Charlie St. Cloud Read online

  Who could blame her?

  The doors opened across the waiting room, and a nurse beckoned in a hushed voice, “She’s asking for you, Charlie.”

  “What?”

  “She wants to see you.”

  He covered the distance to her bedside in what seemed like five steps. Amazingly, she was sitting up, her face softly illuminated by the night-light. “I’m glad you’re still here,” she said.

  “I’m glad you are too,” Charlie answered.

  She was studying him intensely. Finally she said, “So you’re the one who found me.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “After everyone had given up?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I need to know something,” she said. “It’s important.”

  “Yes, I confess, I’m a Red Sox fan,” he said with a smile.

  She threw her head back and laughed. “I can forgive that,” she said, “but there’s one thing I can’t remember.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How we met.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me,” she said. “Tell me our story.”

  “Well,” he recalled, “it starts in Waterside Cemetery where a brave and beautiful sail-maker complained to the caretaker about a disturbance of the peace.” Charlie smiled. “The charming fellow tried to explain the importance of his geese-management program, but the unimpressed sailor only laughed.”

  And so Charlie tenderly described their first encounters from a candlelit dinner with a Ted Williams cake to a midnight walk with weeping willows and a marble mausoleum. As her eyes registered every detail, he was filled with hope. He had let go of the past and reclaimed his life. And now, the greatest blessing of all, he and Tess were starting over.

  AFTERWORD

  I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES, AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY.

  I stand on a sloping hill in Waterside Cemetery, a place Charlie loved and shaped with his own hands. The seagulls fly in force. The iron gates stand open. A girl hangs upside down from an oak. A fuzzy old man puts a fistful of hollyhocks on his wife’s grave.

  That’s the world you know. It’s the one you can see when you pass by the cemetery in your town. It’s the one that’s real and reassuring. But there’s another world here too. I’m talking about what you and Charlie can’t see yet, the level beyond the in between. It’s a place called heaven, paradise, or nirvana—they’re all the same, really—and it’s where I came when I crossed over. It’s where Mrs. Ruth Phipps can once again hold hands with her beloved Walter. It’s where Barnaby Sweetland, the old caretaker of Waterside, can sing with the angels. And of course, it’s where Sam and Oscar can explore the universe.

  From this vantage point, I see everything now. My voice and thoughts are wind, and I send them toward Charlie. He’s with Tess in North Shore Medical, where she gets stronger every day.

  Yes, that’s one of our abilities on 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. B. Crowninshield of the CBYC and Lynn Marine Supply; the firefighters of Engine 2 on Franklin Street; Ed Cataldo of Engine 5 in Revere; Todd Basch and Carol Wales of Doyle Sails; Marjorie Slattery-Sumner; Sheila Duncan (the original Woman Who Listens); Sally and Roger Plauché of Spray Cliff on the Ocean; Ruth and Skip Sigler of the Seagull Inn; Suzanne and Peter Conway of the Harbor Light Inn; and the regulars at the Barnacle, Driftwood, Landing, Maddie’s, and Rip Tide. At the U.S. Coast Guard in Boston and Gloucester, a salute to Chief Petty Officers Steven Carriere, Tim Hudson, and Paul Wells, and Petty Officer Jared Coon for explaining search and rescue operations. At the Beverly Hills Fire Department, thanks to former Deputy Chief Mike Smollen for help with Hurst tools and Zoll defibrillators.

  The bulk of this book unfolds in Waterside Cemetery, where Headers will recognize I took liberties with the landscape. Many thanks go to Superintendent Bill James and his longtime predecessor Ben Woodfin. For the most unusual week of work and research in my life, I am indebted to John Toale Jr., Steven Sloane, Don Williams, and Susan Olsen of historic Woodlawn Cemetery in Bronx, New York.
Without hesitation, they sent me out to mow lawns and carry caskets on their 400 acres. I thank the foremen, union shop stewards, and workers for always giving me a hand and going easy when my back was breaking. A special tip of my blue Woodlawn cap to grave diggers Bob Blackmore, Greg Link, and Ray Vicens for sharing the finer points of their craft and the daily gratuities. Appreciation also goes to Ken Taylor of Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York, for insights based on more than thirty-five years of working and living with the dead.

  For illuminating the afterlife, I offer gratitude to the incomparable Rosemary Altea, spirit medium and friend. Her bestselling books, including The Eagle and the Rose and Proud Spirit, are marvels of insight and meaning. Along the way I learned much from many other works, including Peter Canning’s Rescue 471; Linda Greenlaw’s The Hungry Ocean and Lobster Chronicles; Thomas Lynch’s The Undertaking; Sherwin B. Nuland’s How We Die; Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s On Death and Dying; John Rousmaniere’s Fastnet, Force 10; and Studs Terkel’s Will the Circle Be Unbroken? On the Internet, I turned often to the Marblehead Reporter; Marblehead Magazine; Griefnet; Beyond Indigo; and City of the Silent, the remarkable cemetery website. For Sam and Charlie’s wordplay, I drew on The Washington Post’s “Style Invitational” of May 1998 asking readers to redefine words from the dictionary. For Florio’s reflections on Ecclesiastes, I was inspired by Yehuda Amichai’s poem, “A Man in His Life.”

  For a photo tour of the settings in this story and more information on sources, please visit www.bensherwood.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK IS ABOUT SECOND CHANCES, AND I’M GRATEFUL to many friends and colleagues for helping with mine. Thanks go first to my far-flung writing pals. Alan Levy, cyber officemate, was there every day with bold ideas, humor, and encouragement; Barry Edelstein gave the gifts of uncommon friendship, intelligence, and dramaturgy; Maxine Paetro counseled with her exalted perspective and flair; Akiva Goldsman showed how to break out of the box; Gary Ross asked impossible questions; John Bowe reminded if it isn’t hard, it isn’t worth it; and Bruce Feiler guided with brilliant strategy and tactics and led the way to greater meaning with his penetrating mind and work. Gratitude also to J. J. Abrams, Bob Dolman, and Stan Pottinger.

  Profound appreciation to friends who read at many stages: Rebecca Ascher-Walsh, David Doss, Lynn Harris, Joannie Kaplan, Steve Kehela, Christy Prunier, Kim Roth, Jennifer Sherwood, and Jamie Tarses.

  For the first editions of this book, I was privileged to be published by the Bantam family. Publisher Irwyn Applebaum and Senior Editor Danielle Perez deserve medals of valor for seeing Charlie St. Cloud through his unruly childhood and disobedient adolescence and for their unwavering care in helping find the story I meant to write from the beginning. Special commendations to Barb Burg and Susan Corcoran, friends, psychologists, and advocates. Much appreciation to Jane von Mehren, Marisa Vigilante, and Kerri Buckley at Random House for jumping in with the movie tie-in editions of this book.

  At Picador in Britain, fistfuls of flowers to Ursula Doyle, Stephanie Sweeney, and Candice Voysey.

  In Hollywood, an ovation to producer Marc Platt for bringing Charlie St. Cloud to the screen and for the warm welcome from beginning to end. Thanks to Abby Wolf-Weiss and Jared LeBoff for ably shepherding the adaptation and to Michael Fottrell for his devotion to every detail. From the start, Donna Langley at Universal Pictures imagined the movie and tirelessly championed it through every incarnation. Thanks also to Universal’s Kristin Lowe for her care and guidance along the way. For their creative efforts with the screenplay, my admiration to Craig Pearce, James Schamus, Lewis Colick, and especially Burr Steers, who directed the film and played a pivotal role in bringing it all together. A big bravo to Zac Efron, Charlie Tahan, Amanda Crew, Kim Basinger, Ray Liotta, and the entire cast. And a bow to Enrique Chediak, Casey Grant, Ida Random, Lisa Satriano, and the production staff and crew for making magic with the movie.

  Pages and pages of appreciation go to Joni Evans, supreme friend, coconspirator, and agent, who enriched every draft, deflected every bullet, and makes diving for dreams a reality. Boldface credit also to Alicia Gordon, Tracy Fisher, Andy McNiccol, Michelle Bohan, and Mike Sheresky. Hugs and thanks to Jennifer Rudolph Walsh and her team for taking charge and taking care.

  Great gratitude goes to friends who aided and abetted along the way: Jonathan Barzilay; Jane and Marcus Buckingham; Chrissy, Priscilla, and Norm Colvin; Beth de Guzman; Sara Demenkoff; Debby Goldberg; Meg Greengold; Cindy Guidry; Suzy Landa; Ruth Jaffe; Mary Jordan; Barry Rosenfeld; Julie and Mark Rowen; Melissa Thomas; and Joe Torsella. A bow to David Segal for expert music recommendations. Dov Seidman, entrepreneur and chess adversary, deserves special recognition for urging a deeper investment. SPF-15 to Kristin Mannion and H. P. Goldfield for Whimsea. And a kiss to the late Phyllis Levy, who helped inspire this book and watches over from above.

  Now a few words to my family. Once more, my mother, Dorothy Sherwood, attacked the manuscript with her relentless pencil and exacting standards, chomping on every word. Her talent as an editor is surpassed only by her genius as a parent. Jeffrey Randall, my generous and indefatigable neurosurgeon brother-in-law, kept the twenty-four-hour medical hotline open for every sort of professional and personal emergency. Someday my young nephews Richard and William Randall will read this story, and I hope they forge a sibling bond as rich, strong, and sustaining as the one I share with their accomplished and exceptional mother—my shining sister—Elizabeth Sherwood Randall. Our connection, forged in countless childhood adventures, informed much of this book, as did the memory of our father, Richard Sherwood, who vanished too soon but whose presence we feel every day.

  In closing, I want to make a wish for my sons, William Richard and his little brother, who will be born as this edition goes to press. May you never know the darkness that haunts the brothers in this story and may you play catch together for many seasons, go on great adventures, and grow old as best friends.

  Finally, this novel is dedicated to my wife, Karen Kehela Sherwood, whose heart, mind, and rare storytelling gifts grace every page. She is my querencia—my sunny spot, safe harbor, and true love.

  ADVENTURES IN A CEMETERY OF STYROFOAM:

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE FILM ADAPTATION OF CHARLIE ST. CLOUD

  WOODLAWN CEMETERY IN THE BRONX, NEW YORK, IS ONE of America’s most beautiful and historic burial grounds, the resting place of more than 300,000 souls including Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Irving Berlin, and Herman Melville. Founded in 1863, the cemetery spreads across 400 rolling acres dotted with gardens, forests, lakes, memorials, and mausoleums. Encircled by stone walls and spiked fences, Woodlawn is a world unto itself, a sanctuary tucked right in the middle of a honking, pulsing city.

  In the summer of 2002, I phoned Woodlawn with an unlikely proposition. While most folks avoid cemeteries until they have no choice, I offered to volunteer as a laborer for one week. Understandably, Woodlawn executives were skeptical, but I persuaded them that my purpose was legitimate: I was writing a novel about life inside a cemetery and I wanted to learn firsthand about working among the dead.

  For years I’ve been drawn to the beauty and mysteries of cemeteries. In college I spent many afternoons exploring the hills and dales of Mount Auburn Cemetery, a National Historic Landmark in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Later, in my travels as a student and journalist, I made pilgrimages to some of the world’s most famous resting places. In the Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague, I was filled with awe to see so many leaning, crumbling tombstones crammed into a sliver of the capital city. At Jim Morrison’s grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, I watched visitors strum guitars, pose for pictures, and leave wine and cheese for the Doors singer. In Venice, Italy, I rode Vaporetto 41 to the Isola di San Michele, the beautiful island of the dead, where elderly widows carried wrinkly fists of flowers to their late husbands.

  In August 2002, I took my most unforgettable and unusual trip to a cemetery. On a very hot morning before most of the Bronx had eve
n awoken, I walked through the gates of Woodlawn for my first day of work. The superintendent handed over a blue work shirt and matching cap. My assignment: the grave-digging gang. In short order we opened four holes, as they say, and carried and lowered four caskets. In the ensuing week, I spruced up memorial plots, tidied mausoleums, trimmed hedges, and whacked weeds. A few times I helped console families crushed by grief. Once I stood quietly in the shadows while mourners clinked glasses of champagne to celebrate the departed. Each day as the hot sun fell behind the old trees, I wondered what kind of magical world sprang to life as soon as the gates were locked.

  From this experience—and, of course, from literature—I knew that graveyards are inherently dramatic, suspenseful, and even romantic places. So as this novel about loss and love took shape in my mind, I searched for an alluring cemetery where Charlie St. Cloud could live and his kid brother, Sam, could play. An old friend pointed me to a graveyard overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Marblehead, Massachusetts, and I traveled there several times to walk among the tombstones and to meet its caretakers. At last, my make-believe story had found a home.

  Seven summers after grave-digging in the Bronx, I was invited to visit the movie set of Charlie St. Cloud in Vancouver, Canada, where filming had just begun. On the appointed day, I was driven to a location in the lush hills north of the city. As we reached our destination, I noticed iron gates and a sign:

  WATERSIDE CEMETERY

  This leafy hillside in British Columbia was a country away from the actual Waterside Cemetery back East where I had situated the story. But a movie adaptation isn’t supposed to be a literal translation of a book. It’s an interpretation. While I had hoped that the film would be made in Massachusetts, I understood the movie studio’s financial decision to pick Canada, where production costs are significantly lower. My Marblehead pals lobbied hard for their hometown but eventually made reluctant peace with economic realities.