Charlotte Patel

This is an alternate version of Charlotte Temple.

Charlotte Patel
By Erica Raab

In groups or alone, the passengers filed onto the 747 jet. Even the economy class was spacious – the seats in columns of three, divided by two aisles. The middle row held three seats, rows of two on either side across the wide walkways. The seats were blue but faded, the lighting soft but bright. The air had that peculiar smell all passenger planes carry – of recycled air, cleanser, peanuts and people.

Anna Beauchamp stepped carefully off the Jetway and into the open hatch of the plane. The small gap between the bridge and the plane door always bothered her a little, the hard cement ground visible from high above. A cheerful, bottle blonde flight attendant welcomed the older woman aboard with a practiced smile.

She checked her boarding pass as she walked down the aisle, looking for seat 28A. A very young woman, Asian, no older than sixteen, sat in the window seat, pretty face slack with exhausted sleep. An infant slept on her chest, cradled in one careful arm, dark hair wispy and fine. She looked so tired Anne left her to her sleep. Anne had been looking forward to the window seat, but settled for the aisle seat. At least it wasn’t a middle seat, she thought. The woman stowed her baggage in the overhead compartment, after removing a pair of books from her carry-on – entertainment for the three-hour flight from O’Hare in Chicago, to LAX in Los Angeles.

She settled in her seat with her copy of The Seer and the Sword - young adult fantasy was her guilty pleasure, despite being a fully grown adult with children of her own. When the seatbelt sign blinked on overhead, Anne checked the girl’s seatbelt. It was fastened, so she didn’t bother to wake the young woman.

The dark-haired mother and child slept through takeoff. The baby woke as they rose to cruising altitude, pressure pushing painfully on sensitive eardrums, and began to wail, waking its mother. The girl rocked her baby, cooing in a foreign language to her child, then fished out a pacifier, popping it into the babe’s mouth. The small child’s face scrunched in annoyance, then subsided, beginning to suck strongly.

“Hello,” Anne said once the baby was soothed. “I’m Anne Beauchamp. Where are you headed?” The young woman blinked dark brown eyes, then smoothed sleek black hair behind an ear.

“India. More specifically, Bombay.” She said in perfect, British English. “I’m Charlotte Patel. Pleasure to meet you. Where are you going?” She had a lovely voice, soft but musical.

“My family is headed to California for Spring Break. My husband is with our two sons - in business class – we were able to upgrade three of our tickets, but one of us had to sit in economy class, so I elected to sit back here, since I don’t mind.”

“So you are on holiday?” Charlotte asked, tilting her head.

“Yes.”

“I remember taking vacations, back when I lived with my family, we…” The girl trailed off, then sighed.

“Yes?” Anne prompted, curiosity piqued. Charlotte smiled faintly, eyes distant. Her baby drooped on her lap, falling asleep again, pacifier still in her mouth.

“Perhaps… I was told it is easy to tell one’s troubles to a stranger that you will never see again. Would you like to hear mine?”

“I’ll listen, if you want me to.” Anne said quietly, trying not to sound eager.

“I made mistakes. But I cannot regret them. Lucy is the best mistake I ever made.

“I was born in Bombay. My father was a wealthy man, old money, older name. His forebears lost a lot of the money, but he gained much of it back when he started a for-profit charity organization. He met my mother and grandfather early on, before he got the company off the ground. My grandpapa was filing for a loan, as he was deeply in debt. They had been in good money before their fortunes turned ill. They were living in the slums when my father met them. Their story is a long one on its own, but I must tell mine – theirs is not mine to tell, not truly.

“I realize now how much they sheltered me. We had no television, and everything I read had to be approved, except for the Qur’an. I was fifteen when I met Jamal Montraville. He was full of pretty words, his face was even prettier. He seemed to be going places, high places. I thought myself in love with him, and he urged me to come with him to America, he was to go to University there, to become a doctor. He convinced me to go with him, obtained visas for both of us. He said it was a crime to keep me locked away, that I should go out and see the world, and become a modern woman. Modern woman,” Charlotte snorted bitterly, “As if that meant anything.”

“We left India for America. It was a long flight, with many connections. Jamal took me to Chicago, near the college he was going to – the University of Illinois Chicago. He set me up in a pretty apartment in the city, with money for rent, utilities and food. He was to stay at the college dormitories, but he visited me every day at first. I was so fortunate that my parents raised me to speak both Hindi and English, I don’t think I could have survived on my own if I had not spoken the predominant language of where I lived.

Jamal promised to marry me once he graduated, reassured me of his love so often that I thought I was merely giving him his husbandly rights whenever he came to me. We were careful. We used condoms, but two or three times they broke. He stared to drift away from me, as college got harder for him. I bought a small television, read whatever I wanted to. Maybe it was these new freedoms that made me change into something unfit for him. And then he met her. Julia Franklin. She was half-white, but her mother was Indian, and she was good friends with Jamal’s mother. She’d moved to America and met Julia’s father. The two mothers arranged a marriage between their children. Jamal had resisted it, with his promise to me, but she drove over from Cleveland, where she lived. As soon as they met they were infatuated with each other.

“I did not know this at the time. All I knew what that Jamal came less and less to see me. I had turned from fiancé to a kept woman. Just as I found I was pregnant, Jamal told me he was marrying his other woman, and told me everything. When I told him I was carrying his child, he told me to get an abortion. How could I?

“He married her, and stopped paying for my needs. It was mid-winter when I was evicted, and I was heavily pregnant, perhaps six months along. Rather than risk an endangerment charge, my landlord drove me to a homeless shelter. They were full for the night, but let me sleep on the floor. Someone lent me a pillow. After that, I slept in shelters, ate in food kitchens, and spent my time in libraries or train stations to keep warm. I read a lot in those days, to keep my mind off of what had happened to me. They found me a job, waitressing in an Indian restaurant. They liked me there. Maybe it was my pretty face, or something else. I do not know.

“I had Lucy in a free clinic. There was no money for a place to live, not with her needs, but a charity placed me in a home for women who were abused, who had children. They looked after my daughter while I worked. I saved up enough money to send my family a letter. I asked for their forgiveness, told them how low I had fallen. I saved my money, and bought the tickets to get back to Bombay.

“And here I am. I will fly from Chicago to Los Angeles, from Los Angeles to Tokyo, and Tokyo to Bombay. And hopefully my family will be there to welcome me and my child.” Charlotte finished, fingers stroking the soft black down on her infant’s head.

“That’s an amazing story.” Anne said, “I can tell you are a very strong woman.”

“Thank you. But I do not think I am. I cried too much back then. I think, if I had been somewhere else, I might have died in the winter cold. Who knows? I think I will ask my family to get a television when I return. Do you think they might?” The woman asked, suddenly looking girlish and entirely her own age. Anne shrugged.

“Well, I suppose they might. I don’t know them, though.”

After that, Lucy began to cry. Charlotte pulled out a blanket and began to nurse her.

The two woman spoke of inconsequential things for the rest of the flight after that. They shook hands before disembarking, and never saw each other again.

Charlotte walked away through the terminal, loaded down with baby and baby supplies. Her back was straight, and unbroken.

On Ms. Temple

Overall, I thought the true moral of the story was not running of for love, but rather the danger of oversheltering young women. Children need to make mistakes to learn from them, but Charlotte was never given the chance, locked away in her boarding school. Her teacher failed to watch over her properly, and the weak-minded Charlotte succumbed to peer pressure. I actually felt the woman who kicked Charlotte out would have been perfectly justified if Charlotte had not been pregnant and it had not been midwinter. But lives for the humble and honest were hard back them, particularly in over-taxed America, where the well-spoken British officers could force them to shelter and feed them with no recompense.
I myself am writing a fantasy novel in which a young woman has a child out of wedlock, but it has a far better ending.

Topic for lit paper...

I'm thinking about writing my paper on teen suicide. It's the third leading cause for people ages 15-24, which is huge - and those kinds of deaths are devastating for everyone in the situation. Granted, death is hard all around - but suicide really hits you hard if you knew them. You think, did I do anything wrong? How could I not see it coming? Women are three times more likely to commit suicide, but men are three times more effective in actually succeeding. Which ends up with a fairly equal number of successful attempts between the sexes.
Suicide is a very personal topic for me, I've known people who tried, and one who succeeded, and even closer to home than even that.
At such a young age, it's easier to not comprehend the consequences of such a fatal action - death is often romanticized. I consider suicide to be an incredibly selfish act.

Hine part two.

I found it interesting that Hine thinks that the key process of Erik Erikson’s theory for adolescence – the search for identity – is being pushed aside for shallow tribe identification. I have to agree.

I remember some of the groups in my school – the stoners, the slackers, the dumb jocks, the smart jocks, the preps, the drama kids, the Slytherins (as they called themselves), the manga crowd, the goths of course, the passionate Latina girls, the soccer gangs, and my own group of the ‘vanilla freaks’. The vanilla freaks were not weird enough to be punks or Goths, but not mainstream enough to register as either preps or slackers. We were the weird, smart, quiet kids – tech savvy but not so much to be geeks or nerds. It’s interesting how everyone in highschool compartmentalizes themselves into one group or another in order to feel a sense of belonging. Even though my main crowd was the vanilla freaks, I associated with other kids in different groups outside of class, which was unheard of in my school. I never really felt a part of any group, never really identified myself personally as this or that. But most of my friends were vanilla freaks, so that was the crowd I hung with – and I thought hey, I like vanilla – I did all right.

I’ve always been very introverted, so I know myself pretty well. I think one of the reasons I felt a little more mature than my peers was because I already knew who I was, even if I didn’t know what I wanted to be.