So I’d searched for a school where I could bolster my beliefs with knowledge and where living in another culture would broaden my worldview. I’d found both in Sternensee’s quirky Christschule, an English-language Bible school where international students came to study and ski—sometimes in reverse order. I’d spent a semester there, basking in a foreign world and accumulating credits that would somehow count toward my bachelor of arts from an American college.
I’d met my husband there too—something Sullivan had predicted nearly from the moment she met Sam.
When was it that she and I had started communicating again? Two years ago? Nearly three? Life had gotten in the way after college, and multiple moves had put an end to the Christmas cards that came slipping into the mailbox between Thanksgiving and New Year, leaving sparkles on my hands and a strange wistfulness in my mind.
I opened Sullivan’s e-mail, bracing for the effusions of enthusiasm I’d come to expect. Three days ago, she had twisted my arm into opening a Facebook account. Chickadee. Chick-a-dee! she’d written. You have got to come over to the dark side. I’ve found every single member of the Sternensee gang, and I’ve got to tell you, while I’ve been maintaining my girlish figure and youthful countenance, these people have gotten appallingly old. Listen, I know you’re not into this sort of thing, but you’re the only one missing from our little reunion page. I could picture her waving a hand in the air as if dismissing something trivial. Just give it a try, will you? You won’t need to sign your name in blood or anything. The gang’ll be thrilled to hear from you!
Sam was suspicious of Facebook and its power to monopolize one’s time, and though I didn’t have any moral convictions about it, I’d resisted the social networking phenomenon mostly because I disliked fads. But I knew Sullivan. Her powers of persuasion were well honed and irresistible. The timing of my crossover to the “dark side,” as she called it, might have been in question, but the inevitability of it was not.
So on a quiet evening three nights ago, I’d clicked the Facebook icon and, taking a deep breath, begun to fill in my information. Twice I’d closed the page, telling myself it was the wise thing to do, and headed to another room to grade some papers. Twice I’d returned to the computer, berating myself for my misgivings, and set about entering the information again. The gang’ll be thrilled to hear from you! Sullivan’s words prodded me on.
As soon as the deed was done, I’d clicked out of the app and gone about my business as usual. I hadn’t opened it again in three days—partly to prove to myself that I was capable of restraint and partly out of nervousness about reconnecting with “the gang.”
Whatever qualms I’d had, Sullivan’s latest e-mail put them to rest. You did it! What a kick in the pants! Welcome to the realm of the connected and addicted, Chickadee. I promise you will not regret it.
She might as well have sent a voicemail. Her accent, intensified perhaps by the passage of time, drawled out of the screen as I read.
Here’s something you may not realize: sites like these are most effective if you actually visit them, which I know requires a bit of a leap into the unknown. So I’ve sent you a message on Facebook—a personalized guided tour. I could charge you for the Sullivan Geary Facebook Tutorial, but since you’re a pal o’ mine, it’s yours for free. So head on over there and open my message. Now. (Are you still reading this? I said—now!)
I stepped back into the kitchen, just a few feet away from the dining room table, to change out the pitchers. Then I took the pan of boiling water off the stove. With steaming tea in hand, I returned to the dining room.
I opened Facebook, typed “Sullivan Geary” in the search bar, and scrolled down to her thumbnail to click on it.
Sullivan’s profile picture, a black-and-white shot of the socialite holding her beloved three-legged Dudley, was perfect. Her hair was stylishly tousled, her makeup impeccably applied, and her smile as orthodontist-straight as any movie star’s, but the dog she held—a mix of unknown origin, one ear higher than the other, with the stub of one foreleg unapologetically displayed—said more about my friend than any professional portrait could have.
This was the Sullivan I loved: a polished, charismatic woman in full command of her world, who wielded her status like authority and served on the boards of countless charities, demanding donations by the sheer magnetism of her spirit. And a softhearted empath who had stopped her white convertible on a torrid Savannah day to rescue a stray who’d been hit by a car. The veterinary bills had been astronomical and the outcome uncertain, but she’d fought for that little life like a mother for her child. And Dudley had survived.
I moved my finger on the trackpad until the cursor hovered over the blue message icon and clicked, then I followed Sullivan’s instructions to a T, choosing my privacy settings, deactivating e-mail notifications, and trying to figure out the difference between walls, newsfeeds, profiles, messages, and instant messages. Despite Sullivan’s strong recommendation, I balked at uploading a photo and declined Facebook’s offer to help me find friends.
After an hour or so of stumbling around the site with little evidence that I’d accomplished anything, I took one last sip of my cold tea and prepared to sign out. That’s when I noticed that another red number had appeared on the message icon at the top of my screen. I checked the laptop’s clock. It was almost eleven at night in Savannah. Surely Sullivan, whose beauty rest was a nearly religious concern, was long asleep.
I clicked the icon and frowned. Aidan D? Then I put down my cup and stared at the screen, my breath catching.
Aidan?
I clicked to open the message. The thumbnail next to Aidan’s name was a blur of primary colors, but I didn’t attempt to get a closer look. The words next to it were enough to make me shove the laptop away, incredulous, then draw it closer again.
hey, ren. is this really you?
I stared at the words. Willing them to tell me more. Willing them to shift into the shape of his face and confirm that it was he. Ren. No one called me Ren, an odd abbreviation of Lauren I hadn’t heard since—Aidan.
I shut the laptop’s lid, pushed away from the table, and retreated to the kitchen. Then I laughed at the impulse. I didn’t know much about technology, but I was pretty sure that a computer couldn’t follow me to another room.
“This is absurd,” I mumbled out loud, a hand pressed to my chest, my eyes still on the laptop sitting on the dining room table. I shook my head. “Ridiculous, Lauren.” Marching back into the dining room, I lifted the lid and squinted at the single line of writing.
hey, ren. is this really you?
My fingers shook a little as I moved the cursor over Aidan’s name and clicked. I sat back and took in the information on his page. The banner at the top was blank, but the smaller picture, the one I’d seen as a thumbnail next to his message, was a rugged tree painted in stark, textured red. The brash, unapologetic nature of the art convinced me that this Aidan was the same I’d known from childhood until . . . I frowned again and felt my heart rate speeding up.
Aidan.
The story continues in
Of Stillness and Storm by Michèle Phoenix!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BORN IN FRANCE TO A CANADIAN father and an American mother, Michèle Phoenix is a consultant, writer, and speaker with a heart for Third Culture Kids. She taught for twenty years at Black Forest Academy (Germany) before launching her own advocacy venture under Global Outreach Mission. Michèle travels globally to consult and teach on topics related to this unique people group. She loves good conversations, mischievous students, Marvel movies, and paths to healing.
Learn more at michelephoenix.com
Twitter: @frenchphoenix
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The Space Between Words Page 25
