He brings me the photo, points out the figures in question.Three young men, dressed in Western garb.Good-looking kids, no doubt about it.Thick, dark hair, broad shoulders, lean forms.I try to figure out which one of them screams activist, but honestly, they all look like hope to me.Now, apparently one of these young men is dead, while the other two live under a regime that hates them for their taste in wardrobe alone.
The sadness hits my concussed brain hard.The huge waste of it all.What is it about humans that we can’t get out of our own way?There’s a classic observation about crabs in a bucket—none of them can escape because anytime one of them makes progress climbing out, the other crabs pull it back down.
I think only humans can recognize such behavior in crustaceans, without catching the irony of our own self-destructive history.
“Names on the back?”I ask at last.
Daryl takes apart the frame.“Not big on notations,” he confirms.
He snaps more photos of the young men; then we return to our rifling of Aliah’s personal possessions.Pictures are good, but personal correspondence, a beautifully hand-scripted journal, containing real stories, motivations, understandings, would be even better.
We search every drawer, cabinet, and closet in the living room, home office, and master bedroom.No such luck.Which leaves us with…
Both Daryl and I stare at her personal computer.
“Email correspondence,” he states.
“Fucking internet,” I gripe.“Has ruined everything.”
“Luddite?”
“Traditionalist.”
He takes a seat.“Know her email address?”
“Yes, but I’m assuming her account is password protected.Isn’t everything?”
“Give me a sec.”
“You have another electronic gizmo?Or, are you secretly a master hacker?”I’m genuinely enthused for either possibility.
Daryl gives me a look.“No.However, most people can’t remember all their passwords, meaning…” He gestures around the office.“Let’s do some digging.”
A documented code or master sheet of codes.I’m on it.
Except the room is starting to spin, and I’m just so damn tired, and is that a stapler in the drawer or a murder weapon?I don’t know anymore.
Daryl: “Got it.”
Me.“Huh?”
“Sticky note, under the keyboard.Works every time.”
He logs in as Aliah.I collapse on the floor, where I can gaze up at the white ceiling and identify shapes in the floating clouds… Sheetrock… clouds.My mind drifts.I think of my father, his lopsided grin that was both welcoming and a sign that he was already three sheets to the wind.Compared to my mother’s grim-faced expression as she returned late from her second, third, fourth job.
Did they love me?I want to think so, but even now, I recognize they were two adults very lost in their own problems.They loved me in their own ways, I think, which means, basically, when they managed to think of something outside of themselves.
Yet another trait I inherited.
“I’m in,” Daryl says.“Now what?”
Which is a truly excellent question.
CHAPTER 36
WE DON’T KNOW ANY NAMESof extended family members?”I confirm with Daryl.
“Got nothing.”
