Have you ever felt a sense of achievement so great that you find yourself thinking: Okay, I’m full now. Now that I’ve done this great thing, I am full of living, and if it so happens that I die tomorrow morning, I will not be filled with fear and regret because I’ve experienced something beyond my greatest dreams and expectations. This is who you are to me. This is how much loved and appreciated and seen you made me feel. No distance or time or adversity will ever change that. Your existence on this earth will always make me a happier, kinder, and more grateful person. And even just knowing that you are alive and well, and being able to remember all the things we shared, will be enough for me.
There are many things I don’t understand about this world, but I do know love given is never wasted. And you know life, real life, can be wonderful. If you can find a way to live it.
Anya
???
Later that day I contacted Jay, Kai’s older brother, through an email I found on a social media profile.
He was only available after work hours, so the only places left open were bars and restaurants. Not ideal, but after a rather awkward exchange of emails and a short phone call, we agreed to meet at a bar downtown.
It was early enough that we were the only people there, sitting far from the speakers on a table by the window, the city outside glimmering stoplight-red.
For a while I was the only one who talked, and in the end, Jay reluctantly accepted the little white envelope with the letter and postcard in it and promised to keep it safe until Kai was able to read it.
“You know,” I told him after we paid for the beers that neither of us touched, “I’m really not some kind of crazy stalker. The postcard… it’s kind of an inside joke. Well, not a joke exactly, but a thing between us.”
Jay stared at me, bewildered, the crease between his brows disturbingly familiar. He did not possess Kai’s magnetic quality. He didn’t have his smile and his voice and his easy way of occupying space. But they did look remarkably alike. So much that it hurt me, and that I had trouble holding his gaze as he carefully pointed out, “Only that Kai won’tremember the joke.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting out a nervous, self-effacing laugh, “I know. I’m not hoping he will read this and magically remember our life in there. I just want him to have it. Call it vanity, but I cannot stand to live in a world where he doesn’t know that I exist.”
I could sense him watching me still, wary and disconcerted, as I slowly unfolded my coat from the back of the chair and drew it on my lap. My face was scalding, my eyes blurry from all the tears I was holding back. I felt like if I moved too fast or stood up too quickly, I would collapse to the floor and shatter into a million pieces.
But then, miraculously, he stopped me. “Can I ask you something?”
I leaned back on the chair, hugging the coat to my chest. “You can ask me anything.”
After a pause during which he kept rubbing at his forehead, he murmured, “Was he happy in there?”
To be asked this question, to be allowed to talk about Kai in such an intimate way, was like a rush of clean air. I could breathe again, some of the pressure in my throat releasing.
“For the most part he was happy,” I answered honestly. “Not every day was good. But he was good every day.”
Something in Jay’s expression softened, and he released a high, shaky breath. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“Can I ask you something too?”
Cautiously, he nodded. “It’s only fair.”
“Was he happy out here? Before his wife died, I mean.”
Jay cast his gaze out of the window, his face heating. “I don’t think I should be answering this on his behalf.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. I understand,” I mumbled, dreadfully embarrassed, but the second I started to get up, not wishing to bring any more discomfort upon him, he stopped me again.
“Ms. Larsson—”
“You can call me Anya.”
“Anya,” he repeated uncertainly, wiping once more with the back of his hand the dampness from his forehead.
Watching him struggle to talk about this almost as much as he needed to made me wonder if this was perhaps the worst side effect of the Programs. How they had ultimately changed the fabric of human relationships or rather exposed the fragility of their nature, as more and more people chose to escape from their lives and everyone in them. So perhaps finding ways to communicate with each other in real life was the only thing left to do now. The only thing that could revive the lost art of transmuting feeling into language and language into connection.
Finally, in a cautious, tentative manner, he said, “We opened the restaurant together. I was twenty-nine then, and he was twenty-three. A baby, basically, but he made it what it is today. All the raving reviews, the awards, the A-list guests—it was all him. His dedication, his talent, his charisma. He loved his work. Not just at the restaurant, but in general. He loved feeding people. Spent almost every Sunday volunteering at soup kitchens. Not that he was a saint or anything.Is,I mean.” His voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about him like he’s dead.”
Touched, pained, I agreed, “Yeah.” And after a moment of struggling to hold back tears of my own, I croaked, “Thank you for telling me this.”
Again he nodded, visibly shaking as he took the beer bottle between his palms and started peeling off the label. Without looking up from it, he continued, “They were getting a divorce, you know. He and Kate. They married too young and for the wrong reasons, although I’d prefer not to get into all of that. But I do think this is why he felt so guilty after she died. Like if he had loved her more, maybe she would still be alive somehow. Or maybe she would have still been driving his car, and none of this would have happened. I don’t know. Bereavement does very strange things to people. I can’t really make sense of it. What was going through his head, I mean. We were all shocked when he said that he wanted to try the Programs. And you know he can be very hard to deal with. Very stubborn. Once he decides on something, not even God can change his mind.”
