Ciera Lloyd

There You’ll Be

Novel extract

Chapter One 

Margaret

Charlie’s casket was lowered into the ground.

A black veil covered Margaret’s face. The preacher cleared his throat and asked that they pray for Margaret’s brother and his sacrifice. Freedom and democracy. 

“And remember,” the preacher said near the end of his service, “that as much as a funeral is a time for grief, a life is for celebration. Once we leave these grounds, we must remember Charlie Palmer for who he is, not who he was.” 

He is dead, Margaret thought. He was alive. What other ways were there to remember him? 

Two of the soldiers took the flag off the casket, folded it, and handed it to Margaret’s mother. She held it in one hand, and in the other, she gripped Margaret’s hand so tight that Margaret worried she herself was the only thing keeping her mother from jumping in after Charlie.

“Amen.” 

Margaret looked up to find Charlie’s gravestone. 1924–1944. A beloved son and hero of the Second Great War. Next to it was a black-and-white portrait of Charlie, from right before he started training. Months before D-Day. He was standing in front of the magnolia tree in their parents’ front yard. His uniform, the first time he’d ever worn it, was a hair too big. “It’s eating you up, Charlie. Need to get some muscle on you, son,” their dad said. The camouflage so similar to the autumn leaves on the ground, he nearly blended in. After the photo was taken, he marched around the house, yelling orders to himself like, “forward, march” and “right…face.” He called them “cadence,” Margaret remembered. 

A day later, when he left for bootcamp, Margaret told him, “Don’t be a hero.” But of course, he was.

Charlotte

There’s a routine to Charlotte’s empty days. 

The television plays in her studio apartment to no one, all the time. She keeps it at a volume of seven; she likes the comfort of other people around her, without having to make conversation back, and she can easily tune it out when she wants to be alone. Often, she does. There’s occasionally a pop-up on the screen, asking if she’s still watching. 

Charlotte wakes every morning to the sound of the co-anchors of the local television morning show, Make it a Good Day, a program dedicated to sharing happy news stories. Charlotte’s bed—a Murphy bed, which she hasn’t made or put back up and then down and then up and down again in weeks—is directly across from the television. Most mornings begin with a “Dog Clip of the Day.” Her favorite is the one they showed on her twenty-first birthday: a three-legged pug running for the first time after surgery. She later read online that the pug died shortly after his amputation. He developed an infection. Sometimes she looks up the 45-second video on the internet, because she swears she can see the pug smile. He doesn’t know what will happen to him three days later. 

When Make it a Good Day is over, Charlotte rolls back over in bed and tries to sleep some more. Somewhere around midday, typically between noon and two p.m., she will gather the energy to walk fifteen steps to her kitchenette, just slightly off the main room. It was, when she was looking for apartments, the initial attraction. She used to think she’d have friends over, and they’d have a kitchen to dance in, like she did with her sister when they were younger. She hasn’t had friends over in nine months. Charlotte’s lunches are usually two pieces of peanut butter toast. Some days she doesn’t toast the bread. She eats on her bed, hovering over the side, so she doesn’t get any crumbs on her sheets. She watches whatever show is on the cable channel she doesn’t have to pay for. There’s one old show, in black and white, that they play every day at four in the afternoon, about a married couple having to hide their magical powers in their new suburbia fantasy, with their one-year-old son, who doesn’t do as well as they do at keeping their abilities hidden. It’s not fantastical enough to suspend reality, but it’s made Charlotte laugh a few times. That’s hard these days. 

Margaret

Two weeks ago, a black car with two miniature United States flags flying from the hood drove up to Margaret’s family home. They knew before the two officers stepped foot outside. “We’re so sorry.” Their apologies did not matter. Because Margaret’s father was still standing at his son’s gravesite, shoveling dirt onto his casket. Margaret watched, toying with the gold locket around her neck; Charlie gifted it to her on her eighteenth birthday. Her mother, still standing next to her, still holding the neatly folded flag, pulled Margaret in. 

“Are you okay?” 

Margaret wanted to ask her the same. Since the officers came to her front door—since they first heard how sorry everyone was—her mother hadn’t slept through the night. Her mother was up, pacing until the sun rose. Margaret knew because she could hear the creaks of the wooden floors beneath her mother’s feet. And when Margaret left her bedroom in the morning, then, and only then, would her mother try to sleep on the living room couch, scrunched up, hugging her knees to her chest. A worry line on her forehead that never went away with sleep. Margaret had gotten in the habit of keeping her own watch over her mother in these moments, sitting across from her in their scratchy blue-and-white armchair, practicing shorthand for secretary school, which she was due to graduate in a few weeks. At most, her mother slept for four hours, and she’d wake in a fright, sweating, and would only calm when Margaret walked over to her and placed a gentle hand on her arm. “I’m right here,” she’d say, and her mother would breathe. Margaret would try to smile. 

It was funny, the habits they developed in the presence of grief. Words like “here” and “okay” and “safe” and “rest” took on new meanings. Mostly, Margaret noticed, the word “love” took on an entirely different one—now whenever she or her parents said it to one another, it carried with it a sense of fear, of it being the last time they ever got to say it. Love became a part of their daily lives just like the eggs and sausage and biscuits Margaret’s father would make every morning. Perhaps more.  

Margaret said to her mother, “I’m all right. Are you?” 

“I’m getting there.” She squeezed Margaret’s arm. “I knew it’d be a tough day.” 

Margaret kicked a pebble on the path. “The salute was really nice.” 

“Can you believe it was my first time ever hearing it?” 

Margaret paused, mid-walk, and looked at her mother. “Not even for Grandaddy?” 

Her mother shook her head. “Gran didn’t want me at the funeral. Said I wouldn’t be able to sit still.” She looked back to where Margaret’s father was still shoveling dirt into Charlie’s grave. “But I think I would’ve been able to.” 

Together, she and her mother watched until Charlie’s grave was covered with fresh dirt. Margaret’s father brushed his forehead with the back of his hand and looked to her. He tried to smile. Margaret tried to smile back. He passed the shovel to the preacher, who put a hand on his shoulders, said something Margaret didn’t hear, and then bowed his head. 

“I wonder what he’s saying,” Margaret told her mother. 

“Something about how Charlie’s in a better place.” 

Charlotte

Charlotte received a letter in the mail a week ago, informing her she’d been kicked out of school during her last semester. She needs thirteen more credits. She was sent the same letter at her parents’ home, too. They opened it, because they hadn’t heard from her in months, they said. They were confused, then angry. Hadn’t they done everything they could to make her happy? Today they are coming to pack up her studio and move her back home. 

She watches Make it a Good Day one last time. They play a video of a cat playing the bongo drum. It’s loud and noisy and tone-deaf. A baby in the background dances to the beat, his hands in the air, laughing. Instead of peanut butter toast for lunch, she makes it for breakfast, because her parents called her the night before, saying she’d better be ready to go by nine a.m. sharp, boxes packed. She looks around her studio as she bites into her untoasted toast. It’s a mess. Her clothes are everywhere. The trash hasn’t been taken out in a few weeks, but it’s only a mix of sandwich bread wrappers, peanut butter jars, and empty containers of plastic knives, so she doesn’t have to wash them. Her bathroom is worse. She hasn’t cleaned it since the summer; it’s February now. She is sure her parents will be upset with her. She has done nothing they asked. It’s becoming somewhat of a pattern, Charlotte thinks. Why break it now? 

At exactly nine o’clock, Charlotte’s parents knock on the door. She wipes the back of her hand on her mouth and a bit of dried peanut butter falls on her comforter. 

“Coming,” Charlotte calls out. She trudges to the front door, bracing herself. 

Her dad is standing on the other side with cardboard boxes in his hand. Already, he’s written “Charlotte’s things” on them. 

“Hey, kid,” he says, voice soft. 

Charlotte breathes. “Hey, Dad.” 

Margaret

Due to war rations, Charlie’s wake was small. It was held in the basement of the church where his service had been. Only a handful of people came. Charlie’s school friends who weren’t overseas. Margaret’s parents’ best friends, a couple around the same age, Janet and Adam, who never had children. A few people who’d attended the funeral that Margaret didn’t know. She hadn’t invited anyone. She sat alone at a table, her plate only half-filled, because that was all they were allowed. They had to do their part for the soldiers fighting in the war. 

Charlotte

Charlotte’s mom has on cleaning gloves and is holding two bottles of cleaning supplies. One is bleach. “This is what you call clean?” she says. Charlotte’s dad’s eyes flash to her mom. Charlotte looks at the ground, her grip on the doorknob tightening. 

“Are you going to invite us in?” her mom says. 

Charlotte opens the door wider, and her parents come inside. 

“Did you pack anything?”

Charlotte looks at the floor. 

“That’s all right,” her dad says. “That’s why I brought these.” Charlotte looks up to find him lifting the boxes with a smile. “Guess we should probably get started if we want to be on the road by lunch.” 

“We’ll be lucky to be out of here by dinner,” her mom says. She disappears and soon after Charlotte can hear the sound of spray bottles. 

Charlotte’s dad sets the boxes down and pulls Charlotte into a one-armed hug. 

“She’s worried about you,” he says. He looks like he might say something else, but he instead smiles at Charlotte and claps his hands together. “Why don’t you gather everything you want to keep, and I’m going to take the trash out. Sound good?” 

Charlotte nods. She looks around them. Is there anything worth keeping? There’s her television, of course, and its stand, and a DVD player she once used for yoga, discovered the CD was completely scratched, and never bothered with again. Three flatpack shelves separate Charlotte’s desk from the rest of the room. Mostly, they’re filled with knickknacks she acquired here and there: Russel Steven figures from her grandmother, glass penguins that her mother collected and passed on to Charlotte, a few birthday presents from Lucy—who, when they were in middle school, developed a habit of buying Charlotte the most outrageous socks she could find—and her grandmother’s locket. It’s a heavy oval, gold in color, with a red stone in the middle. Charlotte thinks it might be a ruby, but nobody’s ever bothered to find out, because Nana Fink’s brother probably couldn’t have afforded that kind of necklace in 1942. Charlotte’s grandmother gave it to her when she graduated high school, because she was the first woman on her side of the family to do so. “You are so special,” Nana Fink told her, pinching Charlotte’s cheek, blinking away tears. “There is so much ahead of you.” Charlotte’s fingers clutch the locket now; she doesn’t dare open it. If she does, she’ll find a photo of herself and Nana from the day Charlotte was born. Charlotte can see it with her eyes closed: Nana’s back is to the camera, hunched over, and a small dot on her right side is Charlotte in a baby blanket. Nana was the first person to hold Charlotte. That photo was the first time someone ever took Charlotte in their arms and told her they loved her. Charlotte squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. She lets go of the necklace and continues packing. She wraps the glass figures on the shelves in newspaper; she doesn’t bother taping them. Moves to her desk, opens the drawers, and tosses the pens into the box. There’s so little in her apartment that the box isn’t even half-full. She folds it anyway. Trying to get the last flap to fold perfectly, she accidentally cuts her finger on the box. It bleeds.

Her dad passes her from behind, three bags of trash in his hand. “Everything okay?” he says. 

Charlotte nods, her finger in her mouth, trying to suck the blood so it doesn’t get on anything. 

He gives her a look, cocking his head, and sets the trash bags down. “What did you do?” 

“Got in a fight with the box.” 

Her dad laughs. It’s the first real laugh, not from a laugh track, that she’s heard since she shut herself inside her studio. It makes her feel warm. 

Her dad takes her finger and inspects it. “I imagine you’ll live.” He pats her hand then looks around. “Is that all you want to keep?” 

“This is it,” Charlotte says, taping the box shut. 

“It’s not a lot.” 

“It’s enough.” 

The summer before Charlotte started high school, she begged her parents to buy her one of the giant chalkboard posters you could write on with the special chalkboard pens that would never come off. They did, and she mapped out her entire life: earn good grades, have so many extracurriculars you have to do your homework at three in the morning, be nice, make good friends, stay the course, get into a great college, keep up the good work, graduate with honors, become someone important. It’s sitting at the bottom of her desk drawer now; she’s left it for the next tenant to find.  

Charlotte’s dad takes out the trash and comes back into the apartment with a vacuum. Charlotte strips the sheets off her bed and puts it up for the first time in months. She vacuums up crumbs of bread and so much of her hair that she and her dad have to cut it from the bottom brush. 

“How do you have any hair left?” her dad says, shaking his head with a laugh. 

Charlotte touches the top of her head, self-conscious. 

“I’m just teasing you.” 

“I know,” Charlotte says. She doesn’t stop messing with her hair.

Her mom, who has finished cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen, walks past her and out the front door, cleaning supplies in tow. Her dad unplugs the vacuum, wraps the cord around until it’s circled against itself, holding on tight, and says he thinks that’s it. 

“You all ready to go, Char?” 

She grabs her box and nods. Her dad gathers the vacuum and the keys. They walk out. He locks the door. They take the stairs down from her second-floor apartment, and Charlotte doesn’t look behind her as she places the box in her dad’s trunk, and she says nothing to her mom, who’s already in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, not speaking, either. 

They have to make a pitstop at the clubhouse to drop off Charlotte’s keys. It takes less than thirty seconds to get from Charlotte’s apartment to the front of the complex. When Charlotte hands the keys over, they say, “We hope you enjoyed living with us. Give us a good review online, if you did.” She gives them a tight smile and goes back to her dad’s car. She can see her parents arguing through the front windshield. It looks like they’re yelling, but her mom is so loud that she knows if they really are, she’d be hearing it already. They are whispering, Charlotte knows, because they do not want her to hear. They don’t want her to hear how disappointed they are in her and how she is supposed to graduate magna cum laude in three months, she’s supposed to begin her career at a top company, doing something with the marketing degree she is no longer going to be getting.

It is going to be a long drive.

She closes her eyes, breathes, waits a moment, and then re-opens her eyes. Both of her parents are looking at her. She walks forward. She opens the back door and scoots in behind her mom, so she doesn’t have to look at her. 

“Who wants some snacks?” her dad says. He’s looking at Charlotte in the rear-view mirror. In the end, they have managed to leave at lunch, like her mom wanted.