Behind His Lens(87)

Paint is spilled everywhere. Canvases spread out across the room. There must be half a dozen lying around her. But they’re all covered in the same dark image painted from different angles. A man hanging himself, depicted with such agonizing clarity that a cry breaks through me. He’s mirrored over and over again across her apartment floor with dark black brushstrokes. His cheekbones and light blonde hair are perfect replicas of Charley’s, and in a moment, I’m lying next to her on the ground, caressing her cheek and trying to coax her out of her darkened days.

“Charley.”

Nothing. Not even a blink in my direction.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Mrs. Jenkins asks with a shaky voice.

“I don’t know,” I answer before turning my attention back to the fragile creature in front of me. “Charley. You have to talk, baby. Are you hurt?” I try to ask gently, but I need to know if she’s injured herself.

I reach down to grab her wrists and then search the rest of her, there’s nothing that looks injured. My eyes flit around the room; there aren’t any pills or drugs. It doesn’t seem like she’s done anything but paint like crazy and drink the rest of the tequila.

I crawl closer to her, cupping her cold cheek in my hand. Her skin feels like ice beneath my fingers. Has she not had the heater on? How long has she been like this?


“I’m going to take you to the ER unless you start talking, Charley. I don’t know if you’re okay or not. You don’t have to be scared. Tell me, baby.”

Her head shakes a fraction to the left and she blinks her eyes, but when she speaks her tone is flat and empty. “I’m fine… not even drunk… Anymore.”

It’s hardly anything, but I sigh and feel the initial shock begin to wane ever so slightly.

“Do you want him here, Charley?” Mrs. Jenkins asks, still standing in the doorframe.

Charley doesn’t move or speak for several long seconds, and I start to panic that she wants me gone.

“Yes,” she finally clips out, barely louder than a whisper, but the old woman nods in acceptance.

“I’m going to go make some tea and get you something to eat,” Mrs. Jenkins calls as she starts to close to door. I glance up to watch her leave, and I notice that finally her eyes hold a morsel of kindness for me. She seems to realize that I want the best for Charley. I know she’s letting us have some privacy now that she trusts my reasons for being here.

Once she’s gone, I lie down on the ground and face Charley. The cold hard wood greets my body with its unyielding mass. My clothes dip into the paint scattered across the room, but I’m so close to her now. Mere inches. We don’t touch and I don’t try to speak again. I just want to be here with her. We could lie here all day if that’s what she needs.

My eyes roam across her features. Her cheekbones look more prominent than they were two weeks ago and I know she’s lost weight. My poor Charley. Her long lashes flutter closed every now and then, pushing more tears to fall from her pale blue eyes. Her lips are a dark red, such a contrast to the rest of her pale features. Has she been chewing on them while she cries?

“I’ve never been to his grave,” she says out of the blue. Her eyes don’t meet mine, but her words hang in the air between us. Is she talking about her father?

I nod slowly once. She doesn’t need my questions or input right now, she just needs me to listen. She’s been trying to fight for so long, but it’s time for her to let go.

“I didn’t go to his funeral either,” she admits with a soul-crushing wail that reverberates through the small room.

“I hated him,” she screams.

I don’t move a muscle.

“I hate him!” she cries, lashing out and hitting her hand against my chest. In a flash of limbs, our bodies collide. I tug her into my lap and her hands clench my shirt into tight fists. She thrashes against me and cries out, letting the tears wreck through her. She has so much pain stowed away. I know how it feels to implode from within. She pushes against me, slaps my arms, my chest, my cheek. Her pounding feels like beautiful caresses though; it means she’s opening up and letting her demons see the light of day. She’s finally facing the past.

“He left me!” she cries once more before collapsing into in silent sobs.

We sit there rocking back and forth for hours.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Charley

Jude didn’t leave me once last night. I didn’t think he would come; I didn’t let myself truly wish for his presence until he was pounding on the door outside. When his loud yells broke through the silence in my apartment, the tears started pouring down all over again. He came back, he ignored my stubbornness, and he wasn’t going to give up where so many others had before him.