Chapter Seven
Forgiveness doesn’t have to involve making things right with the other person,” Dr. Jeong says.
“You can make amends by channeling your desire for healing into your current behavior and your existing relationships. To do that, can I ask you to try to articulate exactly what it is you want forgiveness for?”
“Okay,” I say. “Um. I guess I want forgiveness for… hurting Ben? For messing up his life and abandoning him.”
She hums. “Good. So, if you’re a positive influence in other people’s lives, and if you’re there for other people—do you think that might help you forgive yourself?”
I consider the question. “Maybe.”
I wish she would give me clearer direction. I want to be told exactly what to do. I want to be given instructions. I want concrete steps I can take.
I ask, “Do you have any ideas about how I could do that?”
She says, “You can apply it in your relationship with your wife, and with your friends, and your family. Your job also seems like a great venue to be a supportive, positive influence on other people. You interact with a lot of the community, right?”
I nod.
“Is there anything you could do at work that might feel connected to this? Is there anyone who you could be more present for, or have a more positive impact on?”
When I first decided I wanted to become a librarian, I envisioned myself reading Where the Wild Things Are to a pack of entertained toddlers. I thought of amiable middle-aged women at book clubs. Precocious teens who love reading.
The reality is I spend a lot of time around people who don’t have stable housing, who struggle with substance abuse, or who have severe mental illnesses.
A lot of people who come to the library are new immigrants, or refugees, or people from low-income families who are struggling.
There are also people, like Declan, whom I don’t like or understand.
I’m surrounded by people who have perspectives I don’t have, and who are living lives I don’t relate to. I do want to be a more supportive, positive influence on other people, but I’m not sure I have the faculties to do that. I wish it were easier to pinpoint exactly what I could do to help people.
If Ben were still alive, and we met to clear the air, I don’t know what I’d say to him.
It would be hard to explain myself and to give him the context needed to clarify what I’m so sorry about.
If he were alive, and I were able to make amends with him directly, what would I need to do besides apologize?
I could have reached out to him when he was alive, but I didn’t.
I didn’t explain myself when I broke up with him.
After we broke up, I knew I’d morphed into a person he didn’t really know, and it would be baffling for him to speak to a stranger through the face of the girl he’d lived with for years.
I think I’m sorry for more than abandoning him and messing up his life. I’m sorry that I pretended to be someone else when we were together. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with him, or myself. I wish we’d been on the same page.
I’m in a small, glass-walled workshop room in the library. I’ve written the words HUMAN LIbrARY on the whiteboard.
Human libraries involve having humans act as “books” who can be borrowed by patrons for a conversation.
I’m brainstorming this as a potential program.
It’s something I could champion that might foster understanding.
I also think it might be a constructive example of a program that promotes our library’s values, and maybe it could push back a little against the bubbling division in our community.
The room I’m in has clear walls. People walking by can see inside.
I’ve written LESBIAN, FIREFIGHTER, SOMEONE LIVING WITH AIDS on the board.
People keep looking in and making faces.
IS THIS YOU?
I’m off desk duty, sitting at a computer in the back, writing Brenda a proposal to run the human library program. An email with the above subject line has popped up in the corner of my screen.
I click it and see there’s an attachment. I hesitate to open it, concerned it might be a scam or a phishing attack, but the body of the email says, DARCY?
I preview the file. My stomach clenches as the image loads—it’s a screenshot of my Instagram story where my naked body is reflected in the chrome tap. It’s a close-up of the reflection.
What the fuck?
My chest tightens. Who sent this? I fumble to move the mouse and click to see the email address. It says:
EaglesNest88@.
“I don’t want to tell Brenda,” I tell Joy.
I’m standing in a bathroom stall, panicking.
“This is scary. And it’s such horrible timing.
I’m meeting with her in two hours. I wanted to propose this program idea and talk about what we can do better.
I don’t want to keep bringing her problems. I want to be helpful. I don’t know what to do.”
Joy says, “I think you just have to tell Brenda—”
I wince. “I don’t want to tell her. What if she asks me to forward her the email? She’ll see the photo.”
“Who cares if she sees the photo? It’s just a human body.”
“That’s easy for you to say. It’s not your human body—”
“You’re all contorted in the picture. You can’t really see anything—”
“You can see nipple. And the photo isn’t the point. It’ll derail our whole meeting.”
She exhales. “Then maybe just tell her about the email without showing her. You have to. I can’t imagine why anyone would do this.”
I don’t want to involve Brenda, regardless of whether doing so entails showing her my naked body.
It’s embarrassing that I’ve accidently posted a nude on the internet.
I don’t think it reflects well on me as an information professional.
I’d prefer my boss not to know about this humbling error, especially given the terrible impression I’ve given her lately.
Furthermore, what’s she going to do? She won’t be able to do anything to help me.
“I’m not telling Brenda,” I say quietly.
Joy sighs loudly. “I really want you to tell someone. Like, honestly, maybe even call the pigs. That’s a frightening email. I’m worried—”
“I’m definitely not calling the pigs,” I say.
“Every time I call them it’s a total waste of my time.
I asked them to come here after that man bulldozed into our story time the other day, and they didn’t even send anyone.
And I know those officers from city events.
I don’t want to live in a world where any of them have seen me naked. ”
She’s quiet. “All right, fine, but I don’t like this. That’s a chilling email. Why would someone send you that? Do you have any idea who it might be?”
I’m googling the email address as we speak, but there are no relevant results. I’m searching the name of the email in various social media platforms, hoping maybe the owner has created a YouTube channel or Reddit account using the same handle, but nothing is coming up.
“I don’t know who this could be,” I say. “Maybe it’s just some asshole messing with me.”
“Who would do that?” Joy asks.
My Instagram account is private. To get the photo at all, the person would have to be following me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
I scan through every person who follows me and ask myself: Is this person capable of sending me an unprovoked, ominous email with my naked photo attached? No names jump out to me.
I wonder, what could motivate anyone to send me that email?
Is this some kind of power play? Is it a way to assert dominance, or to intimidate me?
Or did the person who sent it think it would be funny?
Sometimes people do strange things when they’re trying to be funny.
Maybe this is a misguided prank. Or is it revenge for something?
Have I slighted someone who wants to get back at me?
Or is it a sexual gratification thing? Maybe the person who sent this is voyeuristic and likes to share naked photos of people without their consent.
Is it just attention seeking? Someone looking for a reaction?
Maybe the person is naive and sent this because they saw it and didn’t understand the implications. I could see my grandma doing something like that if she were still alive. Do I know anyone else who is simple-hearted like that?
I open the email and read it over.
My initial thought is to not respond. I hover my curser over the delete button. I consider blocking the sender; however, my instinct to be agreeable and passive has steered me wrong before. I’m starting to think it might be better to confront things.
Rather than ignore the email, I click respond.
I write, “YES? HOW CAN I HELP YOU?”
After I hit send, an email notification pops up in the corner of my screen. I click it.
HELLO,
ARE YOU STILL GETTING THESE EMAILS?
IF POSSIBLE, COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME, ARE THERE CERTAIN BIRD SPECIES THAT ARE MORE LIKELY TO DEMONSTRATE HOMOSEXUAL BEHAVIOR?
E.G., ARE VULTURES MORE LIKELY, WHEREAS GULLS TEND TO BE HETEROSEXUAL? I’M TRYING TO UNDERSTAND MORE ABOUT HOW NATURAL IT IS IN BIRDS.
THANKS,
SAMMY
It’s only been twenty-four hours, and this patron has sent three emails about gay birds. I wonder why they’re so impatient—
Wait a minute. I go back to the email I received with my nude. The word “Eagle” is in that email address. Was that email from the same person who’s been sending these bird questions?
I check the email address of the person sending bird requests.
No. It’s not the same email address. The bird patron is SammyLeaf12@. Though something still feels suspicious. I got the nude email after not replying to the bird patron. Maybe they were mad that I didn’t reply. But how would they get the picture? There’s no way they follow me on Instagram.
I look at the clock at the bottom of my screen. It’s time for my meeting with Brenda.
I’m ill prepared for the meeting. The naked photo email has rattled me, and the technology in this meeting room isn’t working so I can’t get my notes on the screen.