Lisa Unger - Fragile

Charlene paused in the doorway, dreading the walk from the safety of Dr. Cooper’s office to the overwarm, smoky interior of her mother’s car. Somehow, now, the world seemed too big, too menacing. There were too many wide-open spaces where bad things could happen. And she felt so small. But she drew in a breath and moved quickly toward the car. She didn’t run, though she wanted to. Charlene didn’t realize she was holding that last draw of air in her lungs until she’d closed the door behind her and locked it. As she put on her seat belt, her heart was pounding as if she’d sprinted a mile.

“How was it?”

Her mother was staring at her in this new way she had, as if Charlene were some kind of alien, someone whom she didn’t recognize and didn’t quite know what to do with. But it wasn’t mean. It was tender, somehow, careful.

“It was-I don’t know. Good, I guess, to talk about it. You know, with a doctor or whatever.”

Melody gave a slow nod. On impulse, Charlene reached out for her mother and took her hand. Melody’s eyes widened a bit in surprise, then she almost smiled. But it dropped from her face quickly, as though it had no business being there.

“Did you tell her everything, Charlene?”

Her mother seemed so sad, all the power drained from her somehow. The lines around her eyes had deepened. And she hadn’t bothered with any makeup for a couple of days, leaving herself to look washed out and plain.

“You mean about Graham? No,” Charlene said. “Of course not, Mom.”

“It’s my fault. All of this. I know that.”

“No, Mom. It’s mine.”

Charlene felt that quaking within her again. She had the strong urge to put her head in her mother’s lap like she used to, even though a few days ago she’d have rather set her own hair on fire than cuddle up to her mom. Now she didn’t like Melody to even be out of her sight for too long. She didn’t want to be alone.

Melody put her hands on Charlene’s shoulders, gave her a gentle shake.

“No, Charlene. None of this is your fault. There are things that were set in motion before you were ever born.”

Charlene shook her head and fought back another rush of tears. It was exhausting to be crying all the time.

“Charlene,” Melody said. She looked down at the seat between them. “God, there’s so much you don’t understand.”

But it wasn’t true; she understood everything. She’d been there.

When Charlene came down the stairs, she’d found her mother on the kitchen floor weeping. At first Charlene thought something had been broken, spilling a dark, red, viscous fluid across the floor. Then she saw the bat beside her mother. And for the next few moments, she thought her mother was hurt-the way she was folded onto herself, as though doubling over in terrible pain.

And then she saw Graham, pale and moaning on the floor, a hand to his head.

“You goddamn crazy bitch,” he was saying, soft and low, over and over like a mantra.

“What happened?” asked Charlene. She kept her distance, standing by the doorway. This was new, Graham down and bleeding, looking like he was hurt bad. She remembered the price she paid for getting between them the last time. So she kept her distance.

Melody looked up at her quickly, surprised, as if she didn’t realize Charlene was in the house. And maybe she hadn’t. They might not have known she was upstairs painting her nails. Her mom’s purse was on the counter, a pile of mail next to it. It looked like they’d just gotten home from work. Charlene saw it then; the bill for her phone on top of the pile. She had forgotten to intercept the mail when she came home from school. She felt her stomach bottom out. Melody saw her looking at it.

“Where’s that phone, Charlene?” Her voice was surprisingly soft, almost sweet. “Bring it to me right now.”

“Mom. No.”

She wouldn’t give up her phone; it was hers. God knows she’d earned it by putting up with Graham. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone has a phone. I don’t use it in school.”

Charlene looked over at Graham. He looked really bad. Was all that blood coming from his head?

“Charlene,” he said. “Call 911. I’m hurt bad.”

But her mother started shrieking to bring the fucking phone. And the sound of it, like an alarm, and the sight of all the blood shook Charlene to her core. She ran upstairs and fished it out of her purse. Why didn’t she dial 911 right then? She should have. She’d had a lot of time to think about how if she’d done that, nothing that happened later would have happened at all. But she didn’t do that one thing, the right thing. She never could do that.

She brought the phone downstairs. She still didn’t want to walk into that kitchen, so she slid it across the floor to her mother. Her mother stood up, pitching and wobbling like a drunk, though Charlene knew she was sober. Melody lifted the bat high over her head and Charlene started to scream, No, Mommy, don’t! Because she thought Melody was going after Graham. But then Melody proceeded to pound the phone to bits, yelling, You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing to her? You think I don’t see? It stops here, you stupid shit. How much further did you think I was going to let this go?

Charlene fell silent, drowned out anyway by her mother’s rant, and looked on, fixated, sick to the core with guilt and fear as her mother kept shouting, pounding on that phone, barely hitting it at all because it was so small and in so many pieces, until she seemed to just run out of gas and sank back down, weeping.

“I never touched her,” Graham said. He struggled to push himself up. Half his face was smeared with blood. “Tell her, Charlene.”

She shook her head, opened her mouth to speak, but wound up issuing a sob instead. Finally, “He didn’t. Mom, he didn’t.”

Melody looked up first at Charlene and then back at Graham.

“I know that,” she said. She had pulled her face into a nasty grimace, her voice more like a growl. “If you had touched her, you’d be dead.”

“Mel, please, get me to the hospital. I’m hurt.”

He fell back then against the floor, his eyes looking blank and glassy. The moan he was issuing almost didn’t sound human; it was otherworldly.

“Mom,” Charlene said. “We have to help him.”

Still, Charlene couldn’t bring herself to cross the threshold into the kitchen. Melody just looked at her, and Charlene was sure she was going to start raging about what a slut she was, about how she’d ruined all their lives.

But instead, Melody said, “I’m sorry, Char. I’ve failed you in all sorts of ways.” And Charlene didn’t know what to say to that; they both cried.

“I’m going to call 911,” Charlene said.

“No, Charlene.” Melody stood and wiped her eyes. She sounded calmer, stronger. “Just help me. Pull the truck into the garage and help me get him in. I’ll drive him.”

“I think it’s better-”

“Just do it, Charlene!”

And she’d done it, pulled the car into the garage even though her mother hadn’t even let her get her learner’s permit yet, and shut the door. Charlene had helped her heave Graham into the car, both of them straining under the effort, while he continued to groan. The side of his face looked purple and swollen, but the bleeding from his head and his nose had slowed.

“Charlene,” Melody said from the driver’s side window, “Graham and I will work out what we say about what happened. You weren’t even here.”

“But-,” started Charlene.

Her mother lifted a hand. “Please, Charlene, don’t say a word about this to anyone. You can’t . Do you understand? Just pretend you weren’t here. Things are going to be different for us from now on.”