I stared at it until my eyes watered. There was a rushing in my ears. Everything around me was silent and too still. I kept staring, but the letters didn’t change.
RSbyJA.
It took me no time to see what those letters meant: Redemption’s Son by Joseph Arthur—the album Natalie and I listened to in the café.
The subject was empty. My hand found the mouse. I tried to get the cursor over the e-mail so I could open it, but first I had to control my shake. I took a deep breath and willed my hand still. The room remained a hushed quiet, almost expectantly so. I moved the cursor over the e-mail and clicked on it.
The e-mail stopped my heart.
There, on my screen, were four words. That was all, just four words, but those four words sliced through my chest like a reaper’s scythe, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I collapsed back on the chair, lost, as the four words on the screen stared back at me:
You made a promise.
Chapter 10
The e-mail wasn’t signed. Didn’t matter.
I quickly hit the reply button and typed:
Natalie? Are you okay? Please just let me know that.
I hit send.
I would explain to you how time slowed to a crawl as I waited for her next e-mail, but that wasn’t really what happened. There was no time for it, I guess. Three seconds later, my new-e-mail-ding sounded. My heart raced until I saw the sender’s name:
MAILDAEMON
I clicked open but I already knew what I would find:
This e-mail address doesn’t exist . . .
I almost smacked the computer in frustration, as if it were a candy machine that wouldn’t dispense the Milky Way. I actually shouted “No way!” out loud. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there and I started drowning. I felt as though I were sinking and couldn’t even flail my way back to the surface.
I went back to googling. I tried the e-mail and different variations, but it was just a waste of time. I read her e-mail again:
You made a promise.
I had, hadn’t I? And when you stopped and thought about it, why did I break that promise? A man had died. Maybe it was her husband. Maybe it wasn’t. Still, was that a reason to go back on my promise to her? Maybe. Maybe it was at first. But now she had made it clear. That was the purpose of the e-mail. Natalie was calling me on it. She was reminding me of the promise because she knew that I don’t make promises idly.
It was why she had made me promise to stay away in the first place.
I thought about that now. I thought about the funeral and the visit to Vermont and this student file. What did it all add up to? I don’t know. If it had originally warranted going back on my word, I now had proof that I could no longer justify it. Natalie’s message couldn’t have been clearer.
You made a promise.
With a tentative finger, I touched the words on the screen. My heart crumbled anew. Too bad, tough guy. So okay, heartbreak notwithstanding, I would let it go. I would back off. I would keep my word.
I headed to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. I know. I was surprised by that too, but I think all the blows since reading that obituary, the swirl of memory and emotion, of heartbreak and confusion, wore me down like a boxer taking body shots for twelve solid rounds. Eventually, I just folded.
Unlike Benedict, I often forget to turn my cell phone off. His call at 8:00 A.M. woke me up.
“Eban has reluctantly agreed to meet with you.”
“Did you tell him what it’s about?”
“You didn’t tell me what it’s about.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You got a nine A.M. class. He’ll be waiting for you at his house when you’re done.”
I felt the pang deep in my chest. “His house?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that. He insisted.”
“Douchebag move.”
“He isn’t so bad.”
“He’s a lecherous creep.”
“And that’s bad because?”
“You don’t do what he does.”
“You don’t know what he does. Go. Be nice. Get what you need.”
Benedict hung up. I checked my e-mail and texts. Nothing. This whole strange episode in my life had taken on a surreal, dream-like quality. I worked hard to dismiss it. I did indeed have a 9:00 A.M. class on Law and the Constitution. That was my priority again. Yep, I’d put it behind me. I actually sang in the shower. I dressed and walked across campus with my smile wide and my head high. There was a little hop in my step. The sun bathed the campus in a warm, celestial beacon. I kept smiling. I smiled at the brick buildings longing for ivy. I smiled at the trees, at the lush grass, at the statues of famous alumni, at the view of the athletic fields down the hill. When students said hello to me, I greeted them with a level of enthusiasm that made one fear I was suddenly into religious conversion.
When class started, I stood in the front of the room and shouted “Good morning, everyone!” like a born-again cheerleader on too much Red Bull. The students gave me curious looks. I was starting to scare myself, so I tried to dial it back.
You made a promise.
And what about you, Natalie? Wasn’t there at least an implied promise to me in your words and actions? How do you just capture a heart and crush it like that? Yes, I’m a big boy. I get the risks of falling in love. But we said things. We felt things. They weren’t lies. And yet. You dumped me. You invited me to your wedding. Why? Why would anyone be that cruel, or were you trying to hammer home the fact that it was time for me to move on?
I did move on. You reached into my chest, plucked out my heart, tore it up, and walked away, but I picked up the shreds and moved on.
I shook my head. Picked up the shreds? Sheesh, that was horrible. That’s the problem with falling in love. It makes you start talking like a bad country song.
Natalie had e-mailed me. Or at least, I thought it was Natalie. Who else could it be? But either way, even though she was telling me to stay away, it was communication. It was her reaching out to me. Reaching? Sure. But she had used that e-mail address. RSbyJA. She had remembered it. It had meant something to her, something that still resonated, and that gave me—I don’t know—hope. Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.
I called on Eileen Sinagra, one of my brightest students. She began to explain one of the finer points of Madison and The Federalist Papers. I nodded, encouraging her to continue, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I moved closer to the window for a better look. I stopped.
“Professor Fisher?”
RSbyJA.
It took me no time to see what those letters meant: Redemption’s Son by Joseph Arthur—the album Natalie and I listened to in the café.
The subject was empty. My hand found the mouse. I tried to get the cursor over the e-mail so I could open it, but first I had to control my shake. I took a deep breath and willed my hand still. The room remained a hushed quiet, almost expectantly so. I moved the cursor over the e-mail and clicked on it.
The e-mail stopped my heart.
There, on my screen, were four words. That was all, just four words, but those four words sliced through my chest like a reaper’s scythe, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I collapsed back on the chair, lost, as the four words on the screen stared back at me:
You made a promise.
Chapter 10
The e-mail wasn’t signed. Didn’t matter.
I quickly hit the reply button and typed:
Natalie? Are you okay? Please just let me know that.
I hit send.
I would explain to you how time slowed to a crawl as I waited for her next e-mail, but that wasn’t really what happened. There was no time for it, I guess. Three seconds later, my new-e-mail-ding sounded. My heart raced until I saw the sender’s name:
MAILDAEMON
I clicked open but I already knew what I would find:
This e-mail address doesn’t exist . . .
I almost smacked the computer in frustration, as if it were a candy machine that wouldn’t dispense the Milky Way. I actually shouted “No way!” out loud. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there and I started drowning. I felt as though I were sinking and couldn’t even flail my way back to the surface.
I went back to googling. I tried the e-mail and different variations, but it was just a waste of time. I read her e-mail again:
You made a promise.
I had, hadn’t I? And when you stopped and thought about it, why did I break that promise? A man had died. Maybe it was her husband. Maybe it wasn’t. Still, was that a reason to go back on my promise to her? Maybe. Maybe it was at first. But now she had made it clear. That was the purpose of the e-mail. Natalie was calling me on it. She was reminding me of the promise because she knew that I don’t make promises idly.
It was why she had made me promise to stay away in the first place.
I thought about that now. I thought about the funeral and the visit to Vermont and this student file. What did it all add up to? I don’t know. If it had originally warranted going back on my word, I now had proof that I could no longer justify it. Natalie’s message couldn’t have been clearer.
You made a promise.
With a tentative finger, I touched the words on the screen. My heart crumbled anew. Too bad, tough guy. So okay, heartbreak notwithstanding, I would let it go. I would back off. I would keep my word.
I headed to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. I know. I was surprised by that too, but I think all the blows since reading that obituary, the swirl of memory and emotion, of heartbreak and confusion, wore me down like a boxer taking body shots for twelve solid rounds. Eventually, I just folded.
Unlike Benedict, I often forget to turn my cell phone off. His call at 8:00 A.M. woke me up.
“Eban has reluctantly agreed to meet with you.”
“Did you tell him what it’s about?”
“You didn’t tell me what it’s about.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You got a nine A.M. class. He’ll be waiting for you at his house when you’re done.”
I felt the pang deep in my chest. “His house?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that. He insisted.”
“Douchebag move.”
“He isn’t so bad.”
“He’s a lecherous creep.”
“And that’s bad because?”
“You don’t do what he does.”
“You don’t know what he does. Go. Be nice. Get what you need.”
Benedict hung up. I checked my e-mail and texts. Nothing. This whole strange episode in my life had taken on a surreal, dream-like quality. I worked hard to dismiss it. I did indeed have a 9:00 A.M. class on Law and the Constitution. That was my priority again. Yep, I’d put it behind me. I actually sang in the shower. I dressed and walked across campus with my smile wide and my head high. There was a little hop in my step. The sun bathed the campus in a warm, celestial beacon. I kept smiling. I smiled at the brick buildings longing for ivy. I smiled at the trees, at the lush grass, at the statues of famous alumni, at the view of the athletic fields down the hill. When students said hello to me, I greeted them with a level of enthusiasm that made one fear I was suddenly into religious conversion.
When class started, I stood in the front of the room and shouted “Good morning, everyone!” like a born-again cheerleader on too much Red Bull. The students gave me curious looks. I was starting to scare myself, so I tried to dial it back.
You made a promise.
And what about you, Natalie? Wasn’t there at least an implied promise to me in your words and actions? How do you just capture a heart and crush it like that? Yes, I’m a big boy. I get the risks of falling in love. But we said things. We felt things. They weren’t lies. And yet. You dumped me. You invited me to your wedding. Why? Why would anyone be that cruel, or were you trying to hammer home the fact that it was time for me to move on?
I did move on. You reached into my chest, plucked out my heart, tore it up, and walked away, but I picked up the shreds and moved on.
I shook my head. Picked up the shreds? Sheesh, that was horrible. That’s the problem with falling in love. It makes you start talking like a bad country song.
Natalie had e-mailed me. Or at least, I thought it was Natalie. Who else could it be? But either way, even though she was telling me to stay away, it was communication. It was her reaching out to me. Reaching? Sure. But she had used that e-mail address. RSbyJA. She had remembered it. It had meant something to her, something that still resonated, and that gave me—I don’t know—hope. Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.
I called on Eileen Sinagra, one of my brightest students. She began to explain one of the finer points of Madison and The Federalist Papers. I nodded, encouraging her to continue, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I moved closer to the window for a better look. I stopped.
“Professor Fisher?”
