Many states away and across many miles, Janice Chen knew it was the computer who had provided Victor, her Victor, Victor Shumpert. Victor who was so gentle, so kind. Victor who knew her sorrow, too having lost a spouse. Victor whose very own younger brother, Wilhelm, had tricked their dying father into willing him all the family property, leaving not a penny for the older son, her Victor, to whom, when he asked for a picture of his sweet, soft angel, she sent a photograph of her daughter, Alexandra, whose face owed half to Mrs. Chen anyway.
Dear Mrs. Janice, he wrote. Thank you, so very thank you for message. Only you show me God is Great. Because you have been stronger than a tree in a storm raining. Shame on Sister! Shame on Children! For some, we have saying, the fire is too hot that cooks their food. But be peace, my sweetheart! One day they will know. When will I see my angel princess Janice? When will I touch her? Perhaps it is not too much to say that you would like to see me too. You would send me wire transfer for visit, Princess Janice. I would need thirteen thousand dollars for plane and visa. Please when it is considerate will you write me again? Kisses, Your Victor
These hands he loves, she thought, typing. Someone loves these hands.
She had not been someone someone wanted to see in three decades.
My Baby Vic, she wrote, I did some research. I discovered that French is the language in Haiti. I always wanted to go to Paris. One time, someone gave me a T-shirt with an Eiffel Tower on it, but it was only a fake. I knew this because of the tag saying Made in China. How do you say I love you forever in French? How about I miss you? Or, without you it hurts? Because I do, sweet Victor, even if Alexandra thinks my pain is my imagination because she can’t smell it or touch it, see it or feel it. She is scientific that way. I used to think she’d go to the moon. What helps is I will think of you tonight when I am in bed. I got a new nightgown. It is blue with pink flowers. Think about that! Lots of kisses for my baby Vic, Janice
After the email, she rubbed on her cream so that she would be as soft as her Victor believed. She wrote to her merciless surviving child that she would need extra in her bank account this month, and she tried not to hear Alexandra’s voice in her head: You don’t have children. You have a child. Shel is dead.
The next day, her daughter emailed. Scam was the word for the romance of her mother’s life. A foolish response.
But that is love, she wrote back. I feel it. You will pay for love. You will be robbed by it, and the love of it is real.