Charlie had been excited in preparation, shaving, showering, then shaving again. He felt handsome and charming as he looked at himself in the rearview mirror on the way to meet her at dinner. By the time Michelle had ordered her brownie sundae, Charlie had fallen in love. He watched her across the booth, twirling fudge with the special long spoon, and knew it: Michelle was his soul mate, period. So Charlie turned up the charm.
The way he’d read it, Michelle liked brownies. So Charlie started bringing brownies every day, even on his days off. When Michelle didn’t touch them he’d plate up a square and place it by her charts, sometimes along with other gifts, little romantic somethings for her to find. When Michelle didn’t respond to these, either, Charlie assumed he wasn’t trying hard enough. They were on shift together at least three nights a week, but Charlie wanted more. When he couldn’t get shifts, he’d come in anyway. On those nights he could follow Michelle full-time, cranking up the charm to high. One day he came in with a ring.
He told her, I love you. I’m in love with you, Michelle. But this didn’t have the effect he’d imagined, not at all. Suddenly, she was busy with her patients. She avoided the nurses’ station for the rest of the shift, didn’t say good-bye. He’d tried calling her house but only got the machine. Maybe, he thought, I’ll see her at work tomorrow.
All that March he hurried through his routine, delivering death notices to family members with a told-you-so air. The clock turned, the sun rose, night shift handed over to day. Charlie grabbed his coat and sulked back to the car, the highway, squinting through a smudgy little hole in the frosted windshield and thinking only about how Michelle had turned off. A light had gone out in her; it wasn’t shining on him. The darkness in his soul mate could only mean one thing: she was depressed. He knew it. That was why they were soul mates. Life had become too much for her. She still needed him, but was too far gone to say so.
Back at his apartment, Charlie dialed Michelle’s number without even taking off his coat. It was the machine, so he tried again, then again. He stopped after a few hours. Then Charlie’s phone rang. It was Jerry, Michelle’s on-again off-again sometimes-ex Jerry, telling Charlie, “Lay off, leave her alone.1
“Look,” Jerry continued. “Michelle is really upset—she’s hysterical after this.”
Charlie stuttered something and placed the wall phone back in the cradle. What had Jerry meant by “hysterical”? Michelle was hysterical? Charlie knew Michelle, he understood her, better than Jerry ever could. The phone call had been from Jerry, yes—but this whole thing was a cry for help, from his Michelle. She was in trouble, suicidal maybe. He could save her. He was a hero to her, Charlie knew that, even if Michelle had forgotten.