Eight Forty One PM

A day in the life of Charlotte, a horribly depressed teenager.

H

er name is Charlotte. Currently, on a particularly sunny Tuesday in late August, she’s curled up in bed, her back turned to the only window in her small room. Her heavy lids flicker, revealing tired eyes. She was once praised on them; people would gush over her eyes, so vibrant and blue, such a gorgeous bright sky blue, and so big and so round. This was many years ago however, when she was single digits and still slept between her parents when frightened by monsters. They had dulled since then, paled in color, but more importantly, and much more obviously, had weakened in brightness. They were dim, sluggish, had long ago stopped darting within their sockets, curiously absorbing every detail of her world.

Charlotte stares blankly at her vibrant canary yellow wall. Two years before, her mother had painted her deep purple walls this obnoxious color while she was at school. “A birthday surprise!” her mother had said, pulling her distraught (and squinting) daughter’s head towards her and planting a kiss on her forehead, all while admiring the neon walls. Of course she’d addeda comments about how the bright color would be an automatic mood booster every time she woke up. Unfortunately, the walls never had this effect on her mood, and instead irritated her further.

Today, however, Charlotte feels different. She smirks at the wall (smirking was the closest she came to smiling nowadays). She reaches an arm out from under the white sheet that covers her and strokes the wall with the tips of her fingers. Up, down, up, down, back and forth, in circles, small then large, spirals, figure eights, moving on to squares and rhombi and triangles. Her geometric knowledge has run its course and her imagination has faltered, so she lets her hand drop onto the mattress, and smirks at the wall a final time. She checks the brown leather watch on her wrist: ten thirty-seven.

Charlotte rolls over, carelessly tossing the sheet on the bed behind her. She stretches her arms high above her head, feeling her shoulder blades roll around her back. The baggy, gray tee-shirt that drapes over her sloped shoulders lifts up to reveal pink cotton panties, white frills encircling each leg, purchased by her mother. The frills itch her thighs. She walks over to her dresser, her grandmother’s gold-framed mirror sitting atop it. On most days she avoids this mirror, any mirror, or more precisely anything that may cast her reflection back at her.

But today is different, she reminds herself. Today is different. She stares into her own eyes and at her pale face. Her chestnut hair is dull, like her eyes, like her complexion. One upon a time it’d been thick, wavy, but now it hangs in limp strands, greasy, messy, unkempt. It lies heavily against her shoulders. It hasn’t bothered her until today. But today is different. She tucks the strands that hang in her face messily behind her ears. She notices her pale pink lips are chapped. She starts to remember why she stopped looking at her reflection. She shakes her head.

Stop, Charlotte thinks, and repeats today is different over and over again in her head until she believes it. She remembers why she walked to the dresser and opens the top drawer, digs through the layers of other brightly colored undergarments her mother had bought for her. In one corner, her hand finds the folded piece of paper she’d written on and stored so long ago. Four months ago, actually, but for Charlotte each days seems to be much longer than it should. She cradles it in her hands as if it were her own child, and it was about that precious to the teenager. She sits on her hardwood floor and leans against her dresser, not bothering to move when her spine presses against on of the gold handles. Carefully, she unfolds the piece of notebook paper, still fringed on one edge from when she ripped it from her math notebook. She lays it out on her bare thighs, smoothing it with her palms. Her familiar scrawl is permanently inked onto wrinkled paper.

It’s neatly titled “To-Do List”; written in smaller writing below is “for the day.” She simpers, remembering writing these exact words, instead of taking notes on logarithms, or something stupid. The careful writing of the title does not carry into the list below it; if she remembers correctly it’d been nearing the end of class, so it would make sense, her rushing. She sighs, and touches her pointer finger to the first line.

1. Return all of Caroline’s things.

Simple task, she thinks. But even her uncharacteristically optimistic thoughts cannot convince her of this. This is not a simple task.

Caroline and Charlotte became instant friends when they met on their first day of kindergarten. That same day they had their first fight. Charlotte’s pretty sure it had something to do with animal crackers, both the start of their relationship and it’s first battle. Their arguments became more profound over time, as Caroline fast-forwarded through the common pubescent girls awkward stage, leaving gawky Charlotte in the dust. If the difference in appearance weren’t jarring enough to Charlotte’s self esteem, Caroline’s constant betrayal was what really ended their dissonant camaraderie for good. Caroline, the beautiful, bubbly blond fled from Charlotte’s side each time someone more important entered the vicinity. Loyal Charlotte would wait patiently for Caroline’s return, until she stopped returning; Caroline had perfected her social status; she no longer needed her safety net.

Though this treachery had occurred two years ago, when they had begun high school, the wound had never properly healed.

Maybe I can skip this one, Charlotte thinks, sighing and shaking her head. No, she concludes. She knows it’s important. It wouldn’t be on the list if it weren’t.

Charlotte pushes herself up, and temporarily places the list on her dresser. Once she’s slipped on a pair of jeans, fastened her bra, and slipped on a clean tee shirt, she pockets the worn piece of paper. Swiftly, with little care, she runs her fingers through her hair, fluffing it, changing her part. It falls limply back into its original place. There’s no hope for looking any nicer. She walks out of her room quickly, running away from her mirror.

No one is home, but Charlotte is used to this. Her divorced parents both have demanding careers. Her father, the author, would often disappear for weeks at a time, either on a book tour or locked in his one room apartment, writing yet another book. Her mother had picked the more practical career as a lawyer, and a successful one to boot. If she wasn’t at her office to work fervently on any particular case, she was there after hours, screwing one intern or another. Charlotte vaguely remembers when she was eight and her father and her surprised her mother on her birthday. They’d walked into her office to find her sprawled on her desk, skirt ridden up, pantyhose pulled down around her ankles; a scrawny, recent law school grad between her legs. A truly traumatic experience for all involved.

Her parent’s consistent absence was expiated with unwanted gifts. From her mother: room renovations and frilly clothing. From her father: signed hard cover books, written by him. She flees from her mother’s empty house after slipping on her black Converse. In the back of the garage is a box, sloppily taped up and labeled “Caroline’s.” She picks it up and places it gently in the red milk crate on the back of her bike.

Pedaling quickly she flies down familiar side streets, getting ritzier with each turn. Finally, she reaches a dead end street, one side almost entirely dedicated to Caroline’s enormous and modern home.

Charlotte pulls into the driveway and leans her bike against the tall hedge that frames it. She heaves the box into her arms and walks slowly but purposefully towards the textured glass front doors. Adjusting the weight of the box into one arm she uses the other to ring the doorbell, which in response plays a joyful tune throughout the house. After some wait, the blurry figure of Caroline’s mother appears.

“Charlotte!” she says, eying the tired teenager on her front steps. The one who had run around her backyard day after day as a child. With a forced smile she adds, “what a lovely surprise.”

Charlotte puts on a forced smile of her own, “It’s nice to see you too Mrs. Wolf,” she says in a voice so mockingly sweet, it’s sickly. An awkward pause follows, both women looking at anything but one another. Mrs. Fox breaks the silence.

“What’s, uh, what’s in the box?”

“Oh,” Charlotte suddenly remembers why she came in the first place. “I’m returning Caroline’s things. Is she home?”

“She’s up in her room, let me show you the"“

“I remember the way,” Charlotte mumbles, squeezing by Mrs. Fox and into the spotless foyer. By memory she walks up the stairs and down the hall. Caroline’s door is open revealing beige walls, covered in framed professional photographs and band posters. The last time Charlotte had seen this room it was a vibrant green, the bed covered in a puffy blanket with tie-dye peace signs. Caroline had always strove to be as mature as possible.

Caroline is spread out on her stomach, on her now silky, lavender bed sheets, her silver laptop propped on her pillows, facing away from the doorway containing her old friend. Charlotte pauses, eyes Caroline’s long blond hair, splayed beautifully, like a silky curtain, over her tanned back. She’s still in her pajamas; a thin strapped pink tank top with matching cotton shorts, speckled with white polka dots. She’s very thin now, her spine like a mountain range of cotton candy, her arms like thin whole wheat noodles. Caroline’s phone vibrates beside her hip and she turns to check it, and spots Charlotte out of the corner of her eye. Caroline double takes and jumps in surprise.

“Jesus,” she cries, and pauses before saying, “Charlotte?” as if she’s really incapable of recognizing her. “What are you doing here?” Self-consciously Caroline rolls over, sitting up, holding her knees to her chest. When Charlotte stalls, Caroline raises an eyebrow, grimacing.

“I, uh,” Charlotte starts, peering at the box in her arms, “I wanted to return your things.”

“What things?” Caroline infers, looking sincerely confused.

“Your things. Things you’ve left at my house over the years.” Charlotte enters the neat room hesitantly and places the box on Caroline’s bed. When she looks up Caroline is staring at her, wide eyed.

“Well, uh, thanks,” she finally says.

“Mhm,” Charlotte mumbles, turning to leave. She hears tape ripping behind her; she slows and turns, watches as Caroline pulls two braided bracelets out of the box. Caroline’s eyes, usually so sarcastic and hard, soften at the sight of the multicolored bracelets. She notices Charlotte still stands in her doorway, and shockingly smiles.

“I remember these,” she says with a giggle. “You didn’t talk to me for a whole day ‘cause I used all your purple string. You loved purple.” The corner of Charlotte’s mouth pulls up, Caroline giggles again. Suddenly the pretty girl falls silent and frowns. Her sarcastic turned soft eyes transform once more into dejected eyes, similar to the ones owned by the girl in her doorway.

“I’m sorry Charlotte,” she says, her voice thick. “I miss you. I’m so sorry.” She chokes on her words and quickly wipes a tear off her cheek. She gazes into Charlotte’s dry eyes, cold and dull, staring at the floor.

“Yeah,” Charlotte mumbles, looking straight into Caroline’s dripping blue eyes. “Not as sorry as I am.” Caroline lets a sob escape her chest as Charlotte nods and walks out of the room. She waits until she’s at the top of the stairs to begin running. In between her stomps on the stairs, she hears Mrs. Wolf call, “Good to see you Charlotte!”

Charlotte sprints from the finely furnished home trying to hold back her tears. It’s not until she’s coasting down the street that she lets them go. They fall in such a steady stream; her vision is obscured, as though she’s looking through a waterfall. She pulls over, tosses her bike against a tree, and sits on the opposite side. She tries recalling the last time she’d cried, but can’t. She hides her head in her arms until the salty stream, tracing the lines and creases of her face, turns stagnant. She breathes deeply, in, out, in, out like her therapist has told her to do so many times. Her breathing has slowed, her heart rate as well. She checks her watch: half past noon.

Today is different, she thinks. She pulls out her list, reminding herself that her emotions cannot run this rampant after each task. If she’s going to complete it she needs to stay calm, and focus.

2. Finally, have sex with George.

George plays the trumpet, and that’s about it. It’s all he’s good at, all he knows, possibly all he cares about. At least according to him. In reality his unflattering self-description could not be more far from the truth. George posses the rare qualities of a truly kind person.

Through the fall of freshman year, he watched Caroline and Charlotte, both in the clarinet section, their interactions becoming tenser each day. After Christmas break, Caroline had quit, leaving the seat beside Charlotte empty. George quickly observed that the seat beside her in the cafeteria also became empty around the same time. George decided it would be good if her sat down with her, ending both of their lonesome lunches. So he loped across the orange and white cafeteria, paper bag lunch swinging in his hand, floppy dark curls bouncing with each step. He flung his lanky body heavily into the empty plastic chair.

“Hi!” he’d said joyfully. Charlotte stopped chewing her sandwich to grimace at the cheerful and awkward boy who had so suddenly appeared on her right.

“Hi,” she’d responded, her mouth sticky with peanut butter.

The two outcasts became each other’s sole friend, regardless of Charlotte’s initial resistance. This odd friendship was occasionally threatened when George would adamantly confess his love for Charlotte. The first time she had laughed it off casually, telling him how silly he was. Each time since she had done the same. Charlotte didn’t love him, not in the way he wanted. Not then, and certainly not now. It’s not easy to dedicate such heavy feelings to another person when you can’t even experience the simple lightness of joy.

But sex didn’t have to be about love, Charlotte thinks. And she owed this to him.

Biking in the opposite direction of Caroline’s house, she quickly nears George’s substantially smaller home, cars absent from the drive. She knows he is home alone; his parents were not around anymore than hers were. She discards her bike carelessly in the car-less garage and lets herself in through the predictably open side door. She hears his trumpet from the second floor, and with each step the joyful song grows louder. Soon, she’s standing in yet another doorway. George is on his bed, facing her, leaning against his headboard, horn to his lips. He places it on the bed when he sees her.

“Hey,” he greets her, his face lighting up. “What’s up?” Charlotte stares at him blankly, bracing herself for what she’s about to say, and do.

“I love you, too,” she lies, walking towards his bed, climbing on.

“Wha"?” he starts, but her lips interrupt his, circling them much like his gold trumpet.

Charlotte straddles him gently, holding his face and kissing him with all the fake passion she can muster. She tugs at the hem of his shirt, lifting it above his head. It gets stuck on his ear. They continue removing articles of clothing until only their underwear remains. George tentatively runs his hands up her thighs, fiddles with the frills on her panties. She yanks them off herself and tosses them aside. She shifts her weight so she can pull his plaid boxers off too, and in the process manages to knock his trumpet to the carpeted floor. He moves as if to retrieve it, but Charlotte blocks him, leaning into his chest. She readjusts her weight, correcting the angle of her pelvis, and begins to lower her hips.

“Are you sure?” George asks franticly, his voice shaking. Charlotte nods and continues, missing her target. She reaches down with her hand, keeping it in place as she tries again.

“Wait!” he cries.

“What?” she asks, exasperated, irritated at his reluctance.

“Protection. Condoms. Right?” he pants.

“Trust me,” Charlotte assures him, “it doesn’t matter.” He nods quickly, seeming to need to reassure himself.

Finally Charlotte manages to properly mount him. They gasp, him from pleasure, her from pure discomfort. She continues with the stereotypical up and down motion that is vaguely displayed in movies. Clearly she is doing something wrong; rather quickly (and aggressively) George rolls on top of her, removing himself from her at the same time.

“Oops,” he says, his cheeks and chest flushed. She grasps him gently, guiding him back. He closes his eyes, moans, and begins to rapidly knock his bony hips against her. His head falls on her left shoulder, so she feels every hot breath on her collarbone. Absentmindedly she counts his thrusts, and her winces. At thirty-three he lets out his most forceful groan and calms his hips. He rolls off of her, onto his back, his chest swelling with each breath.

“I love you,” George says breathlessly. “I love you.” She kisses his cheek quickly and leaps off his bed, grabbing her panties off the floor, and yanks them on as quickly as she’d taken them off.

“Wha"“ George says, sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte says, realizing her hasty retreat may be rude. “I’ve got therapy.”

Time for number three, she thinks.

3. Say goodbye to Nancy.

“Oh,” George sighs, his face falling, though his eyes still sparkle. “Well, stop by later, you know… if you want?” Charlotte forces a smile to spread across her face. Now fully clothed, she begins exiting the room.

“I love you,” he calls to her.

“I love you,” she says quietly over her shoulder.

By four ‘o clock, she’s crossed town, locked her bike to her usual lamppost and sat herself in the plush chair outside Nancy’s door.

Nancy had been her therapist for almost nine years, since Charlotte was seven. When they’d started Nancy had barley graduated college, she was only twenty-four. Since then her hair had gone from blond to brown and back to blond, and she’d been pregnant twice. She specialized as a child therapist, but since Charlotte had been her first patient, she’d never had the heart to refer her to a more appropriate therapist.

“Come on in, Charlotte,” Nancy says in her predictably joyous and cheerful voice. Charlotte follows her into her office. It’s barley changed since her first appointment. The alphabet carpet, takes up the space between Nancy’s soft, brown arm chair and the matching love seat; colorful toys are scattered all over the place; a small table with coloring books sits alongside Nancy’s own desk.

“How are you, Charlotte?” Nancy starts, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

“I’m,” Charlotte says softly, pausing as she looks out the open window, a slight breeze rolling in. “I’m great.” Nancy looks taken aback.

“Really? That’s lovely. Has anything happened recently to make you feel… better?”

“I’m not sure. I just woke up this morning and knew that… I don’t know, today is different,” Charlotte rants. Both Nancy and Charlotte fall silent.

“I’ve got to admit, Charlotte, I’m a bit surprised you’re feeling this way, considering what today is.” Charlotte glues her eyes on her lap to avoid eye contact; she knows Nancy is staring straight into her face.

“It’s just a day,” Charlotte says. “But it’s different. I feel better, I feel great, even. I’m better.” Nancy nods, keeping a stolid, poker face.

“Well, I’m glad Charlotte,” (another silence). “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss the significance of today? How it makes you feel? Or why you feel great, regardless?”

“Nope,” Charlotte says. “I feel great! No questions, no explanation necessary. You should be happy. You’ve fixed me! In fact I don’t think I’ll need to continue therapy.” She adds a tight, fake smile as an attempt to reassure her longtime therapist.

“That’s a big step,” Nancy says carefully. “Maybe we should discuss why you want to end therapy, what led you to that decision.”

“No need!” Charlotte retorts. “You’ve fixed me Nancy. And now I don’t need you. I’m better. I am happy.” Silence.

“Charlotte… I’ve got to say you’re making me a little nervous. You’re acting rather manic, which is out of character. Should I be worried?”

“Nope, no, not at all. Nancy, just accept your victory. I came to say goodbye. To thank you, for all your help. Hell, I don’t even need to finish out this session!”

“Charlotte,” Nancy says, placing her elbows on her knees and leaning forward. “Are you trying to avoid talking about Maggie? Is this about Maggie?” Silence.

“This is about me,” Charlotte says, forcefully enough to sound convincing. She stands up, reaches a hand out to Nancy so they can shake. “Thank you for your help. I really do appreciate it.”

“I don’t feel comfortable letting you leave, Char"“

“Thank you,” Charlotte interjects, thrusting her hand forward. Hesitantly Nancy grasps it, shakes.

“I’d be more comfortable if you finished this session.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte says a final time before turning and walking out he door.

“Charlotte!” she hears behind her, but she keeps walking. When she reaches her bike she leans against the lamppost, checks her list.

4. Get the stuff.

The easiest task of all. On her way home she locates in her mind where each necessary item is. A few are in the cabinet above the bathroom sink. One is in a locked cupboard in the dining room. The key to open the locked cupboard is in her mother’s bedside table. The last two are in the back of her own closet. She arrives home, stuffs the items in a black, canvas backpack. Each one was exactly where she’d expected it. She checks her watch: five forty-seven.

Charlotte hops on her bike yet another time. This would be the farthest trip. The sun is still high, something that had always bothered her about summer; the sun never went away. She pedals quickly, anxious to get to her destination. Traffic is heavy and the route requires large, busy streets. It takes her longer than expected to reach the road sign, informing her she’s entered the next town over. More rural than her own, this town features one long paved road running all the way through with many small avenues and lanes branching off. Farms and fields seemed to cover most of the acreage of the town. Finally, she reaches the dirt road she’s looking for and follows it until she comes to the entrance of Fairbrook Cemetery. She hasn’t come here in some time and she has to focus very hard to remember the path she needs to take. After hitting many dead ends and taking numerous wrong turns, she reaches the back of the heavily wooded cemetery, and finds the small, dark, marble headstone.

Maggie Fitzgerald

May 14, 2000 " August 27, 2004

Little sister, Youngest daughter

She throws her bike to the ground and places the list on top of the grave.

            5. Pay a visit to Maggie.

            She leans on the weatherworn headstone, barley tall enough to support her head.

In the short time Maggie had taken residence in this cruel world, she had proved to be the better of the Fitzgerald siblings. A much cuter baby, and more beautiful child. Smarter, wittier. She could talk and walk younger than Charlotte had learned to. She got along with other children, unlike Charlotte. But Charlotte was never jealous of her superior baby sister, and regardless of her glaring primacy, Maggie admired Charlotte above all others. They loved each other. Their parents loved them too, and loved each other.

The idealistic, loving family expired on a late August day (similar to this one) when Charlotte kicked a soccer ball into the driveway and Maggie chased it. Perhaps the only mistake Maggie ever made was carelessly chasing that ball, though it was not her mistake that concurrently, the ball rolled in front of the wheels of her fathers reversing SUV. Neither saw the other. Charlotte saw it all, though she would be unable to recall the scene later. The only part she could remember with total clarity was her baby sister’s skull being crushed beneath those daunting, black wheels.

The beginning of the end for the happy Fitzgerald family could be marked by this tragic and fatal accident. The trust and unity had evaporated since none of the remaining Fitzgerald’s could stop blaming one another, and no one was able to forgive themselves. Blame and guilt, more toxic than arsenic, had poisoned the family, leading it to it’s ultimate demise.

Charlotte checks her watch, almost seven, almost time. She removes a stuffed white rabbit, fur matted from age, it’s left marble eye missing, and a beautifully illustrated copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from her bag, both belonging to her sister. She situates the stuffed animal in her lap and uses the remaining sunlight to read aloud to the grave she leans on. Periodically, she checks her watch, nervous she’ll miss the time, or she won’t have time to finish. When she reads the final line of Maggie’s favorite story, it’s eight thirty-six. She has five minutes.

Charlotte empties the rest of her bag. The half empty bottle of vodka drops heavily to the grass. The bottles (one filled with sleeping pills, the other containing a few prescription pain killers from her mother’s latest dental operation) follow suit, rattling as they plummet to the ground. Charlotte hesitates before taking any of the potentially lethal substances into her hand. A surge of doubt, guilt, and second thoughts wash over her.

            Today is different, she reminds herself.

            “Today is different,” she whispers to Maggie. Quickly, so she cannot think about it anymore, she yanks off the tops of each pill bottle, dumps them into her hand, using the other open the bottle of vodka. A few at a time, she tosses the pills to the back of her throat, swallows them with the help of the harsh liquid in her right hand. Suddenly her hand is empty.

Charlotte clutches the white rabbit to her chest, inhaling deeply through her nose, trying to smell her sister’s sweet scent, an odd combination of brown sugar and lilies; it had long since left the rabbit. Her head spins from the alcohol as she watches the sun begin to fall behind the enormous oak trees. Her eyelids grow heavier until she can hardly keep them open anymore.

She checks her watch. The deep voice of Maggie’s doctor rings in Charlotte’s ears: “Time of death, eight forty-one p.m.”