Read At the Bottom of Everything Online
Authors: Ben Dolnick
At the Bottom of Everything (28 page)
Before I fell asleep, though, or before I lost touch completely with what was happening, I said to Thomas, or thought to Thomas, “Are we still in the cave?”
“No.”
“So we lived?”
“I think so, yes.”
What I felt, when I finally believed it, wasn’t entirely relief. Or if it was, it was a different sort of relief from any I’d ever felt before. Because I remembered now what I’d been thinking when we were being saved, when Ranjiv was reaching down and lifting me up like a sack of feathers. It was the strangest thing; it felt, even as I knew that this meant life, and food, and light, like being handed the wrong jacket at a party. I’d tried to say something. There had been a misunderstanding. We didn’t need rescuing at all.
Four
·
From:
To:
Date:
Thu, Aug 20, 2009 at 3:28 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. I feel like an astronaut asking to get together for coffee after a mission. I just wanted to see how you’re holding up. I’m weird but all right—panicky, elated, weepy, etc. Give me a call or write sometime. I’ve got lots of time to talk and very few people to talk to.
From:
To:
Date:
Wed, Sep 9, 2009 at 5:34 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. I was just writing to pester you about my last email when your parents called.
Your mom says you agreed to try the hospital. I think (a) you’re doing the right thing, and (b) it probably won’t feel like the right thing at first. So (not that you’re looking for my advice on this) bear with it.
Things with me have been more normal the past couple of weeks. At first I was spending too much time walking around the streets by my apartment, staring at people, sitting by the Barnes & Noble fountain, studying the brickwork. I thought maybe I’d inhaled poison in the cave, that I might end up the happy, slow-talking homeless person of Bethesda.
I’ve been writing back and forth with your parents a little (I hope that’s OK). They asked me to come over for
dinner, but I’ve been putting them off. Pretty sure they just want to thank me and hear more about India, etc., but I’m worried I’d blurt out the whole story of the Batras. Have you thought about telling them? I’m not sure what would come of it (I’m not sure about anything), but part of me thinks it would be good for everybody.
Tell me how you’re doing once you’re settled in.
From:
To:
Date:
Wed, Nov 4, 2009 at 9:58 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. You know how you can tell when someone’s on the other end of the phone, even if they don’t talk? Well, I’m OK with you not responding to my emails. Your mom says your computer use is limited, and I can tell (I think) that you’re reading them.
I got a note from your dad yesterday, who says you’re looking good. I’m going to call the hospital as soon as I send this to find out about visiting hours, etc.
Not much doing with me. I got that apartment in Foggy Bottom. I’ve been trying to learn how to cook—so far mostly roast chicken and omelets, for some reason. My mom’s been sending me three recipes a day from the Food Network (
Carving the tops of the scallions might seem like a lot of work, but your guests will love you for it!
).
Hope you’re good. Carve a scallion.
From:
To:
Date:
Wed, Dec 2, 2009 at 8:09 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. Kind of a weird question. I told you about that girl I was dating, Sonia—things have gotten semiserious. She’s in her residency at GW, very smart, funny, etc. I’ve said “I love you” to an embarrassing number of girlfriends, but this is the first time I can picture meaning something by it other than “Oh my God, please don’t break up with me!” Anyway, I was thinking I might want to tell her about Mira. Would very much appreciate your thoughts.
What else. I’m still listening to those Guruji-lite audiobooks. I hide them in the glove compartment whenever someone other than Sonia’s going to be in the car. Still not used to hearing these magnetic poetry sentences coming out of my speakers.
We only truly suffer when we resist what is. Our capacity to love others is in perfect
proportion to our capacity to love ourselves
. Better than whatever I was living by before, though.
(If something bad might happen, think about it. Never let an email arrive without witnessing its appearance.)
Hope you’re good. Detonate a gut-bomb for me.
From:
To:
Date:
Sat, Jan 30, 2010 at 8:41 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. Good to see you last week. You do look good (probably not something we’ve ever said to each other). Didn’t know how to tell you in person, but I told Sonia about Mira. She was really good about it. I had to stop halfway through because I thought I’d burst a blood vessel. She’s the first person I’ve ever told, it occurred to me. We were driving somewhere the other day and she said, “Wait, so is this why we never go on Connecticut?” I honestly hadn’t realized.
She said she thought I should call the other driver. We got into a fight about it; I said there was no point, she said it was cruel, I said he’d probably moved by now, etc., etc. I’d pretty much decided not to, but then I found myself searching the
Post
archives for Charles Lowe and before Sonia came home the other night I was dialing a 202 number. I know I should have told you about it before I did it, but I
didn’t want to wait. The conversation was short, like maybe five minutes. He didn’t believe who I was at first. He refused to see me. He sounded like someone who’d grown up in New York or New Jersey, someone with a scary dog.
“You and your friend wrecked my fucking life, you know.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“I should wreck yours too. I could do it with one phone call.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
He went away for long enough that I thought he might be making his one life-wrecking phone call, but then he came back and he sounded like he was drinking something. “You know, that girl, she doesn’t belong on my conscience.”
“No.”
“That family, they were good to me, they believed me. No charges, nothing like that.”
“I know.”
Before he hung up, he said something so kind I almost dropped the phone. “You guys were fucking kids. Just fucking kids.”
And that was it.
So he’s not going to call the police or kill us or anything. And I think talking to him did something good for me. I read somewhere there are two kinds of guilt: the sweaty, frantic, four-in-the-morning kind, where you almost wish you’d get caught, and a quieter, sadder kind, where it feels like you’re sitting on a rainy beach, looking out at the water. I feel like calling him might have pushed me from the first kind to the second. (I should probably go easy on the audiobooks, it occurs to me.)
From:
To:
Date:
Mon, Mar 1, 2010 at 6:14 PM
Subject:
(no subject)
Hey. I’m just back from visiting you. I came there meaning to tell you something, and I managed to spend the whole hour not doing it. Much easier to talk about Sonia and law school applications, it turns out. Maybe you got Raymond’s note too (I’m not sure if he’d have your email, actually) but Sri Prabhakara is dead. He died last week. He was ninety or so, and he had a heart attack in his sleep. There’s a service for him at the center in a couple of weeks. I couldn’t think of how to say it, but I should have told you. I’m sorry.
