Home With Charlie by Emma-Marie Smith

It’s 6 pm on a Friday, Charlie. I don’t like knowing the day and time. It makes me feel more alone, smaller, but I can’t help myself checking. Every 30 minutes or so – it’s probably more frequent than that – pressing the little button on the front of my phone and seeing its hard, shiny face staring back at me. No one ever calls anymore. No one texts – not really. I might as well get rid of it. 

I’ve been so vigilant with my inbox, clicking that unsubscribe button, that I am rarely even surprised by emails. Sometimes there is a flutter of excitement when I see that emboldened text; the promise of an unopened message meant just for me. But it’s never an old boyfriend or a job prospect or a long-lost family member. It is always something promotional. Do they not know that I don’t buy things anymore apart from absolute necessities, that I don’t go out? I have nowhere to go, no one to see.

You’ve been here for a few hours now, circling my head, sailing from room to room. You know what I get up to, and that’s a whole lot of not much. It’s dinnertime so I’ll order from the Chinese takeaway downstairs, go and pick it up. I’ll have to change out of this dressing gown. Will you wait for me, Charlie? Don’t follow me out. If you leave, you’ll never come back.

Oh! You’re still here. When I got back and dropped the greasy paper bag on the countertop, I couldn’t see you. But there you are – perched on the coffee table. Would you like some noodles? A noodle. A quarter of a noodle. Here you go. Do you like TV? I’m afraid I watch the same shows over and over – reality television from years ago. My therapist said this makes me feel safe and I shouldn’t feel bad about it. An article I read online said that watching familiar TV shows is a form of self-care, just like reading an old favourite novel or – I don’t know – putting on a face mask. I never do face masks though. They make me feel claustrophobic.

You like this show. You keep landing on the screen. That’s okay, you can get close. You can get close to me, too, if you like. When I go to bed, will you sleep next to me? I’ll wait for you to come into the room and then I’ll close the door so you can’t escape. I know you wouldn’t mean to leave me, but you might do it by accident and it would be my fault. I –

Oh, God. Stay there. I forgot about the window in the bedroom. Panic in my chest, rising. Something has a hold on my throat. Can’t breathe. Sink to my knees. Nausea. Cold flush. Hot flush. Shaking. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Where are you? Where are you when I need you? 

The window is closed now. I can’t see you. Please show me where you are. Did you slip out when I wasn’t looking? I know you can’t hear me, and even if you could, you wouldn’t respond. Please, please, just show me you’re still here.  

I feel like I can’t breathe. I know this is impossible, but I think you might be the answer. The answer to something. I need you to come back. Please. I can’t explain why.

Oh, there you are! Oh, Charlie. You were only sleeping. I knew you hadn’t deserted me. Charlie, Charlie I am so relieved. I thought something had happened to you, I thought you’d left. I thought – well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re here. Let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.  

Morning! You’re already up. So much energy, I don’t know where you get it from. When I’ve had my coffee, I’ll read you a poem – would you like that? Then I’ll make some toast and you can eat the crumbs. I don’t have any plans today, I never do on the weekends. Saturdays are my alone days when I watch TV and rest but actually, who am I kidding because I do that all the time.

I had a husband once. I won’t have one again. We don’t need to talk about that.

I’m going to make the rest of your life so enjoyable. I’m going to care for you, nurture you, give you what you need. What do you need, Charlie? You’re becoming erratic, bouncing off the window. You just slid down and were still on the ledge for a good 30 seconds. That’s why I prodded you. I needed to check you were still alive.

I’m sorry I keep running around after you. It’s just, you move from room to room so quickly and I can’t keep up. I need to have you in my sights, otherwise I fear the worst. Can you just stay still for a second? I don’t think I’m asking for much. I know you want to leave but you must stay here, with me. I’ll protect you.

Well now you’re just making me annoyed. I left you these toast crumbs and you didn’t eat them. I couldn’t find you when it was time to read the poem this morning. It’s like you don’t even want to be around me. Where have you been hiding? Oh look, I’m not mad. I’m just upset. Come on, let’s watch some more TV.

Don’t worry about that, it’s just the doorbell. It’s late now, so it must be prank callers or someone who got the wrong flat. Urgh. That buzzer makes a horrible noise. There it goes again. I’d better answer it. 

Hello?

It’s just my mother.

Oh, Mum, hi.

She wants to come up.

Urr, I’m quite tired. I was just going to bed – I know it’s only 8 but –

She’s quite insistent.

Okay okay.

I think about putting the receiver down and leaving my mother out in the cold, but I know she’ll only hang around.

Don’t worry, she’ll be gone soon. She just likes to check up on me. I’d better put the kettle on because she expects a cup of tea when she comes over, or when she goes anywhere. Just one cup of tea and she’ll be gone, hopefully satisfied that I’m alive and eating and taking showers every day.

Can you hear her, muttering to herself? See her sitting down in the rattan armchair and standing back up again? She’s always so restless. Not like me. I can lie and stare at a wall for hours. But you know that, Charlie.

Charlie?

What was that, that thwack? Oh. God, my poor sweet Charlie.

I am standing on the threshold between the kitchen and living room when I see it. The glossy magazine curled into a cylinder in my mother’s fist that tells me everything. I am so sorry I let her into our home, Charlie.

There you are. Lying on your back with your wings bent. Bits of you on the wooden floor.

It’s all my fault. It always is. I smothered you, kept you locked in here with me. And now – and now – I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you. You’re gone.

I am down on my knees, scooping you up into a piece of kitchen roll, tears rolling onto my lips. I know my mother is saying things to me but I’m not listening. Look at you, so still, your papery wings broken apart from your body. Oh Charlie.

My mother wants me to put you in the bin, but I can’t, Charlie. I can’t leave you there with the coagulated beans and snotty tissues. I’ll lay you out on my windowsill next to the cactus – the only plant in my tiny, lightless flat that hasn’t shrivelled and died – while I go back to the kitchen to find a jar for you. There is one I cleaned out the other day, when I finished another pot of blackberry jam. Where is it? I am standing on my tiptoes to find it, cardigan sleeves pulled over my hands. Ah, there it is. I pull down the jar, twist the lid off. It smells nice in there. It still smells like jam even though I washed and sterilised it in a pan of boiling water. I think you’ll like it, Charlie.

You can go, Mum.

She is looking at me with that mixture of pity and revulsion I know so well. But I am on my knees again, this time in front of the windowsill, as I tip the remains of you into the jar. I screw the lid back on and stare through the cylindrical glass for a moment, observe the curl of your posture while I say goodbye. You look so dry, so dead. The tears are still wet on my face. I will place you on the mantelpiece Charlie, just here. Just next to the others. Then I can talk to you all together.   

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Emma-Marie is a memoir and fiction writer from Bath, UK. She is currently studying a Master's degree in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. She spends her time reading and writing about the weird and uncomfortable afflictions of modern life and romance. She drinks lots of tea and watches a lot of movies.

Twitter handle: @emmamariewriter