Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 14

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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And there's an ocean in my body
And there's a river in my soul
And I'm crying

— Conor Joseph O'Brien, A Trick of the Light [song]

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The big, the one-and-only, natural feature in Robbins is the river. It's wide; it's deep in parts and it flows in a graceful curve around Robbins, cupping the city in its hand, so to speak. During its salad days, the city constructed four bridges — they could have easily done with two or even one, but the bridges were built for beauty, and in the hope of attracting tourists. The city also laid out riverside walkways, one on each bank: lovely wide landscaped paths that run in neat parallels. They have the added benefit of offering prime locations for shops and condos.

The erstwhile city planners didn't foresee that in the early hours of the day, before anyone ventured outside (anyone, that is, other than stray cats, shift workers, and people like me), the river becomes be the perfect place for a breakdown.

The river flowed dark and heavy with a low rumble. The scene was inherently philosophical; a low-key, American version of Sturm und Drang. You couldn't help but feel a massive power, a force greater than yourself; at least I couldn't. Here, Nature turns a gargantuan cold-shoulder, not specifically to me, but to all mankind. I wasn't swept up or swept away by its indifference; I only happened to be standing there in mute witness. My little inner world, my slightly larger social world, in that irresistible contrast, left me insignificant, small. Not even a cog in the whirling of the world.

The river carries its own built-in insights: one, very Siddhartha-like, a meditation in itself; if I stood there long enough, agape, I could merge into the infinite — I could, if only my brain, my heart, weren't so loaded with my recent histories and disturbing contradictions.

Inevitably, too, it brings the Heraclitus moment; his famous quote — no man can step in the same river twice; it's not the same river and he's not the same man — but I could go him one or two steps better: here in Robbins no one can step into the river at all. You'd have to climb over fences, over walls, scrabble down rocky declines, negotiate an abrupt dropoff... the only practical way to step into the river is to pitch yourself off one of the bridges, but there was no way I was doing that.

Even so, the ancient Greeks knew everything, didn't they: Heraclitus was right. We call it "a river," as though it was one thing, but all the while the water continuously changes, renewing itself several times over, even while I stood there. The water I saw when I first arrived was far off somewhere, at the edge of town or beyond. The river. We give it one name (the Robbins River, in this case), but it's here, there, everywhere, and ever changing.

I changed as well, definitely and radically. Weirdly, in spite of— or because of— those changes, I was well beyond asking Who am I? I know not only who I am, but also who I *was* as well. Who I appear to be and who I am inside.

Honestly, though, "knowing yourself" is not all it's cracked up to be. I wish I didn't know. I really do. Life was easier, life was good, life was manageable, when I didn't even know my own name.

Turning back to the river, now:

In addition to the bridges and the walkways, the city of Robbins also set a number of overlooks at strategic sites along the river: large round platforms, perfect for selfies and scenic photos; ideal spots for a casual lunch or a rendezvous with a friend.

My first steps away from the hotel followed the river way, and I immediately hit on one of those overlooks. I stopped to catch my breath and to look over my shoulder.

No one was following me. Barney was probably still snoring softly. I counted the hotel's windows up to our floor. I wasn't sure which window was ours, maybe the third or fourth from the end, but there was no one at any window, nobody looking out. Still, if Barney chanced to stand at the window, even for the briefest moment, he'd see me right away.

Not that I was afraid of Barney — not at all! I was only... too... what? Bewildered? Confused? Guilty? Or was I simply fucked up in the head? Who did I think I was, taking everyone else's lives and affections so lightly?

Uppermost in my melange of emotions and feelings, was a sense of betrayal. That by spending the night with Barney I'd betrayed him and betrayed myself as well. If I'd known who I am, I never would have slept with him. Hell, I wouldn't have taken my clothes off!

What disturbed me, what disturbed me most, was the clear, indisputable fact that I enjoyed the sex tremendously. The sensation of it was still upon me, all over me. I felt wrong for doing it, wrong for enjoying it. Sex with a man! I had sex with a man! Two men, actually. Two! Was I so... what? Deviant, perhaps? If I had to put a word on it, the word that came to mind — again — was betrayal — a feeling I'd spend a long time unpacking. A long time, later on.

For now, I looked up at the sky. The sun struggled to rise above the horizon. It clearly hadn't yet decided whether the day was worth the candle.

Then— a funny feeling rose inside of me, without warning. I stood up straight, stiff, coughed twice, gulped hard, then abruptly bent over the stone wall and blew the contents of my stomach onto the rocks at the water's edge. It came out in a single copious rush, one slick, sick-tasting liquid blast. On the positive side, after that long, mighty heave, there was nothing left inside me. Only a bitter taste. No aftershocks. My stomach was empty, and my retching smoothly transitioned into wracking sobs.

I had no time to indulge my sobs. Immediately, fearfully, I got a grip on myself. This was not the moment for crying. I glanced again at the hotel. Still no one. Not a single person at any of the windows, but... here I was vulnerable, here I was exposed. I couldn't face Barney. Not now, anyway. Maybe never. I don't know. I turned and ran, still barefoot. I didn't stop until, panting like a set of bellows, I came to the second overlook. I don't know how far I'd run, but now, with the help of distance and the river's curve, I was well out of view of the hotel and its thousand eyes — I mean, its myriad windows.

This second overlook was different in design from the previous. Stone, like the first, but different colors, different layout. And next to it, a feature the current city fathers hoped would catch on, but hadn't quite yet: along the walkway at this point was a short, spartan stretch of chain-link fence. Its function was to prevent people from pitching down the steep incline, where they'd suffer a painful descent to the water. What was hoped for, to mitigate the ugly fence, was the idea of locks, love locks, the kind you'd see on the Pont des Arts in Paris: where lovers pledge their eternal bond by writing their names on a lock, fastening it to the fence, and throwing the key into the water.

Unfortunately, you'd need a major-league throwing arm to get the key into the water while you stood by the fence. If you took the trouble to look, you'd spot a few keys lying on the ground on the rocky decline between the fence and the water.

Love, I said to myself. As if it's that easy to lock down. Maybe sometimes it is. Barney's plaintive declaration echoed in my mind: Right now, I'm only asking about you and me. Yeah, you and me — but I'm not the same "me" you knew. I'm another person entirely. I've been swapped out, Barney. Sorry. I really am.

Of course, from Barney's point of view, he'd see my running out as a total rejection (which it was). He'd have to feel that I'd used him; or at least that I'd cynically saved my second thoughts for the worst moment possible, when they'd do him the most harm. Breaking "our" engagement, abandoning him, after a sensuous and exciting night of — what? Love-making? Baby-making? God help me. Whatever it was, it wasn't just sex. It was oh-so-good, it was God-given glory, but everything about it was wrong. Fundamentally wrong.

I sat on the ground, half-hidden behind the overlook's stone wall. I could see the path ahead; anyone heading *toward* the hotel would see me right away, but anyone coming *from* the hotel wouldn't see me until they were right on top of me. I doubted Barney would venture this far, if he searched for me at all.

Still heaving big breaths, recovering from running, I swallowed hard. God, what a mess! Things were bad but negotiable while I had amnesia, but now that I knew everything... not only who I am, but also who I am to everyone else... I found myself in a muddle, to put it mildly.

Now that I have all the answers, there's no way I can share them. Not with anyone. Not with the police, not with the folks in Mariola, not even with Thistlewaite. Could I trust him to keep my secret? Yes, he's a professional. Yes, he has a duty to maintain my confidentiality, but does he also have a duty to talk to the police? To tell them... well, to tell them things — does he have a duty to report unusual, guilty-sounding things to the police?

Would Thistlewaite believe me, if I told him what happened to me? Would the police? If I told them?

First of all, my name: God, what a mess! Nominally, I'm Celandine Lisente (of all the fucked-up names on earth!). That's what it says on my birth certificate, my social security card, and my drivers license. I'm known to friends and family as Deeny. Unfortunately, all of that is surface. It's not who I really am. In reality, on the inside, I'm Mason Rafflyan.

It's simple, don't you see? Just your common-or-garden-variety brain swap. Or body swap. Whatever.

Good luck getting anyone to believe that!

And how did it come about?

People talk about alien abductions all the time, but no one actually believes in them. I mean, no normal person does.

Yet here I am, both victim and witness to one. I'm sane enough to know how crazy I'd sound if I told anyone the simple truth. I have the explanations for everything. I have the answers to everyone's question, but what good does it do me?

What makes it worse, is that once I tell the *simple* truth, I'd have to follow up with the complicated truth — and THAT is too big a pill for anyone to swallow.

The abduction is the simple part of my story, or at least the simplest part. The rest is utterly absurd, completely nonsensical, but absolutely true.

The abductions went like this: a simple two-step. Deeny (the real Deeny), was running blindly away from Mariola — in no particular direction, just away — when she saw a bright flash of light.

A few moments later, Hugh and I saw a similar blast of intense white light as we stood in the desert outside Robbins.

Three of us, hundreds of miles apart, were scooped up in a matter of moments, like rabbits from a pen.

I know exactly what happened next, though I wasn't awake for it. Even so, I know for sure that we were knocked out and brought onboard an alien spaceship, and that the ship smelled like a barn, but not in a good way.

While we were unconscious, they took our all our clothes and belongings laid us naked on slabs that felt like slate.

Deeny woke first. She woke Hugh, since he was closest to her. Hugh kicked up a ruckus, and ended up being carried off by five of the aliens. Yes, five. Hugh is a big guy, and the spacemen had a hell of a time trying to subdue him.

I'll tell the whole story in more detail later. For now, you only need the highlights.

The point is that Hugh resisted. He fought, he shouted. His shouting woke me up. I saw him carried away.

Deeny and I were left alone for ten minutes or so, locked in vast, dimly-lit room. We were total strangers to each other, and in the moment I had little to say. I'd just woken up, already bewildered and confused, and in my first waking moments, I couldn't make heads or tails of Hugh's struggle and capture. On top of that, I had no idea who Deeny was or where she'd come from. I couldn't help but wonder whether any part of my experience was even real.

Deeny, on the other hand, was angry, animated, and wouldn't stop talking. She went on and on about Mariola, assholes, marriage, hypocrites, and so on...

God! That woman is infuriating! What happened next was all her fault: It wasn't the *aliens* who swapped my body with hers — it was that damn Deeny herself who did it. To top it off, they kept *her* onboard and dumped me in the desert — alone, cold, and naked.

Not that I wanted to stay on that stinky spaceship, but still...

Do you see now? Do you understand the position I'm in? Those are the bare facts, told plainly and truthfully. That's the the *who* and the *what* of it. The *why* of it all would take endless explaining, if I got that far.

Where does that leave us? I'll tell you where it leaves us: It leaves Hugh and Deeny (living in MY body!) somewhere in outer space, on route to parts unknown.

It leaves me, on the other hand, sitting on the ground in beautiful downtown Robbins, stuck forever in Deeny's body, having had sex with two men in two days, while believing I'm a woman.

I squirmed at the thought, not sure how to look at myself.

As far as explanations were concerned, if I HAD to explain it all, if I WANTED to explain it all, first I'd need to draw a diagram to make clear who's who. Then I'd have to give the step-by-step of how and why the god-damn body-swap came about. Last of all, I'd have to tell them why the aliens kept two — only two, and not all three of us — on their ship — and why those idiotic aliens made off with my clothes, leaving me in darkness, with nothing to work with but a car and a dead battery.

If I was a good citizen, if told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I'm sure they'll either lock me in a jail or in a psych ward.

What on earth was I supposed to do? What the hell could I possibly do?

Then, like a light turning on, the most obvious strategy occurred to me; the simplest way out:

I'd have to pretend that my memories hadn't come back.

Of course, I'd need to keep up that pretence for the rest of my natural life.

That was my only way forward; my only way out.

Could I? Would it work? Did I have it in me to maintain a life-long fiction?

I'd have to. Wouldn't I? There's no other choice.

 

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Then, inexplicably, uselessly, I started to cry.

Not sobs. My cries didn't wrack my body. It was nothing more than simple boo-hoo-hoo crying, poor-little-me! weeping. It left my cheeks soaked by my tears.

I stopped blubbering after half a minute, because crying made my nose run, and when it ran, it ran like crazy. Stupidly I remembered a tall, thin girl named Frances, back in elementary school, who once exclaimed, "My nose is running with blood all over my face!" and we all laughed. Yes, we were only children, and certainly not the most empathetic group... Now, here I was, like Frances, my nose running all over my face. I was a mess. Sorry to be disgusting, but I had nothing to wipe my nose with, other than the back of my hand. And the palm of my hand. I almost went from there to using my forearms as well, but that was a bridge too far. The sight of my as-yet-undefiled forearm stopped my tears cold.

There was no water fountain nearby... nothing to clean my hands with... except for the grass at the edge of the river walk. I crawled over (yes, hands and knees, furtive) and wiped my hands on the even, well-manicured lawn. There was enough dew to wet my hands, and the grass served as a natural brush. After the state of my hands was improved, I had another go at wiping my nose, and cleaned my hands on the lawn a second time.

Sorry for the brutish detail, but it's an important prelude for what follows, the hygenic deus ex machina.

As you can imagine, my face and hands were cleaner, but not really clean.

I crawled back (hiding? keeping my head down?) and sat on the ground in the same spot as before, leaning against the wall.

Would I have to live a lie? Was there any alternative? Or could I simply run away? Was that even possible, in this day and age? Where on earth would I go that I couldn't be found? Who would I say I am?

Was there any way I could live my life without hurting others — hurting them simply by being who I am now?

Questions, questions, questions. Questions without answers.

I didn't get very far with those questions, before I saw a person approach. They were facing me, which meant they were heading toward, not coming from, the hotel.

A woman, a tall woman, and obviously well-intentioned. Like a motto, good intentions was written all over her. Her smile was the most earnest I've ever seen. Earnest, strong, unfeigned.

Around her neck, on a fine silver chain, she wore a thin silver cross. It was small, a little over an inch high, but so shiny and bright, it was like a beacon, impossible to miss. It reminded me of a sign I once saw when driving by an inner-city rescue mission: JESUS SAVES, in bright red neon, inside a green neon cross.

For the rest, she looked as though she'd stepped out of an illustration in a children's picture book. She carried a woven rattan bag with a pair of round handles, big as a tote bag. She wore a long, chaste, cotton dress with a floral design and a ruffle at the bottom hem. Even I, with my limited fashion sense, recognized it as a daring rescue from a second-hand store.

Ordinarily, I never notice such things, but I clocked that she wore no makeup, and no jewelry apart from her tiny silver cross. Her nails needed trimming and so did her hair, which was blonde and curly, but frizzy and dry.

Her most striking feature (apart from her aggressive smile) was her eyes, a luminous cobalt blue. That's where my gaze was drawn, and why our eyes met.

She smiled, and like the Good Samaritan, was happy to have found a soul in need. The first words out of her mouth confirmed all the religious meaning I found in her appearance.

"Praise the Lord," she said. "Praise Him. Isn't this a blessed day?"

I blinked at her. I struggled to find a snappy comeback, but in my present state of mind, a comeback didn't come. Finally, some part of me tossed up the barely-adequate phrase I'm glad that you're pleased with it. As combacks go, it was hardly my best work. Still, I said it. She smiled and asked me, "Do you need any help?"

"No, I'm fine!" I replied, in a weary, offended tone. It came out sounding far more rude and aggressive than I intended, so I added apologetically, "Sorry! But no, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

She nodded, and in a brisk, business-like way, reached into her tote bag, and zip! zip! zip! zip! zip! pulled out a handful of wet wipes which she held out to me.

I stared at her stupidly, open-mouthed for a few seconds, taken by surprise, then accepted them. "Thanks." I wiped my face, my hands, my arms. I even dared to wipe under my arms, over my shoulders, and across my upper chest.

Next, she handed me a tiny pack of facial tissues, which I used to dry my eyes and blow my nose. She opened a paper sack and held it toward me so I could discard the things I'd used. She was ready for everything!

"My name is Judith," she informed me, added "Praise the Lord," as if it were her last name. Then, as if there was nothing odd about my sitting on the ground, she stepped over to her left and ran her eyes over the locks on the fence. It was a tactful move, giving her an excuse for staying with me.

"I'm—" I began to reply, but got stuck right off. Who am I? In this exact moment, and going forward, who am I to be? "My name is Deeny," I told her at last, taking the easy way out. "Don't ask. It's a dopey nickname."

Judith nodded. "Nice to meet you, Deeny. It's not a dopey name at all. It's cute."

After glancing at a few of the locks, she rhetorically asked, "Have you seen all this? The locks? Most of them are the same type," she observed. "Small and inexpensive. The kids buy them at the convenience shop over there—" she pointed. She touched a few of the locks, turning them this way and that to read the names. She chuckled. "Look: here's one that says 'Cole' on one side, and 'Beatrix' on the other. Then over here, not more than a foot away, is one marked 'Cole' on one side and 'Ashley' on the other. Same handwriting."

"Hmmph," I grunted, noncommittal. I was glad she didn't draw the obvious moral of Cole's inconstancy.

"Look at this great big, honking lock, smack dab in the middle!" She exclaimed, turning it, like the others, one way, then the other. "Oh I see why: the smaller locks are fine if you have a short name. 'Ashley' and 'Beatrix' are pretty much the limit. If you have a really long name, you need a bigger lock. See this one? It says 'Ross' on one side, which fits, but—"

I groaned. It wasn't hard to see what was coming.

"Does it say 'Charlotte' on the other side?" I called.

"Yes, it does! Do you know them?" Before I could answer, her face lit up. In a teasing, confidential tone she asked, "Did mean old Charlotte steal your boyfriend Ross away from you?"

"No," I scoffed. "I don't know Ross. Charlotte is my—" I sighed. "Charlotte is my cousin."

I almost said my stupid cousin, as I normally do, but somehow (and in spite of everything I'd been through in the past week on her account) for the first time in my life, I felt a sense of pity for my stupid cousin. It was a new feeling for me, in her regard.

"Well!" Judith said, returning to her mission: "Do you need help? Medical help? Do you need to talk to the police?"

"No," I replied, managing to contain my alarm at the mention of police. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Judith looked me over and delivered this unasked piece of advice: "Don't feel too badly about what happened."

"About what happened?" I echoed. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, honey. It's clear as day. We've all been there, Deeny. No one can judge you. Least of all, me."

"I wasn't asking anyone to judge me, thank you very much," I was grateful for Judith's wet wipes, but it didn't give her the right to stick her nose in my private affairs. I clicked my tongue in irritation and told her, "Since you mention it, Judith — not that it's any of your business — I don't think *anyone* has found themselves in the kind of mess that I'm in right now."

Judith chuckled in a condescending way. "I know I look like straight-laced schoolmarm, Deeny, but you should know: I've had a colorful past. A very colorful past. Believe me! I have been exactly where you are now."

I sighed. It was stupid of me to argue. I tried to end it with, "This isn't a contest, Judith."

"No, it's not a contest, but I can tell you with confidence: I've been exactly where you are right now."

I scoffed.

Judith tapped her chin knowingly. "Fine, Deeny. But first, let me guess. Okay? This morning, a few moments ago, you woke up next to a man and found yourself regretting what you and he did last night. Then, you took your shoes in your hand and snuck out on tiptoe before he woke up. That's the long and the short of it, isn't it?"

I was taken aback by her rather accurate summation, although I shouldn't have been. It wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out where I'd been and what I'd done. I was so focused on getting away from Barney that I didn't realize how obvious was my plight. Until that moment I didn't see what was plain to Judith, and honestly to anyone else who'd happen to see me: I was the very picture of the walk of shame.

Even so, I had to protest. "It's a little more complicated than that."

She waved her hand dismissively. "That's not important. The details are not important. What *is* important, Deeny, is that we *forgive* ourselves, just as the Lord forgives us."

I scoffed. "I don't think the Lord is particularly interested in what's happening in the greater Robbins area."

"He is, Deeny! He is! His eye is on the sparrow," Judith quoted, "and I know he watches me. Matthew 10:29."

"Good old Matthew," I quipped. "He always knew the right thing to say." I wasn't scoffing or making fun. I wasn't negative. I only meant to give a gentle hint that I wasn't interested in having my soul saved at just that moment.

"Can I pray with you?" Judith offered, earnestly.

"No," I replied. "I don't need prayer. What I need is a lawyer." I didn't know it until the words came out of my mouth, but a lawyer was *exactly* what I needed, as soon as possible. Legal advice, right away, before I spoke to another living soul.

Judith laughed. "What a thing to say! A lawyer! Deeny: if you need help with a moral question, a question of right and wrong, prayer can always help. You might even find that when you seek the Lord and listen to His voice, you won't need a lawyer after all."

I rubbed my eyes and groaned. If I wanted someone to pray with, I could always call "Mamma" Lisente, back in Mariola. And I wasn't about to do that.

"Judith, believe me: my problem is far too complicated for prayer."

Judith didn't buy it. She shook her head.

"Look," I said, leveling with her: "My problem is that I know things. Things the police want to know. But if I tell them, they won't believe me, and they might even lock me up for my trouble."

She raised her head a little, curious. "Have you done something wrong? Have you committed a crime?"

"No. I haven't done anything."

She frowned. "Then why wouldn't the police believe you?"

I heaved a big breath. "Because in this case, the truth sounds absolutely crazy."

"That's not your fault," she said. "You're obliged to tell the truth. The truth, plain and simple. Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Matthew 5:37. If they really don't believe you, and go so far as to lock you up — Honestly, Deeny, I can't believe they would! — Remember: It is better to suffer for doing good, than for doing evil. I Peter 3:17. You can't be responsible for their reactions. You can only speak your truth." Then, her jaw working, she declared, "Deeny, I'm going to pray over you right now. I'm going to ask the Lord to watch over you, to guide your ways, and let you feel His hand upon you! I'm going to ask Him to anoint you now to speak the truth among men! Hallelujah! Praise Him!"

She closed her eyes and raised her hands, palms turned toward me, and she began to pray, much in the way Mamma Lisente does: not so much a prayer-prayer, not a prayer to God as such, but more of an exhortation to me.

I grabbed my shoes with one hand and my bag with the other. While Judith shouted Hallelujah three times, I stood up quickly and quietly and once again running on tiptoe, exited, stage left.

I never saw Judith again.