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It was surprising to her how quickly she was able to adjust to living without Charles.
The days and weeks that quickly turned into months and years passed by her uneventfully. Every day in her childhood home with her grandmother was fluid and methodical. It was easy to forget everything that had ever happened to her in Vermont. Virginia was so far removed, a time capsule of her childhood that she lived in, quietly and carefully.
She did not think much of Charles at all, at least, not the Charles she had left at the train station all those years ago. The one who still existed in Virginia was the Charles that would race her down the stairs to push her over his head on the rope swing in the front yard– the one who smelled like sunscreen and dryer sheets and something so much like herself.
Despite this, living was not all that difficult. Camilla was more than happy to simply blend into the wallpaper. To watch life blurrily, almost in third-person. To measure medicine and clean up spilled juice and pretend that the world didn’t go on perfectly well without her in it.
It had been five years– her grandmother two years in the ground– when Charles knocked on the front door.
She waited from the window for a long time, peering down at the top of his blond head and holding her breath. She tried to pretend it could’ve been anyone else, but Charles was, as always, unmistakable to her.
After what felt like far too long, she walked downstairs and opened the door.
“Hello.” He said curtly. He looked older and skinnier. His clothes looked cheap. The “Charles from Virginia” instantly disappeared from her world.
“Grandma’s dead.” She replied immediately. She’d considered calling him when it happened but had an aunt do so instead. He hadn’t answered the phone.
“I know,” Charles replied, clearing his throat. Camilla looked the same to him; after all, it was his cheekbones he saw in her face, his dim, grey eyes. However, her hair was longer, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept well. She was still beautiful, of course.
“Do you want to come in?” She finally asked.
He came in.
She went into the kitchen to get him some tea from the fridge. She thought about asking him if he wanted something stronger but decided against it.
When she came back into the sitting room, Charles was standing at the side window, peering into the backyard. He wheeled around as soon as he heard her shoes on the wooden floor, mouth slightly open in surprise.
“That’s Henry, isn’t it.” He said, voice unreadable.
“His name is Alexander.” Camilla corrected cooly, handing him the glass.
She followed Charles’ gaze to the boy on the swing. She could only see the back of his head, covered in thick dark hair, but she knew that if she called him inside and he turned, Charles would be able to see the steely blue of Henry’s eyes and Camilla’s small, blunt nose.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you think?”
“No one told me.” Charles furrowed his eyebrows in a way that made him look eighteen again. He had always been so childish, Camilla thought; of course, his reaction would be as if the worst part of all was that he hadn’t known about it.
“No one knows. Except for grandma, and—”
“She’s dead. I heard.”
“Well, would you like me to call him in?”
Charles didn’t say anything for a moment. He took the glass from Camilla and took a long, slow sip of his tea. It was his grandmother’s recipe. Too sweet. Camilla had always hated sweet tea.
“Sure,” Charles said listlessly.
Camilla called him in.
The boy was running until he caught sight of Charles, which stopped him in his tracks. His black patent-leather shoes skidded on the gravel driveway, kicking up dust around his white-socked ankles.
“This is your Uncle Charles. He’s staying for lunch. Come in,” Camilla urged.
The boy narrowed his eyes, looking up distrustfully from underneath heavy black bangs and dark eyebrows.
“Don’t be shy,” Camilla said sternly and turned, walking into the kitchen and leaving Charles and Alexander huddled on the front porch.
Charles cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Hello,” He finally said, attempting not to sound uncertain. Children had always liked Charles, but the way that this child, in particular, looked so strikingly like Henry set him on edge.
“Hello.” The boy replied seriously. He had Camilla’s low, soft voice.
“How old are you?” Charles asked.
The boy silently held up his hand, displaying five fingers.
After a beat, Charles dared to ask: “Do you have a father anywhere? Anyone who lives with you?” He was glad Camilla was out of earshot.
“No, my father’s dead.”
“Ah,” Charles replied, “mine is too.”
They walked together into the kitchen.