I Was Here(42)

16

             After discovering the Final Solution boards, I spend every moment I can combing through the archives.

             Shitburg’s not a very wired place, so basically all my research is done at the library, which, even with Meg’s intervention, is only open limited hours, most of which overlap with my job. If we had an Internet connection at home, I could get a lot more done, but when I raise the topic with Tricia, even offer to pay, she scoffs. “Why would we get that?”

             Once upon a time, I would’ve gone to the Garcias and used their computer. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that anymore, even if I weren’t digging into Meg’s suicide. So, the library it is.

             “How are you liking the Czechs?” Mrs. Banks asks me one afternoon. I’m confused for a second, and then I remember the books I checked out. I haven’t cracked a single spine.

             “They’re interesting,” I lie. Normally, I read two or three books a week and have very specific plot or character-related comments for her.

             “Would you like me to renew them for you?”

             “That would be great. Thank you.” I turn back to my computer.

             “Still working on that research project?”

             “Yeah,” I say.

             “Anything I can help you with?” She leans in to look at the screen.

             “No!” I say a little too loudly as I quickly minimize the window.

             Mrs. Banks looks taken aback. “Sorry. You’ve been so focused, I thought you might need help.”

             “Thanks. I’m okay. I guess I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

             This part is true. Every day more posts are added. There are the ones asking for encouragement or advice on how to tie a noose, and the ones from people with terminally ill spouses or friends who want to help them die with dignity. And then there are the completely random rants about Israel or gas prices or who won Idol. There’s a whole language that’s used, shorthand for different methods, slang, like catching the bus, which is the way people here talk about offing themselves.

             Mrs. Banks nods knowingly. “I used to be a research librarian. When you’re dealing with an unwieldy topic, the trick is to home in on a target. You have to aim for something specific rather than cast a wide net. So, maybe an element of the neo- Nazi movement?”

             “Yeah. Thanks.”

             After she walks away, I ponder what she said. There is a function to search the archives, but when I used that to look for the kind of poison Meg took or the motel she went to or University of the Cascades or anything else specific to her, nothing came up.

             But then I go and look at the actual notes and see that everyone has to use some form of user ID. Obviously, Meg wasn’t going to use Meg. So I try other things. Runtmeyer. But nothing comes up. Luisa, her middle name. Nothing. I type in the names of her favorite bands. The girl rock stars that she wanted to be. Nothing. I’m about ready to give up when I try Firefly.

             A whole screen of messages comes up. Some of them contain references to fireflies. And there are at least a dozen usernames that are a variation of Firefly. It seems to be a popular name—maybe because fireflies have such brief lives.

             And it’s while I’m contemplating the link between fireflies and suicidal people that I see it: Firefly1021. 10/21. October 21. Scottie’s birthday. With trembling fingers, I go to the oldest one, from earlier this year. The subject line reads Baby Steps.

             I have been thinking of this for such a long time and I don’t know if I’m ready, but I’m ready to admit to thinking about it. Much as I like to think of myself as a Buffy, a kick-ass, fearless person, I don’t know if I’m fearless enough to do this. Is anyone?