I gave him one more squeeze and stood. “Coffee with milk and sugar?” I said.
“Coach Henrik said no sugar,” he said, eyes still closed.
“So just a little,” I said.
“Mmmmm,” said Charlie, his assent.
Charlie had discovered track and cross-country during his freshman year. He was a natural runner, and most amazingly, he loved it. It had been hard for me to afford the expensive shoes his friends wore, but I told myself I would pay down the Visa debt (and my lingering student loans) someday. “I’ll be sponsored soon,” Charlie promised.
He never seemed embarrassed that he had no dad, that we were barely surviving on the money I pretended came only from freelance writing. My latest project was a collaboration with a local chef named Samantha, who combined Texan, slow-smoked meats with her mother’s Thai recipes. Charlie seemed (how could this be true?) to be proud of me, stopping by Sam’s restaurant, Thai Tex, with his friends, giving me a hug and saying once, “See? I told you she was writing a cookbook.” Charlie and Whitney’s daughter, Roma, did their homework some afternoons at a table right near the kitchen where Sam and I tested recipes, even though Roma had a giant “princess-themed” bedroom at home.
One of the hardest things about ghostwriting for chefs (especially famous ones) is getting the voice right. In the bestscenarios, I can switch from my own stream-of-consciousness into the mind of whatever chef I’m working with. I sit down with a cup of coffee, close my eyes, and channel Vince Romaldi (My Mama’s Meatballs,bestseller); Tracey Wills (EvenMoreOne-Pot Pasta Recipes;bestseller that led to theOne Pot with Traceycooking show on HGTV); or Kazra “The Sushi Queen” Tamiko, whose Roll Your Own book spent three weeks on the Nonfiction Bestseller list.
Kazra barely speaks English. After my trying to contact her for months, she’d emailed me the Wikipedia page for “sushi,” flown me to her Tokyo home for lunch prepared by her mother (who spoke no English), given me access to her Apple photo stream, and told me to write whatever I wanted. The stories I’d conjured about her day-to-day life and her mother’s hardscrabble upbringing had hit the right note: I was already under contract to ghostwrite her next two Roll Your Own books. (Roll Your Own, Breakfast Rolls for Easy MorningsandRoll Your Own, Sweet & Savory.)
But first I had to finish Sam’s book, tentatively titled “Thai Cuisine for the Home Cook.” (I knew we’d need to gussy up the name, though Sam was absolutely opposed to puns and rhymes using the word “Thai,” like “Thai Me Up” or “Try My Thai.”) I was thinking one word could be evocative, like “papaya” or “lemongrass.” Sam was in her mid-fifties, and I could just see her elegant profile with one word in a bright, slanted font. When I wrote “as” Sam, I used calming, lyrical prose.
—
I MADE CHARLIE’S COFFEEas I heard him brush his teeth in the bathroom we shared. He lumbered into the kitchen in a Howler Brothers T-shirt (he saved up to buy four or five of the iconic Austin brand’s shirts at their annual warehouse sale; today’s featured a monkey wearing a bike helmet) andshorts. I put sliced melon on the table, as well as a bowl of mini-boxes of sugary cereals.
“Thanks, Mom,” said Charlie, sipping. “Can I drive today?”
“OK,” I said, though I hated Charlie driving. I was terrified from the moment I got in the passenger seat. He was a fine driver, even a good driver, but I couldn’t help but feel as if we were about to get in an accident at every intersection.
“Have…” said Charlie, his voice fading out. He swallowed. “Have you heard from the police?”
“No,” I said. “And, honey, we won’t hear from them.”
The boys had told us that they’d entered the greenbelt via an unmarked trail off Winifred Avenue, headed to jump off the Cliffs, and had seen a woman’s body at the edge of the water. At first, they’d thought she was asleep. They tried to wake her, performed mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions. When they couldn’t revive her, they biked home. They were still little kids, too scared to handle the situation on their own. We’d all vowed to erase the night from our memories and move on.
There was nothing else to tell, the boys had insisted. There was nothing else.
Still, a part of me felt nauseous, worried despite my assurances to Charlie.
He was quiet as he drove to work. Charlie had seemed down lately—I’d thought about trying to force some sort of heart-to-heart, but if I could avoid more awkward emotional conversations, I was all too ready to do so.
I wish I had made him tell me what he was thinking, what he was dealing with, who he loved. But I was weary. I had to walk three dogs in Northwest Hills before I could work on Sam’s cookbook. I didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that my son could be involved with a dead body. So I kept quiet, too.
Is it every mother’s impulse to look away—look anywhere else—rather than delve into jagged details? Do the mothers of convicted murderers believe that their children are guilty? I don’t thinkmymom even suspected I was planning a permanent escape.
There is a space, I think, between understanding that we are all alone—unknowable—and acknowledging this lonely truth. Some of us live forever in this space. I certainly tried.
—
CHARLIE HAD HAD HISlearner’s permit for nine months, and was due to get his license on his birthday, though we had only one car so it wouldn’t change his lifestyle much. He was saving for a car of his own, he’d told me: an electric car that wouldn’t hurt the Earth. I didn’t remind him that electricity came from somewhere, too.
“What are you doing after work?” I said. “Hanging out with Roma?” My son had been close to Xavier and his sister since infancy, though Roma seemed to be growing up faster than Charlie, with her heavy eyeliner, intimidating glare, and tiny skirts. For a while, I’d thought Charlie and Roma might be romantically involved, and though Roma was strange, I welcomed this possible union, even pushed it. But lately, Charlie had been resisting spending time with Whitney’s daughter.
Charlie had brought home a boy named Amir a few months before, someone he’d met at school, but Amir was cagey when I asked him where he lived and mentioned that he was a senior (not a sophomore like Charlie and “the ThreeMusketeers”). Later, I had a talk with Charlie about choosing friends who were right for him, and I hadn’t seen Amir since.
“Roma emailed me that she lost her phone, so she’s getting a new one and seeing a movie at the mall,” said Charlie.“But I got an extra shift at Deep Eddy, so I can’t go.” And then, as if he could sense the hurt I wassureI was hiding, he added, quickly, “I’m glad I have a job. It’s so much better to be real.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I said. “What would I do without you?”
He climbed from the car, opening the back door and grabbing his backpack. I got out of the passenger seat and he gave me a hug. “You’d be a mess, Mom,” he said. “You’d be lost.”
He gave me a smooch on the cheek to let me know he was kidding, but he was absolutely right. As I drove toward my dog-walking job, I thought idly about how empty my life would be without Charlie. I would do anything to keep him safe.
