Charlie St. Cloud Part 20

Querencia. She liked the way that sounded, and the lilt of the syllables brought back fragments of memory and meaning. "Querencia. Spanish, safe place."

"Yes!" the man said. "You're right. It's Spanish."

She was trying to focus. More thoughts were taking shape.

"Water," she said. "I'm thirsty."

The man hurried to the sink and poured her a gla.s.s. Gently, he held it to her lips, and she took a sip, swirling the cool liquid in her mouth. She squinted toward the window, where the branches of a tree were blowing in the wind. "Window," she said.

"Yes, window."

"Open it, please."

The man rushed over, threw the bolt, and slid it up. "There you go."

An amazing breeze wafted into the room, and Tess closed her eyes as it rustled her hair and soothed her. Water and wind. Yes, she loved them both.

The man reached for the phone. "I'm calling your mom. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. "Mom."

The man punched the numbers and began to speak rapidly. She couldn't follow what he was saying. When he put it down, she asked, "Who are you? Doctor?"

"It's me, Charlie. Remember?"

She didn't remember. Her memory was blank.

"Tess, please, try to think back," he was saying. "It's me, Charlie."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I just don't remember . . ." Then she saw tears streaming down his face. Why was he crying? "What's wrong?" she said.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just so happy to see you."

Tess smiled, and this time her face didn't feel so taut. "Your name?" she said. "What's your name?"

"Charlie St. Cloud."

Charlie St. Cloud. She crinkled her nose. Things were coming back faster now. Files were opening in her brain. "St. Cloud," she said. "Not a Marblehead name."

"You're right," he answered. "Minnesota. Long story too."

"I like stories," she said.

And then Charlie sat down beside her and explained how his name came from a Mississippi River town where his mother had grown up. The original St. Cloud was a sixth-century French prince who renounced the world to serve G.o.d after his brothers were murdered by an evil uncle.

Tess liked the deep timbre of his voice. It reminded her of someone but she couldn't place it. When he was done telling her the story, she reached out and touched his hand. It felt so warm and strong.

"The Patriots have a big game this weekend," he was saying. "You love football, remember?" She studied his gentle face with a dimple in one cheek. There was something different about this man.

"Tell me another story, Charlie."

"Anything you want," he said, and he began to talk of sailing around the world to distant places like the Marquesas, Tuamotu Islands, Tonga, and Fiji.

Every word came like comfort, so she eased back into the pillows and basked in the warmth of Charlie's caramel eyes. Slowly, her edges began to soften, and she wondered how she already knew that she could listen to this man for a very long time.

It was past midnight.

The doctors had finished checking Tess and, incredibly, had determined that her physical and cognitive functions were intact, and her memory would likely return to normal.

A writer and photographer from the Reporter Reporter had rushed over to ask questions and snap pictures for a special edition of the paper. Tink and the crew from the sail loft had paraded through with encouragement and news from the company. Her joy exceeding her energy, Grace had finally gone to sleep on a pullout cot in the next room. had rushed over to ask questions and snap pictures for a special edition of the paper. Tink and the crew from the sail loft had paraded through with encouragement and news from the company. Her joy exceeding her energy, Grace had finally gone to sleep on a pullout cot in the next room.

Now all was quiet.

Wide awake in the waiting room, Charlie stared at the fish tank with its neon tetras darting back and forth. Grateful as he was that she was back, his mind stuck on one question: Would she remember him?

Their first kiss . . .

Their night in each other's arms . . .

As friends and family surrounded her that evening, Charlie had watched as she gradually recalled Querencia' Querencia's struggle against the storm. She had even started planning her next solo race around the world, calculating that it would take one year to outfit a new boat and to train properly. Whenever her gaze turned to Charlie in the back of the room-and it was often-she had smiled but seemed unsure who he was or why he was there.

Who could blame her?

The doors opened across the waiting room, and a nurse beckoned in a hushed voice, "She's asking for you, Charlie."

"What?"

"She wants to see you."

He covered the distance to her bedside in what seemed like five steps. Amazingly, she was sitting up, her face softly illuminated by the night-light. "I'm glad you're still here," she said.

"I'm glad you are too," Charlie answered.

She was studying him intensely. Finally she said, "So you're the one who found me."

"I guess that's true."

"After everyone had given up?"

"Pretty much."

"I need to know something," she said. "It's important."

"Yes, I confess, I'm a Red Sox fan," he said with a smile.

She threw her head back and laughed. "I can forgive that," she said, "but there's one thing I can't remember."

"What's that?"

"How we met."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," she said. "Tell me our story."

"Well," he recalled, "it starts in Waterside Cemetery where a brave and beautiful sailmaker complained to the caretaker about a disturbance of the peace." Charlie smiled. "The charming fellow tried to explain the importance of his geese-management program, but the unimpressed sailor only laughed."

And so Charlie tenderly described their first encounters from a candlelit dinner with a Ted Williams cake to a midnight walk with weeping willows and a marble mausoleum. As her eyes registered every detail, he was filled with hope. He had let go of the past and reclaimed his life. And now, the greatest blessing of all, he and Tess were starting over.

AFTERWORD.

I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES, AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY. BELIEVE IN MIRACLES, AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY.

I stand on a sloping hill in Waterside Cemetery, a place Charlie loved and shaped with his own hands. The seagulls fly in force. The iron gates stand open. A girl hangs upside down from an oak. A fuzzy old man puts a fistful of hollyhocks on his wife's grave.

That's the world you know. It's the one you can see when you pa.s.s by the cemetery in your town. It's the one that's real and rea.s.suring. But there's another world here too. I'm talking about what you and Charlie can't see yet, the level beyond the in between. It's a place called heaven, paradise, or nirvana-they're all the same, really-and it's where I came when I crossed over. It's where Mrs. Ruth Phipps can once again hold hands with her beloved Walter. It's where Barnaby Sweetland, the old caretaker of Waterside, can sing with the angels. And of course, it's where Sam and Oscar can explore the universe.

From this vantage point, I see everything now. My voice and thoughts are wind, and I send them toward Charlie. He's with Tess in North Sh.o.r.e Medical, where she gets stronger every day.

Yes, that's one of our abilities on this side-to glimpse, hear, and know all. We are everywhere. We experience everything. We rejoice when you rejoice. We're sad when you're sad. We grieve when you grieve. And when you hold on too long, it hurts us the same way it hurts you. I think of my wife, Francesca, and our son. I know it will take time and many tears, but I want them to move on. Someday she'll marry again and find new happiness.

There's Charlie now, making his way from the hospital to Logan Airport. He's going to visit his mother in Oregon. He'll tell her what he has learned living in the twilight and he'll explain how much of himself he lost after the accident. For all his efforts, his mom will never understand. She moved across the country, started a new life, and hoped to bury the accident in the past. But in the quiet moments of her days and nights, she can never escape that her younger son was taken too soon, and it's always too soon. She will never recover.

That is the inescapable math of tragedy and the multiplication of grief. Too many good people die a little when they lose someone they love. One death begets two or twenty or one hundred. It's the same all over the world.

Charlie will understand that it's his mother's choice whether to hold on or let go. You know that Charlie has chosen to live. After staying with his mom for a while, he'll come back to Marblehead and work with Engine Company 2 on Franklin Street. He'll travel around the world. Most of all, he'll make up for thirteen lost years and dive for dreams.

I'm reminded of Ecclesiastes and something I once told Charlie: "The Bible got it wrong. There isn't time in a man's life for everything."

That's right. Charlie doesn't have time. No one does. But he knows what's important now. First and foremost, he and Tess will fall in love again. They'll kiss for the first time. They'll sail the coral cays of Belize on their honeymoon. They'll settle down on Cloutman's Lane in the same house where he grew up. They'll have two sons. For the first time in forever, he'll wake up to a new beagle's bark every morning, with a feeling that the world is all right and everyone he cares about is safe and sound. He'll build his boys a playground with swings under a pine tree. He'll play a good game of catch with them every night, and he'll encourage them to race the moon and go on great adventures.

Charlie's gift of seeing the spirit world faded away just as soon as he and Sam released each other for the last time. But every day, he'll try to live with his eyes open to the other side, letting the possibility of miracles in. Sometimes he'll forget, but then he'll see a rope swinging on a pond, catch the Sox on the radio, or hear a dog yowl. He'll know Oscar and Sam are there.

That's death and life, you see. We all s.h.i.+ne on. You just have to release your hearts, alert your senses, and pay attention. A leaf, a star, a song, a laugh. Notice the little things, because somebody is reaching out to you. Qualcuno ti ama Qualcuno ti ama. Somebody loves you.

And one day-only G.o.d knows precisely when-Charlie will run out of time. He'll be an old man, floppy hair turned gray. He'll look back on his quietly remarkable life and know he made good on his promise. And then, like the 75 billion souls who lived before him, each and every one a treasure, he, too, will die.

When that day comes, we'll be waiting. Waiting for Charlie St. Cloud to come home to us. Until then we offer these parting words . . .

May he live in peace.

A NOTE ON SOURCES.

THE SETTINGS IN THIS STORY ARE REAL, AND I AM grateful to many good folks in Marblehead, Ma.s.sachusetts, for welcoming me to their town. Special thanks to F. Emerson Welch of the grateful to many good folks in Marblehead, Ma.s.sachusetts, for welcoming me to their town. Special thanks to F. Emerson Welch of the Reporter Reporter for fielding questions with Fraffian wit and cheer from dawn to dusk; b.u.mp Wilc.o.x of New Wave Yachts for steering a landlubber through imaginary Force 10 storms and the crew of for fielding questions with Fraffian wit and cheer from dawn to dusk; b.u.mp Wilc.o.x of New Wave Yachts for steering a landlubber through imaginary Force 10 storms and the crew of Loonatic Loonatic for a bruising victory in the Wednesday night races; and Kristen Heissenb.u.t.tel at Doyle Sailmakers for revealing the art and science of sail design. Appreciation also goes to Harbormaster Warner Hazell and his deputies; Bette Hunt and the Marblehead Historical Society; Commodore B. B. Crownins.h.i.+eld of the CBYC and Lynn Marine Supply; the firefighters of Engine 2 on Franklin Street; Ed Cataldo of Engine 5 in Revere; Todd Basch and Carol Wales of Doyle Sails; Marjorie Slattery-Sumner; Sheila Duncan (the original Woman Who Listens); Sally and Roger Plauche of Spray Cliff on the Ocean; Ruth and Skip Sigler of the Seagull Inn; Suzanne and Peter Conway of the Harbor Light Inn; and the regulars at the Barnacle, Driftwood, Landing, Maddie's, and Rip Tide. At the U.S. Coast Guard in Boston and Gloucester, a salute to Chief Petty Officers Steven Carriere, Tim Hudson, and Paul Wells, and Petty Officer Jared c.o.o.n for explaining search and rescue operations. At the Beverly Hills Fire Department, thanks to former Deputy Chief Mike Smollen for help with Hurst tools and Zoll defibrillators. for a bruising victory in the Wednesday night races; and Kristen Heissenb.u.t.tel at Doyle Sailmakers for revealing the art and science of sail design. Appreciation also goes to Harbormaster Warner Hazell and his deputies; Bette Hunt and the Marblehead Historical Society; Commodore B. B. Crownins.h.i.+eld of the CBYC and Lynn Marine Supply; the firefighters of Engine 2 on Franklin Street; Ed Cataldo of Engine 5 in Revere; Todd Basch and Carol Wales of Doyle Sails; Marjorie Slattery-Sumner; Sheila Duncan (the original Woman Who Listens); Sally and Roger Plauche of Spray Cliff on the Ocean; Ruth and Skip Sigler of the Seagull Inn; Suzanne and Peter Conway of the Harbor Light Inn; and the regulars at the Barnacle, Driftwood, Landing, Maddie's, and Rip Tide. At the U.S. Coast Guard in Boston and Gloucester, a salute to Chief Petty Officers Steven Carriere, Tim Hudson, and Paul Wells, and Petty Officer Jared c.o.o.n for explaining search and rescue operations. At the Beverly Hills Fire Department, thanks to former Deputy Chief Mike Smollen for help with Hurst tools and Zoll defibrillators.

The bulk of this book unfolds in Waterside Cemetery, where Headers will recognize I took liberties with the landscape. Many thanks go to Superintendent Bill James and his longtime predecessor Ben Woodfin. For the most unusual week of work and research in my life, I am indebted to John Toale Jr., Steven Sloane, Don Williams, and Susan Olsen of historic Woodlawn Cemetery in Bronx, New York. Without hesitation, they sent me out to mow lawns and carry caskets on their 400 acres. I thank the foremen, union shop stewards, and workers for always giving me a hand and going easy when my back was breaking. A special tip of my blue Woodlawn cap to grave diggers Bob Blackmore, Greg Link, and Ray Vicens for sharing the finer points of their craft and the daily gratuities. Appreciation also goes to Ken Taylor of Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York, for insights based on more than thirty-five years of working and living with the dead.

For illuminating the afterlife, I offer grat.i.tude to the incomparable Rosemary Altea, spirit medium and friend. Her bestselling books, including The Eagle and the Rose The Eagle and the Rose and and Proud Spirit, Proud Spirit, are marvels of insight and meaning. Along the way I learned much from many other works, including Peter Canning's are marvels of insight and meaning. Along the way I learned much from many other works, including Peter Canning's Rescue 471 Rescue 471; Linda Greenlaw's The Hungry Ocean The Hungry Ocean and and Lobster Chronicles Lobster Chronicles; Thomas Lynch's The Undertaking The Undertaking; Sherwin B. Nuland's How We Die How We Die; Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's On Death and Dying On Death and Dying; John Rousmaniere's Fastnet, Force 10 Fastnet, Force 10; and Studs Terkel's Will the Circle Be Unbroken? Will the Circle Be Unbroken? On the Internet, I turned often to the On the Internet, I turned often to the Marblehead Reporter Marblehead Reporter; Marblehead Magazine Marblehead Magazine; Griefnet; Beyond Indigo; and City of the Silent, the remarkable cemetery website. For Sam and Charlie's wordplay, I drew on The Was.h.i.+ngton Post The Was.h.i.+ngton Post's "Style Invitational" of May 1998 asking readers to redefine words from the dictionary. For Florio's reflections on Ecclesiastes, I was inspired by Yehuda Amichai's poem, "A Man in His Life."

For a photo tour of the settings in this story and more information on sources, please visit www.bensherwood.com.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

THIS BOOK IS ABOUT SECOND CHANCES, AND I'M grateful to many friends and colleagues for helping with mine. Thanks go first to my far-flung writing pals. Alan Levy, cyber officemate, was there every day with bold ideas, humor, and encouragement; Barry Edelstein gave the gifts of uncommon friends.h.i.+p, intelligence, and dramaturgy; Maxine Paetro counseled with her exalted perspective and flair; Akiva Goldsman showed how to break out of the box; Gary Ross asked impossible questions; John Bowe reminded if it isn't hard, it isn't worth it; and Bruce Feiler guided with brilliant strategy and tactics and led the way to greater meaning with his penetrating mind and work. Grat.i.tude also to J. J. Abrams, Bob Dolman, and Stan Pottinger. grateful to many friends and colleagues for helping with mine. Thanks go first to my far-flung writing pals. Alan Levy, cyber officemate, was there every day with bold ideas, humor, and encouragement; Barry Edelstein gave the gifts of uncommon friends.h.i.+p, intelligence, and dramaturgy; Maxine Paetro counseled with her exalted perspective and flair; Akiva Goldsman showed how to break out of the box; Gary Ross asked impossible questions; John Bowe reminded if it isn't hard, it isn't worth it; and Bruce Feiler guided with brilliant strategy and tactics and led the way to greater meaning with his penetrating mind and work. Grat.i.tude also to J. J. Abrams, Bob Dolman, and Stan Pottinger.

Profound appreciation to friends who read at many stages: Rebecca Ascher-Walsh, David Doss, Lynn Harris, Joannie Kaplan, Steve Kehela, Christy Prunier, Kim Roth, Jennifer Sherwood, and Jamie Ta.r.s.es.

Once more, I am privileged to be published by the Bantam family. Publisher Irwyn Applebaum and Senior Editor Danielle Perez deserve medals of valor for seeing Charlie St. Cloud through his unruly childhood and disobedient adolescence and for their unwavering care in helping find the story I meant to write from the beginning. Special commendations to Barb Burg and Susan Corcoran, friends, psychologists, and advocates.

At Picador in Britain, fistfuls of flowers to Ursula Doyle, Stephanie Sweeney, and Candice Voysey. In Los Angeles, an ovation to Marc Platt and Abby Wolf-Weiss for imagining Charlie St. Cloud on the silver screen, and to Donna Langley at Universal Pictures for being the book's champion.

Pages and pages of appreciation go to Joni Evans, supreme friend, coconspirator, and agent, who enriched every draft, deflected every bullet, and makes diving for dreams a reality. Boldface credit also to Alicia Gordon, Tracy Fisher, Andy McNiccol, Mich.e.l.le Bohan, and Mike Sheresky.

Great grat.i.tude goes to friends who aided and abetted along the way: Jonathan Barzilay; Jane and Marcus Buckingham; Chrissy, Priscilla, and Norm Colvin; Beth de Guzman; Sara Demenkoff; Debby Goldberg; Meg Greengold; Cindy Guidry; Suzy Landa; Ruth Jaffe; Mary Jordan; Barry Rosenfeld; Julie and Mark Rowen; Melissa Thomas; and Joe Torsella. A bow to David Segal for expert music recommendations. Dov Seidman, entrepreneur and chess adversary, deserves special recognition for urging a deeper investment. SPF-15 to Kristin Mannion and H. P. Goldfield for Whimsea. And a kiss to the late Phyllis Levy, who helped inspire this book and watches over from above.

Now a few words to my family. Once more, my mother, Dorothy Sherwood, attacked the ma.n.u.script with her relentless pencil and exacting standards, chomping on every word. Her talent as an editor is surpa.s.sed only by her genius as a parent. Jeffrey Randall, my generous and indefatigable neurosurgeon brother-in-law, kept the twenty-four-hour medical hotline open for every sort of professional and personal emergency. Someday my young nephews Richard and William Randall will read this story, and I wish them a sibling bond as rich, strong, and sustaining as the one I share with their accomplished and exceptional mother-my s.h.i.+ning sister-Elizabeth Sherwood Randall. Our connection, forged in countless childhood adventures, informed much of this book, as did the memory of our father, Richard Sherwood, who vanished too soon but whose presence we feel every day.

Finally, this novel is dedicated to my wife, Karen Kehela Sherwood, whose heart, mind, and rare storytelling gifts grace every page. She is my querencia querencia-my sunny spot, safe harbor, and true love.

ALSO BY BEN SHERWOOD.

The Man Who Ate the 747

THE DEATH AND LIFE OF CHARLIE ST. CLOUD.

A Bantam Book / March 2004