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Chapter 33 - Oblivion
Mr Campbell's special dinner, or his hour alone with her, never came. As the two of them were considering leaving the garden to begin preparations for dinner the normally calm and unflappable Bosker erupted out of the depths of the apartment. As soon as Charlotte heard the large steel door to the garden clang open she knew something was wrong; a deep acidic burning began in her stomach. Time slowed down as seconds seemingly became hours. She wondered exactly how it was that she knew something was wrong, but it was. Instantly she began to fear for the worst and the gnawing burn in her stomach intensified.
The butler approached rapidly, concern clearly visible on his normally deadpan face. To Charlotte though, it seemed as though his relatively short journey from the door to the gazebo took eons. She barely even registered his words as he spoke, she already knew what he would say: her father was dead. Suddenly an eruption of grief overwhelmed her as she began screaming out in primordial pain. She shut out the world around her and screamed into the void – feeling as though an enormous part of her had suddenly been rent from her and torn asunder. So stripped apart from reality was she that she didn't even notice as she began pounding Mr Campbell's chest with her fists as he attempted to console her. Nor did she consciously notice when he carried her back into the apartment after she collapsed into an emotionless stupor on the gravel of the garden's boulevard – drained of tears and of void of any emotion except despondency and despair.
---
Those first few days after the news of her father's passing were hazy, her recollections almost completely void of meaningful memories. She remembered a strange face, a doctor who had been brought in to examine her. He'd given her an injection and then quietly spoken in the corner to Mr Campbell as she drifted off into a grey night of dreamless sleep. She also remembered awakening, thinking for a few seconds that she'd just had a terrible nightmare. But one look into Mr Campbell's face as he sat at her bedside retold the bitter truth and again she descended into a wild inhuman fit of screams and sobbing anew.
Days had passed, how many she didn't know. There had been a procession of injections on that first night as she'd submerged and re-emerged from the dark waters of her subconscious. Each time as she awoke she wondered for a split second whether she'd been the victim of a terribly convincing nightmare. Each time the brutal reality came crashing back to her and her pain would begin over again. Slowly the injected sedatives were replaced by pills which she swallowed down whenever Bosker or Mr Campbell finally convinced her to eat some food.
Eventually she began to emerge from her state of despondency. Slowly regaining an appreciation of her surroundings and gradually beginning to again resemble a semi-functioning human being.
But due process and form stop for no-one, even the recently bereaved. So only a small count of days after the fateful phone call from the hospital, Charlotte found herself back on a flight home with Bosker acting as her chaperone. No-one said anything about Mr Campbell's absence from the funeral, least of all Charlotte. He'd offered an excuse that he simply couldn't leave his business at this crucial moment. Charlotte accepted it without a word. They both knew the real truth however: she blamed him for her father's death. He'd stolen her away from his bedside – torn her away from what had turned out to be his deathbed. Deprived her father of her presence in his last hours as Mr Campbell had kept her imprisoned in his apartment for his own perverse purposes. The pain of her loss was only shadowed by her newfound hatred at Mr Campbell's act of selfishness.
Never again would she be able to fade off to sleep in front of Sports Center with her head resting against her father's chest. Nor would she ever be able to go to a basketball game with him, cheering on their favourite team together. A hundred memories kept pouring through her, both of happy and sad times. Each memory further gouged into the raw wound of her soul that her father's passing had left her. She regretted those words she'd occasionally said in the heat of anger, regretted that she'd never be able to retract them, or been able to apologize… never be able to tell him that she loved him again.
It was all Mr Campbell's fault.
On one level her rational mind suggested that Mr Campbell hadn't caused her father's car accident, nor that he had caused her father to pass into the next world. But the quiet logic was a faint whisper against the brutal screaming of a soul tortured by a loss she'd never before encountered. Everything in the world seemed emptier, colorless and drab. Gone from her existence was any joy or light or happiness. All that remained was pain and anguish.
It was in this state of mind that Charlotte finally returned to her home. Bosker trailed behind her with a single suitcase as she let herself into the home that she had shared with her father. The butler's presence was the result of yet another unspoken agreement with Mr Campbell. She needed someone with her to look after her, to ensure she ate and took her sleeping pills, to make sure that she could continue to function in the days that lay ahead of her. Although Mr Campbell was listed as the executor of the estate, Charlotte had taken it upon herself to arrange the funeral – yet again a decision that Mr Campbell agreed to without debate.
She walked like a ghost through the empty house, taking notice of the smallest hints that her father had once been here. An empty glass left on the arm of his favourite sofa, a Wall Street Journal left open on the floor of the toilet. Echoes and memories of him haunted her. Finally she came to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed, bawling anew as she smelt his particular scent on the pillows. Bosker stood quietly in the doorway watching over her as she clutched the pillow to her chest and softly cried herself to sleep on her father's bed.
---
"For as long as I can remember he was always there for me. My daddy and I had a special bond. A bond forged through family at first, but then through respect and of course love. He never questioned who I was. He supported me no matter what.
"I remember when I was six a boy called Kevin stole my lunch pail. Those of you who know me won't be surprised to know that I didn't take kindly to having my lunch stolen by a boy who thought he was better than me. I broke his nose.
"The principal of the school called my Dad down to the school and I sat in a big chair while the Principal started lecturing Dad. She was telling him that punching people in the nose was no way for a young girl to carry on, that I had 'anger management' issues and that my teachers thought I was strange. Dad didn't even say a word, he just took my hand and walked out of that office leaving the principal in mid sentence. I never went back to that school. Dad wasn't going to hear a bad word said about me.
"We sat in the car on the way home and Dad told me something I'll never forget, he said: 'Charlie, don't you ever let anyone ever try and tell you who you are or who you should be. Only you can do that.' I didn't understand that at the time, not really: but now I do."
Charlie stood at the podium in the chapel, her father's coffin behind her covered in flowers. Dozens upon dozens of family friends, her school acquaintances and her dad's work colleagues had packed into the chapel. She looked down at the words of her speech, afraid to look out at all the familiar faces, some wracked with grief and others displaying sincere sympathy. This was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, but every time she felt the back of her throat choke up or a tear begin to form she thought about how proud her dad would be if she could finish the eulogy without breaking down.
"Dad was a quiet guy, he liked his sport and loved his basketball. A vice that his daughter voraciously took up with equal passion. Some of my fondest memories are just of the two of us sitting at home in front of the television. Him sipping on a Miller while I sat on the floor between his knees - goading our boys on. I guess we were a simple family, but one with more love and kindness than many others.
"I also know that after long years of loneliness he's now gone to heaven. I never knew my mother, dad never really talked about her much, but I do know that he loved her with all his heart. Well, the bit that wasn't solely devoted to spoiling his daughter." A few mourners, those not distraught with grief, laughed at her little joke.
"I know that he loved her until the day he died and I guess that she loved him too. I know in my own heart that they are now together and that at least is some comfort in these dark days.
"Many of you here knew Dad well and I want to thank you all for coming to help say good bye to him. His work colleagues tell me that he was a hard working dedicated guy but that he always found opportunities to take time out and act as the comic relief at post-work drinks.
"I can see some of our church friends here and I'm grateful for all the support you've given me over the last few days. Dad was a quietly faithful man, one who got a great sense of satisfaction from helping out the church's good work in charity. Surprisingly I never knew just how much he helped out the church until a few days ago, because he never boasted about it like so many others do these days. He was content to help out others less fortunate without being heaped with praise or proclaiming his compassion from the rooftops. I think that in this he is a shining light of Christian compassion.
"So thank you all for coming, but I want to say these final words to Dad, and Mom if she's listening.
"You bought me into this world and loved me for who I am. Don't worry about me: the things you taught me, the love you gave me and the faith you placed in me have made it possible for you to be proud of me. I want you to know that I love you both, particularly you Daddy. You were always there for me, even when I was irrational or greedy or just plain unbearable. I wish I could say to you just one more time that I love you and see the light shine up out of your eyes. I wish so much, but I am content knowing that you are in heaven with Mom now. I pray that I can join you there one day as well."
Charlotte finally felt her throat tighten and the tears broach the emotional dam she had erected. She quickly grabbed up her speech and stepped down from the podium, with the most recent of many so many tears rolling down her cheek. She resumed her lonely seat on the front pew and didn't really hear the rest of the service. She just sat at the front of the chapel in her dark slacks and sombre jacket, her sunglasses pulled down over her eyes while she silently prayed for her father.
---
The last mourner finally left the house. After the service many of the churchgoers had returned to Charlotte's house for the wake. A quietly sombre atmosphere had permeated the house as various acquaintances and friends of Charlotte's father stood in small groups around plates of small sandwiches and urns of tea and coffee. Charlotte had done her best to get around to each and every one of them. She thanked them for coming and answered their asinine questions politely. Worse than the stupid questions though were those people who pretended they understood what she was going through. She felt like screaming at them, but politely accepted their failed attempts at empathy and promised to let them know if she needed someone to talk to.
Bosker was a god-send. He'd forgone his traditional butler suit and donned some more casual attire. As the caterers arranged by the funeral director had arrived he'd quickly taken over, directing the staff here and there, ensuring that the logistics of the wake never caused her a moment's problem. Most importantly though was that he ensured that Charlotte was saved from the more draining and demanding guests. He had an uncanny ability to see exactly when Charlotte wanted to escape from some matronly church-goer or former work colleague. He'd simply slip in behind her and in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the fellow conversationalist insist that: 'Ma'am, something has come up that requires your attention'.
Charlotte would tend her apologies to whomever she was escaping and disappear into the kitchen for a few moments. After regaining her composure she'd return to the lounge and recommence her rounds of the guests.
Now that they'd all left she slumped down into the couch feeling drained and empty inside. Bosker appeared in the kitchen doorway to let her know that the caterers had finished cleaning up and had also left. He was about to return to wherever he went when he wasn't needed when Charlotte spoke up: "Bosker, could you just come and keep me company please. I don't want to be alone."
He nodded sagely and with his typical gliding fashion he crossed the floor into the middle of the room. He stopped next to a couch facing Charlotte standing there at a loss for what to do next.
"Please sit-down, you make me feel uncomfortable just standing there."
"Ma'am" he responded and sat down awkwardly on the couch facing her. "So Bosker, thankyou so much for helping me today, I don't know what I would have done without you."
"It's nothing, my role is to help you in this difficult time, no more, no less."
"Still, you didn't have to come, I would have managed."
"It was the Master's wish that I accompany you." He paused for a few moments and then added an afterthought, as if it were meaningless: "It was also my desire to come."
Charlotte was taken aback by that last remark. She still hadn't recovered her full cognitive functions as grief still muddied her thinking. "Why?"
Bosker shuffled uncomfortably on the couch, he was clearly not used to reclining in a couch before his wards. "I feel that someone has to look after you. The Master would have done so but he didn't think you would want him to. He hasn't said so but I believe that he thinks himself to blame for what has occurred. For those few days that you were not well he never left your bedside, he didn't sleep, didn't eat, he just sat there crying until you woke. I've never seen him like that.
"Then when you started getting better he started to become more inward, more reserved. I caught a look in his eyes that I've seen but rarely in him, a look of profound sadness. No – that's not right. A look of profound regret and despair. At first I thought it was because he was just concerned for you – but I think that it was more than that. I think he's blaming himself."
Charlotte felt like screaming back that it was his fault. All his fault. But she'd never seen Bosker so forthcoming, and so worried. The sheer shock at seeing anything resembling emotion emerging from the butler left her biting her tongue.
"Look, I'm going to go change and have a shower. Why don't you go and find something more comfortable to put on. While you're here you're a friend, not just a butler. I don't mind you helping out but I don't want you running around after me. I need a human being around right now, not an automaton in a tuxedo. If I have to order you to be normal for a few days I'll do it, ok?"
Bosker looked up at her and slowly nodded his head. She was surprised when he winked at her and replied: "Yes Ma'am."
---
The next few days passed in quiet contemplation for the pair. Few people came to the house and those that did found an uninviting house as quiet as a tomb. Charlotte spent her days sitting in the garden looking out into the neighbour's fields where she had explored as a girl with her father. At times she'd walk silently through the house stopping for minutes at a time just staring at a particular object or artefact of her father's.
Bosker tried as best he could to bring her out of her shell. He'd even found a pair of shorts and a short sleeved collared shirt in keeping with his promise to tone down his butlery. Sometimes he just sat with her, at other times he convinced her to help out with housework, getting her to fold the washing, or help cut up vegetables for dinner. Largely he left her to her silence though, as she thought through the implications of her recent tragedy.
Charlotte felt empty inside. Her father had always been there at the centre of her universe, and now he was gone. She'd never realised just how important he was to her, but now that he was gone she felt his loss like nothing she'd ever experienced before. She felt as though a cannonball had exploded through her chest leaving her bleeding body behind on the battlefield minus a heart but the rest of her strangely still alive.
But more and more she began to think about her time in the city. At first she'd blamed Mr Campbell for her failing to be at her father's deathbed. It was true that he'd originally imprisoned her and that gone on to play a dangerous game of seduction to capture her in more than just body. He'd denied her the opportunity to return to her father, to hold his hand, to talk to him, to try and bring him out of his coma. But the more she thought about it the more she began to realise that she'd enjoyed his games. She'd enjoyed his pursuit of her and eventually she'd perversely come to love Mr Campbell.
She couldn't forgive herself for the fact that she'd forgotten all about her father lying dying in a hospital bed thousands of miles away while she was indulging in lustful thoughts and deeds. She still blamed Mr Campbell, but now she hated herself more for being so selfish. How could she have just so simply pushed to one side her father's problems!
The crisis point came one evening as Charlotte stood in a pair of jeans and t-shirt in her bathroom about to have a shower. She looked into the mirror at herself, hating the selfish child that stared back at her.
She was the bad daughter who had deserted her father on his death-bed.
She screamed in rage and began pounding the taunting image in the mirror with her fists, trying to beat some sense into the mocking eyes that stared back. The mirror cracked and then shattered, jagged pieces of glass cutting into her fists. Bosker, on hearing the noise, bolted into the bathroom and dragged Charlotte kicking and screaming away from the mirror. He clinched her arms tight around behind her and held her tight, trying to calm the inconsolable teenager.
That night another strange face hovered over her as she lay on her bed - another doctor visited her to provide her with a syringe full of dreamless sleep.
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