The Meaning of Charlie Armanio

IV

IF THE WORLD DOESN'T revolve around Charlie, then my life certainly does. Everything I do seems to have this kind of Charlie Armanio signature on them and no one has been able to tear him away from me.

"I left you over thirteen voice mails," I say as greeting when I pick up my phone. Sometime after reading Charlie the letter, I had fallen asleep in my seat, my head on Charlie's slightly uncomfortable bed and my bum barely on the chair. My neck is cramped and stiff as I push my hair back and place the phone on my other ear. "In fact, I left you twenty messages, Dan, and you replied to none of them. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Chloe," his voice replies instantly, he never misses a beat. "How've you been?"

"Fine," I hiss, and then, finally realizing that he may spot the hostile tinge, I breathe in and say very slowly, "how are you?"

"I'm good," he replies and the sound of cars honking in the back ground makes me cringe and move the phone further away from my ear. "So listen," he sighs, like he's been waiting to say that from the very beginning, which he has, no way will he call just to find out how I'm doing and no way would I tell him how I'm doing. "I was in the neighbourhood and wanted to know if you'd want to meet up later?"

"Meet up?" The foreign words slip past my lips as an after-effect of the shock and when the shock is gone, a laugh bubbles up deep inside me. "You want to...meet up, Dan?" I pick myself up and move to the furthest part the room. "Did Felicia ask you to do this?"

"No," he scoffs, "Felicia had no hand in this nor did she make the reservations, Chloe. I," he pauses and lets out a heavy breathe, "I just want to see you; it'd been so long."

"And," the laughter is on the tip of my tongue but somehow, I dismiss it by simply clearing my throat and clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "And whose fault is that, Dan?"

"Dad," he corrects hastily, as if he's scared of what my reaction will be. "Chloe," he mutters my name harshly and hard as if he's reprimanding a toddler, "now isn't the time to indulge your father in a session of the blame game. I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch, but I'm doing so now."

"What happened, Dan? Something in Persia happened and so you had some time to spare before you go back and attend to something else in Guinea or South Africa or whatever?"

"Chloe," he yells and I can tell he's dangerously dangling from the cliff of self composure, "I will not have you talking to me in any manner you would like. There is a thin line between disrespect and defiance and you seem to be crossing it, young lady."

"I'm sorry, daddy," I grind out, while brushing the tear that's about to fall. "I'm glad you got to squeeze in a lesson into your little two day visit. It totally makes up for missed birthdays and Christmases and graduations."

"Chloe," his tone is final and hard and authoritative and he almost sounds like a real dad, but I guess the static nature of the phone call makes all the difference. "Chloe," he repeats and sighs, he seems to be doing that more often, must be the weather. "Chloe –"

"Spit it out, Dan."

"Are you okay?"

"Please, Dan, we're way past 'are you okays', spit out the point so I can go."

"I heard about Charlie –"

"Of course, you did," I say lowly to myself, realising he only called out of pity, tears already falling. "So you're back for how long, Danny?"

"That's not important," you're telling me, daddy, "I've made reservations at Francisco's at eight, tonight. Please come, that's all I'm asking. Please, Chloe." His voice is broken and desperate and I can practically see him running one hand through his hair and gripping the steering wheel tightly with his other hand.