Emily Mitchell - Viral - Stories

It is much more likely that the place you really want to be above all others is not like that at all. It is likely to be a place that no one else could possibly guess, that other people may not find beautiful or even remotely appealing. To give you an example: my place is a supermarket parking lot. There, I’ve told you. When I was a child, my mother always bought me an ice-cream cone after she was finished with the groceries, and when I think about my happiest memories, they are of walking across the asphalt to the car after my mother and her rattling cart, taking the first cold bite. It meant that all was right with the world and that week my father wouldn’t open the cupboard door in the kitchen and say, “Why the hell isn’t there any food in this house?” and my mother wouldn’t throw something or storm upstairs to cry. When I think about that parking lot I feel one thing: safe. And for that reason it is beautiful to me, the way the parking spaces make their golden grid on the black asphalt, the way the cars slide in and out of their spaces fitting in like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, like they were meant to be there.

So now you know. That’s all I have to say. You can go ahead, when you are ready, and let the doors slide open. Look at what is outside. Step through the doors. Walk forward and explore this place that you have come so far to find. Look around and listen and touch things and, above all, do not be afraid.

Oh, one more thing. There may be some of you who, when you tried to make the weird man inside the elevator disappear, did not succeed. When you looked again, he was still there, waiting in the corner, not speaking, looking at his shoes, which you had just noticed were unnaturally large even for so tall a person. The shoes were thick-soled and looked like they might have steel toes. Also, there was a bit of spittle at the corner of his mouth, whitish and congealed. This unnerved you even more and you felt your heart beating and you could not wait for the elevator doors to open so you could get out of there and run away from this weird, rumbling, ugly creature.

As I said before, I don’t know what you should do about the man. Now that the elevator doors are open, you could, as you planned, run away from him, into the place you’ve dreamed up and perhaps you’ll lose him among the giant ferns or bookshelves or whatever might be out there. But you might not. He could come after you and find you. He might be able to run fast in spite of all appearances to the contrary.

So I suggest that you don’t run away. I don’t think you have too many other options at this point. If you can’t make him vanish from a fantasy that you yourself created, then there is really only one thing left for you to do. Obviously, you don’t have to follow my advice; you are in charge, you are the one that this is all about, the important one, the person that we are doing all of this to try to help. This is only a suggestion, nothing more.

Turn to face the weird man in the corner. Try looking at his face if you can stand it. Then try holding out your hand to him. Open, palm up. Go on. He might take it in his own hand, which turns out to be enormous, oddly shaped, maybe with the wrong number of fingers, but warm and dry and strangely comforting. Then, without letting go, try stepping forward, leading him gently out of that back corner of the elevator into the light and space. What does he do? Will he follow?

Good. See, he’s not so terrifying after all, just ugly and a little sad. But even though he’s not the companion you might aspire to have, he’s the one you created for yourself, so don’t let go of his hand. Keep leading him forward. Now you are not alone anymore. Now you have a friend. Now you can go out and look around together.

None of the parents had any idea what was coming. All of them said the same thing. Sondra Patel from Boston told me: He was not an unhappy boy as far as I could tell. He played soccer on the school team. He had friends. And he was a DJ, too, you know. People came to hear him play.

Lorraine and Kenneth Mueller from Burke, Virginia, insisted that their daughter Kelly had not been depressed. We had her tested many times, Mrs. Mueller told me. We kept an eye on her. Any sign of something wrong or different, we’d make sure that she went to a psychiatrist right away. Mr. Mueller added: That’s right. We had her thoroughly checked out. Not one of them ever told us there was anything wrong with her. In fact, a couple of them told us we should stop bringing her in at all.

One man even suggested that we should consider seeing a counselor ourselves, if you can believe that, Mrs. Mueller said. She snorted at the absurdity of it. Then she began to cry.

Sarah Weinberg and Clifford Jackson from Brooklyn, New York, held a photo of their son Damian up for me to see. In the picture he was grinning broadly, proudly showing the camera a new electric guitar and making a peace sign with this left hand. A birthday present? I asked; Ms. Weinberg nodded. She looked around the room at the other parents.

I don’t know , she said. I don’t feel like we have anything in common with these other people. We’re not really part of the mainstream of American culture and we don’t buy into its capitalist consumerist ideals. Of course, there are stresses associated with being a biracial family but we were conscientious about discussing those openly with Damian, helping him to process his experiences. I just keep asking: why us?

Although most of the conference attendees were Americans, there were some parents who had made the trip from abroad: a couple from London, another from Istanbul. Some Australians and some Germans. A Japanese man told me through a translator that when he went into his daughter’s bedroom to wake her for school in the morning and found her gone, his heart plunged into his stomach. My life ended that day, he said.

I told him, as I’d told the others, how sorry I was for his loss. He nodded and said something to the translator. What about you? Why are you here? the translator relayed. I told him I was covering the conference for a newspaper and showed him my press card. He looked at me, doubtfully. Is that all?

Well, I said, I had a niece. Her mother isn’t here.

Ahh, so desu. he said. He nodded again, like I’d confirmed something he’d guessed already.

The story was the same all over the big, brightly lit, fabric-lined hotel ballroom. All the men and women who were attending the conference told me in their own way that they had been caught completely by surprise by what had happened to their children. By what their children had done.

They insisted that they were good people, that they were or (here several of them corrected themselves, sadly) had been good parents. They’d tried their best to be vigilant against threats to their children’s well-being. They had warned them about strangers and predators and drug pushers. They had encouraged regular exercise. They had been attentive to signs of unchecked mental distress. They had kept up on the latest dangers that loomed up, out there, in the world ready to blight and blast young lives before they had a chance to grow. Mrs. Mueller began to hyperventilate and had to be escorted from the room by her husband. They had done their best.

They were victims themselves as much as their children had been.

Who in your opinion were the perpetrators? I asked. Several of them looked at me aghast and wouldn’t speak to me again.

This was the end of a long day that had begun in the morning with a plenary session addressed by Ms. Carolyn Williams, the driving force behind organizing the conference. She told the assembled attendees that bringing them all together had brought her life meaning after the terrible events of May 17th and that she hoped and prayed that they would find solace in one another’s company, that they would cry together and heal together. That they would find hope to begin to rebuild their lives. Tears streamed down her face.