Chapter Sixteen

 

Em's face was momentarily blank. "What?" she repeated. Her heart had plunged downwards in a freefall in response to Frank's words.

Frank's smile was puzzled. "You didn't realize it," he said. "Wow. I didn't know," he continued, looking surprised by this fact. "Didn't his voice ever sound familiar to you? I just assumed you recognized him, and that was partly why you disliked him. The fact that he was so disappointing in person."

Something about him had been familiar. She had sensed it from the start, although she could never pinpoint what it was connected to in her memory. But that wasn't what was bothering her at this very second. It was the memory of herself babbling on about Charles's plight on the bridge, as Colin listened. He had listened to her, sympathized, smiled — and all the while, knowing he was the one. He had let her make a fool of herself by telling that story. Had he been mocking her the whole time?

She stirred. "How did you know?" She looked at Frank.

"I listened to the tape." Reaching over, he opened the drawer, ignoring the manuscript pages which slid to the floor in response to this motion. He pulled out the cassette Em remembered from before, the one Frank had shown her weeks ago.

It spooled through the tape deck in Em's old stereo. Through the speakers, Em's voice emerged, the younger version of itself. "Listen to me, Charles. It's important that you don't keep these feelings bottled up inside you, okay? You can talk to me, or anybody else you want."

"I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just ... suddenly needed to hear someone talk about it. I don't know why. I can't understand it. I just think it shouldn't have ended this way ..."

It was Colin's voice. Younger, hoarse, broken and bitter, but definitely the same. How could she have not realized it, forgotten the sound of it after the mark it left in her life the first time?

"A lot of people out there know how you feel, Charles. A lot of people listening right now do, too. Just go ahead and share what you feel —"

Em switched it off. Even without the tape playing, phrases from that conversation were coming back to her, running through her head with tones as clear as a bell after hearing those voices again.

"I thought I made her happy. Nothing she said told me it wasn't true..."

"You've got to believe that it wasn't all you, Charles. If you loved her, if you didn't hurt her, then you can't hurt yourself like this..."

"She walked away, and I ... I felt lost. I had no explanation for what just happened..."

The radio in Em's car was running the twenty hottest pop hits of the week, but Em wasn't listening. The tape was still playing in her head, fueling the anger which was building steadily inside her with every recollection.

"Do you believe you could still love someone again? That you can let go of her someday? That's half the challenge. You just have to believe it's possible."

"I don't know if I want to believe it."

"You should. Because I don't believe you're a lost cause in romance. I think you can face that moment she walked away, and put it behind you —"

Em signaled a turn and swung into the parking garage of Colin's building. The doorman didn't question her this time, apparently recognizing her from before. No one prevented her from crossing to the elevator.

"She was everything..."

"It feels like that, I know, but this is not the end of your world, Charles."

"It is, though. It's the end of a piece of it. That was the piece I wanted most."

"But you have so much more going for you. You have a job. You have a family, I'm sure. You have a city around you that is filled with opportunities..."

You've Got a Friend. That's the song she had played after the call. He hadn't requested one, of course. That wasn't the point of his phone call, that lonely act of reaching out in the dead of night. Em punched the button for the elevator, angrily, as the doors closed.

When they opened, Colin's apartment was mere steps away. Em didn't give a thought to whether he was home, or asleep, or entertaining guests. She pounded on the door twice, then waited.

It opened. Colin was there, wearing a worn sweater and jeans instead of the suit he'd been wearing earlier. He stared at Em, evidently confused.

"You're Charles." That was all she said. On Colin's face, comprehension dawned.

"My middle name," he said. An explanation, Em realized. "Colin Charles Ferris."

Her mouth opened. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. "The whole time I was telling you the story on the bridge — you remembered, didn't you? This tape —" she held up the cassette, "— this is your voice, isn't it? Charles at three a.m., calling into my request line at the radio station."

"Yes. It is."

"Then why didn't you say something?" Em's voice rose. "How could you pretend you didn't know what I was talking about? That I was telling a story about some — some stranger to you. You told me to let go of Charles' problems, of not knowing — and the whole time, you knew perfectly well what happened to Charles."

"Because I prefer not to remember it," Colin answered. "I prefer not to remember calling into a radio station and exposing my foolishness to the world."

He was completely nonplussed. No consternation for her discovery, no dismay for her anger. Nothing. Em stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"You're amazing," she uttered, in disbelief. "Look at you. You don't even care."

"I do care," Colin said, levelly. "That's why I don't like to think about it. I didn't mention it, because I wanted you to forget about it. I told you to do so, because it was for the best."

"The best?" echoed Em. "I cared about what happened to you! It mattered to me to know what happened to 'Charles,' believe it or not!"

"I do," Colin answered, lowering his voice, glancing around as if afraid his neighbors might hear them. "That's why I wanted you to let go and not think about it anymore."

Em shook her head. "This is unbelievable."

"Why?" Colin asked. "Probably a hundred people phoned your request line. You've probably passed some of them on the street without knowing it —"

"That's not what I mean," said Em. "I mean you. I mean your attitude about this. You let me make an idiot of myself, telling you something that was important to me. You called into my show all those years ago, and here you are now, despising what I do ... what am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to feel about this, Colin?"

He glanced away. "Just because I prefer not to remember it doesn't mean I'm laughing at you," he answered. "Surely you see why I didn't bring it up when I met you. It was ... humiliating."

He could have said nothing else that sucked the breath out of her as quickly as this word did. Humiliating? Her advice? She was aware that her mouth had come open, but no words were coming out of it.

The two actions were separate, but came together seamlessly, with what was left of Emma's dignity. She tossed the tape at Colin's chest, watching as he fumbled to catch it. Then she turned and marched to the elevator.

"Emma! Emma, wait —"

The doors closed before she was forced to hear anything more of Colin's reply. There were no tears running down Em's face, or in the car afterwards, as she turned the key in the ignition.

The top pop favorites sprang to life. Em shut it off, switching to the CD. Kelly Clarkson's album blared from her speakers, filling the silence. Em sang along — forcefully, when it came to the lyrics proclaiming what doesn't kill you makes you stronger — and succeeded in drowning out any further replay of that tape which was now undoubtedly in Colin Ferris's trash can.

Now she understood his loathing for radio therapy. All the things he supposedly said about call-in segments for sharing problems — all those statements might be true, and they were all inspired by her advice to him years ago. His past experience with her had probably been the biggest obstacle for him in working with her.

Clearly, she needn't wonder any longer if her advice had been helpful to 'Charles.' It hadn't.

She slammed her front door at home and tossed her coat onto the sofa. In the bedroom, she plucked Colin's book from its place on the nightstand.

"...I know you'll be fine, Charles. Just keep thinking of letting go. She's not just letting go of you, you're letting her go. You're moving on to something better for you. To a person who will really care about you ..."

All those things he said about her voice. Those recent remarks about her being helpful and honest, the value of her work. All sugar-coated lies and mocking deceptions.

Without thinking, Em flung the book across the room in fury before remembering it was George's copy. It struck the wall and fell to the floor — thankfully, its binding was still intact.

Her concern melted a second later. Oh, well. It would be no less than Doctor Ferris deserved if it had split in half. And she would buy George a new copy if this one didn't survive the week. She was going to need more than one throw to vent all this anger; as for the pain, she was stuck with her advice on letting go to 'Charles.'

To think, only a few weeks ago, she had made the foolish assertion that she was capable of handling the truth if her advice had been a failure. Be careful what you wish for, she thought, grimly.

Creep. Jerk. Heartless, selfish troll. She should have played Goodbye to Love instead. It would have been far more fitting for the future cold and unfeeling Doctor Colin Ferris.