Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,79

this side—to glimpse, hear, and know all. We are everywhere. We experience everything. We rejoice when you rejoice. We’re sad when you’re sad. We grieve when you grieve. And when you hold on too long, it hurts us the same way it hurts you. I think of my wife, Francesca, and our son. I know it will take time and many tears, but I want them to move on. Someday she’ll marry again and find new happiness.

There’s Charlie now, making his way from the hospital to Logan Airport. He’s going to visit his mother in Oregon. He’ll tell her what he has learned living in the twilight and he’ll explain how much of himself he lost after the accident. For all his efforts, his mom will never understand. She moved across the country, started a new life, and hoped to bury the accident in the past. But in the quiet moments of her days and nights, she can never escape that her younger son was taken too soon, and it’s always too soon. She will never recover.

That is the inescapable math of tragedy and the multiplication of grief. Too many good people die a little when they lose someone they love. One death begets two or twenty or one hundred. It’s the same all over the world.

Charlie will understand that it’s his mother’s choice whether to hold on or let go. You know that Charlie has chosen to live. After staying with his mom for a while, he’ll come back to Marblehead and work with Engine Company 2 on Franklin Street. He’ll travel around the world. Most of all, he’ll make up for thirteen lost years and dive for dreams.

I’m reminded of Ecclesiastes and something I once told Charlie: “The Bible got it wrong. There isn’t time in a man’s life for everything.”

That’s right. Charlie doesn’t have time. No one does. But he knows what’s important now. First and foremost, he and Tess will fall in love again. They’ll kiss for the first time. They’ll sail the coral cays of Belize on their honeymoon. They’ll settle down on Cloutman’s Lane in the same house where he grew up. They’ll have two sons. For the first time in forever, he’ll wake up to a new beagle’s bark every morning, with a feeling that the world is all right and everyone he cares about is safe and sound. He’ll build his boys a playground with swings under a pine tree. He’ll play a good game of catch with them every night, and he’ll encourage them to race the moon and go on great adventures.

Charlie’s gift of seeing the spirit world faded away just as soon as he and Sam released each other for the last time. But every day, he’ll try to live with his eyes open to the other side, letting the possibility of miracles in. Sometimes he’ll forget, but then he’ll see a rope swinging on a pond, catch the Sox on the radio, or hear a dog yowl. He’ll know Oscar and Sam are there.

That’s death and life, you see. We all shine on. You just have to release your hearts, alert your senses, and pay attention. A leaf, a star, a song, a laugh. Notice the little things, because somebody is reaching out to you. Qualcuno ti ama. Somebody loves you.

And one day—only God knows precisely when—Charlie will run out of time. He’ll be an old man, floppy hair turned gray. He’ll look back on his quietly remarkable life and know he made good on his promise. And then, like the 75 billion souls who lived before him, each and every one a treasure, he, too, will die.

When that day comes, we’ll be waiting. Waiting for Charlie St. Cloud to come home to us. Until then we offer these parting words . . .

May he live in peace.

A NOTE ON SOURCES

THE SETTINGS IN THIS STORY ARE REAL, AND I AM grateful to many good folks in Marblehead, Massachusetts, for welcoming me to their town. Special thanks to F. Emerson Welch of the Reporter for fielding questions with Fraffian wit and cheer from dawn to dusk; Bump Wilcox of New Wave Yachts for steering a landlubber through imaginary Force 10 storms and the crew of Loonatic for a bruising victory in the Wednesday night races; and Kristen Heissenbuttel at Doyle Sailmakers for revealing the art and science of sail design. Appreciation also goes to Harbormaster Warner Hazell and his deputies; Bette Hunt and the Marblehead Historical Society; Commodore B.