Emily Mitchell - Viral - Stories

Would you like me to send you one now?

Yes, Cynthia typed, then hesitated and deleted it. No, she wrote instead. How would I know the one you’re sending now is real?

I see your point, Kris typed after a moment . Look, I understand I have no right to ask you this, but will you consider please coming to Oslo anyway? I will arrange for a hotel; you do not have to stay with me. I would just like to meet you, once. Then you can go back to the United States and never contact me again if you like. I would understand. Please consider it.

Cynthia hesitated. Then she typed: I’ll have to think about it.

Fine , Kris typed, that is fine. Just let me know. When you are ready to do so.

I’m going to go now, Cynthia typed. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Kris said, and vanished from the screen.

For the next week Cynthia did not contact Kris at all, nor did Kris try to contact her. She felt a growing curiosity about this person whose words she’d found so captivating. She was not so much interested in what Kris had hidden. Obviously, whoever she would meet in Oslo would be different from what she’d imagined — maybe a different gender or a different race, perhaps disabled in some way, perhaps much older or much younger than herself. What interested her more was whether she would feel in his or her presence any of the excitement and intimacy she’d felt so strongly in their writing. Had she experienced some real connection to another person? Or had she just been talking to herself? She wanted to find out.

And yet it seemed completely foolish to travel all that way to meet a stranger who had after all misled her. Should she go or not? Days passed and she still could not make up her mind.

Then a few days before her scheduled trip, her mother called. Since she’d helped Lucinda move into her new apartment, they had seen each other only a few times. Cynthia did not have much time to travel and Lucinda found it difficult at her age to come up to Wisconsin, especially during the long, cold winter months. But Lucinda called her regularly once a week and sometimes, recently, they would talk for a long time as they had not done since Cynthia was a child.

This week, when Lucinda asked how her week had been, Cynthia hesitated. She had planned to say that everything was fine. Instead, she found herself on the verge of tears and then talking all about the person she had met online, the invitation and the photograph. She expected Lucinda, who had been so practical about the end of her own marriage, to say that she must forget about Kris and move on as soon as possible. But after Cynthia has finished speaking, she heard Lucinda take a breath and when she spoke her voice was full of strong emotion.

“I think,” she said, “you should go.”

“You do?” Cynthia was astonished.

“Yes,” Lucinda said. “Kris has not been completely open with you, but keeping a secret can sometimes be a sign of love. I’m not saying that it’s right to do, but perhaps it is not the worst thing either. Why not go and find out who this person is?” Lucinda said.

The next day Cynthia wrote to Kris and said she’d come to Oslo after all. She thought: whatever happens, at least I’ll know. She thought that if she didn’t like what she discovered, she could take the train to Stockholm or Copenhagen and spend the weekend exploring there.

As she packed her suitcase for the trip, she felt excitement and nervousness, even though she told herself that there was no reason for her to be anticipating anything. She slept a little on the flight and then woke up as they were taxiing to the terminal at Gardermoen. She walked slowly with her bag along the corridor to passport control. Kris had promised to meet her on the other side of customs and had described the clothes she should look for at the airport: a blue jacket, black trousers and a gray wool scarf. She cleared immigration and rolled her bag through customs. On the far side, there were people lined up waiting for arriving passengers. She scanned the faces of the crowd, searching for someone at once familiar and totally unknown.

She saw the woman standing over to one side of the concourse. She was leaning on the wall and had one leg crossed over the other. She was peering into the stream of arriving passengers, but she had not yet seen Cynthia, so Cynthia had a moment to observe her unobserved herself. The woman had high cheekbones and a kindly mouth and fair skin a little burned from working outdoors. Her sandy hair was tied in a long braid down her back and she looked nervous. Cynthia stopped and stared at her and then the woman caught sight of her and stood up straight, her face lit up with hope. Cynthia found herself walking toward her, leaving her suitcase where it stood and holding out both hands to her. The woman reached out her hands, too, and Cynthia saw that they were fine, long-fingered hands, a violinist’s hands, strong, freckled and marked by other kinds of work. She recognized them. They were the same hands from her dream. She reached out and took them in her own.

She stood in the fluorescent lighting of the airport concourse holding hands with this stranger while people passed them on either side.

“It’s you,” she said, and then again: “It’s you.”

A boy my sister dated in high school slapped her across the face during an argument. They were sitting in the front seat of his car, parked by the basketball court behind our house, and she made a sarcastic reply to something he had said and before she knew what was happening, he’d raised his hand and swung it, open palmed, against her cheek.

She didn’t tell me about this until years later after we had both left home. When she told me, I felt at once angry and strangely guilty because the boy in question was extraordinarily good looking and I remembered having been impressed in a shallow way that I never spoke about that my sister was dating someone so handsome. I was jealous of a lot of things about my sister in those days: her beauty and her ease with people, how spontaneously funny she could be, how well she was liked. She fit in at our school and in our town, in her own body, in a way that I could not seem to manage, quiet and bookish and peculiar as I was then and remain. Still, there was never a time when I didn’t love her very much and when I wouldn’t have done whatever I could to support and defend her.

Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I asked, when she finally told me.

When the boy she was dating hit my sister, it made a sharp cracking sound, just like it does in the movies. She raised her hand and touched the side of her own face. The expanse of skin where he’d struck her buzzed and tingled, felt weirdly alive. It didn’t hurt and even the actual slap itself hadn’t really hurt. Instead, she was shocked, surprised because she had not expected this, and then confused about what she should do next.

She looked over at the boy she was dating, who had just hit her. He was leaning way back away from her against the car door as if he was afraid, either of her or of what he had just done. In his eyes was an expression of shock and remorse much more intense than anything she herself seemed to be feeling. He too had been surprised, and he looked like he might be about to cry. At that moment it came into her mind that maybe, in punishment for what he had done, the gods had magically frozen him in his current physical position: curled up like a frightened fetus with his eyes bugged out and his mouth hanging slightly open. Perhaps he would be stuck like that forever. In her mind she envisioned having to explain to the boy’s mother how her son came to be paralyzed in this posture: He hit me, she would say , and then, well, now he doesn’t seem able to move or speak. I’m sorry . She thought of him in various scenes over the course of his life to come — in school, at home, in church — still fixed in that attitude, and the absurdity of these images together with the amazement she still felt at what had just occurred made her suddenly snort with laughter.