50. The Email

Things are looking up.

Guess that means I finally found the rope leading up and out of this dark well I’ve been stuck in.

Guess that means I’ve finally seen the light.

It starts on Thursday afternoon, when I come home to a surprise. Not Mom sleeping in the fireplace or something bizarre like that.

No, this is a good surprise.

“I got something for you,” she tells me.

Then she hands me a remote.

It doesn’t look like the remote for our television.

I glance over and see the box on top of the TV.

“They put up a dish. So we now have ten thousand channels to choose from. We’ll eventually upgrade the TV.”

“That’s awesome, Mom.”

“And something else.”

I wait, hoping.

Hoping to finally become a real teen again and have connection with the real world.

“We have the Internet.”

I really want to hug her.

I really do.

“That’s great,” I say, resisting the urge to say finally.

I can tell that there’s only one reason we got both services.

She’s looking at the computer right now and beaming.

My laptop is a year old and connects easily. I spend the night online, looking at an old email account and looking at my completely blank Facebook page. I’m not one of those who suddenly went gangbusters with all the social networks out there. I tried them out, then quickly got bored knowing so much about people I didn’t even know or want to know. I haven’t missed them.

Some of the reminders are there. Some posts from friends, some photos with me tagged in them.

Reminders.

It’s easier letting go when you’re not plugged in, not dialed in to the Matrix.

But there are reasons why I’ve wanted the Internet.

The first thing I do is create a Gmail account under a made-up name with the password I always use for everything.

Torrent101

The last name of one of my favorite musicians along with the trusty 101.

Not totally secret, but then again who’s going to bother breaking into something that has nothing to check out?

I find the address that I wrote down in my notebook when she gave it to me.

Then I send Jocelyn a quick note.

HEY—GUESS WHO HAS EMAIL?

CHRIS.

Short and subtle.

No reason to bombard her with some endless rant.

I wouldn’t like that if I got one from someone.

Well, from Jocelyn I’d be okay with it.

I search Facebook and other sites for her, but nothing comes up.

This is how you can kill time. Searching for random people, seeing random pics, and scanning meaningless information.

It’s eleven, and I haven’t really gotten any homework done nor have I heard from Jocelyn.

Guess I haven’t really been missing that much.

Mom knocks on my door, then opens it slightly.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just going online and seeing how the old gang is.”

She comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed across from where I sit at my desk.

“Do you miss the old gang?”

“Yeah. In some ways.”

“I appreciate how you’ve handled things.”

“Sure.”

“I really do.”

She’s got that tone and that look. It makes me nervous. I’m afraid she’s going to say something too deep, too meaningful, too vulnerable.

I never know how to respond.

So I say nothing.

“Find out anything new and exciting?”

“Brady went to the Bahamas with his parents.”

“That’s not new,” Mom says.

“Or exciting.”

She’s about to say something, I know it. I can see it.

I can feel it.

I fiddle around with my laptop.

“Well, I’m glad we finally got you connected again.”

“I appreciate it, Mom.”

“Just don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“Okay.”

She leaves, and I feel a bit guilty for not talking longer.

I know she probably feels as lonely as I do.

Probably even more so.

I hear the pong of an incoming message, a sound I haven’t heard in some time.

She’s emailing me back.

I stare at the screen, then feel an invisible hand pound against my chest as I read the words.

CHRIS:

YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE.

YOU NEED TO GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM.

YOU NEED TO STOP SNIFFING AROUND LIKE A MANGY DOG.

THIS IS NOT A PLACE YOU NEED TO BE CURIOUS ABOUT.

AND SHE IS NOT SOMEONE YOU NEED TO INTERESTED IN.

YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

WE WON’T KEEP WARNING YOU.

I look at the message, but there’s no sender information.

Nothing.

There’s no name, no info at the bottom of the email.

I try resending and replying and playing around with it, but there’s nothing I can do to see who sent it.

I breathe in.

It’s gotta be a taunt from Gus. Maybe he’s got some high-tech computer thing that knows I’m online and can see my info.

I’m not a computer genius, but I know that’s highly unlikely.

I reread the email, then turn off my computer.

I suddenly wish I wasn’t connected.

The words haunt me when I eventually turn off the lights and try to go to sleep.

Try being the key word.