Joan and Dennis had been in their early seventies when they’d brought Randi to Amesport, and both foster parents had lived a long, happy life—well into their eighties. Knowing that still didn’t lessen the pain of losing them for Randi, or make her wish any less that she’d had more time to spend with them.
Nothing had prepared Randi for the deep emptiness she’d experienced since her loss. Dennis’s death had been heartbreaking; Joan’s had been unbearable. She wasn’t sure if the uncontrollable ache she felt every time she thought about her would ever go away.
Looking at the note, she smiled sadly. Her correspondence with S. was more like a continual conversation. Their entries often weren’t long, and sometimes they wandered into subjects that weren’t really important, but that was part of the fun of having a secret friend.
I still can’t believe that I’ve befriended a person who started off as such an asshole!
Her buddy, formerly known as Unsympathetic in Boston, had been a jerk in the beginning, but what had started off as what she assumed was a practical joke soon turned into a conversation, and eventually mutual admiration. Randi felt a connection to the author of these emails that made her laugh and cry, and were sometimes so thoughtful—like his email in front of her—they made her melancholy.
She shared mostly thoughts and emotions, something that was easier when she could be anonymous. She suspected he’d felt the same way in the beginning. Lately, he’d been hinting at the possibility of the two of them meeting in person.
“Do I ever really want to meet him? Do I ever want to reveal my identity to him?” she whispered to herself as she stared at the screen in the Center.
Yes.
No.
Oh hell, she didn’t know. She’d shared more with S. than she’d ever shared with anyone about her true thoughts and emotions. They never shared details. About the only few facts he knew about her were that she was in her late twenties and that she had been fostered by a loving, elderly couple when she was fourteen, a life-changing event that had brought her from California to Maine.
The only information she knew about him was that he was male, worked for the Sinclair Fund, was entering his midthirties, wasn’t married, and seemed to be around a computer when he probably should be out dating. He’d captured her interest when he’d simply replied to her snide return email, complimenting her intelligence and humor, telling her she’d made him laugh, like it was a very rare occurrence for him. She assumed it was something he didn’t do often.
He’s listened to me through my grief, trying to understand my pain and fix it. Somehow, he always seems to know I feel alone now.
Dennis and Joan had brought her into their home fourteen years ago, and she’d felt the sense of actually being “home” for the first time in her life. She’d only left Maine for college, returning home with her teaching degree. The Tylers had been so proud of her, so encouraging. They’d never been able to have children of their own, and they didn’t have close family. They weren’t rich, but they’d been happy together for almost sixty years. Randi hoped she’d find a love like theirs someday. “Everything I am, I owe to them,” she said softly as she clicked the “Reply” button on her friend’s thoughtful email.
Dear S.,
Sorry it’s been a few days since your email and I haven’t answered. I’ve finally tackled the task of going through my foster mom’s things. She wouldn’t want them to be wasted. I’ve donated as much as I can, and kept the things that are sentimental. Everything feels more final now, and I still feel alone in my parents’ empty house. But thank you for your kind words. I don’t feel as conflicted anymore. I’m glad the suffering is over, though the loneliness remains. I try to just focus on my job, and appreciate my friends. I think it will just take time.
Speaking of parents, are yours still alive? We’ve never spoken much about family.
Hoping you’re staying warm in this incredibly cold winter!
M.
Randi sent the email, hoping she hadn’t crossed the invisible line that she and her pen pal had drawn by asking for personal details. She’d shared her situation with her foster parents willingly, though she’d left out the particulars. They shared thoughts and feelings, but never details.
He had recently said he sometimes wished they could meet face-to-face. Sometimes Randi wanted that, too, and more often than not she wanted to know more about the man who had been her confidant through some very difficult times.
“The mysterious man in my life,” Randi murmured under her breath. “What’s his first name? Starting with S?” Stewart? Sam? Sylvester? Scott? Seth? Randi had gone through the list many times. None of those names had ever quite fit.
Her heart accelerated as she saw an answer pop into her mailbox almost immediately. She clicked on the mouse to show his response.
Dear M.,
I’m glad you’re feeling a little less conflicted, but sorry you are feeling so alone. Please let me know what I can do to help you. I know we’ve never met in person, but you’ve been more of a friend to me than anyone else in my life in the past year.
Are my parents living? Yes . . . and no. My father died when I was in college and I haven’t seen my mother for many years. She doesn’t want anything to do with me or my siblings. The last I heard, she was living with a guy in Europe, probably trying to forget about my deceased, alcoholic father. He wasn’t a pleasant man. Perhaps that’s too much information, but it’s the truth.
I’m not in Boston at the moment, but I haven’t gone to a warmer climate, unfortunately.