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Clarissa

September 4th

In the narrow strand of space between the first piece of information and all the rest, thoughts rushed through Clarissa that could not be said aloud, not then, probably not ever. They came like the violent Nor'easters she'd known as a child in Maine, appearing without warning as she'd disconnected the phone for the third time in quick succession.

How could he have let this happen? The initial call came from a reporter, and Clarissa hung up mid-sentence, telling herself there'd been a mistake.

He tricked me. Tricked me into trusting him, despite me knowing that life is delicate beyond belief and humans are flimsy, even those who seem invincible.

The second call came from Bill Snyder, who opened by barely speaking at all, as if to prolong her last moments of unknowing, and then began carefully, each word padded by pauses, each phrase couched in ambiguity. She hung up on him also, but with less confidence.

Everything one counts on can vanish in a second; I'd understood that since childhood. A new narration wiping out personal history without a whisper of remorse. So why had I let myself willfully block out this transiency, fall in love, remake the boundaries of my life, and then redefine what it meant to trust the world?

The final call came from a baldly definitive FBI agent, speaking in a clipped but almost tender tone as she thought in stunned amazement, "The FBI; how odd is this?" She had no memory of hanging up on him, only of noticing at one point that she no longer pressed the receiver to her ear.

Somehow, I'd secretly relied on the conviction that he would stay safe. He had a plan and I'd become a late believer in the power of planning. I trusted our future as much as the fact that ice was cold and fires were hot and letters arranged on a page would remain readable. That much trust was too much.

The mind is a labyrinth capable of holding at once the ocean, the sky, and everything in between; of carrying on four simultaneous conversations, most of them internal; of dismissing one memory even as it accesses another in detail and creates a third.

"At least he was doing what he loved." Didn't people in situations like this say that? Wasn't that a ridiculous thing to say?

These thoughts pushed their way up from the floor of her mind, edging aside other, more critical judgments and understandings and misunderstandings.

humans are delicate so keep it safe humans are impermanent so take the risks humans are transient so soak in the details humans are temporary so think big humans are breakable so be diligent humans are ephemeral so be carefree humans are fragile so

Thoughts came that she would register unconsciously and quickly forget but would recall— some of them, at least— much later, in her revised world, as pieces of her future settled into new patterns of fleetingness.

What do we do now? What do I do now?