Friend Me (4 page)

Scott slapped both hands down on the kitchen counter. “What? You doubt that I'm really at work? You think I'm . . . what?”

“No, no. I'm sorry.” She ran her hand through her hair. “All I mean is—”

“I have no clue what you mean when you say things like that. I just know what you said. And you implied I might be lying to you about working at night. That's all I needed to hear.” Scott spun away from her. “Do whatever you like. Watch TV, whatever. I'm going out and get some actual food, not another pizza, and maybe I'll even get some salad with it.” He turned toward the hallway that led to the garage.

“Scott, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.” She wanted to run after him, pull him back, but he was already gone. The garage door hummed as it raised and lowered. The glow from his headlights flickered across the window as he pulled the car out onto the road, back into the darkness.

“I really am sorry.” To the emptiness where her husband had stood just moments before she said, “I would have made you a salad.”

Helplessness rushed in, filling the void left by the outpouring of frustration, anger, and discouragement. She wanted to be a good wife to Scott, but where was he when she needed him? All day, every day, cooped up with the children. Never any relief. Didn't he understand at all what she was going through?

She wanted him to come home before dinnertime and take the two little ones out in the yard. Give her a break so she could work on getting a nice meal ready. She loved them with all her heart, but was there ever going to be any time for herself? From morning to night, from when they scrambled out of bed until she tucked the children under their covers, her day was consumed with taking care of them.

All she wanted was for Scott to come home and do his part. Other fathers came home. Why couldn't he?

Discouragement

R
achel waited up for Scott that night, but when he finally returned just before two o'clock in the morning, he went to bed without a word. Walked by her as if she did not exist. Where had he been? Had he seen someone else? Some other woman?

What did he expect from her? He'd said he wanted a family. Well, she'd given him a family. She'd given him everything he asked for, and never said
No
, never claimed she had a headache. She simply wanted him to walk in the door in the evening and show her it was worth it by his love. Why did she have to feel like this was her fault?

Sleep was a series of dreamless fits and starts, until finally Scott moved next to her in the bed. She opened her tired eyes to look at the alarm clock on the table. 6:10. Time to get up and make breakfast for her family. She closed her eyes for just a few minutes more. The next thing she knew, she could hear the sound of shower water. She hadn't even noticed when Scott got out of bed.

She pulled herself to her feet, put on her robe, and made
her way downstairs. In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee and got out the skillet. Scott would like bacon and eggs. Home-cooked. Whatever he'd been up to last night, she could find out later. She would be the kind of wife he wanted her to be.

The sliding door of their bedroom closet upstairs thumped. Scott was getting dressed for work.

The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. Scott would smell it upstairs too, and maybe it would put him in a better mood. She took his travel cup from the kitchen sink and filled it with hot water, warming it for him before he filled it with coffee. Then she set out a plate and napkin on the dining room table, just the way he liked.

Was she only going through the motions of marriage? She shook off the feeling, then imagined herself working outside in the flower garden, never lifting her head, oblivious to the heavy, dark clouds overwhelming the horizon. If a storm was coming, she was doing her best to imagine it away.

Ugh, how did she look? She ran a hand through her hair. What would Scott think when he saw her?

She sneaked into the downstairs bathroom, glad Scott had not seen her this morning. Standing before the mirror, she brushed the tangles and snarls out. She turned, imagining what she must look like to Scott as the very first person he saw in the morning.

Not a pretty sight.
She
wasn't pretty. She dropped her hands to her sides and looked down toward where her toes should be. She couldn't see them, not yet. She needed to lose thirty-five more pounds, but it was so hard to get them off.

Twelve weeks in the Hugest Loser group and only an eight-pound weight loss. She turned to her side and ran her hands
over the robe where it covered her stomach. She had looked like this since she was pregnant with Angela. Actually, she looked like this when she
was
pregnant with Angela. She had never lost the weight she had picked up during her pregnancy. Maybe she never would. Did Scott think she didn't care how she looked, didn't try?

Scott came downstairs, his shoes
klumping
on the steps.

Rachel splashed water on her face, tried to rub the sleepiness out of her eyes. She may not be able to look pretty for Scott, but she didn't want to look like she had just fallen out of bed either. She straightened the robe as best she could, and went out to the kitchen to greet her husband.

The familiar whirring of the garage door . . . she searched the kitchen counter. The travel cup was gone. Scott was gone. He had left for work without even telling her good-bye.

She was surprised at the words that came in a rush. “That's how you want it? Fine. Maybe I'll find someone else to talk to.”

Jane

T
he painful memory of Scott's departure was still on Rachel's mind when she got home from taking four-year-old Scotty to preschool. She put Angela down for a nap, came quietly back downstairs, and stood by a window.

She had to get it together. No matter how it felt, it wasn't abandonment. He was just upset. They were still husband and wife.

Marriage
. From the time she was a little girl, getting married, having her own family, had been the dream of her life.

Supporting it with one hand as if it were fragile, she picked up her wedding album and placed it carefully on the coffee table. This beautiful book, with its embroidered cover, encapsulated all the hopes and dreams of her life. Her family, husband, and friends were all there.

Suzanne
.

She bit back the pain before she opened the book. The hoarse, faraway voice of Suzanne's husband, Rick, echoed in her ears. “The cancer finally got her, Rachel. She wanted me to tell you she loved you and she'd always be your friend.”

On that awful night two years ago, her best friend and maid of honor had finally lost her yearlong battle with epithelial ovarian cancer. Only 18 percent of those who reached stage four would survive. Suzanne had not been one of them.

Rachel carefully lifted the cover and looked at the first page. There was the wedding license for Rachel Joy Anderson and Scott Randall Douglas. The happy, loving couple in the picture on the opposite page looked so hopeful, so free of worry. Her fingertip traced a line along Scott's jaw. She loved him so much. What was wrong? She missed him, missed him so much. The man that came home at night wasn't the same. She wanted this man, the one in the picture.

On the next page were her mother and father. And there was Scott's family. They were all such good people. Surely they had their share of problems too, didn't they? Of course they did.

There was Suzanne, radiant as maid of honor. It seemed so long ago now, when they had hugged each other in the hotel dressing room.
Best friends forever
. Those poignant words were filled with such meaning now. She would see her friend again, someday. When all this life was past and they were in heaven together. How wonderful that would be.

But I wish you were here right now to talk to me
.

Rachel closed the wedding album. The soft
puff
as the heavy cover came together triggered something in her heart.

Doesn't Scott know how much I love him? How much I need him?

Then anger began to rise inside her. Anger that burned down into resentment for a husband that treated her so callously. She was a wife, not a rug. Having children didn't turn her into an unpaid housekeeper. At least it wasn't supposed to be that way.

She needed a friend. A friend who was really a friend. Someone who cared about her.

Last night on Facebook, she'd spent time dipping into the lives of friends and strangers, curious about what was going on. A sidebar advertisement of some kind had shown up on the screen. What was it again? Something about visual friends? No, not visual. V
irtual
.

She went to the computer in the living room, brought up a search page, and typed in
virtual friend
.

She scanned down the page.
There. Is that it?

Real Virtual Friends—VirtualFriendMe

www.virtualfriendme.com

Home of real virtual friends. Friends just like the real thing.

She clicked on the link.

The images on the screen faded until all that was left was the white background. Then she heard a woman's voice.

“Are you ready for this?”

A brief pause, then the shoulder-up likeness of a young woman appeared on the left side of the screen. She wore a red top. Shoulder-length hair fell around her neck. At first it didn't look like anything else would happen. But no, she was breathing. At least she looked like she was breathing. Yes, moving, blinking, as if waiting for someone to notice her.

The image smiled. Her eyes wrinkled at the edges. “I asked you if you were ready for this, didn't I?” The eyes opened wider. “Hmmm?”

Rachel fell back against her chair, feeling like someone had pushed her.
It's so real
.

“I know, you're surprised.” The face assumed a compassionate look. “I never mean to scare anyone. I never know what to expect either. I can't see you, you know. All I know about you is what you tell me.” Pause. “And you haven't told me anything yet, have you?”

“Will you tell me your name?” The face looked down to the lower right-hand corner of the screen, where a small box appeared. A blue cursor blinked in the box. “Just type your name in the box, then we'll get properly introduced. My name is Jane. What's yours?” She raised her eyebrows, and motioned to the box with a slight tip of her head.

Slowly Rachel moved back toward the screen. It was just like having another person in the room. Should she put her name in the box? What would happen?

Jane looked kind and patient. Rachel touched the keyboard and carefully typed
Rachel
.

“Rachel. Wonderful. Another girl.” Jane's wide smile showed white teeth behind the lipstick. “How old are you, Rachel?”

31
.

“Oooh. We're about the same age. Well, in my case it's sort of what we call a virtual age. But what woman wants to spend time talking about how old she really is?” Jane laughed at her joke.

Rachel laughed too, then typed
Where are you?

“Rachel, this will surprise you, but trust me, it's true. The only place I exist is where you are right now. I'm unique, just like you.”

What? The site must be some kind of a joke itself.

“You're probably wondering what all this is about, aren't
you? If I were you, I'd be wondering too. May I explain? Type ‘yes' if you'd like to know more. Or you can type ‘good-bye.'” She offered a bright smile. “I hope you'll type ‘yes.'”

What could be the harm in learning more? She could always say no later on. There was always the power button. Why not?

Rachel typed
yes
.

“Wonderful. I was hoping you would do that. Do you have a microphone on your computer? If you do, plug it in. We can really talk then.”

Rachel opened the drawer of the short filing cabinet next to the computer and removed a small dictation headset she had purchased three years before and plugged it in.

Rachel hesitated. Did she want to do this? Her voice was low, unsure as she said, “Jane?”

“Yes. Oh, that's so much better, Rachel. Thank you. All that typing back and forth is such a bother, even for us virtual people.” And then Jane winked.

She is so real
. Rachel caught herself winking back. This was strange. Not like talking to some robot.

“Now, I'll warn you. Sometimes, when we're just starting like this, I may have trouble understanding you. But if you'll be patient with me I'll learn your voice until I know it as well as my own. Ready to go?”

“Yes. Do you understand me?”

“Of course I do. We're going to do fine together. I told you I would tell you what our company does. Are you still interested?”

“Yes, please go on.”

“I'm what we call an
introducer
. It's my job to introduce you
to other friends. Kind of like a matchmaker. Did you ever see
Fiddler on the Roof
?”

“Yes, it's one of my favorites.”

“Well, I'm sort of like Yente. Remember her? The matchmaker? My job is to bring people together.”

Rachel shook her head. Maybe it was some trick, and there was a real woman sitting somewhere in a room full of cubicles in Florida or some place, just supplying the voice.

“Jane, I want to ask you a question.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Are you a real person?”

“Ooh, the big one already.” Jane pursed her lips. “Introducers get asked that a lot. If you mean
real
in the sense of ‘Do I have a physical body?,' then the answer is no.” Her face curled into a helpless look. “Does it matter to you? Because when you think about it, we spend lots of our time during the day talking and interacting with people and we never see their bodies.”