Suddenly, three rows from the front, a familiar rush of air moves through me. It doesn’t ruffle my hair and I can’t feel it on my face, but it’s inside my body. I stop. I move to the pew on my left and look at the woman sitting there, her pregnant belly protruding. She presses her thin lips into a smile and scoots over, making room for me.
I nod thanks and sit. I look to where Stanley lies, his coffin closed. I wonder what he was like and what he would think if he could see all the people here now. It’s sweet, really—how they all remember him and have come to honor his life. It’s almost like he’s not really gone. At least not to them.
“How did you know him?” the young blond mother asks me.
I look sideways at her, feeling dreamsick, nauseated. “I didn’t, unfortunately. You?”
She glances at the casket, and then back at me. “Grandfather,” she whispers. Her sadness fills me and I miss him too, as if I am her. I miss the time we spent at his cabin in Lake Tahoe, and the time he took me fishing in a canoe on the Colorado River. I miss the spicy smell of his pipe as he rocked on the back porch of the house he’d built when I was a little girl.
I cover my face with my hands, startled and comforted by how cold my fingers are. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks, touching my arm.
I turn to meet her red-rimmed green eyes. Her smooth, pale skin is graying slightly and I know why.
“When are you due?” I ask, her face getting hazy as light blots out the corners of my vision completely.
“Three weeks.”
I squint, the radiance too bright. I’m trying to act normal so I don’t scare her, but I know if I don’t say it the Need won’t go away. “Maureen,” I whisper, unable to keep the words inside anymore. “The baby’s not well. You need to see the doctor. You need to see him now.”
Her face twists in both terror and anger, but I can tell that she knows; that maybe she’s known for a while that something is wrong. She shakes her head at me, her voice rising slightly.
“What? How did you . . . who are you?” Her lips begin to tremble and I can see the familiar glazed look in her eyes. The same look they all get when the knowledge hits them.
I smile softly, the tension in my body fading, releasing me. She’ll go, right now; she’ll leave and go to the doctor. There’s something wrong with her baby. And because I was here, she’ll be okay. It makes me feel good.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I didn’t mean to bother you.” My body has returned to normal and I know I can walk away. There is no tug to be in this church anymore. I’m free.
I stand up and step out into the aisle. The pew creaks again and I can feel everyone watching me, probably confused and curious.
“Stanley was a good guy,” I say quietly, motioning toward the coffin. I almost wince at my own words, but I don’t know what else to say.
I’m halfway down the aisle, moving toward Sarah, who looks horrified, when I hear the padding of feet behind me.
“Excuse me,” Maureen says, rushing past, not turning to me. She is out the door and into the sunlight by the time I reach Sarah. When I do, she shakes her head.
“‘Stanley was a good guy’?” Sarah repeats, her right eyebrow raised. “Were you trying to look insane and unbalanced?”
I laugh and loop my arm through hers, my tense muscles all relaxed, leaving me almost euphoric. I flinch at a sudden burn on my shoulder, but it fades almost instantly.
“Let’s go grab something to eat,” I say, not looking back. “I’m starving.”
Chapter 2
Sarah dips her fry in my ketchup—why? Not because I have the last ketchup packet on earth, but because she says the smell makes her gag. She can enjoy it only from a distance. And apparently two and a half feet across the table is enough for her.
I inhale the cheeseburger (no onions) that I ordered and gulp my diet soda. After a Need I find myself completely ravenous. I’m staring down at my plate, still thinking about the funeral, when Sarah says my name.
“What?” I answer, looking up at her.
“I asked if you had to go into the clinic tonight. God, I swear, you don’t listen to a thing I say!”
It isn’t true, but I can understand why she thinks that, especially now. Our normally Sarah-centric friendship has been competing with my increasing Needs. When I disappear on nights we have movie plans or show up late for our shopping trips, Sarah thinks I’m blowing her off. But I can’t tell her how often the Need hits, because if I did, she might rethink her clairvoyance theory. And I don’t have a better one to offer.
“Of course I listen to you,” I murmur, sipping from my drink.
“Then what did I say?”
I smile. “That you’re the hottest thing to ever walk the halls of St. Vincent’s and everyone wants you?”
“Close enough. Now, do you have to volunteer at the clinic tonight or not?”
“I was supposed to, but I asked for it off. Let me check.” I take out my phone and dial up the office, waiting through the easy listening instrumental until the receptionist answers.
“Burnside Clinic,” Rhonda says.
“It’s Charlotte.” I dip my fry in the ketchup. “Is Monroe around?” I eat while I wait for Monroe—Dr. Swift—to get on the phone.
“Tell Monroe I miss him.” Sarah puckers her lips and makes a loud kissing noise. She likes to visit when I’m volunteering at the clinic, mainly to get a look at my boss.
Monroe Swift is barely over forty with slightly graying blond hair and a British accent. The Portland homeless community regards him as a saint. In fact, he’s probably performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen right at this very moment. I personally find him brash and full of himself. Then again, he’s been friends with my family so long it’s like we’re related.
“Yes, Charlotte?” Monroe’s smart British accent rings through the phone. “What can we do for you?”
“Just checking to see how it’s going tonight,” I hint, hoping that if the waiting room is remotely calm, I might not have to go in.
I’ve been volunteering at the free clinic a couple nights a week for the past few years. I mostly enjoy it—filing papers, making copies—and I know it’ll look good on a college application. At least that’s what Monroe tells me. But now I just want more time for myself. Scratch that, more time for Harlin. There’s never enough time for Harlin.