Page 88 of I Hope This Finds You Well

I have no words.

“You shouldn’t have listened in on that,” she says, disturbingly calm.

“I know.” I scramble for some sort of explanation. “I didn’t realize you were here, then when I did, I...”

“Hid in a stall?” Rhonda raises a brow.

“I’m not spying on you,” I blurt out.

Rhonda’s stare narrows in on me, scanning my face. I don’t know what she finds, but she sighs and wipes the raw spot on her cheeks. “I can tell that you’re upset too.” Her knuckles whiten. “It’s so, so tough loving someone who is sick. Sometimes it feels like he’s already gone.” Her eyes widen and her skin pales a full swatch, like she’s haunted by her words, by her thoughts. “He needs money for food, but... I can’t. I can’t give him anything. It might hurt him.”

I take a few steps closer. It’s like I’m carrying all the pain from today and my life with me with each tile I pass.

My reflection catches in the mirror behind Rhonda. It’s like a mug shot—all the terrible things I’ve seen and done have caught up to my face. Nothing like the girl from the other day at the meeting. I’m nothing like her. I’m also splotchy, and maybe that’s what does it for me. I don’t start to cry so much as I finally release whatever it is that needed out. Big heaving heavy gasps come all at once.

“I’m sorry.” I quickly wipe my tears and force myself to harden. Rhonda’s jaw tightens. She won’t look me in the eye. I’m the one crying while she’s pouring her heart out. So I catch my breath and force myself to stop. Deep breaths. “I’m not going to... It’s none of my business.”

Rhonda finally moves, grabbing a tissue from the counter and handing it to me. “My son would be mortified if he knew what he was doing. He’s not that person.”

“I get it.” The fear in her gaze dissolves a tiny bit at this. Just three words, and she’s less alone.

Rhonda’s voice shakes. “When they’re young, we think that everything’s going to be perfect, and it all seems so manageable. We can control the world they live in. Then the world gets bigger and harder and...” She fades out and it’s as though something in her foundation crumbles. “It’s impossible. I have to mourn him while he’s alive. I have to wish he goes to jail. I’m not allowed to have him stay with me, help him. That’s enabling, apparently. But my son’s still sick, and if I don’tenablehim, then what if...” She lets out a gasping breath, and another.

The absolute agony of what she’s been dealing with, going to her cube each day with her lonely secret—it’s unbelievable. “Is there anything I can do to help? Or someone I can call for you?”

Her chin collapses. “No, there’s no one, dear. My husband is gone, and somewhere along the way I lost all my friends.” Her eyes are vacant, looking somewhere just above mine. “I’m going to be too old to work here soon. No one needs me anymore. I’m already useless.” She closes her hands over her mouth—the shimmer in her nails puts on a depressing show against the dull lighting—as the sobs pull from her.

I need to comfort her. But what can I even say? I never know how to navigate these situations. “Can I give you a hug?” My voice comes out in a croak.

Before I even know what’s happening, Rhonda wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in. My arms go stiff, but as she tightens her grip on me, I soften against her chest.

My heart pinches. My mom hugs the same way.

“You’re not alone,” I whisper. “You’re not.”

The moment stills between us. She lets me go abruptly and wipes at her face, as if just becoming aware of what she’s doing.

We both take a step apart, like waking from a trance, our moves slow and uncertain.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, though she addresses this to my reflection in the mirror. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

She whips out of the bathroom, the door swinging in her wake, the automatic dispenser grinding as it rolls a paper towel through its gears.

I stare back at the pale mug shot in the mirror and force myself to breathe. The chemical bleach scent bleeds into my lungs.

I practically stumble onto the main floor, then beeline for the copy room. I pull a glass from the cupboard. It’s impossible to ignore the water marks that cover it.

I search the cupboard under the sink, then add the Jet-Dry to the spot in the dishwasher, and it’s like a farewell. A weight drills into my chest, hollow and heavy. It’s like there are these pockets of sorrow waiting to be uncovered right below the surface. But we see them only sometimes, only by chance.

Otherwise, we never know.

Gregory: A Man Named Gregory Who Works Here

It takes sipping a full glass of water and staring at the tiles in the copy room for an unknown amount of time before I’m ready to return to the pods. I’m not quite on solid ground as I make my way to my desk. And when I do, my inbox waits with a formally toned email from Cliff, with attached instructions to close out our session from today and a note that he’ll see me next week for the next one and promises that he’ll continue to support my successful completion of the course. I type:Sounds good, thanks, hit send,close out, and stare forward, willing my emotions down. Willing myself to be a desk bot.

I scan the other pods: Caitlin hasn’t returned, but Armin is already back to dozing off in his seat like nothing happened. I notice that Rhonda’s discreetly wiping her eyes with a tissue. We lock eyes only for a second before she averts my gaze and focuses on her screen.

Gregory marches up to the cubicle block and says to me, “Caitlin never came back up, did she? Her reports are due.”