I knock on the heavy wood door. It took a lot to find this place. I remembered Charlie saying his brother worked at the Apple Store at the mall so I started my research there. Talking to Charlie’s brother led me to here: a nondescript rental home right off the freeway.
I clutch Charlie’s journal to my chest, a little sad to let it go. When I read his words, I could hear him. So giving them up is almost like letting him go all over again.
The door opens and a woman about my mom’s age studies me. She has light hair, almost white at the tips, and bright blue eyes. I try to see Charlie in her. There are pieces of him. I can tell.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “I’m Ruby. I was at the laundromat with Charlie.”
She pulls her hand to her chest. “Oh, my goodness.”
I hold the journal out to her. “These are Charlie’s words. You should know them. They’re important.”
She reaches for the journal. She’s shaking. And I realize how important this is. I’m giving her a piece of her son. Something else she can have to remember him by. To know him in a way she’d never realized. My heart breaks even more when I acknowledge Charlie won’t ever get the chance to be with his mom and dad again, to remind them love is what matters, not grades and schools and disagreements. Family is worth fighting for. Love is worth fighting for.
She runs her hand along the front of the journal, letting her fingers linger over the raised gold letters of his name. When she looks at me again, her eyes are shiny with tears. A mixture of happy and sad.
“Thank you,” she says. “This is such a gift.”
“Charlie was a gift to me. I’m glad I got to know him.”
“You were at the laundromat with him?”
“I was. I think a part of me will always be there.”
And it’s true. I’m always there in the rubble. In the cold and the dust with that tiny spray of light coming through the crack above my head. Before then, I’d always thought of aftershocks as the literal rumblings the ground made after an earthquake, but they’re something different to me now. Aftershocks are the part that stays forever, rolling in when you’re unprepared, triggered by something big and undeniable or small and unexpected. Aftershocks are PTSD, survivor’s guilt, and grief. Aftershocks are what wakes me up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, convincing me I’m still there, in the rubble with Charlie. Aftershocks are why I and pretty much everyone else I know go to therapy.
“I can only imagine,” she says, her voice drifting like she’s trying to be there with Charlie. Like she wants to. Because she’s his mom. “I owe you a thank-you.”
“He told me stuff. About his life. And what happened,” I say.
His mom smiles. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Leave it to Charlie to share everything with a stranger.”
“We weren’t strangers. Maybe at first, but not in the end.”
“Right.” She shakes her head, clearing it. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be strangers after what you went through together.”
“It’s not just that.” I want to make it as clear as I can. “He was kind to me. And he was brave. He was a good person and he had beautiful dreams. You should be proud of the son you raised.”
Charlie was a big heart in a small space.
I was lucky to have known him.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for coming all this way. For finding me so I could have this.” She pulls the journal to her chest so much like I did.
“You’ll see who he was in his words.” I point to the journal. “There are poems in there. And stories. And truth. I hope you’ll love reading it. I loved reading it.”
“I know I will.” She shakes her head and sniffs as her tears fall freely. “Ruby”—she sucks in a breath—“can you do one more thing for me? Can you promise to go live a big and beautiful life and do all the things Charlie won’t get to do?”
“I will.”
I mean it.
As I turn to go, she mumbles something I don’t make out the first time. And then she says it again. “Water polo.” Then, “Ruby! Wait! You’re the water polo player? You play water polo?”
I turn back around. “Yes, I play water polo.” My sweatshirt kind of gives it away.
“Oh, my goodness!” She flaps her hands in excitement. “Wait here. I have something . . . I think it might be yours. Can you wait a minute?”
“Sure.”
She rushes back into the house and returns to me a moment later.
“I think this belongs to you.” She holds up my championship ring. The ring I spun around and around my finger while Charlie told me why I should be proud of it. And then he promised to keep it safe for me.
“But I wanted Charlie to have it.”
“That is so sweet of you. But it doesn’t feel right. You need to hold on to it.”
I remember how Charlie said his mom always made decisions for him. I guess this is another one of them. I want to force her to keep it, but then I realize there isn’t any point to Charlie’s mom having my ring. Because if she has it, it means he’s not wearing it anymore. But if it’s on my finger, it will be a reminder of him. Of my friend. I take it from her and slip it back on my own finger, where it belongs.
“Thank you.”
“No, Ruby. Thank you.”
She shuts the door behind me and I listen to the lock click into place as I go.
“Let’s go to the beach,” Mila says when I’m back in the car. “I need to see the ocean today.”
“Me too.”
We wind our way through reopened roads and park near the pier. I follow Mila through the sand, letting it sift between my toes, reminding me how lucky I am to still be able to savor the small things like this. To appreciate how important they are, too.
We sit down and watch the ocean. Listen to the steady rhythm of the waves going in and out. Constant and reassuring like a heartbeat. And then I lie back. Feel the warm sun on my face. I remember Charlie in the rubble, telling me to close my eyes and imagine someplace better than where we were. To let all of my senses take over. I close my eyes again now. I imagine his voice in my head.
Do you feel that, Ruby? Do you smell it? You’re here. You’re home.