I remember the night Charlie was born. I was 4, the age Annelise is now. We lived in a borrowed home in the delta town of Clarksdale, MS. I was lying in my bed, watching the shadows of tree branches across the ceiling. I can recall it so well because there were great flashes of lightening. That night is the first thunderstorm I can remember.
Charlie was a quiet baby. He was a Mama's Boy. He was also a planned pregnancy. And a son. My father was thrilled. I was thrilled too. I had someone to love.
I dressed Charlie in my clothes and used my Barbie make up to turn him into Charlene. I made mudpies in my Little Lady oven and fed them to him. I read him stories and pinched his fat legs when my mother wasn't looking.
There was an old wing chair in our den. It was not placed strategically for TV viewing but it was the most comfortable chair in the room and therefore the most coveted. When I came home from school, I liked to curl up in the chair and watch Scooby-Doo or the Adams Family. I was about 7 now and Charlie was 3. We actually fit into the chair rather nicely together but the novelty of having a little brother had long worn off and I was weary with sharing. One final time, Charlie pushed and shoved his way into the chair with me and I pushed him back out. He let out a shriek and I ran to my room, unsure of the gravity of the situation. A staple from the upholstery had come undone - a large upholstery staple. It sliced through Charlie's right thigh. He bled upon the cream floral fabric. He bears a scar and I can still remember being spanked.
Many years later, after we had moved to Lexington, VA, Charlie and I fought our way through my early adolescence but when our parents divorced, we found a strange mutually parental relationship. We took care of each other. I taught him how to drive, on Sunday mornings down our old country road to the house where we no longer lived. He asked Raleigh Mason, my crush, to take us both out to dinner for his 12th birthday; it didn't work though - Raleigh never asked me out.
Then I embarked on my circuitous college route, crisscrossing the midwest trying to find the right school which would magically rid me of my nagging depression. Charlie himself sunk into a dark place that neither of us have ever discussed. We exchanged a few letters when he was sent, briefly, to boarding school and talked shortly when I called home. Our paths were no longer convergent.
I stumbled blindly through my twenties but I did reestablish my friendship with Charlie while he was at Ole Miss. Our lives were more parallel now, with deadlines and failing relationships.
I don't think Charlie knew quite what to do when I landed at the psych ward at UVA. I supposed I was a bit like a bird with broken wings...you know you can't pick the bird up and bandage it. The best you can do is feed it and let it heal by itself. I knew he was there even if neither one of us knew what he should do.
When I had healed sufficiently, I told my family I was moving to DC. This was met with much concern. I was not whole yet and wouldn't be for many more years and I had to fight to function. Even though, I managed to find fulfilling work and friends and kept my head down. Somehow, I ran into Tim.
Charlie was unimpressed that Tim's favorite band was Pearl Jam and even less impressed that he drove a red Ford Escort. He nearly doubled over when I brought Tim to his first Ole Miss game, in 98 degree heat, wearing a tie. They fell into an easy friendship, one that has been tested and solidified.
Charlie is my best friend and my husband's best friend. He is my little brother but at times he was the father I needed. No one, ever, will be a better Daddy.
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