I slip into a group of people who look about my age—a guy in a blue blazer and a girl in a black shift dress who are entering with some older people, probably their parents—and follow them from the foyer into the main room. The room is bare despite all the fancy architectural finishes that I’m beginning to recognize are common in Paris: ornate moldings in the shape of flowers, swoops and swirls fashioned from plaster. Other than that, it’s a modestly decorated space with just a photo display set up in one corner, a bunch of folding chairs facing a podium, and a projector screen up front. Charlie’s casket is next to the podium. My heart accelerates at the sight of it, and I blink back the tears that threaten to obscure my vision.
I realize with a pang that I really don’t know any of Charlie’s friends, not personally. I met his old roommate Adam from his senior year in Mumbai, when I visited Charlie once in D.C.—but I don’t see Adam here now. I can’t tell whether I’m disappointed or relieved. Everyone else I only knew from pictures; Adam would have been someone to lean on during all of this. At least someone to know—to legitimize my presence here. When I first met Adam, it was a comfort to know that Charlie was friends with such a good guy. Knowing Adam was Charlie’s friend—when we didn’t have any friends in common who could vouch for him—had made me rest easy.
I didn’t even know about Charlie’s disappearance or the memorial service until three days ago. A week before that, I had noticed he wasn’t answering my texts. He always took a little time, sometimes forgot to get back; so it didn’t seem unusual for that first week. And then my texts and calls became more panicked, and he still didn’t reply. Charlie wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. I didn’t have his parents’ numbers. Then I got the news blast in my email from the local paper in Oxford, something Charlie had suggested I sign up for. And there it was: “University Student Missing,” one of the first headlines on the list. The student in question was unnamed. After that, there was nothing I could do but Google him. I’d hoped to find some phone numbers, someone I could contact.
I found a more detailed article instead.
It still hurts, knowing that after a year, no one knew me well enough to reach out. It hurts that I found out the way I did. That I almost missed the service altogether. But why would I know anybody? I only knew Adam. Charlie and I always met up at such random places, spots that were in between Chicago and Oxford and easy for both of us to reach. He paid for most of those trips, and I saved up for the rest with my babysitting money. My parents weren’t too happy about it. None of it ever seemed strange to me. But now, looking around and seeing all the people who knew Charlie—all the people I don’t know—I wonder how I didn’t see it before. He was meeting me in the middle, but also holding me at arm’s length.
I can feel the fairy-elf’s eyes on my back as I pass the row of chairs where she sits. The room is mostly filled. It’s so big it could be a concert venue. There’s a slideshow of Charlie’s face flashing across the front of the room. I look at his eyes and can’t accept that this is all that’s left of him.
It’s hard to comprehend what his memorial service really means. All I can feel is that he’s not here. But he’s never been present for me the way other people are readily available to one another. Charlie is road trips with pit stops at the Mars Cheese Castle and weekends away in New York City. He’s not breakfast, lunch, and dinner or anything else regular. He never has been.
I walk over to the photo display, keeping his mother and father in my periphery. I haven’t met Charlie’s parents, and I can’t help feeling that now isn’t the moment to introduce myself. I wrote them a letter the minute I discovered Charlie was missing, shortly after the news reports started making their way around the Internet. They would have received the letter by now. But he’s no longer just missing—he’s presumed dead. As of four days ago—when more wreckage was found off the coast of Durham—the investigation was closed. His body hasn’t been recovered and no one knows what really happened when the plane went down; but between plane debris and the charred and bloodstained remnants of his navy Oxford blazer—still marked with an engraved class pin—there was finally enough physical evidence to shut the investigation down. All that was missing was a reason and a body. A short blurb in the Oxford Times mentioned the discoveries, and it wasn’t even on the front page. Closed just like that, with a memorial service thrown together so quickly it barely left me time to get out here from Chicago. I can’t figure out why and how his family could give up on him so quickly.
His mom is crying hysterically, and some of my resentment melts. I notice the elfin girl from the foyer sidle over; she gives Mrs. Price a long hug and whispers something in her ear. I feel a sharp pang of something like discomfort for reasons I don’t understand. I turn back to the pictures, chalking it up to grief and exhaustion—I’m not thinking clearly.