Marta's Legacy Collection (59 page)

12

1970

The Summer of Love had ended by the time Carolyn ran away to Haight-Ashbury with Rachel Altman after Charlie’s death. Things had already begun to change. Pot still reigned, but harder drugs rose in popularity. Guru psychologist Timothy Leary advocated acid to expand the mind, but after one bad trip that left Carolyn with residual hallucinations for weeks, she made alcohol and pot her drugs of choice. She spent days in a blur, drinking liberal amounts of wine, red or white, trying to drown her grief, wash away the anger, and stop the nightmares of running through a jungle with her brother.

Chel continued to foot the bill for the two of them, in addition to a succession of hangers-on and groupies who came and went from the house they shared, many of them young men. Chel began to be haunted by hallucinations from dropping too much acid. Sobbing, she’d beg, “I need you, Caro. I need you
sober
.” Carolyn tried, but craved alcohol like water. They tried to lean on one another, but it didn’t help that everyone around them still used.

When the hallucinations finally stopped, they went outside and sat on the steps. Feeling the sunshine, they went to Golden Gate Park for the first time in weeks. “You’ve been there for me every time I’ve needed you, Caro, even when I didn’t know what I was doing. You drove me clear across the country after Woodstock, when I couldn’t have told you my name, let alone my address. We couldn’t save Charlie, but you saved me. And what have I done for you?”

“You’ve been my friend.”

“What sort of a friend am I?”

“You helped me after Charlie died.”

“I should’ve left you in Berkeley. Your parents would have come and taken you home.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“Oma, then.”

Carolyn shook her head. “This is where I belong.”

They found a park bench and sat. Chel put her head in her hands. “Sometimes I just want to call it quits.” She gave a bleak laugh. “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I’m tired of fighting a losing battle.” She leaned back, hands limp in her lap. “I scare myself sometimes, Caro.” She gave Carolyn a sad smile. “I don’t think we’ve been good for each other.”

Hurt, Carolyn couldn’t look at her. “Am I going to lose you, too, Chel?”

“I love you, babe.” Chel raised her hand in a halfhearted gesture. “See that family over there?” Her voice turned mocking. “Mommy laying out the picnic lunch while Daughter dear plays with her dolly and Daddy helps Sonny boy fly a kite? Makes a nice Hallmark card, don’t you think?” Her voice choked off. She let out her breath slowly. “What do we have, Caro?”

“Our friendship.”

Chel looked at her then, eyes clear for a change, wet. She looked away again. They didn’t talk for a long while. “I called my father.”

Surprised, Carolyn stared at her. “When?”

“A week ago. Apparently, he dumped my mother last year and married his secretary. According to the new one, he’s off on a honeymoon in Madrid.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She lives in Paris. Plays in Monte Carlo. Who knows? The new secretary didn’t have her telephone number, or she had orders not to give it to me. She said my father wanted to invite me to the wedding, but didn’t know how to reach me.” She gave a harsh laugh. “All he had to do was follow the money. He just didn’t care enough.”

“Maybe he figured you wouldn’t want to come.”

“Maybe. But it would’ve been nice to have the opportunity to tell him off one last time.” She looked at Carolyn, eyes dark with pain. “Get this. I told that secretary I needed to talk to my father. She asked me if it was an emergency. I told her it was. She said, ‘Give me your number, and I’ll let Mr. Altman know you called.’ I haven’t heard from him yet.”

“Maybe she forgot.”

“She remembered. She called back. She asked me how much money I needed.” She called her father a string of foul names. “He’s too busy with his new trophy wife.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “If I was lying in a hospital bed, dying from an overdose, he’d tell his secretary to make sure I had a private room, private nurse, and send some flowers.” She dug in her jean pocket and pulled out a worn business card. “I want you to keep this.”

“Why?”

“If anything happens to me, you call my father.”

Scared, Carolyn shook her head. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Chel.”

“I’m not planning anything. You just never know when your time will come. I could decide to go swimming in that lake and drown. Or go down to the ocean and walk in with lead weights around my ankles.”

“I don’t like it when you talk so crazy.”

“Don’t I always?” Chel laughed again, sounding more like herself this time. “You really are something, you know that?” She cupped Carolyn’s face. “I love you. You’ve been better to me than any sister I could’ve had.” She dropped her hand. “Whatever happens, it’s not going to be your fault.” She gripped Carolyn’s wrist tightly. “Remember that. It’s
not your fault
.”

Worried, Carolyn kept an eye on Chel over the next few days. Chel smoked pot and drank, but not to excess. She still danced to the music, tossing her head and turning the way she had when they first came to Haight-Ashbury. Ash, the self-appointed leader of their little commune, watched Chel, too, especially when she turned up the music while he spoke his poetry. When he asked her to turn it down, she turned it up and danced right in front of him.

Carolyn thought everything would be fine then. Chel’s depression had lifted. She was back to the same smirking, defiant girl she’d been in Berkeley. Carolyn went to the park for some air, spending two hours in the sunshine. She sat on a bench and watched children play, thinking of Oma and Mom and Dad. Loneliness gripped her. Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried not to think about Charlie.

When she got back, Carolyn went upstairs and found Chel’s door closed. Carolyn put her head against the door, but didn’t hear voices. She tapped softly. “Chel?” She opened the door. “I’ve been thinking—”

Chel lay sprawled across her mattress. Her face looked so serene, Carolyn thought she was asleep. Then she noticed the rubber tubing coiled like a snake on the floor and a discarded syringe next to it. “Chel!” She knelt on the bed and lifted her.
“Chel!”
She shook her. Chel felt boneless, heavy. Sobbing her name, Carolyn let her go and screamed for help.

Voices. Footsteps running in the hall. “Everyone out!” Ash ordered. The door closed firmly. Carolyn heard the lock set. Sobbing, hysterical, she tried to speak. He clamped a hand over her mouth. When she tried to bite down, he slapped her, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved her face into the mattress. “Are you going to be quiet?” He pushed harder and only let her go when she started to pass out. Gasping for air, she scrambled away from him.

He put his hand on Chel’s neck, checking for a pulse. Taking his hand away, he looked furious, not aggrieved. He swore under his breath. “Stupid witch.”

“You don’t even care that she’s—”

“You were supposed to watch out for her.” He hit her. She tasted blood in her mouth. He shoved her from him and turned toward the window.

She made it to the door, but Stoner stood right outside, blocking her escape. “What’s the matter, babe?”

“Chel’s dead.”

“Bummer. Who’s gonna pay the rent?”

She stared at him.

Ash came up behind her, his hands firm. With a tone full of compassion, he reassured Stoner. “Everything will be fine.” When she tried to move away, his grip tightened. “We’ll call an ambulance. Someone will come and take her to the hospital. What was her name, Stoner?”

“Chel.”

When Carolyn opened her mouth, Ash’s fingers bit into her flesh. “Chel.” Ash spoke low. “That’s all we know. Her name was Chel.”

Stoner shrugged. “Yeah, man. That’s all I ever knew.”

Ash slipped his arm around Carolyn, pulled her back into the room, and closed Stoner out. He shoved her toward the bed where Chel lay dead. “You’ll do what I tell you, Caro. Got that? It’s your fault she overdosed. You said she was your friend. Where were you? You should’ve been right here with her every minute. I told you to keep watch.” He gripped her face in viselike fingers. “But you didn’t, did you? You did your own thing and had your little walk in the park. You put flowers in your hair.” He crumpled them and threw them on the floor. “And now
she
’s dead because
you
didn’t care enough to take care of her.” He let go of her and stepped away.

She’d once thought herself in love with this man. But he’d tossed her aside and moved on to another girl.

Suddenly solicitous, Ash drew Carolyn to her feet. He stroked her cheek. “It’ll be the way it was.” He whispered words of comfort now, words of endearment. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of you.” When he kissed her, she felt nothing but revulsion. He drew back, his dark eyes searching hers. “I’ll call for an ambulance. Sit with me downstairs. Be at my side.” He opened the door. Stoner and several others stood waiting. “We’ll light candles for our sister. We will say prayers.” He stroked Carolyn’s arms as though trying to smooth away the bruises.

The ambulance came within minutes. Two men got out. They unloaded a gurney and locked the vehicle doors before heading up the steps. One looked at her. When they came out with Chel’s body zipped in a black bag, she heard them talking. “Chel. Not much to go by.”

One unlocked and opened the back door of the ambulance. “She’ll be another Jane Doe.”

“Too bad. Pretty girl.”

Carolyn came down the steps.

“You need to move aside, Miss.”

“Her name is Rachel Altman. She came from New York City. She was an A student at UC Berkeley. They’ll have her records.”

His face filled with pity. “A friend of yours?”

“My best friend.”

“We’ll take good care of her.”

“You’ll be the first.”

Frowning, he searched her face. “Are you going to be all right?”

Carolyn walked away without looking back. He had a job to do. So did she.

It didn’t take long to beg enough money for a long-distance telephone call. Carolyn stepped into a phone booth and dialed the number on the card Chel had given her. She asked for Mr. Altman.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“My name is Carolyn Arundel. His daughter, Rachel, was my best friend. She died today. You can tell him that, or let me talk to him.”

“One moment, please.”

Less than a minute passed and a man’s voice came on the telephone. “My secretary says you have news about my daughter.” He sounded annoyed. Maybe she’d interrupted a business meeting. “Make it quick. What is it this time?”

“She died of a heroin overdose this morning.”

Silence. Then hushed anger. “Look. I’m in the middle of an important meeting. What kind of sick prank is she playing this time?”

“They picked up her body a few minutes ago.” Carolyn gave him the Clement house address. “I gave the paramedics her full name and told them the university has her records. But Chel said if anything happened to her, she wanted me to call you. So I’ve called.” She hung up.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Carolyn wasn’t sure where to go. She’d been happy in the park, walking in the sunshine, looking at the flowers. She didn’t make it. She walked half a block and squatted next to an old run-down Victorian row house, where she covered her head and sobbed.

She could hear Chel’s voice in her head.
“It’s not your fault, Caro. Remember that. It’s not your fault.”

Carolyn wished she could believe it.

Dear Rosie,

Trip has given up on finding Carolyn. He went to Berkeley several times looking for her, even went to the police, but they told him he is among dozens of parents whose children have “dropped out” and disappeared. Many have moved to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. Trip took days off work to look for Carolyn, contacting her neighbors and classmates, but so many of these young “flower children” hate authority, and Trip looks every inch the police officer he is, so I’m convinced, even if anyone knew of her whereabouts, they wouldn’t tell anyone who looks like a member of “the establishment” they despise.

I am grieved Hildemara has given up on Carolyn as well. She never mentions her, nor can she abide my doing so. I invite her to tea. She declines. She comes home from work and stays in the house while Trip hammers on something. They go to church on Sunday, where they have the dubious distinction of being the only parents in Paxtown who have lost a son in action. Being a star football player in high school made Charlie a favored son, but his death has made him a local hero to some, object of hatred to others.

No one mentions Carolyn. She is more dead to everyone than Charlie could ever be.