The Collective(56)
“Me too.”
She waves, then hurries off to catch up with the rest of the group.
Around the time of the trial, I said it to anyone who would listen. This isn’t just because of my daughter. I want to make sure it doesn’t happen to other young girls. But I don’t know that I ever truly believed that it would happen to anyone else, weakened as I was by my own guilt—the idea that it was my fault, that if I’d only raised Emily differently, if I’d paid her more attention, if I hadn’t criticized her so much, if I hadn’t been so strict or so permissive or such a failure as a parent, she would never have died the way she did.
But what happened to Emily wasn’t my fault. I know that now. If any parents were to blame, they were Harris Blanchard’s, who had raised him to believe that his feelings were the only ones that mattered, that compassion and empathy were just words people printed on awards, that the world was his for the taking, literally.
We gave him exactly what he deserved.
As I head back to the parking lot, the wind dies down. The sun starts to burn through the heavy clouds, and while it doesn’t make me feel any warmer, everything looks a lot brighter than before.
Sixteen
0001: I have another assignment for you, but it is time-sensitive.
I see this once I’ve changed out of my funeral suit and into sweats and made a fresh pot of coffee, and even though I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, I answer quickly.
0417: I’m available.
I see the ellipses as my reply fades, and again it makes me wonder about 0001’s setup. How is it that she’s always available for a private chat? And how many people is she chatting with at once? I don’t have time to think about it long, though, because 0001’s reply comes as a rapid-fire series, and I have to read each message as carefully as possible before it disappears.
0001: Grab a pen and a piece of paper to take notes on the following.
0001: Drive to Tarry Ridge tonight. Write down this address: Beth Shalom Cemetery. 1561 Woodlawn Ave.
0001: Park across the street from the cemetery NO LATER THAN EIGHT THIRTY P.M. TONIGHT, and watch the entrance.
0001: A bald white man—approx. 5’9”—will leave the cemetery and cross the street between 8:40 and 9:00. Do not leave your car until you see him exit the cemetery. Act as if you are making a call. When he is in the middle of the crosswalk, look up. MAKE SURE THAT HE SEES YOU. Then SAY HELLO.
I wait, but the screen stays blank. Free of ellipses. Finally I type.
0417: Then what?
0001: That’s all.
0417: Just hello? That’s all I’m supposed to say?
0001: DO NOT speak to him until he is crossing the street. Understood?
0417: Yes.
0001: And do not move from where you are standing.
0417: OK.
As soon as my message is gone, this pops onto my screen:
0001: SCRIPT: You’re going to a grief-counseling group that meets at 9:00 p.m. It’s at St. Frederick’s Church on Peach Tree St. You saw an announcement for the group on an online forum. You are a first-time attendee. Use your real name.
I check the time on my phone. I have just about two hours to get to Tarry Ridge. I change out of my sweats and into a pair of jeans and boots and a dark turtleneck sweater. Then I throw on my coat, pour some coffee into my to-go cup, and grab a bottle of water, a banana, and a bag of chips on my way out the door so that I can eat dinner behind the wheel. I stopped for gas on the way home from the funeral, and I’m glad for that. I can hit the thruway right away and, barring unforeseen tie-ups, I’ll make it there with plenty of time to spare.
As I start up the car, I think about how I haven’t had an assignment since the night of Gary Kimball—not even a random purchase at a hardware store or a quick trip to a post office—and even though it’s only been four days, it’s made me feel a bit anxious and adrift. There’s a weight to having a destination and a purpose, even if that purpose is saying hi to a stranger as he’s leaving a cemetery. It tethers me, the way being a mother used to. It makes me feel as though I’m part of something more important than myself.
When I’m leaving Mount Shady and pulling onto Route 28, the sun is setting. It’s beautiful, the sky shot through with veins of purple and orange. I turn on the radio, but I don’t search for the news this time. I want music. I find a song I used to love in high school and start to mouth the words. “Just like heaven,” I whisper, my pulse quickening, that gorgeous bloodshot sky above me, the thruway entrance so close, I can nearly read the signs.
THE OLDIES STATION loses its novelty before it loses its signal, and so by the time I reach the exit for Tarry Ridge, I’ve been shifting back and forth between three commercial news stations, and an ad for an incontinence clinic is stuck in my head. I’ve been listening for information about Gary Kimball and Harris Blanchard, but I’ve heard nothing. Nothing new, anyway—just the same story about the search for Kimball continuing, played on two of the three stations twice within the hour. Harris Blanchard, it seems, is no longer big enough for radio news.
I drive past a row of Tarry Ridge businesses—a bagel place, a Mexican restaurant, a high-end boutique, a gym. What strikes me most about this ride is the loneliness of it—an entirely different experience than my ride with Wendy. It makes me long for her company, for company of any sort, really, even texts on a burner. Now that I know the collective is real, there’s something anxiety-producing about doing the work solo, and when I turn the radio off, the silence roars at me. I took my pills this morning; I’m sure of it. But it feels as though I haven’t, as though I’m not living but reliving this moment and there’s something inside me clamoring to escape. . . .