Page 23 of Charlie Sunshine
“Not anymore,” I say grimly. “Charlie put fairy lights up in the fucking kitchen last night.”
She smirks. “You’re so under his thumb. It’s Whoville all over again.”
“It’s what again?”
“The Grinch.” I look questioningly at her, and she shakes her head. “It’s a Dr Seuss storybook. You really should read more.”
“Yes, because children’s picture books will do me so much good. I can read it at work. They’ll be queuing up to borrow it.”
“Is it the words that are causing you the problem, Misha? Because we can help you.”
I discreetly raise my middle finger at her, and she laughs before moving off to help a customer signalling to her from the computers.
“It’s the Christmas drag queen story time,” she calls over her shoulder. “He’s with Marlena in the children’s library.”
I smile. Charlie had introduced drag queen story time last year after he’d suggested the idea to a few of the drag queens at a bar thatwe go to. The programme had been greeted a bit sniffily in the library and a few mums had walked out, but many more have replaced them. It’s one of their most successful events and totally down to Charlie.
I wander across to peep into the children’s library. It’s a bright room painted with primary colours, the ceiling covered in paper butterflies that Charlie and Bethany had spent two nights painstakingly painting and cutting.
Today the huge velvet story chair that looks like a throne has been pulled into the centre of the room, and the Kinder boxes full of picture books have been shoved to the side to allow the many small bottoms to perch on the rug. I notice with satisfaction the large number of children and the mums and dads who are sitting at the back smiling and laughing.
Usually, Charlie sits on the throne with a crown on, but today he’s standing to the side, and all attention is on Marlena, who is reading fromThe Night Before Christmas.
Six feet tall with an attitude that’s as long as her body and a tongue sharper than a box of scissors, Marlena is dressed today in a red sequined dress with red and white stripy tights and glittery red shoes. Her blond wig is backcombed to within an inch of its life, and she has a Santa hat perched on top of it. As is usual when she’s with the little ones, her normally cynical expression has softened. Generally known as Marlena Dicktricks, she thankfully altered her title to Queen Fancypants for these sessions.
Charlie looks up and sees me. He gives a little wave, but the hand I’d half-raised in reply falters when I catch a look at his face. He’s sheet-white, and even from here I can see the dark circles under his eyes. For a six-foot-two bloke, he looks alarmingly fragile. A wave of panic floods over me, curdling my stomach and making me break into a cold sweat.
I haven’t seen him look this bad since the early days of his accident and the subsequent epilepsy diagnosis. I remember that horrible time very clearly. I moved into his flat when he came out of hospital, ignoring his protests and looking after him until he felt better. I clench my fists. I’m done letting him steamroller me into ignoring what’s in front of my eyes.
My determination must show in my face because his expression becomes wary as he stands up straight and folds his arms. The children all suddenly cheer and laugh loudly at something that Marlena has said, dragging Charlie’s attention away.
I pace back to the counter.
“Has he had a seizure this morning?” I ask Bethany, who is wrapping books again.
She immediately puts her scissors down. “I’m pretty sure he had one this morning before he came in.”
“How do you know?”
“He came in a taxi.”
I nod grimly. “Yep. That’ll be proof.”
“Has he said anything to you about the seizures, Misha? Even I can see they’re getting worse.”
“No, he’s so fucking stubborn.”
She nods. “He’s like a donkey. Oh my God,” she says in dawning recognition. “He’s a smiley Eeyore.”
“He’ll be a pissed-off Eeyore when I march him down to the hospital.”
Bethany shakes her head. “I don’t envy you that encounter.” We look at each other in complete and silent agreement on the fact that Charlie is an immovable object when he wants to be.
“I know that it’s up to him to make decisions about the epilepsy. He has total autonomy over his choices. But this is different,” I mutter. “I can’t ignore this.”
“I don’t want you to,” she whispers. She moves away to serve a customer, and I lean against the counter. When she comes back, she looks quizzically at me. “So, how are you going to do it?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Not sure. We’re away in Brighton tomorrow for Jamie’s birthday weekend. I’ll work my way round to it then. I’m driving Charlie, so we’ll have the whole car journey with it being just the two of us.”
