My fingers hover over the keys, unsure of what I want to say—what I should say.
I’ve been thinking about it all day. All night too. I can’t seem to sleep at all. I can almost feel Jake around me tonight. It’s torture. His presence feels almost close enough that I imagine if I closed my eyes and reached out for him, my hands would find him on instinct alone.
I wish I could touch him.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Meeting April, 17, 2013
2:29 am
Mr. McBride,
Why do I get the impression that you are a massive dickhead?
Another obnoxious hybrid laugh bubbles out of me and I bring my fingers to the mouse on my laptop, shaking my head. I highlight then peck the delete button extra hard.
Mr. McBride,
That’s fine.
-Sadie Parker
I type my response, including my cell phone number, and then send the email that feels like it should say so much more. What it should say, I have no idea, but I feel like it should say more than it does. That could be in part because the emails I exchanged with Mrs. Hampton, the woman who received Jake’s kidneys, consisted of copious amounts of sympathy and encouraging words.
It was more of the same with Terry Jones. His liver was shot for some reason or another. I never asked. I don’t need or want to know. He and Jake made a fine match and so that’s what happened. Jake died. He lived.
While his wife, Ellen, was the one doing most of the emailing, they both sent their regards over and over. I know it’s the nice thing to do, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying for me.
I’m sick of sympathy. I kind of wish someone would act like a dickhead even if only for the sake of breaking up the monotony. The last two years have become a sugar-coated sympathy fest with a compassion filling that has done nothing but leave me sick to my stomach.
I’m a bitch. I know. I kind of wish someone would join me in the bitch-fest, though. Ditch the sympathy and take the low road like I did. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so goddamn lonely. Maybe then I could catch my breath. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so isolated.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: It’s late April 17, 2013
2:42 am
Why are you awake?
Regards,
Alexander McBride
I sit back in my bed and think about what I should say. I don’t know him. Why does he care that it’s late? I shake my head, exhaling a loud sigh.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: twilight troubles April 17, 2013
2:52 am
I could ask you the same thing.
-Sadie
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: It’s still late April 17, 2013
2:59 am
A storm has come in. I got up to watch the lightning on the water. I like storms. What’s your excuse for sleep deprivation?
Regards,
Alexander McBride
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: twenty questions April 17, 2013
3:02 am
Hard to sleep when you can’t breathe. I miss my husband. I miss Jake.
-Sadie
***
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: twenty questions April 18, 2013
8:13 am
Tell me something no one else knows about you.
Regards,
-Alexander McBride
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: twenty questions April 18, 2013
8:24 am
I hate my mom’s enchilada casserole but I have at least three servings of it in my freezer. What about you?
-Sadie
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: twenty questions April 18, 2013
8:38 am
I don’t vote. Ever.
Regards,
-Alexander McBride
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: RE twenty questions April 18, 2013
10:17 am
So much for civic duty. Where is your sense of social responsibility, Mr. McBride?
I joke.
I don’t vote either. Off to do penance for negligence of democracy.
-Sadie
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Atonement April 18, 2013
10:22 am
You’re funny. Just in case you were wondering. Thank you for the laugh. It’s been a while. Consider yourself atoned for your negligence of democracy. Surely making a heart patient laugh carries some weight in the good deeds department.
Regards,
Alexander McBride
***
My phone starts humming and buzzing from inside my purse. I look down at my purse on the couch beside me as if it’s a foreign object. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who’s calling me. I know who it is; the ringtone says it all.
“Girls Just Want To Have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper.