At the Bottom of Everything(72)
· Four ·
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <Thomas Pell>
Date: Thu, Aug 20, 2009 at 3:28 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey. I feel like an astronaut asking to get together for coffee after a mission. I just wanted to see how you’re holding up. I’m weird but all right—panicky, elated, weepy, etc. Give me a call or write sometime. I’ve got lots of time to talk and very few people to talk to.
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <Thomas Pell>
Date: Wed, Sep 9, 2009 at 5:34 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey. I was just writing to pester you about my last email when your parents called.
Your mom says you agreed to try the hospital. I think (a) you’re doing the right thing, and (b) it probably won’t feel like the right thing at first. So (not that you’re looking for my advice on this) bear with it.
Things with me have been more normal the past couple of weeks. At first I was spending too much time walking around the streets by my apartment, staring at people, sitting by the Barnes & Noble fountain, studying the brickwork. I thought maybe I’d inhaled poison in the cave, that I might end up the happy, slow-talking homeless person of Bethesda.
I’ve been writing back and forth with your parents a little (I hope that’s OK). They asked me to come over for dinner, but I’ve been putting them off. Pretty sure they just want to thank me and hear more about India, etc., but I’m worried I’d blurt out the whole story of the Batras. Have you thought about telling them? I’m not sure what would come of it (I’m not sure about anything), but part of me thinks it would be good for everybody.
Tell me how you’re doing once you’re settled in.
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <Thomas Pell>
Date: Wed, Nov 4, 2009 at 9:58 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey. You know how you can tell when someone’s on the other end of the phone, even if they don’t talk? Well, I’m OK with you not responding to my emails. Your mom says your computer use is limited, and I can tell (I think) that you’re reading them.
I got a note from your dad yesterday, who says you’re looking good. I’m going to call the hospital as soon as I send this to find out about visiting hours, etc.
Not much doing with me. I got that apartment in Foggy Bottom. I’ve been trying to learn how to cook—so far mostly roast chicken and omelets, for some reason. My mom’s been sending me three recipes a day from the Food Network (Carving the tops of the scallions might seem like a lot of work, but your guests will love you for it!).
Hope you’re good. Carve a scallion.
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <Thomas Pell>
Date: Wed, Dec 2, 2009 at 8:09 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey. Kind of a weird question. I told you about that girl I was dating, Sonia—things have gotten semiserious. She’s in her residency at GW, very smart, funny, etc. I’ve said “I love you” to an embarrassing number of girlfriends, but this is the first time I can picture meaning something by it other than “Oh my God, please don’t break up with me!” Anyway, I was thinking I might want to tell her about Mira. Would very much appreciate your thoughts.
What else. I’m still listening to those Guruji-lite audiobooks. I hide them in the glove compartment whenever someone other than Sonia’s going to be in the car. Still not used to hearing these magnetic poetry sentences coming out of my speakers. We only truly suffer when we resist what is. Our capacity to love others is in perfect proportion to our capacity to love ourselves. Better than whatever I was living by before, though. (If something bad might happen, think about it. Never let an email arrive without witnessing its appearance.)
Hope you’re good. Detonate a gut-bomb for me.
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <Thomas Pell>
Date: Sat, Jan 30, 2010 at 8:41 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey. Good to see you last week. You do look good (probably not something we’ve ever said to each other). Didn’t know how to tell you in person, but I told Sonia about Mira. She was really good about it. I had to stop halfway through because I thought I’d burst a blood vessel. She’s the first person I’ve ever told, it occurred to me. We were driving somewhere the other day and she said, “Wait, so is this why we never go on Connecticut?” I honestly hadn’t realized.
She said she thought I should call the other driver. We got into a fight about it; I said there was no point, she said it was cruel, I said he’d probably moved by now, etc., etc. I’d pretty much decided not to, but then I found myself searching the Post archives for Charles Lowe and before Sonia came home the other night I was dialing a 202 number. I know I should have told you about it before I did it, but I didn’t want to wait. The conversation was short, like maybe five minutes. He didn’t believe who I was at first. He refused to see me. He sounded like someone who’d grown up in New York or New Jersey, someone with a scary dog.