Right.
I don’t know why I can’t just tell him to go to hell, within the confines of my mind. Why I can’t let go of my fear over the journal and accept this whole incident as a second chance that I desperately needed. I’ve been wanting to escape Charlie’s pull for way longer than the past two weeks; I was planning on telling him a heck of a lot more than just Go to hell before he disappeared. I’d planned to confront him, tell him I was through with everything no matter what the consequences. So I can’t understand this attachment I’m feeling, now that he’s gone. I guess I just have to get my journal, and maybe also get confirmation of his death, for closure. It’s true that not knowing what happened the day he died—and not having a body to prove he’s gone—is driving me a little crazy.
Now Lena and I are hanging out in a bustling open-air café in Colaba, a neighborhood in South Mumbai, waiting until our hotel opens up. It’s called Café Leopold, and it has all kinds of American comfort foods mixed in with traditional Indian fare. I order jalape?o cheesy bread. Lena’s in the bathroom now, washing her hands. The air is hot and oppressive; it’s over ninety degrees, with only a few fans to cool the customers. The tables around ours are packed with sweating bodies, and shouted commands ring out from the kitchen in the back. The chaos of it makes me dizzy; I’ve never felt at the mercy of a place until now. Mumbai conveys this sense that anything could happen at any time: I have to be on high alert. But I’m feeling like my life has started to spiral out of control, and I no longer have any idea what I want out of it. I’m just along for the twister.
The thing is, it’s exciting. It’s the first time I’ve ever leapt before I looked, and especially with a girl my age, someone whom I find myself liking more and more. Of course, I’m nervous about what we’ll find. I’m also nervous about how my parents will be when I go home to Illinois. I start college in less than two weeks. When I checked my email using the airport wifi—in Heathrow, not Mumbai; it’s becoming obvious that Internet’s going to be spotty in Mumbai, at best—I had this chipper email from my future roommate at Georgetown:
Hey Aubrey! So psyched to be your roomie next year! I saw on your profile that you’re into art, that’s totally cool! I’m a dancer, and I was on the state championship cheer squad too this year! I’m going to try out for the pom squad for sure! Write back so we can coordinate stuff to bring. I’ve got a huge comfy beanbag chair and some plastic stacking shelves we can use to keep food on! Talk soon, can’t WAIT! xoxoxo
I didn’t respond because, well, I just don’t think I can match that level of chipper right now; and anyway, I feel like I’m a million miles from college and all the stuff I’m supposed to be excited about. And I’m excited about the wrong stuff: like being in this noisy café with its bullet holes in the windows and inching closer and closer to—what? Disaster? Thinking about what will unfold if we do find out what happened to Charlie is like anticipating a tsunami, but I’ve never not been a masochist. The relief of having my journal back will be worth it anyway, no matter what happens. That’s what I have to keep reminding myself. That’s what I told myself when I dashed off a two-line email to my parents, letting them know I’m not in Europe anymore.
“God,” Lena says, pulling out her chair and squeezing in carefully, because it’s only an inch from the person behind her. “Look at all these lame tourist outfits.” A bunch of bangles slip back from her wrist to her forearm as she motions around us; and for the first time, I see the teeny-tiny, jagged image of a sheep tattooed across her wrist, no wider than my thumbnail.
“You kind of fit right in,” I say without thinking. Lena glowers. But it’s true—when she’s not wearing slutty dresses, she seems to favor loose, baggy, printed pants and these oversize tanks that show off whatever Day-Glo bra she has on. The others here are wearing basically the same thing except for the Day-Glo part, and lots of people are tattooed or pierced. “I meant it as a compliment!” I backtrack. “But it is a little weird how everyone’s dressed the way you think tourists in India will be dressed.” We both know I am trying to win her back. I like Lena, though. More and more. Part of the reason I like her is because she’s so open with me, despite that she could easily have seen me as an adversary. She’s the one who wanted me to come along to London. She might have been angry that Charlie took me into his life, but she never blamed me or made me feel bad about it. She’s also never made me feel judged. Even when she teases me for being nerdy, she’s almost affectionate about it. With her I feel less afraid. I feel myself emerging from my shell.