I've never been the digital type. When all my friends in college were exploring the benefits of the web, chatting and browsing and god knows what, I spent my days in the library, delving in stacks of books. Nowadays students even rummage the internet for articles and even complete papers, or so I gathered, but I just liked to stick with my books. Class mates often tried to persuade me to start using the internet as a useful resource, but it was no use, despite her frequent efforts. I simply loved the old library, the silence and the sweet smell of all the old books.
It wasn't until last year that I signed up for a yahoo account, only to let it gather some digital dust. I merely signed up to satisfy some friends, who kept asking for my address, but who never actually send me mail now that they have the chance. So I only log in every other week or so, or just enough to prevent my account from expiring. I scan the titles, banish junk to the trash can and occasionally read the Governor Tancredi newsletter, when I can bring myself to do it. It's the only way to keep up to date with my father's movements nowadays. Apart from the news, of course.
But let's not think about dad now. He's not the reason I am up still, at four in the morning, staring at my laptop screen. I think I have spent more hours in front of this thing the past twenty four hours than I usually do in a month, but I have my reasons.
Yesterday evening, when I performed my periodical junk mail cleanup, I noticed one mail that caught my attention. Its title said: 'looking for Sara'.
It is not uncommon for me to see my own name featured in a mail subject. I always disliked the fact my name was so ordinary, and its frequent use by spam terrorists only strengthened my opinion.
But this mail looked different to me. It did not bear any of the usual battered words that would extol certain blue pills or dubious weight loss solutions, and moreover, the sender's address looked pretty normal. My curiosity took over, and despite all warnings about viruses I had always listened to with only one ear, I clicked to open the mail.
It read:
"Dear Sara,
I hope I guessed the address right and found you! Do you remember me? Lorena Ribeiro, your middle school pen pal from Brazil?
It might be a long time ago, but I do remember you vividly. Your letters always were a treat, and I recall your pictures, with your beautiful red hair and pretty smile. I remember you used to tell me all about your school, about your horrible math teacher Mr. Brown, your boyfriend Colin and your dreams of becoming a doctor.
Last night when I was cleaning out some old shoeboxes, I came across an old letter of yours. I immediately remembered the good old days and decided to track you down. I would love to renew our contact. I know our correspondence did not end in the most pleasant way, and I want you to know I severely regret this. However, we're both older now, and maybe it's time to make amends.
Life has been good to me, and I a live a happy life in Rio de Janeiro. I am not married, I guess you could call me one of them happy singles :) Or I just did not meet the right guy yet. I live with my sister in a nice apartment and I work as a tourist guide. I attached a picture of me and my sister in our living room, I hope you still recognize me. I am the one on the right.
I would love to hear from you.
Love,
Lorena."
Colin. Mr. Brown. I sure remembered them. But I did not remember having a pen pal, let alone a pen pal from Brazil, named Lorena Ribeiro.
I did not know whether I should be amused or scared that someone who seemed a complete stranger to me knew about my life in high school. After re-reading the email a couple of times I decided I was not amused, and scared enough to get up and fetch myself a glass of water in the kitchen.
Staring out of the window I managed to recompose and tell myself that this could just as well be some prank email from my high school classmates. The past months hadn't been too easy, and I noticed before that I overreacted to little things: not being able to find my car keys, loud noises from the neighbours, not receiving the morning paper.
So I returned to the mysterious e-mail and took a look at the picture attached.
Two women. One tall, on the left, in a red blouse and white skirt. One smaller, on the right in a blue dress. Both women were standing in a small and cluttered room, in front of a large, wooden, double bed. I could descry dozens of little sculptures, vases, toys, boxes, picture frames and the like, scattered about the entire room.
Nothing I recognized.
I kept searching the picture for possible clues, but when I couldn't find any, I shut down my computer in frustration and went to bed. I told myself to forget about it, but of course I laid awake until three o'clock, as usual.
And now I am here again, staring these two women down in hope of seeing something that I've overlooked before. Just when I decide it's time to call it a day and move my cursor to close the picture, I notice a pictogram in the right corner of the screen. A magnifying glass. With a big plus on it.
Of course. I curse myself for my blind stupidity and quickly manage to enlarge the picture. I am surprised to see the image turns out to be very large, about twice as large as my laptop screen can handle. As I eagerly scroll and scan the image with renewed perseverance, my eye catches an old shoebox hidden under the bed. My breath falters as I see what peeks over its brim.
A red origami flower.