“He’s up to something,” she says, tapping her canvas shoe against the deck. She’s not talking about Charlie, but somehow it triggers the memory of what she’s just told me about Charlie’s suicide note, and I’m overcome with a lightheaded, surreal feeling that I guess must be shock. I want to kill Lena for bringing me on this crazy journey, for keeping such an important secret. And I want to talk about Charlie, really talk about him for the first time since we’ve come here. There’s got to be something we’re missing. I open my mouth to say more, but Anand’s back, carrying two frothy glasses of Kingfisher, which he places in front of us with a smile. Lena’s smile in return is big and fake.
“Don’t drink that,” she whispers once he’s walked away, humming under his breath. “He could have put something in it.”
“You really think he would?”
“Never know.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “He’s seriously pissed off. He could do anything.”
“But he said—”
“Come here.” Lena cuts me off and motions toward the narrow ladder that leads to the upper deck. She climbs the ladder and I follow her, taking a few tentative bounces on the first rung to make sure it’s stable despite its rotted appearance. When I reach the top after her, and peer past her just-disappearing Toms, I have to stop myself from gasping. It’s a beautiful open-air view from the top deck, and the water stretches ahead of us in a pattern of blue and gray. We’re coasting by small stretches of land that punctuate the water. It seems impossible, but several of them hold equally small huts, maybe six feet wide at most. Outside one of them, an old woman hangs clothing on a line that’s strung between two spindly trees.
“I can’t believe people live there,” says Lena, following my gaze from where she’s plopped herself onto a patterned cushion at the front of the deck.
“Everything’s different now,” I find myself saying. I guess I’m offended by her conversational tone, by how easily she slips back into normalcy, especially after what happened with Anand. I’m still shaken from the scare, and now that we’re alone, my rage comes tumbling out. I feel tears beginning to burn at the backs of my eyes, and there’s a sense that I can’t control what I might say next. “Don’t you get what you just did to me? How could you have lied to me this whole time?”
“It almost doesn’t matter what any of us did anymore,” Lena says, her voice sharp. “So many things have gone wrong.” She draws her knees up under her chin. “I’m sorry for telling you that way. I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t keep it in any more after I saw you with Adam. It felt like . . . like you just carelessly used me to get to him. I know that what Charlie was doing to us both wasn’t any better. But after being used by him, I can’t stand that I let myself be used by you. Charlie was my life, and now he’s gone, and I feel so lost. I thought you and I were becoming friends. I thought something good could have come from all this. But now I just feel stupid.” Her voice is firm despite the intensity of her words.
“I’m sorry, Lena. I am. It was wrong. But I wasn’t trying to use you. I didn’t plan what happened with Adam. I hate that I hurt you. I want us to get past it.” I pause, frustrated and confused. “But why didn’t his parents tell anyone? And why, after this, are you still doubting that he’s dead?”
“I was the one who found the letter,” Lena starts. “About a week before his memorial service, just a few days after he disappeared. When I went to his parents’ place. I went there to drop off food, see if they needed any help with anything, just . . . you know, just to be there. His parents were important to me. I didn’t see them much, but when I did, they were so kind.” Lena looks away, blinking back tears. My whole body is trembling as if there’s nothing substantial holding it together. The world that looked so lovely not long ago is turning extra bright, then black, the edges of the boat blending together and collapsing in on themselves, as I process Lena’s story.
“I went up to his room,” she continues. “It was pretty bare, nothing on the walls, no decorations—like the way he kept all his other rooms, in the dorms, the apartments in the cities. It was almost like a hotel room. But there was this one drawer he always kept full of little items from his childhood. He didn’t know I knew about it. Or at least, that’s what I always thought. I used to look through it when he was in the shower or whatever. He had, like, a collector’s edition of baseball cards. And some other junky things from when he was a kid: an Archie comic, a Christmas list. A note from a girl he liked in elementary school. A birthday card his parents gave him. And there on top of everything was something I’d never seen before.” Lena is crying now; the tears are streaming down her cheeks and onto her collarbone, and she’s wiping them away with both palms but not nearly fast enough.
“Tell me,” I say. I’m not sure I want to hear, but I know I have to. There’s no going back.
“There was this letter addressed to his mom. It was taped shut and it hadn’t been there the last time I visited, so I guess I kind of knew what it was. There was a stamp on it, like he was planning on mailing it at some point and never did. I knew what it was, Aubrey.” She looks up at me, her eyes less angry and more pleading. “I read it. It was a suicide note. I thought about hiding it.”