CHARLIE

It was a typical September day in southwest Washington state. Typically rainy, typically foggy, typically chilly, typically miserable. And I was feeling as lousy as the weather. Why the hell my parents had wanted to settle in a place like this had never been clear to me.

               And now they were dead, and I was stuck with the property. They knew I hated it. I hated the weather, I hated the isolation – fifty acres of glorious hills and pines, for Heaven’s sake! I hated the log cabin. As if there weren’t enough trees about, let’s just make a house out of even more trees so that the very air inside and out was permeated with pine!

               As soon as I turned eighteen, I had packed my bags and headed for Seattle. They had begged me to stay. They were certain I was not ready to be on my own. I always had been weak, physically and psychologically. Mom and Dad were “helicopter parents” – always hovering over me, never encouraging me to learn to stand on my own. And they wondered why I was so dependent. Seriously? So when I left they were sure I would crumble at the first sign of difficulty and come running home, begging them to take care of me as they had done all of my life. And Lord help me, I almost had. They were right. I was weak. Even the simplest of tasks seemed earth-shaking to me.

               My first three months had been miserable. Securing an apartment, getting the utilities turned on, paying bills. I had never had to do any of that. The stress had been nearly too much. I always had been sickly, which I suppose was the reason for my parents’ hovering, and the stress of being on my own was taking a physical toll. I started missing work and nearly lost my job at the art museum. Then one day the curator called me to her office.

               She liked me, she said. My passion for art was evident, and on my good days the patrons were delighted by my guided tours. But on my off days, I was tense and hard to be around. She would give me two weeks to pull myself together.

               Then, on one of my “good” tours, I met Steve.

               “There is an artist in you just waiting to burst onto the scene,” he told me. “But art demands freedom, and you are too tense to be free. You need to let go of daily stresses and focus on your art.”

               So Steve moved in, and I once again was taken care of. Did I love him? I don’t know. Probably not. But I would never admit that – especially to my parents. I was living the life of an “up and coming” artist. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

               Then Dad died, and Steve and I travelled together to be with Mom for the funeral. And though we never talked about it, she saw straight through the BS to the needy, frightened child I still was.

               Mom lived only three months after Dad died. As her only living relative, I was left with the task of planning her funeral (a small affair) and disposing of that detestable pile of lumber. Steve, of course, handled the funeral details. God bless him.

               Then came the registered letter. Mom had left me the property, as I had expected. But she had added a small codicil after I returned to Seattle. It was mine to do with as I pleased – after I lived in it for one year. And at the bottom, she had written in her own hand, “Trust me. You will come to appreciate this.”

               Though I begged Steve to come with me, he couldn’t leave his work in Seattle. He would visit me as frequently as possible, he promised. But I felt myself losing him even as he loaded the last of my things in the car.

               So now here I was on this lonely stretch of road, without parents, without a partner, and without the courage to go on. I found a wide spot in the road, pulled over, shifted into PARK – and fell apart.

               After what seemed like forever, I had emptied myself – of tears, of anger, even the fear had taken temporary leave. I finished the drive on Autopilot, not really seeing the traffic, not aware of where I was and what I was doing. How I managed to avoid an accident, only the Lord knew. But at last I was there. As I dragged my first bag up the steps and unlocked the door, the fear came back full force.

               On rubber legs, I turned to go for another bag – and saw him -- a big black bear standing just inside the tree line, looking at me. I yelled at him to shoo him off. He never even blinked. Just watched me. I tried to stare him down, but he never flinched. He seemed to be studying me like a bug under a microscope.

               “What now?” I wondered. “I can’t just stand here. I have to get my bags.”

               Then I remembered Dad’s rifle. I hurriedly stepped into the living room. There it was over the mantle. I found the shells and loaded three. By the time I had used them, I was sure, one of us would be dead.

               It was a huge effort trying to unpack the car with one hand and hold the rifle with the other. By the time I had pulled the last one out, in spite of the chill, I was sweating profusely. And the damned bear just stood and watched the entire time.

               “You COULD have helped me carry these!” I yelled at him. And still he stood.

               Then a strange idea hit me. Surely that thing wasn’t just a statue Mom had put up there!

               As if reading my mind, the bear shifted slightly. Suddenly, all of my composure deserted me and I ran into the house and locked the door. As if a lock would really stop him.

               I fell into the nearest chair and tried to calm down. Okay. I’m here. I don’t like it, but this is my home for a year. One day nearly down, three hundred sixty four to go. And there’s a bear. A very stubborn bear. But he can’t just stand there forever. Can he?

               Suddenly, I was exhausted. Though it was still fairly early, I picked up a box marked “clothes” and headed for my old bedroom. Yes, I was the mistress of the house, but the master suite was just too much for me. I would keep my old room. I barely remembered climbing into bed, but I woke the next morning having slept for several hours.

               I hated myself for it, but the first thing I did was to look for the bear. And there he was, looking quite relaxed and comfortable on my front lawn. I stepped onto the porch, loaded a single shell and fired a shot over his head to frighten him off. He didn’t budge.

               I went back inside and tried to unpack, but my knees were weak and my stomach was queasy, and I couldn’t get my mind off of that stupid bear.

               I had always heard black bears were not aggressive unless it is a mother protecting her young. And though this one was not technically aggressive, it still wasn’t leaving. So maybe it was a female with some cubs somewhere on the property. But why hadn’t I seen them? And why was she hanging so close to the house. “What kind of mother are you?” I asked the empty room. “Go away and take care of your babies!”

               I gave up trying to unpack. I went upstairs to my room and locked the door. I wanted to call Steve. I had to call Steve. Surely if he knew I was in danger he would come to my rescue.

               I looked at my cell phone. NO SERVICE. Damn this wilderness! Mom and Dad had always kept a land line phone in the living room. I tiptoed down the stairs, trying not to disturb the bear. There was the phone jack. And no phone. Oh yes. Mom had gone cellular when Dad died. Well, maybe she had a better carrier than I had.

               I went to her room and rummaged around until I found her phone. NO SERVICE. What was this, some kind of conspiracy to drive me crazy?

               Okay. I can’t hide in my room for a year. The first thing I had to do was eat. When I talked to Mom’s lawyer about moving in, I had made arrangements to have the refrigerator and pantry stocked. I went to the pantry and found a box of Mini Wheats. A bowl of cereal was about all I felt up to dealing with.

               Afterward I forced myself to start unpacking. I crept through the house like a burglar, and checked often for the bear. He or she never let me down. He was always there. I skipped lunch, had another bowl of cereal for supper, and went to bed early, determined to make a better start in the morning. Two days down, three hundred sixty-three to go.

               The next morning, I decided it was time to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with myself for a year. Mom and Dad had left me well set for money, so I didn’t have to work. I could work on my paintings (if that damned bear would just go away), but I wanted a life outside the limits of this property.

               Astoria, Oregon was only a few miles away. It was a nice little town, kind of artsy, and somewhat popular with tourists. Maybe I would drive down there and see if there was something I could do on a part-time basis. They had a nice maritime museum. Perhaps I would look into that.

               Feeling good about myself for having formulated some kind of plan for my future, I donned a work-appropriate outfit, bounded down the stairs, opened the door – and stopped dead in my tracks.

               There he was, right on my front porch. I slammed and locked the door and ran back upstairs.

               Okay. If there was such a thing as a psycho bear, this bear was psycho! Now it was time to put the fear aside and take action. This sucker had to die. Immediately. I loaded the rifle. Fully.

               With hands shaking wildly, I took a deep breath and opened the door. I wished he would stop looking at me. Never mind. He had to go. I was so unsteady that the shell intended for his head hit his shoulder. He got up and loped off toward the woods. I steadied myself and fired two more shots. He disappeared into the trees. I could only pray that one of the shots had been lethal. At any rate, the bear was gone.

               I rushed to the car, locked the doors quickly – and fell apart. When I was calm enough to drive, I backed out of the driveway and started toward Astoria.

               When I rounded the first curve, three things happened simultaneously. I slammed on the brakes, threw the car into PARK, and screamed. There he was, in the middle of the road, looking at me. Now I realized that the bear wasn’t psycho after all. I was! Why else would I believe that the damned thing was actually smiling at me?

               He rose on his hind feet and raised his front paws – in a “time out” signal?! Okay. I quit. Either I was going to end up in a mental institution, or I was going to be eaten by a bear. At that point, I didn’t care which. I rolled down the window. Hell, I might as well make it easy for him.

               I braced myself for the worst – and quickly realized it was even worse than I expected. He spoke!

               “Tough to kill, aren’t I?” he said with a chuckle.

               I could only stare. It was a hallucination. It had to be a hallucination. Lord PLEASE let it be a hallucination!

               “Don’t worry. You’re not hallucinating.”

               Oh great! Not only does it talk, it also reads minds!

               “What the hell are you?” I finally managed to squeak out.

               “Good question. Call me a spirit if you wish. I’m Charlie – and I am a part of you. I am the strength, the drive, the strong will you never knew you had. I am here to show you the real you. There is so much more to you than the weak-willed child you always thought you were. Over the next twelve months, you will learn and grow and become so much more than you ever thought possible.”

               “The next twelve months?”

               “Yes. The codicil your mother added to her will was my idea. You see, I came to her just after your father’s funeral. She grew a lot in her last three months; and just before she died, she asked me if I would take care of you. So here I am.”

               “Yeah. And you scared me half to death!”

               “I had to make you desperate enough to do something you didn’t think you could do. And you did well. Congratulations.”

               “Right. Thanks. So now I’m going to wander around talking to a bear for the next twelve months. They’ll have me in a loony bin in no time!”

               “You needn’t talk aloud. I’m here in your mind and in your spirit. And no one will see me.”

               “Not even me?”

               “You need only believe and trust. But if you ever need reassurance, you will see me.”

               It took a while, but I eventually adjusted to the idea of an invisible spirit bear named Charlie (Did I actually just say that?). True to his word, he was visible every time I needed him. Over the past months, I have seen him less and less. But I know he is there.

               I got the job at the maritime museum, where I work four hours every weekday morning. My afternoons are often spent on Cannon Beach, not far from Astoria. The scenery there is breathtaking, and I have done many paintings there. Charlie even posed for a few of them. I wonder what the critics will think of a bear on the beach. But he struck some funny poses, and the results were rather whimsical.

               I contacted the art gallery in Seattle last week. They are going to show some of my work soon. I may even slip in a couple of Charlie’s portraits, just for kicks.

               Today is day number three hundred sixty-six in the old home place. And I have no intention of leaving. Charlie and I are perfectly comfortable there.