Breathless (29 page)

Charlotte looked up at his solemn face, not quite knowing how to reply to this side of Jack. She had seen him serious before, but she didn't think he had ever opened up to her this much. She didn't know how to react, what to say. So instead she just took his hand, feeling his cool skin against her own.

It had only been a few minutes later when the nurse came and encouraged them to go home for the night. "Most of the patients are still being attended to by the doctors," she had told them. "It would be best for you to go home and visit tomorrow."

The streets had become less congested by the time they left the hospital and Jack was able to call a taxi in the early morning hours. The ride home was quiet, but not uncomfortable. And Jack never let go of Charlotte's hand. And she didn't mind, not one bit.

Lewis still hadn't come out of his study when they got to the house, but light still streamed out from under the door. Jack knocked at the door timidly, putting his ear close. But Lewis didn't answer, and Jack disappointedly fall away from the door, turning toward the stairs and slowly climbing them with Charlotte close behind.

"Goodnight," he told her quietly as they reached their rooms. He gave her a grateful look. It wasn't quite a smile, but Charlotte knew that he was glad she had been with him that night. She returned his look of gratitude. She didn't know what she would have done without him. She probably would have been dead.

Charlotte closed the door of her room and shed her dirty dress and shoes, shoving them into the corner of her room where she wouldn't have to look at them. She ran hot water in the bathroom, soaking all of the grime and blood off of her skin and scrubbing until it was chapped, but clean. Slipping into a soft, cool pair of pajamas, she climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up to her chest. Trying to turn her mind away from everything, she grabbed the nearest book and opened it to a random page.

"In the matters of utmost importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing."

Charlotte frowned, recognizing the familiarity of the line, and turned the book, looking at the title. The Importance of Being Earnest, the first show she had seen Helen perform. Frustrated, she shut the book with a slam and tossed it to the side. She shut the light off and curled up on her side, but she didn't even try to sleep. There was just too much to think about. So she lay there, eyes wide open, staring at nothing but her thoughts running rampant.

And then she heard a noise from the other room. She couldn't make out what it was, it was muffled. For a moment, she wondered if Lewis had finally come upstairs, to his bedroom. But she knew that he wouldn't do that. The room he had shared with Helen would have too many memories to go back there just yet. In a way, Charlotte understood. If Jack had been the one who had died, she wouldn't have been able to come upstairs and go to her room, knowing that his was right across the hallway, but that he would never be sleeping there again.

Jack.

Charlotte sat upright. She threw off the bed covers and bolted to the door, wrenching it open and running across the hall.

"Jack?" she asked, knocking at his door. But after a moment of silence, she opened the door and walked right in. Jack was just where she thought he may be, looking very much the same as she had when her own father had died. He was laying in bed, facing toward the wall, and even from the doorway she could see that he was shaking.

Charlotte quietly closed the door behind her and made her way over to his bed, lifting up the covers and climbing in next to him. Then she wrapped her arm around him, intertwining her fingers with his, and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Shhh," she murmured as she felt him begin to sob, just as he had done for her when her own father had died. "Shhh." She stroked his palm with her thumb and planted a silent kiss on the back of his head, comforting him, pressing her body to his, until he finally quieted and fell asleep.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me..."

Emilie's sweet voice drifted across the cemetary as Helen's casket was slowly lowered into the ground. The funeral had been heartbreaking, and many of the attendants hadn't been able to hold back their tears. But for the immediate family and friends-Lewis, Jack, Mrs. Gates, Topher and Charlotte-enough tears had already been spent. It seemed as if they had all cried as much as they could, and now they were cold and tired. They stood in a line before the burial mound, watching her get put away, as if she were a precious doll that should be kept out of reach from a reckless owner. But Charlotte felt guilty for knowing the worst of it: that buried with Helen was a life that had never been lived, a child who never got to experience the beauty of life. And she felt even more guilty knowing that Jack was oblivious to all of it.

Charlotte grasped Jack's hand in her own, feeling his cool skin in the hot July sun. During the past few days, they had leaned on each other for everything. They read the morning newspapers together, they took afternoon walks, they ate dinner, and at night, they curled up in the same bed. They didn't talk much. There wasn't much to say. But just knowing that he was close by made Charlotte feel so much better, and she was positive that Jack felt the same way.

"Oh, dear," murmured Lizzie Ferguson, Helen's pretty red-haired friend, as she embraced Charlotte after the service had ended. She could smell Lizzie's lovely musk perfume on her elegant black dress. Everyone was dressed in black. Helen had never dressed in black. "I'm so sorry. This has been such a tragedy for us all, but especially for you and the family."

Charlotte managed to smile gratefully. "Thank you," she said, although her voice cracked. She was glad when Jack came up behind her and put a hand on her back. She instantly relaxed. "Thank you so much for coming, Lizzie. Helen loved you. I'm sure she would have loved for you to be here."

"Have you seen Wesley yet?" Lizzie asked. Charlotte felt Jack's hand fall from her back.

"I have. I saw him the night of..." Charlotte's voice drifted off. She cleared her throat. "But he wasn't conscious. How is he?"

"He's alive," Lizzie said gratefully. "And in pain. The doctors have taken him off most of his medicines, but his leg injury is extensive. He was very quiet when I visited him yesterday."

"So...does he know about..."

"He knows she's dead," Lizzie said bluntly. Her face was impassive. "They thought it was best not to keep him in the dark. But Charlotte," she said determinedly. "He wants to see you. He asks after you. And I think it would do him good to see you." She looked at Charlotte with her eyes, so dull and sad, like Charlotte had never seen before. "Please."

Charlotte finally grew the strength to nod and agree. "Yes," she told Lizzie. "I'll go see him."

She didn't even bother to go home and change out of her funeral clothing. She knew that if she took the time to go home and find something to wear that she would lose the courage to visit Wesley at all. She didn't want to have to go there, relive the funeral as she told him about it, repeat her apologies, beg for forgiveness. She wasn't sure she could bear it. But after Lizzie's pleading, Charlotte forced herself to go to Topher and ask him to drive her to see Wes. She had to.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Jack asked worriedly when she asked Topher.

"I'm positive," Charlotte told him with a sure smile. "You need to take Lewis home, make sure he's alright. I promise I'll be alright."

"Okay," Jack finally agreed after only a moment of hesitation. He knew she was right.

"The house is going to be so terrible without her," Topher remarked after they had begun to drive to the hospital. "Even though Helen wasn't around all the time, she was still the life and breath of the home. Everything is going to be so different now."

Charlotte sighed and leaned against the window. "I've hardly seen Lewis since everything happened. I could scarcely believe my eyes when he walked out of the study today in his suit. He looked so...normal. So put together. But then I looked at his eyes and I knew. I knew he's never going to be normal again. Not after he lost Helen."

Topher was quiet as he turned the car around the corner. "My mum is the only person he will let into the study," he remarked quietly. "I don't know why. But he talks to her. I can hear them, sometimes. I can't make out what they're saying, but...at least I know they're talking. I ask her what they talk about all the time, but she won't say. All she says is that he's miserable and that there's no consoling him, only comforting him."

"Your mother is the best at that," Charlotte noted, remembering how Mrs. Gates had helped her so much when she first came from France.

"She is. And I'm glad she is, because I wouldn't know how to comfort someone in this situation. I consider myself lucky, really. I have a mother who has always been there for me, ever since I was born. Helen just added to what my mother already gave me. But for someone like Wes, who had already lost a mother, and has now lost his second mother..." Topher's voice drifted off. "I just don't know what I would be able to say to him."

Charlotte looked at him. "Are you trying to tell me that you're not going in with me?" she asked as they pulled up to the hospital entrance.

Topher looked at her apologetically. "I just don't know that I can."

"That's alright," Charlotte told him. "I wasn't expecting you to, anyway. This is something that I have to do myself."

Topher nodded. "Call me when you need to be picked up?"

"I will," Charlotte promised and got out of the car, closing the door behind her.

She walked down the clean hallways of the hospital, her black high heels clicking against the hard tile, her modest drest swinging against her legs. Instinctively, she looked down at her clean palms, noticing how different they looked without all the dirt smudges like there had been when she was last at the hospital. Everything seemed so different now. A few short days ago, everything seemed to be thrown in the air, so chaotic. And now everything seemed to be set in stone. A terrible, cold, harsh stone.

She knocked at the doorway of Wesley's room. "May I come in?" Charlotte asked timidly, looking at Wesley laying in the hospital bed. He was now sitting up, his leg resting on a few pillows, and the bandage had been taken off of his face, revealing a long pink scar along his cheek. But his kind brown eyes were the same, and his passive face, and his calm expression.

A smile reached his eyes when he saw Charlotte. "Come in," he asked her, his voice soft and weak. "Please."

Charlotte smiled back at him and hurried into the room, pulling up the same chair up to his bedside and grasping his hand in hers. "I'm so, so glad you're alright," she told him. "I visited you the other day and I was so worried. I didn't know what was going to happen to you. How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better," Wesley confessed, wincing in pain as he tried to readjust the pillows under his leg. Charlotte rushed to fix them for him, letting him lean back into his pillows. "Thank you. Apparently when the bomb went off, I was thrown out of the theatre and my leg got pretty torn up. They say I might need another surgery if it doesn't start to heal right. They're also saying that I might walk with a limp for the rest of my life." He looked at Charlotte with the saddest smile she could imagine, tears in his eyes. "So it looks as if the only role I'll be taking will be Richard the III."

"Oh, don't say that, Wes," Charlotte protested, tightening her grasp on his hand. "Your career isn't ending over a silly thing like a limp."

"And what about this?" he asked her, pointing to the scar across his face. "Do you really think that anyone is going to want to cast me as the handsome male lead after seeing this on my face? That's all I've ever played, Charlotte. That's all I'm good at. What else could I do?"

"Oh, Wes," Charlotte shook her head. "Stop. That's not true, you know it's not. You are a very handsome actor, the one all the girls stand outside to get autographs from and the one who is constantly in the newspaper. But you're not only handsome. You're talented, too. When I first acted with you, my first scenes, I was at first intimidated by your talent. You were just so good. And then I realized that when I have good castmates, it's good for me too. Because when I acted with you, I wasn't just acting like Sylvie. I was Sylvie, and you Leighton. And it was just...wonderful."

"Thank you for the compliment, Charlotte," Wes told her. "But no one wants a hobbling Romeo," he added practically.

"Wes, you grew up with Topher," Charlotte told him with conviction. "Topher was in that accident when he was eight years old. He suffered a far worse leg injury than you did. And yet, he overcame it. And now he hardly walks with a limp at all. And I know he works hard, I know he tries hard to overcome it. And he's so close. And I believe that if he could do it, you can do it, too. And you'll have help! Topher can help you and I will, and Jack..."

"How is he?" Wesley interrupted her. "How is Jack?" He watched as Charlotte's eyes darted to the other corner of the room. "I know she's dead, Charlotte. You don't have to skirt around the subject. And I'll admit that I was a terrible mess for the first few days after I heard. But there's nothing we can do. So then I just had to accept it, just as I've accepted that my real mother and father are dead. All I have is you and Lewis and Jack...so how is he?"

Charlotte forced herself to look Wesley in the eyes, although she was nearly in tears. "He's alright," she replied. "He's upset, but we all are. He blames himself, but we all do. We're just all trying to get by, day by day."