through the windshield. It was quick, he reassured her; Charlie didn’t suffer. Or was that what he told every grieving family member who visited his dismal workroom? He told Esme about the whiskey stains on Charlie’s shirt and the bottle in the car, thinking she’d be relieved to know how it happened: Had a few too many, lost control, an unfortunate accident.
But there were a few relevant facts the coroner hadn’t known. Charlie had the constitution of an ox and never got stumbling drunk, no matter how many whiskey and sodas he downed. Esme had driven that same stretch of road with him countless times to the country house they rented each summer, and she’d never seen him so much as skid. He knew every curve, every hill, every potential danger. If his car careened into a tree hard enough to crush his cheekbones and shatter his skull, it was because he’d wanted it to. He’d wanted to die.
No point in being coy, Esme decided. “Charlie killed himself,” she told Charlotte.
Charlotte’s lips parted, just a bit. “Are you sure?”
“Sure enough. It’s so silly, but I’m madder at him for not leaving a note than for doing it. I could forgive him if he’d only explained.”
But what could she expect from a man like Charlie? Once he’d made the decision to end his life, he’d want to get on with it. Still, he’d owed Esme a goodbye. She’d have managed to write something, if it had been her.
I loved you. I’m sorry.
“I don’t think he ever forgave me for saving him,” Esme said. “He wouldn’t have made it into the lifeboat if it weren’t for me. I pulled him in. And he carried that guilt ever since.”
Esme, sheltered in her widow’s mourning in Philadelphia, hadn’t seen the looks Charlie endured those first weeks in Boston, when he was sneeringly referred to as the “luckiest man alive.” Charlie had joked about the rumors, which made her think he didn’t care. But every glare added to the weight that eventually crushed him. Never again was he the eager boy who’d kissed Esme in that leaky shed. Her happy ending had dissolved into a fog of disappointment and liquor, her emotions permanently dulled.
But maybe Esme’s heart hadn’t stopped working altogether, because it twisted in her chest as her face crumpled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She was dimly aware of Charlotte rising from the table and pressing her arm around Esme’s shoulders. Eyes closed, Esme slumped against Charlotte, the sobs shaking them both. There were voices, crisp and quick, but Esme couldn’t understand what they said. She didn’t try to. She stood, obedient as a rag doll, when Charlotte pulled her up and walked her out of the room, through the lobby, to the elevator. The operator, little more than a boy, gave Esme a chagrined stare under his jaunty red cap, so Esme turned into the corner to cry. She cried as the elevator rumbled to the tenth floor, and she cried as they entered Charlotte’s room. When Charlotte gently lowered Esme onto the bed, Esme wrapped her arms around her chest, shoring up her ruined self. Charlotte sat silently beside her, wise enough to know there was nothing to be said.
Later, when Esme’s cries had softened to hiccupping breaths, there was a doctor, who talked to Charlotte, not Esme. He gave Esme something to sleep, and it was glorious: an elixir that eased down her throat and knit together the broken pieces. The medicine transported her from the dingy hotel room into memories that were more vivid than the moments they recaptured. Charlie was there, carrying baby Rosie, singing a song about an owl and a pussycat. Esme could feel the downy tenderness of Rosie’s head and the confident strength of Charlie’s hands. She saw Charlie on their wedding day, looking at her with a nervous half grin, and elation swept through her like a fever: At last, he’s mine. She was with Charlie in the Titanic library, when a single furtive touch could drive her half crazy with longing.
The library. There was something Esme needed to remember about the library. She tried to envision the chairs and the bookshelves, but the more she tried to summon them, the more the images faded. A voice was calling her name, pulling her away.
Esme opened her eyes and saw Charlotte sitting on the edge of the bed. Though the curtains were open, only a sickly hint of daylight brightened the window. It must be one of the cheaper rooms overlooking an air shaft.