The Collective(18)

“Hey, listen. I have a computer question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you tell me what dot onion means after a website?”

“Well . . . yeah. But why are you asking?”

I stare at the one word on my screen and the lie comes to me fast. “A client. She . . . um. She wants to show me a website as an example, but the link doesn’t seem to work.”

“Yeah? Well, tbh, I wouldn’t bother with that client.”

I sigh. Second time he’s used the expression tbh in two separate phone calls. I suppose that when you hang out with a twenty-five-year-old all day long, text-speak finds its way into your lexicon. “Why not?”

“Websites that end in onion are on the dark web. You can’t reach the site because you don’t have an unencrypted server.”

“The dark web? Really?”

“Yep.”

“How . . . strange . . .”

“You doing websites for hit men, now?”

I force out a laugh. “I guess I should vet my clients better. Thanks for the info.”

“Take care of yourself, Cammy.”

“You too.” I end the call, my eyes still on the email, on that one, lonely word the sender had typed, before that long, random series of numbers. Kaya.

I go to Google and type it in fast: How to find and download an unencrypted server.





Six


It isn’t hard at all to find an unencrypted server, and it’s not expensive, either. In less than an hour, Tor is on my computer, and I’ve navigated my way to a site called A?layan Kaya, which, at first glance, looks exactly like the business card that had been left on Emily’s grave. White letters on a black background. In the upper right corner of the group’s page, there’s a tiny button marked chat, and when I click on it, I’m asked to fill out a form with my first and last name, my email address, and an alias.


Pick a series of four numbers for your alias. All interaction on the Kaya chat is anonymous. If you state your real name, the real name of any of the other members, or of anyone connected to a member, you will be immediately and permanently removed from the chat.



For my four numbers, I choose 0417. Emily’s birthday. I check it against the other members’ numbers, and then I fill out the form without hesitation. There’s no question I’ll abide by these rules. I’m grateful for the enforced anonymity—there’s freedom in it. And as far as the administrator goes—that unseen person or pile of software I’m providing with my real name and email address—I’m okay with them knowing who I am. It’s not as though they’ve asked for my bank account number or my social. And if trusting this one entity is the price for, as that email said, justice, then I’m willing to pay it.

Once I’ve submitted the form, an instructional page pops up on my screen.


A?layan Kaya. Our loss has turned to rage that is permanent, strong, impenetrable. We are the face of the mountain and we will not be moved. We will not forgive. We will not sleep until the unpunished feel the pain they deserve.

Say here what you will. Speak your anger and take others’ as your own. Fantasize the worst fates for your children’s murderers and we will join you in it. The only words that aren’t tolerated here are the ones forced on us by those who aren’t part of the mountain—“Moving on,” “learning to forgive,” “a newfound understanding,” etc. These are words we say to make others feel comfortable. We do not appease others by hiding our grief. There is no “moving on” here. We are the face of a mountain. No one can move us. Type “yes” if you agree.



I type yes. A message appears on my screen: 0417, you may enter the chat room, it tells me. I’m filled with a strange energy, a thrill that warms my blood.


MY EYES ARE starting to sting. It’s hard to keep them open. I glance down at the lower right corner of my laptop screen. Four a.m. I’ve been in this chat room for more than six hours, but it feels like just a few minutes. I’ve made friends here—some thousands of miles away, judging from the way they describe their surroundings, and some closer. I remember the white roses on Emily’s grave. Some very close.

I’ll never know her name, the woman who left the roses. But as I finally log out of the chat room, ready for sleep, I feel as though I know her thoroughly. I know all of them thoroughly. There is strength and power in collective rage, one of the numbers said. It’s true. I feel it.

I am no longer alone.

Since Emily’s death, I’ve tried to join other groups. A support group for the newly grieving that met in the social hall of a Poughkeepsie church, an online chat for parents who have lost young children. I once took a memoir-writing class at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, where several of us happened to be struggling with the deaths of loved ones and trying to heal by squeezing our memories into words. In all of these groups, we sometimes described wish-fulfillment fantasies, and for my fellow members, those fantasies were almost always the same. If I could have my child back for one day, this is what I would say to her, this is where I would take her, this is what we would do. In the memoir class, the instructor even gave it to us as an assignment, and many in the class found it healing. I did not. Having Emily back for one day is not a fantasy of mine. It feels more like a curse, since it ends with losing her all over again.