Me, Myself, and I

blink or block

I invited Ben over to my house that night. He explained that the most recent bill he'd dug up was indeed from some psychiatric hospital smack dab in the middle of Idaho. We traced her letters around the country as I had before, sticking little stars on the paper map Ben had brought over.

The earliest email Dad had received from Margaret White had come three months after her so-called "disappearance".

"'We need to talk,'" Ben read. "She didn't leave any more information. He never replied."

The letters started a month letter. Dad had photographed them and placed them in a virtual folder. Ben seemed to understand Dad's insane method of organization, as he had better luck digging up the photos than I'd had in weeks.

"He never planned for anyone to find these," he muttered.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I would've put it here, too, if I didn't want something to be found. But he didn't put a password on the folder. I would've."

I laughed. "He was probably scared he'd forget it."

"I wouldn't forget something that important."

He hunched over Dad's desk and tapped on the trap-pad, ignoring the mouse on the pad beside him. The oven beeped in the distance. But I leaned over Ben's shoulder, caught glimpses of each picture as he moved at a rapid pace.

Ben nodded to himself. "You should get the cookies."

"What did you find?"

"I can smell them burning."

I groaned and marched into the kitchen wafting in burnt chocolate. The edges had browned and held up strong resistance as I dug at the bottom of the dough with my spatula. Ben's fingers appeared beside mine and barehanded the thing.

He inspected it. "These are different than the ones you brought to club meetings."

"I've been trying out Mom's recipes."

"What recipes were you using before?"

I tugged on my bangs. "I never did, I guess. Just kind of through stuff in until it felt right. Same way I make coffee."

He ate the thing in two bites. "I think that method was better."

I gave up my battle with the spatula. "What did you find?"

"I think it's related to the most recent letter. The one he'd taken a photo of."

"I thought you could only see the date."

Ben bit his cheek. "Well now I can see the address."

"That doesn't make any sense. It's the same photo?"

He pointed to the laptop and clicked at an email at the top. "No, but Margaret just sent him another email about the money."

"WHAT?"

I grabbed it from him and snapped on the AI reader at two-times speed.

From: White, Margaret

To: White, Richard

Subject: Many thanks

Rich,

You are a sun to me, this you must know. I wish my dainty mind could be more than a mere moon. I face unfortunate trappings. The doctors speak and talk, two very different things, often to and not to me, two things that feel to be the same thing.

I run from what I do not want, but also from what I need, for there is an inevitable overlap between the two. No words are enough to thank the accommodation made, so I don't feel words are necessary in such a department.

You stole my state, Rich. Now I am glued to the roots, do you approve of such a deprived state? Sweet Idahome, I suppose.

I'm sorry, big words were always most effective with you, but then I seem to speak a language completely not my own. Rent is due at the end of this month. I am short as a child in that category. Dare I ask? Does not seem necessary to use words in this drawer either. What I know and what you know are often the same, even if the words we choose to express them with are different.

Yours,

Maggie

"She speaks well," Ben uttered.

"No, she doesn't."

We studied the file she'd attached to the email and I printed it off, setting it beside Ben's water bottle. An Idaho state sticker in the corner. Another bill with money and information. But this time, an address, unmistakable. Crick's Institute.

"She's at a mental institute?"

Ben nodded. "What are you going to do?"

"I—don't know yet. I just need to think." I grabbed the laptop, turned around, grabbed him in a death hug. "Thank you. So much."

"Sure."

We covered our tracks. Let the email sit on unread. I wrote it down in my phone's notes. Her email. I had her email.

Ben left for dinner, taking three cookies with him. I climbed into bed that night, opening up my laptop, the little mail icon on my desktop.

From: White, Julia

To: White, Margaret

Subject:

...

...

...

I watched the cursor blink. Dad used to leave the house when he'd get writer's block back in Idaho. Stair off at the cornfields. I left the browser open and threw on one of Dad's oversized jackets. The view from my window was nothing but our stupid empty street with stupid identical houses of nothing. I walked past them and let my legs carry me off. I hadn't moved around this much since high school P.E. My skin pulled at my joints, but I couldn't let myself stop. If I stopped I'd have to turn around and go back home. I'd have to watch the cursor again.

Open cross. Close cross. I went through my list of saints and deities. My chest just hurt. My legs hurt. My head hurt. Hurt. Hurt.

Why did you leave? Huh? I'm sorry I wasn't enough to keep you around. What if I'd been the one you'd found dead in my bedsheets? Bet you'd have stayed and consoled Max about how much you loved him. Bet you wish it had been me. Yeah? She probably wouldn't deny a thing, either. Just give me a Well what are you gonna do about it? What did I do about it? What could I do about it?

I could actually send an email. Or I could do what I always did. Think about the things I would do. The places I would go. Wait for someone's permission that would never come.

The air smelled like paint when I stopped by the old fountain by the gratified apartments. I sat at the base and stared at the now black sky. She'd ignore the email, that's what she'd do. Or worse, tell my dad about it.

I gripped my chest, it had started jabbing at my throat. Blinked. Wiped my eyes. Before collapsing my head into my palms and letting myself cry for the first time since I'd gotten the NYU rejection letter.

I don't know how long I was there before my phone vibrated from my back pocket. Ben had left a voice memo.

"I found out more about the psychiatric hospital. It's a rehabilitation facility. I called and asked if they had a Margaret White there, but they said they couldn't reveal any information." I paused as his voice did. Tapped the next icon. "Your best bet for answers would be to go there, I think."

My phone vibrated again a few minutes later. Alex said we had some friends coming back in town. Asked us to lunch. I knew I was going to make my way over to Idaho eventually. The real question was whether or not I would do it alone.