The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

The door wrenches open suddenly, and Charlotte lunges at me. She plucks the phone from my hand and nearly yells into my CO’s ear. “He’s not separating. Forget that he called you.”

She punches the disconnect button and throws the phone on the bed. I make a grab for it, but she blocks me.

“What the hell, Charlotte?” I bellow.

“You’re not quitting,” she shouts back. Her hands are fisted by her sides, but her tears have stained her face. The mascara has created black circles around her eyes, and there are wet tracks down her cheeks.

“Fuck I’m not.” I snatch the phone up, but she clutches my arm and then starts to sob. “Fuck, okay, I won’t quit.” I’m bewildered and heartbroken and would do anything to make her stop crying. Collapsing on the bed, I hug her shaking body into mine. The tears I refuse to shed are burning the back of my eyelids and scorching my throat. Hoarsely I whisper stupid, meaningless things in her ears. That we’re going to be all right. That this is just a temporary setback. That she’s going to beat this.

She feels tiny and fragile in my arms. What did we do to deserve this? Hasn’t she suffered enough?

We lie together for hours until the phone rings. Charlotte rolls onto her back and covers her eyes with an arm. I thumb the answer button, put it on speaker, and rest the phone between us.

“You have osteosarcoma in the proximal tibia. It’s unrelated to the childhood brain tumor, and it’s just really unlucky.” The doctor’s voice is matter of fact, as if he isn’t announcing that Charlotte’s body is full of death-inducing cells. “Recommended treatment is a course of aggressive chemotherapy followed by resection of any remaining tumor. It’s smaller, and I feel we have a good chance of beating this, Charlotte.”

She hasn’t moved. I wonder if she’ll ever move again. Picking up the phone, I walk out of the bedroom. “It’s Nate Jackson, her fiancé. Charlotte is—she can’t come to the phone. What’s next?”

“We’d like to have her start chemo this Friday. We’ll do six weeks and then consider resection.”

“And is resection your way of saying amputation?” I ask grimly, wanting all the details laid out in brutal detail so I know exactly what we’re dealing with. It’s the only way I’ll be able to deal with this. But I forget where I am and behind me I hear a gasp. Cursing silently I turn to see her leaning against the door frame, a hand covering her mouth.

“Yes, below the knee if the drug therapy does its job.”

“Thanks.” I pocket the phone and stride over to her, lifting her into my arms. “It’s going to be okay, baby.” The worthless words fall out. She snorts and then struggles to her feet.

“Tell me what they said.”

The lump in my own throat is making it hard to talk. “Chemo and then amputation of the leg, hopefully below the knee.”

Would it help to tell her about all the veterans who’ve suffered a loss of limb and how they’re doing amazing things? I’m at a loss. She walks in a circuit around her living room, touching a few items: a signed football, a tall thin orange vase, a piece of driftwood.

“Your mom and I found this one day when we were walking. A year after Nick and I graduated, I was so lonely. I’d call her up, and we’d drive up to the house and take long walks along the shore. This piece was lying on the sand, and she picked it up and carried it back to the house. When I got home I realized she had stuck it in my car. There was a note in it that said that no matter what happened between you and me, I’d still be the daughter of her heart.”

Her fingers curl around a small branch. “A couple of years later, when it looked like you were never coming back, she called me and said that I was the bravest girl she’d ever known and not to give up on my dreams. We never spoke of you again after that.” She swallows. “I just don’t know if I can be brave again.”

The wood cracks and she stumbles. I leap over the back of the sofa and catch her.

“You don’t have to be brave. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I put Charlotte to bed, wipe my wet eyes and pick up the phone. The first call is to Nick.

“No,” he says in disbelief. “No! Fucking not happening.” There’s a crash of something heavy being thrown against the wall. He screams profanities for a full minute. I clutch the phone in my hand, wanting to rail at the sky, God, every deity that anyone ever acknowledged. My throat is raw from all the emotions I’ve swallowed down. When he winds down, he pants, “I’m coming down.”