The fucking nerve of people.
Nine
Astaire
* * *
He replied.
I blink twice, rub my eyes, and refresh the page.
The unread email remains. I’m not imagining it.
My morning was filled with laundry, a brisk walk to the library to return a couple of books, a visit to the Elmhurst Theatre to check the volunteer schedule, and then brief intermission from it all to watch All About Eve—anything I could do to peel my fixation away from Bennett Schoenbach and his curious situation.
But shortly after dinner, I caved and allowed myself to check my email … just in case.
I click on his response, noting the timestamp of 8:41 AM.
He had to have been at the memorial when he wrote this …
* * *
FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
SUBJECT: RE: Condolences
Anonymous Stranger,
Your sympathies, condolences, and commiserations aren’t needed nor are they wanted. You don’t know my situation. You couldn’t possibly understand my feelings regarding this loss nor should you need to—because they’re none of your business.
The fact that you felt compelled to express your feelings anonymously, from the other side of a computer screen in God-knows-where, is frankly stated: pathetic.
Is this some sick and twisted thing you do? Do you scour obituaries in newspapers and then email their family members? What gives you the right to bother strangers? To make their tragedies about yourself? Surely you have better things to do with your time, yes?
Do me a favor and mind your own business.
But first, go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Bennett Schoenbach
* * *
The sting of hot tears clouds my vision for a few seconds before I force them away. I was so sure I wouldn’t get anything back from him that I hadn’t stopped to consider how I’d feel if he were to send me a scathing response.
Maybe I overstepped my boundaries, but my intentions were noble. If the email upset him that much, all he had to do was delete it and block my email address—not that I would’ve emailed him a second time.
I pace my apartment, gather my thoughts, and pour myself a glass of red wine before settling down in front of my computer and clicking ‘reply’ against my better judgement.
* * *
TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail
SUBJECT: Re: re: Condolences
Dear Bennett,
Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Astaire (yes, as in Fred Astaire) and I’ve lived through more hardships and tragedies in my twenty-six years than most people will experience in their lifetime. I don’t normally introduce myself this way as I don’t believe we should be defined by our pasts or the things that have happened to us, but it seems like a relevant fact to share with you given the context of these emails.
As a small child, I was placed in foster care. I never met my father. Never really knew my mother. I lived with thirteen families before I was adopted by an older woman who had never had children and decided to take a chance on my rebellious teenage self.
My years with my adoptive mother were some of the best I’d ever known. She taught me everything I needed to know about life, love, perseverance, and forgiveness. But in the middle of my freshman year of college, she was diagnosed with Stage IV brain cancer and within months, she was gone.
Nevertheless, I carried on. For her. For me. For the future I promised to live for her.
Around the same time, I met a man who would go on to become my fiancé. We had a class together—both of us studying Education. The man could light a room, and it was his wit that drew me to him first, followed by his contagious smile and sparkling eyes that made me lose my train of thought whenever he gave me that look...
And don’t even get me started on his heart—it was arguably the best part of him, which is saying a lot because every part of him was amazing.
But one year ago last week, he was driving home from the middle school where he taught math, and he was hit head-on at a busy intersection less than a mile from the apartment we shared.
As I told you in my first email, he did not survive.
The past year has wavered between bouts of sheer hell and the most brilliantly intense, soul-scorching pain a human can endure, but last week, I managed to suck it up, scrape myself off the floor, and march myself to a bar called Ophelia’s to meet a man for a blind date.
I didn’t know what he looked like—only that he was essentially tall, dark, and handsome.
And there, at the end of the bar … was you.
I attempted to get your attention for the sole purpose of ensuring you weren’t the man I was looking for, but the way you responded, the things you said to a complete stranger, were harsh and unkind.
And before I had a chance to explain, you left.
But you forgot your umbrella and it was still raining, so I ran after you, hoping I’d catch you so I could give it back because that’s exactly the kind of person I am.
By the time I caught up with you, you’d disappeared into a funeral parlor.
Later that night, I was able to piece together a few details to get your name. And I spent the better part of the day that followed convincing myself that you’d just lost the love of your life and that your unapologetic unkindness was a direct result of that—not because you’re a callous, coldhearted man.
My heart ached for you, for your loss, for how badly you must have been hurting to have lashed out at a total stranger in such a hurtful way.
This morning, on a whim, I decided to send you an email … a few gentle words to let you know you’re not alone in this world, because Lord knows I could’ve used the same thing a year ago.
But now I know I was wrong about you.
You’re cruel for the sake of being cruel.
But all of this said, it doesn’t make me any less sorry for your loss.
Sincerely,
Astaire Carraro
* * *
I hover my mouse over the ‘send’ button, chewing the inside of my lip.
When I sat down to compose this message ten minutes ago, I wanted to vent, to get the words out of my system. I had no intention of sending the thing. But it’s not like I have anything to lose at this point, nor will I likely ever cross paths with him again.
Screw it.
I reach for my wine glass, toss back the remains, and send the damn thing.
Ten
Bennett
* * *
“Oh, good. You are home.” My mother pushes past me Saturday night, showing herself into my apartment. “You weren’t taking my calls after the memorial, so I assumed you were either out and about with one of your female friends. Or you know, the usual … ignoring me.”
“I was just about to step out. Something I can help you with?” I close the door before following her to the wet bar where she proceeds to make herself a vodka cranberry that’s more vodka than cranberry.