by Kelly Harms
“That would be great,” says Mom. “Even after I do sort through it, I don’t think I’ll be able to throw any of it away just yet. You know.”
I do know. We had to go through his closet and drawers here at home, and that was bad enough. Andy didn’t keep much, but what he kept was meaningful. Not every birthday card I ever gave him, but like, the first one I picked out myself—a sparkly blue card that played “When You Wish upon a Star” when you opened it. And the one where I wrote twenty-five reasons he was the best brother ever for his twenty-fifth birthday.
He never had a twenty-sixth birthday.
“It might not be photos,” I warn. “He never really remembered to take photos of anything.”
My mom nods. “Probably not,” she says sadly. “Probably it’s all nothing.”
I try to issue some kind of comforting smile. “Let’s finish here and go upstairs and have a beer.”
My mom looks at me like I’ve proposed we take a rocket to Mars. “You mean actual beer?”
“For you. Not for me,” I say. “For me I mean white wine. Beer has gluten.”
She laughs. “Right. And gluten makes you fat,” she says with raised eyebrows.
“Well, it does.”
“Does tequila make you fat?” she asks.
“Margaritas, yes. Tequila by itself, no.”
“Well, the rain’s not stopping, and moving Andy’s boxes makes me want tequila,” she tells me. “How about a shot of Cuervo with a white wine chaser? Sounds gross to me, but whatever. God forbid you gain an ounce.”
“Sounds like a deal,” I say, and I try to forget about Andy for the rest of the night. But without my phone to pull me out of my thoughts, it is impossible. All night long I am crawling the walls. After my mom goes to bed, I sneak downstairs with packing tape and scissors. I open each box of Andy’s, rifle through the contents, and tape them back up so Mom won’t know.
I find no photos. Nothing personal at all. Just long-outdated papers, textbooks from college, worn-out socks, a pair of swim trunks with the tags still on. In the last box I find a navy T-shirt of his, from an Arcade Fire tour, being used as a protective wrap for a lamp I swear I’ve never seen before. The shirt is dusty and smells of nothing, certainly not of Andy, not his neutral mix of dude sweat and Irish Spring. Even so, I shake it off and put it on over my pajama camisole and go up to bed. Though I don’t remember seeing him in it, it is soft from multiple washings, and the neckband is loose. He wore it, maybe to play basketball. He might have played a pickup game after work in this shirt.
I would have been in LA already, back then, still trying to get my yoga studio off the ground. But as I fall asleep tonight, I imagine I was there, in Denver, at the gym, waiting for him to finish so we could go out for dinner and catch up. In my half-asleep, half-waking state, I imagine that he comes over and gives me a stinky hug and says, I’m gross. Let me run home for a quick shower and then meet you at that place by my house? But then, instead of him getting T-boned on the way to his apartment at six thirty p.m. by some guy who had spent the day holding down a barstool, I would tell Andy, You smell fine to me. I heard there’s a good place around the corner. Why don’t we just walk?
PAIGE
Once I start, I can’t stop. I keep my laptop logged in, spending half the night monitoring Mia’s feed. I also pace around the room, read a few pages of a book so boring I’ve had it unread for almost an entire year, flip on the TV in the background, get stir crazy, go for a walk, enjoy the mountain views, come back, and hit refresh. By the time the feed has a thousand comments, I’ve zapped eight trolls, who have suggested, among other things, that Mia needs to get laid by force and that she is a waste of usable organs and that she is actually a Russian hacker catfishing the entire @Mia&Mike fan base. I almost leave that one because it amuses me. But it seems like if I’m sort of half hacking Mia’s account, I should at least be consistent about it. I fall asleep next to my laptop, wake up around seven, and start it up again.
Around breakfast, I’m about thirty pages into my boring book and three trolls down and getting hungry. I realize this is a bed-and-breakfast, but I don’t think I’m going to get breakfast delivered to my bed, so I take a shower, pull on my clothes, and grab my computer and charger. I figure I can take my laptop down to breakfast and just keep refreshing.
But when I get down to the dining room and seat myself where I had my cookies, the innkeeper looks from me to my laptop and says, “Oh, no. No way.”
“Am I late?” I ask.
“Late to the revolution, my dear,” he replies. “Here at Inn Evergreen we don’t dine while gazing into our screens. We chat. We mingle. We read a book.”
I blink at him. “I’m from California,” I say. “Can I use my laptop?”
He looks back, and I can tell he’s totally considering it. He should be! This is a ridiculous rule. But when he speaks, he says, “I’d really prefer guests not work in the dining room.”
“I’m not working,” I assure him. “I would need a more secure connection to do any meaningful work here.”
Again it takes him a long time to answer. Finally he says to me, “Paige, may I call you Paige?”
“As opposed to what?” I ask.
“Ms. Miller,” he supplies smoothly.
I think it over. “I prefer that,” I say at last. I wonder if I could ask Karrin to call me Ms. Miller at work. It would be reasonable, since I’m of generally higher usefulness than she is and have longer tenure.
“Ms. Miller, would you consider dining in the kitchen today? I can make you comfortable there, and you’ll be able to use your computer without affecting my general policy.”
I blink. “I don’t care where I eat,” I say. “Though I am hungry.”
He actually claps his hands. “Terrific. Let me show you the way.”
As the innkeeper gallantly escorts me to the neighboring kitchen, I pass the other diners in varying stages of their repast. I do notice none of them even have their phones on the table, much less a computer, much less a twenty-inch SmartThink Pro. Colorado is a very interesting place.
“Here we are,” he says when we get to the kitchen. I take it in, and it’s an assault to my senses after the clean, upscale lines of the hotel proper. There is fruit wallpaper on two walls and bright-yellow paint on the others. The two wall ovens are avocado green. Above the cabinets on the bulkheads are floating shelves positively teeming with ugly salt and pepper shakers. A little tube TV plays a network morning show in the corner.
“I can turn that off,” he says when he notices me looking at it. “It’s all commercials anyway.”
I shake my head. “Leave it on,” I say. “I haven’t seen any commercials in years.” Hardly anyone my age has cable anymore, and all the streaming platforms have a premium ad-free option. I’m not a huge football watcher, but I know a lot of the Pictey staff watch the Super Bowl just for the nostalgia of thirty-second spots.
“Well, ok. If you’re sure.”
I nod. “Is it ok if I sit here?” I ask, picking a hideous vinyl stool at the Formica island.
“You wouldn’t prefer the table?” he asks.
The table is a different color of Formica, and the chairs are rattan and look frail. I don’t like frail chairs, in general. “This is good for me,” I say. “I am glad you invited me in. I prefer this to the dining room.”
The man laughs heartily. “Perfect, then,” he says. “Welcome to my happy place.”
I look him over. He’s exceedingly friendly. I can’t remember the last time someone invited me to their sanctum, and this guy hardly even knows me.
Maybe that’s why he’s doing the inviting.
“Now, I’m sorry about my dining room policy,” he starts saying to himself as he fills several mugs with coffee. “Workaholics welcome at the Evergreen, I always say. But even workaholics need a moment off. You know, a lot of B and Bs don’t even have decent Wi-Fi, but I think if you’re traveling for work, an inn is so much more cozy than some Mar
riott, not that the business-travel vendors seem to believe me.” He gestures toward me with two mugs in each hand, as though I am a business-travel vendor. Then he is through the door to the dining room. I get my laptop out.
“So what line of work are you in?” he asks when he returns a split second later. I jump.
“Ms. Miller?”
I swivel toward him. I haven’t even unlocked my screen, so I don’t have to tell him anything. “I work in IT,” I tell him. “In the valley.” How’s that for vague?
“Ah, of course. I did IT before this. But as I always say, it wasn’t my cup of I-Tea.”
I look at him.
“By the way. You can call me Cary. Like Gary, but better.”
This, I know how to respond to. “Cary,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you. Would you like some coffee?”
“No. Thank you. I will have the milk you put in it instead,” I tell him. “And breakfast. I would like breakfast.”
“Breakfast you shall have, madame! How do crepes sound to you?” He puts a nice tall glass of milk in front of me.
“Very nice, thank you,” I say. Then I think of what else I might say. “I really liked the cookies. Also, it’s beautiful here,” I say. “And sunny.”
“Are you here for work?” he asks, producing a pair of plates and some nice napkins and going to the stove top.
“Not really,” I say. “Actually, I’m trying to take some time off.”
He tips his head to my laptop. “How’s that going?” he asks.
“Poorly,” I say, and that’s the most honest thing I’ve said to anyone, including myself, about the circumstances that brought me to Colorado.
“Hey, I feel you. Idleness doesn’t come naturally to some people. I got into this line of work because I wanted to work all the time but not feel like I’m working.”
“I don’t mind feeling like I’m working,” I say. Never mind that I’m on administrative leave, so how I feel about it is largely moot. “I don’t like the feeling that I should be doing something besides work.”
“And what, pray tell, should you be doing?”
I take a drink of my milk and shrug in lieu of answering. Then I turn to my laptop. There are no new troll comments. Or @Mia&Mike posts, for that matter. All is quiet in the Pictey world, which is too bad, because it means I have no excuse to avoid my sister. I surf around a bit, aimlessly. My eyes drift to the TV—it’s a commercial for hearing aids—and then to Cary, who is half cooking, half looking at me curiously. I look at him back. He has a nice face, comforting, well-placed wrinkles, and a large undisguised bald spot on the top of his head. He is wearing a floral apron. The salt and pepper shakers he is using at the moment are shaped like the front and rear halves of a pig. He seems to have no beef with my stare and eventually slides me a plate of spinach crepes with a smile and takes two more plates out to the dining room. I eat quietly while he’s gone. The crepes are delicious.
“Let me ask you a question, Cary,” I say the minute he walks back in. Cary is much older than me, and he used to work in IT. He may be a qualified person to talk to about my situation, or as close as I’m going to get. “Let’s say that you had failed to avert someone’s suicide attempt while carrying out your job, which, in some small part, involves averting such things wherever possible. And then further, let’s say that the attempter was, by modest odds, your half sister.” I tilt my head. “What would you do in this situation?”
To his credit, he doesn’t make a fuss. “This,” he says, “is why I don’t work in IT anymore.”
“That would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater,” I say to him. “My job is very fast paced and autonomous. And quite competitive too,” I add happily.
“Right, well then. We’ll scratch Quit and become an innkeeper off your list. What about this half sister? Have you spoken with her?”
I frown.
“Ah. Bad blood?” he asks.
“She’s fine,” I say quickly. “I mean, she’s not fine. She tried to die from blood loss. Gruesome. But otherwise she’s very nice and generally thoughtful. She buys me a sweater each Christmas from a brick-and-mortar retailer. Is the salt in the pig’s butt or the head?” I ask as he seasons another plate of food.
“The butt. I don’t actually keep pepper in the head. It’s sweet paprika. It’s that special something. I grind pepper fresh.” He lifts a small one-handed grinder. “See?”
“These crepes are very good,” I say.
“Would you like some more? I’m about to do crepes suzette.”
“Yes, please,” I say. I stand by while he takes another couple of plates out to diners, comes back, carries out a mug of coffee, and then returns to the kitchen.
“So your sister,” he says and starts violently whisking some crepe batter. “How exactly did you make her attempt suicide?”
“It’s possible that I should have warned her that she would become affected by severe depression at some point,” I say. “There were many reasons to assume that. It’s further likely that, having shared the same mother, I should have realized I would be the only person to talk to her about her family history of poor mental health.” I pause. “And it’s also possible that she posted a cry for help on a social media site, and I was in a position to intercept said cry but didn’t.”
“And where does this sister live?” he asks.
“About two hours from here. But her hospital is much closer. Last I checked she was in stable condition.”
“I see,” says Cary. “So she’s not very close to Silicon Valley, where you live.”
“Not in proximity, no,” I say.
“And you were there, not here, at the time of the suicide attempt?”
I nod.
“It’s possible that your culpability in this incident is being overstated,” he tells me.
I consider this. “That’s possible,” I admit.
“But on the other hand, how would you rate your response to the incident? On a scale of one to five, with five being ‘very helpful’ and one being ‘not helpful at all’?”
“Well . . .” I think about what I’ve done thus far. Researched my sister clandestinely, driven to the general area of her hospital, and then imposed myself on a stranger’s comment threads. Also, eaten very good crepes. “I think a one. Maybe a two, depending on how you feel about the role of unrealistic expectations on the mental health of young women.”
“Interesting,” says Cary. He plates some more crepes with butter and lemon and takes them to the dining room. When he comes back, he gives me my own plate.
“Let me ask you another question,” I say, after I have chewed my first mouthful. “Last one, I promise. Would you want to be an internet celebrity? I mean, if you could just instantly wave a wand.”
“How do you know I’m not?” he says with a smile. “But right, I’m totally not. And I would definitely want to be! I’d get free stuff all the time and get thousands of likes on my posts, and my inn would be super popular; I could charge double what I charge now.”
“Yes, but you’d give up your privacy and integrity,” I say.
Cary shrugs. “Eh. Who of us really has any privacy anymore in this digital age? And it’s better than being a real celebrity, because you don’t actually have to do anything or have a talent. You just make some repeatable sentences and take some cool pictures here and there. No starving yourself for a role or killing yourself at football practice or writing the great American novel.”
“Hm,” I say. “So you think celebrity is a positive pursuit?”
“Not positive. Neutral. Human. When you post on social media, when anyone posts, celebrity or not, aren’t you just looking for likes? Isn’t that what it’s all about? Feeling liked?”
I reluctantly nod.
“Well, who wouldn’t want that writ large?” He gives a little shrug. “And I have relatively high self-esteem, not that you’d know that from what I just said.”
“I believe you,” I say qui
ckly. “You need self-esteem to invite anyone into a kitchen like this.” The words fall out before I think about what I’m saying, and I immediately feel my cheeks redden. Why, Paige? Why do you have to say things like that? This is why no one ever wants to hang out with me.
But thankfully, Cary just laughs. “Truer words,” he says. “But you dig it. And when you bring your sister by,” he adds, “she’s welcome back here too.”
MIA
Nomophobia is the fear of being without your phone. Some people say it’s not a phobia but an anxiety disorder. Some people say it’s fear not of being without your phone, per se, but of being without an internet connection and a tool to access it. As in: you could have a tablet or a laptop and Wi-Fi, and you’d be fine.
Occasionally, by accident, I forget my phone at my house when I run to the grocery store or do another small errand. When I first realize I don’t have it, I feel something like low-grade panic. I pull over and empty my vast purse onto my passenger seat, and when I don’t find it that way, I try to get a Bluetooth connection from my phone to my car, in case it’s fallen out of my bag and made its way into the phone-size cracks between a seat and the door. When I’m 100 percent positive I don’t have the thing, I usually go on back home. I keep my grocery list on it, for one thing. For another, something could happen to my car, and I don’t want to be stranded. If I’m just out picking up toilet paper or coffee beans, I get what I came for and go home as quickly as possible. While I drive home, I try to think about where I left the phone, visualize it, and then when I walk into the house and see it right where I thought it would be, I feel like I’ve slipped into a warm bath in a candlelit room. It’s such a relief.
My laptop, I quickly realize, can only connect to the internet via Wi-Fi. There is no plug for Ethernet, or anything else for that matter. So much for elegant design. My mom has an ancient computer that she keeps in the third bedroom always plugged into the modem. It’s not the brand I’m used to, so I fumble with it a little at five a.m. when I give up on pretending I don’t need to know what’s going on online. My mom’s password is probably password, or hello, but I try those things and her birthday and don’t get on, so I try to figure out how to log in as a guest. While I am doing this, I think, I’ll just look up instructions on my phone, realize for the four millionth time that I don’t have my phone, and sigh.
