Lost in Hope (Part 2)

For those of you who celebrated, I hope you had a very Happy Canada Day (July 1st). And for those of you about to celebrate, enjoy your July 4th festivities!

Well, this story took longer than anticipated. I decided to make it more fiction than non-fiction, and that meant revisiting events and characters, fabricating scenes and conversations. I won’t reveal which parts are totally imagined or which exchanges never happened, though (because what would be the fun in that? Such a woman of mystery!).

Hope you enjoy. If you’re so inclined, I’d love your feedback on the story, whether it retained your interest throughout (or if not, where/why not). And, of course, whether the characters ring true for you.

As always, thanks for reading.

********************

You can find Part One of this story here.

On the morning of Day Two, I found a spot at a round table in the large dining hall and sat down with my green juice. I’d been given a single room, one of only a few granted to those with extensive health issues, so there was no room mate to join for breakfast. Before I had a chance to feel awkward about sitting alone, a hulk of a guy with a blonde ponytail and sporting a Hawaiian shirt and shorts plodded over and plunked down beside me.

“Jerry,” he smiled, extending his hand. I shook it and told him my name.

“Been here before?” he asked in a gravelly voice. He looked to me like a retired biker, one who retained all the grit in his demeanor while letting his physical self relax, expanding and softening .

“No, first time. You?”

“Oh, I come every year,” he said. “Annual detox. Always lose at least twenty pounds.” He noted my eyes widening. “Yeah, I kind of let myself go all year. And then this is where I get back on track. Last year I dropped 28 pounds in three weeks!”

Turned out Jerry was a former cop who lived about an hour from the compound. He considered his time at the Center like a mini-holiday.

“Plus”—he chuckled—“my wife kind of waits for this time of year. I’m always a little more frisky when I get home.” He winked.

During my stay, I came to think of residents like Jerry as “Health Hoppers.” They were the ones who came simply for the external, aesthetic changes. They signed on because they wanted to lose weight for an upcoming anniversary party, or their kids’ wedding, or a keynote in May when they’d be standing in front of 500 people and couldn’t imagine still wearing size XXXL.

For most of them, the Hope Center wasn’t a life-or-death experience; it was a way to jumpstart some renewed focus on health or a dream to get back in shape. I thought about my own cohort. There were only a few Health Hoppers among us. Most of us were like me, dealing with chronic illnesses that we wanted to heal. And then there were just a few more serious cases, like Annette or Gillian or Sigrid, for whom the Center was a last chance to renew their health and extend their lifespan.

********************

I can’t quite recall, but it was probably near the end of Week One when I first noticed that Sigrid seemed to be around. . . all the time. When I sat down to breakfast, there she was, wending her way across the dining hall to join me, tea in hand. When we all gathered round the circle in Jeff’s therapy session, Sigrid was already there when I walked in, an empty chair beside her, waving with one hand and patting the seat with the other. When we were granted free time between lectures and I headed outside to roam the network of on-site walking trails or explore the one and only gift shop on the grounds, Sigrid would magically appear beside me, asking, “Would you mind having some company?”

The truth was, I mostly didn’t mind. But as the days continued, it began to feel as if all my free time were being hijacked. I sometimes wondered about the other participants and who else I might get to know if only I had the opportunity. An internal battle erupted: on the one hand, I recognized a certain maternal instinct emerging where Sigrid was concerned. It did seem a bit ridiculous, given the mere 14 years between us, but her childlike demeanor and constant neediness tapped into my own desire to be of use, to shield from harm or offer advice when asked—especially where family was involved. I managed to suppress that urge more often than not, but felt it tugging in my gut nonetheless.

At the same time, I valued my own stay at the Center. After all, I’d saved up for this adventure for over a year, and now I felt as if I couldn’t fully immerse myself in the experience since I was tied to this woman who seemed to need not only attention, but some kind of constant reassurance as well. What was it, I kept asking myself, that made her want to spend so much time in my company?

It wasn’t as if Sigrid wasn’t friendly with other people at the Center, either. She and her roommate, Lucy, were clearly close to each other. They often arrived together for breakfast, deep in conversation or giggling about some shared secret. They’d sit at our table and Lucy would naturally navigate toward someone else like Annette or Lorraine, Annette’s room mate, a quiet woman in her 60s who seemed to say very little, while Sigrid positioned herself beside me.

Nadine Primeau, Unsplash

“Oh, pretty salad! Did you ever eat raw food at home, growing up?” This was one morning about halfway through our stay, as we picked at our fruit salad and sprouts for breakfast.

“Well, sure, we had salads and we’d sometimes have raw carrots for a snack. Oh, and my mom loved dill pickles, but I guess those aren’t technically raw.”

“Yes, I think they are!” Her face lit up. “They even have a class here on how to make them. And other fermented vegetables, like sauerkraut. Catelyn Connolly eats sauerkraut all the time. It’s so good for you.”

Pickles and sauerkraut. “I’d love to take that class,” I murmured, to myself more than anything.

“We’ll take it together!” She clapped her hands with excitement.

My heart sank just a little. I liked Sigrid, I really did. But her constant presence was already feeling like a burden—a burden I hadn’t volunteered to bear. Even Lucy seemed so much more of a stranger to me than Sigrid. It occurred to me, I’d like to take just one class or attend one event by myself, without her hovering in the vicinity. Then I checked myself. Don’t be so hard-hearted, my conscience reprimanded. For whatever reason, she seems to need the support. And it takes nothing from me to give it.

“Oh, yes, that would be really nice,” I said.

**************

It was hard to believe, but before we knew it, we were already a couple of days into Week Two. Sigrid and I were alone at the small saltwater pool, not far from the larger, full-sized swimming pool meant for laps. Ours was used primarily for relaxing and deep conversations, barely big enough for four or six people to stand in. Unlike the larger, heated pool, this one was warmed only by the intense sunshine.

We rested in the water, half standing, half sitting, our arms spread out and floating at our sides, knees bent just enough to keep the water at shoulder level. Every now and again, we’d splash our heads or chest to keep from scorching. It was a restful way to converse, almost treading water, yet with a firm foundation beneath us when needed.

“So where did you grow up?” Sigrid asked. “How many brothers and sisters do you have? What is your husband like?” I attempted to answer as best I could, but the questions continued, fast and furious. I had a sudden memory of that scene from I Love Lucy where Lucy and Ethel work at the chocolate factory assembly line, and the line keeps speeding up until they can no longer keep up, shoving chocolates into their pockets, their collars and their mouths.

“What do you like to do for fun? Do you have hobbies? What kind of house do you live in?”

I was hot and I was tired. I glanced yearningly toward the bike path and the larger pool across the yard. That one had just a few people in it, some splashing with pool noodles, laughing and shoving waves of water at each other.

Sigrid isn’t being rude, I reminded myself; she doesn’t even realize she’s being intrusive. Her directness was definitely a prominent trait, but it was amplified by her inexperience speaking English. Ideas came out in quick staccato, without too much thought between. Yet throughout it all, she maintained that childlike smile, the twinkly eyes, the doll-like rosy cheeks. And she was clearly delighted with any answer I provided.

“How about you?” I asked. “You’re married, right?”

At this her features changed. They seemed to reformulate into a different structure entirely, like those AI-generated videos illustrating how child actresses have transformed into middle-aged dowagers. This new face wasn’t childlike at all.

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “Johannes and I met when we were 16. He was my—is it high school sweetheart? And we got married right after we graduated.”

She splashed a little water over her shoulders. As she leaned forward, I caught a glimpse of the foam padding in the cup area of her bathing suit, its edge sliding smoothly across the flat, pink chest beneath it.

“I have three kids,” she went on. “Marie, Annike and our little Henrik.” She began to nod her head, as if confirming her own words. “They really miss me now, when I’m here at the Center. But they have to understand, I need to do this trip for me. It is very hard on Johannes, but.” Now she looked stricken.

“I’m sure it’s tough. But I have no doubt they all want what’s best for you, Sigrid. And it’s great that he’s so willing to help,” I offered.

“Oh, yes. Johannes is wonderful,” she said. The water was so clear I could see her eyes reflected as she looked away. “And of course his mother is there to help and take care of the children.” She began to examine a leaf that had landed on the surface of the water, holding it by the stem and swirling it back and forth.

“Oh, that’s great, extra help,” I said.

She looked up. Now her eyes were sad. “Well, she is very strict,” she said. “And she thinks she knows better than I do. She will change what I teach them, tell them it’s the wrong way. And then I have to go home and change it back.” She brought the leaf up to her hand and began tracing the veins with her finger.

I understood she was waiting for a response, but I wasn’t quite sure what to say. A woman experiencing conflict with her husband’s mother? It felt like a classic dilemma.

“Yes, I had a similar situation with my own mother-in-law, “ I said. I didn’t bother to add “former” to the sentence. “It can be tough.”

********************

At the end of Week Two, I walked up to the message board and saw several women from our cohort gathered round, squealing and prancing with delight.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The Center is treating us to a meal OFF-site!” Lucy cheered. “They’re taking us into the city. Can you believe?”

Everyone was beyond excited. “An evening in the real world!” Annette marveled.

The junket was intended to prepare us for “reintegration” once we returned to our regular lives, learning to order food in restaurants while staying true to the prescribed diet. In this case, the chosen restaurant, The Vine, offered a fixed menu that had already been approved by the Center: a raw “pizza,” other mains and a sugar-free, dairy-free “ice cream” that, truthfully, ended up looking and more or less tasting like mud at the bottom of a pond. But no one cared. We would be outside the compound!

Women dressed for the occasion in our best outfit (we’d been told to bring only simple, unadorned pieces or natural fabrics, so it wasn’t exactly a mardi gras). We made sure our hair was clean and pulled out the jewelry we’d packed away on the first day.

Piling into a chartered bus, we chattered and cheeped like a flock of geese leaving for the season. Giddy with freedom, we were, no doubt, the loudest group in the place, raucous laughter and bristling conversation filling the space even without the lubrication of alcohol.

Mitchell Soharsono, Unsplash

Sigrid, sitting across the table from me, seemed in her element. I could see how well the first two weeks had affected her. Her previously pale skin had acquired a soft, pink glow, a patch of deeper pink highlighting her nose and cheekbones where the sun had imprinted a touch of its healing energy. She smiled incessantly, sharing stories and bites of food with people on either side. We were all amazed at how quickly the time seemed to pass—only one week left!—and shared our trepidation about going home again, having to fit this new lifestyle into our pre-existing lives.

“I tried to grow wheatgrass at home, but it’s just not really practical in Boston,” Annette said. She’d been to the Center before, about ten years earlier when she’d accompanied her husband after his cancer diagnosis.

“I even got the special wooden racks to grow my own wheatgrass at home. But eating raw vegetables when it’s minus three outside just isn’t feasible. Our climate isn’t meant for this kind of food. So I adapted and do what I can.”

Only Sigrid seemed secure in her next steps. “Well, Catelyn Connolly managed to keep doing it after she graduated. I think she had a little greenhouse on the side of her house. She lives in Maine, I think?”

It had become clear that Catelyn Connolly was Sigrid’s idol, her role model as a woman who’d also been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer and had managed to turn it around, creating a successful multi-million-dollar business in the process. Ten years later, Catelyn Connolly was still thriving and married. She continued to live the “Life of Hope” as they called it at the Center. She’d parlayed her experience into a series of books, a popular website, and a variety of courses and speaking engagements, including several appearances on Dr. Oz, where she shared her philosophy and approach to healthy living with her millions of followers.

“I think she also has some recipes for cooked food on her site, Iike a few cookies or muffins,” Gillian said.

“Well, she’s been at it for ten years,” I added. “I guess after all that time, she got to the point where she was healthy enough first before she brought these things back.” Sigrid took a bite of her salad and almost leapt out of her chair.

“I’m going to hear her speak!” she announced. “She will be in Fort Lauderdale two days after we finish here. So I got a ticket and I’m staying a few extra days.” She shifted in her seat, as if an electrical charge transmitted through the chair.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Yes, I’m going to talk to her after the show and see what she thinks. I want to ask her about how she did it and how she stays healthy for so long.”

I played with the lettuce on my plate and decided not to say anything more. I assumed it was a lack of familiarity with American culture or the way paid events went down in the U.S. Did Sigrid really think a famous speaker at a massive public event would make herself available for one-on-one private chats with audience members afterward? Or maybe I was being too pessimistic. Maybe Sigrid had purchased a VIP ticket that allowed her access to Catelyn after the presentation. Or maybe she’d manage to sneak backstage and speak to Catelyn somehow after all.

“Does the event include personal time with her afterward?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Sigrid answered. “But I’ll talk to her. I’ll just go up close to the stage and ask my questions.” There was that childlike smile again, that naïve optimism that I’d seen many times before. Her cheeks flushed even more pink than usual as her smile broadened.

I put down my fork. I could sense something beginning to gnaw at my stomach. But I said nothing, and smiled.

**************

There were only a few days left. Soon, we’d be leaving and returning to our own individual lives. With the classes winding down, people spent more time in small groups chatting outside, taking walks, or gathering in the dining room, where Lorraine had begun to teach a few of us how to knit whimsical, frilly scarves that had become her personal uniform.

Sigrid and I were taking a break from the heat outside to deliberately bask in even more heat in the infrared sauna. Drops of sweat snaked down my arms and legs, soaking into the wood at our feet. It was hard to believe the last days of our three-week program were almost over.

“Are you looking forward to getting back home?” I asked.

“I’m going to see Catelyn Connolly first, “ Sigrid said. “So I won’t be home for four extra days.”

“Oh, right. But you must miss your kids?”

“Oh, I do!” She took the towel off her lap and ran it across the back of her neck. “And they miss me, too. Henrik was crying last time, asking when I would be home.” It was the first time I saw something like yearning in her face. Then she rallied and perked up.

“I spoke to Annike, yesterday. She said my Mormor made them a cake.” Before I could say, “that’s nice,” she went on, “I wish she wouldn’t give them cake. When they get used to unhealthy food, then they just want to eat it all the time. I would like them to eat what I will be eating.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I said. “I can see how that would be tough, too.”

“Yes, and Johan also likes traditional food. She makes those traditional favorites all the time, too, and she makes it for him all the time. When the kids see, then they want it also. But I have to be sure I just don’t eat it,” she said. She shook her finger at me and smiled.

“Maybe once you get back, you can see if Johan would be willing to change what he eats—for a little while, anyway?”

“Oh, yes, he would do that,” she said. “But his mother says it’s not a proper diet for little kids.” She slid the towel along her forearms, lay it across her lap.

“Except lots of children eat like that,” she said. “Just, like, look at Jim and Nora and their daughter.”

Jim and Nora were the owners of the Center. They were both in their seventies—at least, that was our best guess, based on when they’d opened the place—and yet both looked like people in their 40s. They’d raised their daughter on a similar “Life of Hope” diet and lifestyle, and she also looked far younger than her chronological age.

“Well, I hope you can find a good balance that works for you,” I said. But she didn’t answer.

*******

We were like a bunch of teenagers on prom night. The evening before graduation, we were given an entirely open schedule to do with as we pleased. No lectures, no meetings, no treatments—just a night to spend any way we desired.

Most people in the group were already talking about heading to locations outside the compound, either a bar in town, another restaurant, or even a movie in the mall. Would they throw this all away? I wondered.

I knew some of the “Health Hoppers” would definitely leave the place and immediately return to previous habits. But what about the others? I intended to stick with it. I knew Annette took on a more moderate approach, vowing to keep on the diet throughout the summer and then reassess. But what about those who truly needed the change, like Gillian or Sigrid?

After lunch, a bunch of us gathered at our usual table near the front of the dining hall. Lorraine sat silently in her chair, her knitting needles clacking in the background as we spoke. Lorraine had taught me how to knit one of her fanciful ruffled scarves by dropping or adding a stitch where it shouldn’t have been. As soon as I finished it, I’d donned the scarf and had been proudly wearing it, draped down the sides of my neck. I knew I’d likely forget how to make one the minute I returned home.

“How about Mexican?” Lucy asked. “We could get something relatively healthy and still feel like we’re going out.”

I considered Mexican cuisine. It defied the Center’s rules too many ways to count: to begin with, everything was cooked, in contrast to the raw-only menus at the Center; there were too many beans, considered tough to digest; fried tortillas, using unhealthy (and too many) oils; and, perhaps most of all, tequila. The Hope lifestyle forbade alcohol. There was no way we wouldn’t drink if we were faced with all of that.

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about “cheating” on the diet; rather, I honestly expected to continue eating that way until all of my symptoms were cleared and I was “healthy” for at least a year. It never occurred to me how, exactly, I’d manage it, with a husband who was neither vegan nor a raw foodist.

“I’d rather stay consistent with the program,” Gillian said, and I silently heaved a sigh of relief. “Especially since it’s our last night, why not end on a high note, really see what can happen when we stick with it?” She glanced over at Sigrid, then to me, as if waiting for my response.

“Oh, I could go for that,” I started. “What about the place Jim and Nora recommended, down in the city?” They’d offered the names of a couple of “Center-Approved” establishments.

“Already called and they’re fully booked,” Annette piped in.

“Well, I’d be just as happy going back to The Vine,” I said. “I mean, they’ve got the right kind of food, and I’m sure there are items on the menu we didn’t get to try last time.”

Jerry shook his head. “You guys go ahead. I’m done with raw. I want a steak.” He laughed. “Well, Mexican sounds okay to me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lorraine said. Everyone turned to look, as if surprised she had a voice behind the knitting needles.

“I want to go where she’s going,” Sigrid said, arriving at the table. She sat down.

“Would you go back to The Vine?” I asked. I felt a tinge of guilt knowing that part of me hoped she’d say “no.”

“Sure.” She smiled widely.

In the end, it was just six of us—me, Lucy, Sigrid, Annette and an elderly couple, Will and Pam, who’d already been there for a month and were wrapping up their fourth visit to the Center, simply as devotees who went to honor their health.

Will and Pam had a car, but it could only seat four, so the rest of us piled into a taxi and said we’d meet there. When we arrived, those two were already seated at a long, rectangular table with four chairs on each side. Sigrid and Lucy slid in beside them, while Annette and I sat facing them.

Sigrid was in a great mood, laughing and chatting enthusiastically with Lucy on one side, and Pam on the other. The table was really too wide to hear what they were saying, but I was happy to see her in such a good state of mind.

The crowd ordered a bunch of appetizers for the table, cold rice rolls and a green papaya salad, and another dish I didn’t recognize but looked like a huge, fried haystack on a plate. I decided to forgo the fried masterpiece but noticed Sigrid indulging with gusto.

Occasionally, she’d lean forward and yell at me above the din of the restaurant, “How’s your pizza? Or “Aren’t these lights so pretty?” The pizza wasn’t real pizza, of course, being both raw and cold, while the lights, a string across the tops of the tables like fairy lights in shades of pastel green, yellow, blue and purple, were, indeed, pretty. They couldn’t distract me from the fact that Sigrid was veering away from the diet, now onto her dessert, a piece of actual cake, baked and with sugar-laden frosting slathered over top.

She must have seen the horror on my face because she leaned over, a forkful of the cake pointed in my direction, and yelled, “It’s my present for graduation! I think I deserve it!” I smiled wanly and nodded.

Was she going to abandon the protocol? Surely she wouldn’t now, now that she’d traveled across the globe to the States all the way from Norway? Now that she’d left her husband and children for a month with the evil mother-in-law, all so she could heal? Now that her chance of recovery was so very close to the surface?

As if reading my thoughts, she added, “Don’t worry! It’s just for tonight. Tomorrow, back to the punishment!” She laughed, a freedom and joyfulness in the sound I’d not heard from her before. Her cheeks shone in the pastel glow of the fairy lights. She looked like my niece at Christmas when her mother tells her she can choose whichever gift she likes at FAO Schwarz. She looked like a woman set free from servitude.

After the meal, we lingered outside the place, wondering out loud about what was in store for our last day. We’d each been asked to consider speaking at the graduation ceremony, to tell the rest of the crowd—by that time, two new cohorts had already joined the group in the dining room each day—what the experience had been like, whether we’d met our goals, and any other message we wanted to share. Speaking was entirely optional, as was attending, but most people did speak and it was extremely rare for anyone to skip the event.

The day before, we’d each received our final medical report based on fresh tests we’d taken a day before that. Everyone I knew had lost weight. While my own weight had dropped by six pounds, I was disappointed. I’d hoped for closer to something like Jerry’s 28 pounds. Then again, I was the only one I knew in the place—other than the actual employees—who truly loved the food. I had gone back regularly for seconds, heaping my plate with more sprouts, more baby peppers, more salad and more beets. My blood tests had also revealed lower triglycerides since my arrival three weeks earlier, though not excessively high to begin with. High numbers of white blood cells had returned to normal, and the level of fungus in my digestive tract had decreased. I did notice I was sleeping better, my nasal congestion had cleared considerably, and I certainly felt more energetic and more positive about the future.

I wondered about the others. Lucy was ecstatic to learn her tests had improved and couldn’t wait to see her regular doctor again back home. Annette was happy with lower cancer markers. Sigrid hadn’t mentioned any of her results in public, and we hadn’t had a chance for a private conversation since our dinner the night before. I wondered if her upbeat mood had been tied to her test results.

The ceremony was far more emotional than I’d anticipated. Peppered within our own cohort were others who’d started before us and were joining our ceremony as they prepared to leave. One woman had arrived in a wheelchair and now stood firmly on both feet, striding across the stage confidently as she related her story. how she’d slowly come back to life. Another reported being 100% cancer-free at her test the previous year, and how she’d had to “fire” her doctor when he refused to acknowledge that The Center had actually helped. She’d come back now, her fourth year in a row, to ensure she maintained her diet and lifestyle.

After the ceremony, we took group photos and exchanged addresses and Facebook handles, everyone teary-eyed and glowing with the triumph of completing the program. Annette suggested that she and I try to get together for a green juice date once we were both back in Boston.

“I’d love that,” I told her, and meant it.

When it was finally time to leave, Sigrid and I hugged. It occurred to me how small she truly was, my hands meeting each other easily around her petite frame.

“Good luck with Catelyn Connoly,” I said into her hair.

She pulled back, and I could see a new determination behind her eyes. “I am on the right path,” she said. “We graduated! And if she could come out of it, I can, too.” She hugged me again. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

“You, too.” I watched as she grabbed her bag and fairly skipped to the bus.

****************

It was Sigrid on the phone, calling from the airport on her way back to Norway, four days after after the end of our program. I was back at my desk, typing up the next semester’s course outline.

“Sigrid!” I was genuinely happy to hear her voice. “You sound great.” She really did, upbeat and really excited. “How was Catelyn Connolly?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t get to speak to her,” she said. “But I spoke to one of her assistants. I learned a lot.”

“Well, that’s good,”

“Oh, yeah. Did you know she’s been off of the fully-raw food for a long time?” At this, her voice picked up intensity, like a child describing her favorite ice cream.

“Really,” I said.

“Yeah! And she eats regular food sometimes, too!”

When I didn’t answer, she continued. “Oh, and she even told me that sometimes Catelyn drinks wine. Like, regular wine. Can you believe it?”

“Well, I guess after all this time, she’s able to bring back some of those regular foods. . . “

“Yes. And all the raw was really just to build her audience. But she isn’t as strict as she makes people think.”

“She’s been really lucky,” I said. But underneath my words, I felt a trickle of dread.

****************

At first, Sigrid and I stayed in touch via Facebook, exchanging messages every week or so. But after a few months, the communications naturally faded. She found it difficult to write in English, I knew, and besides, her life was incredibly busy. She related how she and Johannes were taking a little vacation across the country, how the kids were growing up so fast and how she had baked a favorite birthday cake for her daughter Annike’s eighth birthday. “I even had a piece,” she wrote. “I don’t think one little bit here or there will be a problem.”

With each message, I grew more and more concerned. Her mother-in-law was living with them now, she told me, to help out because Johannes worked so many hours. The older woman basically took over the kitchen, cooking whatever traditional food she felt was warranted.

Eventually, we lost touch entirely. I continued to check in to her Facebook profile occasionally. There was Sigrid, smiling with Johannes by her side at a restaurant, what Google translate informed me was an anniversary dinner, nearly empty plates and glasses of wine on the table before them. Another image showed her with a girlfriend at what appeared to be a spa. Then a picture of her and Annike, both brandishing lollipops as if they were microphones, smiling into the camera.

I thought again of my imagined version of Heidi, the round cheeks, the thin smile, the green eyes hovering over pale skin with its smattering of nearly invisible freckles. And the bland, sesame colored hair cut into a bob, tucked behind one ear. Was Sigrid still that same woman I’d met at The Hope Center? What had happened to the dedication to health, the enthusiasm for a future with her husband? Yet I couldn’t deny that she seemed happy. Her smiles seemed genuine.

One day about a year after we’d been to the Center, I happened upon her profile. I saw what looked like a business logo: a line drawing of a bouquet, with Norwegian text beneath it. There was a line with Sigrid’s full name, a date and time posted. Even without translating, I knew exactly what it was. I felt the heat in my cheeks rise even as my stomach fell. Something like anger overtook my mind. I shut the computer and wandered downstairs to prepare a cup of tea. How could she have given up so easily? I thought. She had so much to live for. Those poor children. I poured the tea, and pushed the thought out of my mind. Of course it was sad she was gone. But I knew that life would go on, that daily demands would continue.

Mor Shani, Unsplash

Several months later, I was surprised to receive a private message on Facebook. It was from Sigrid’s husband. It said, “Even though Sigrid is not amongst us any more, you should know she spoke so warmly about you after she got to know you in Florida. Many times she expressed her gratitude in getting to know you, and despite the long distance, she thought of you as one of her closest friends. Thank you for being there for her when in The Center, and not least the time after. Best regards, Johannes.”

I was struck by his facility in English. Then I asked myself, How could it be that I had meant that much? We’d barely known each other for more than three weeks. Maybe if I’d been aware of the connection she felt, I would have handled that responsibility differently.

Or maybe I’d never been a true friend to Sigrid after all. Had I let her down when she needed it most?

I sat at my desk, reading the message over and over. Until my tea had grown cold, warmed only by the heat of my tears dropping haphazardly into the cup.

********************

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