Page 41 of This Is How It Started
I scroll through his unopened mail. It seems my late husband was popular. I try to prioritize, discarding anything that looks like junk mail or spam. Most of the emails are work related, and judging by the sent dates, those people are now up to speed on Josh’s untimely death.
There’s an invite to an architecture conference, a note from the landlord of our old apartment that at long last he’s replacing our hot water heater (I had two months of uninterrupted hot water before I moved out), and a call to action from our neighborhood association to block a Panda Express from coming in (for the record, I wanted it).
There’s a number of other emails that don’t require responses. And some that do. I try to make those as short and to the point as possible without completely breaking down. But of course I do. By the time I finish, my cheeks sting from a flood of salty tears and my tissue box is empty.
Next, I do a Google search to figure out how to delete a deceased person’s account. It appears easy enough. But before I close Josh’s account for good, I cull through his email folders to make sure there isn’t something important I need to hold onto. His Gmail account is as organized as his desktop. Everything has a place, even seven years’ worth of Verizon bill invoices.Well, we don’t need that anymore.
There’s a folder titled “Texts/Beth” that piques my interest, and I click on it. It’s a text conversation between Josh and someone named Beth Hardesty, who I never heard Josh mention. I deliberate on whether to open or delete them, ultimately deciding they must be important for Josh to have moved them from his iPhone to his Gmail account and to have kept them all these years. From a cursory glance, they look like they date back to before Josh and I met.
I scroll down to the first one, hover, then click.
“Meet me at Sproul Plaza at six. We can grab dinner or whatever.” It’s signed Beth.
Sproul Plaza is on the UC Berkeley campus. I’ve been there many times to hook up with friends. I assume Beth attended Cal the same time Josh was there, doing his graduate studies in architecture.
Impatient, and yet a little hesitant, I open the next one to see where this is going.
“Last night was fun. And by the way, I think I’m in love with you.”
Josh: “You tell me this over a text. Seriously? Want to come over tonight? And for the record, I’m in love with you too.”
Beth: “I’ll see you at eight. Can’t wait.”
Okay, I’m full-blown nauseous now.
The texts are from a long time ago,I tell myself. A woman Josh knew in graduate school. It’s not like I didn’t have boyfriends...or a history when we began dating. The difference, though, is Josh knew every bit of my history, including what happened with Campbell. Yet Beth, the woman whose texts he saved for nearly a decade, is a complete mystery to me.
I should shut this down now. But like one of those people who joins the crowd to watch a bar fight, I can’t seem to look away. I open the next text.
“Got to cancel tonight to work on my resume. There’s an opening at JBR Design for a junior architect. Getting in there would be a dream. Speaking of dreams, I had an X-rated one of you last night. Come over tonight after the party. I’ll make you pancakes in bed in the morning.”
Beth: “Ugh, that’s two nights in a row you’ve bailed on me. Unacceptable. You can make it up to me with those pancakes...and...something X-rated.”
Josh: a smiley face emoji.
I scroll to the next text, which is dated eighteen months before Josh and I met.
Josh: “My final thesis is in, and I could use a drink. You up for a nightcap...or two? Can’t stay out too late ’cause I’ve got a presentation at work tomorrow. I know it’s been crazy lately. The sad truth is I don’t see my schedule lightening up anytime soon, which leads me to a proposition. Meet me at Triple Rock and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Beth: “Give me thirty minutes. Just got back from the gym. A proposition, huh? Sounds interesting.”
The next text isn’t until a week later. I assume Josh’s proposition was made in person but open the message, hoping for a clue. Intuitively, I know I’m not going to like it.
Beth: “San Francisco is so freaking expensive. You sure we can’t just get a place in Berkeley and commute?
Josh: “The whole point of this is to spend more time together. Can’t do that if I’m commuting back and forth. Keep looking, we’ll find something. If not on craigslist, I’ll put the word out at JBR. Love you.”
Beth: “Love you too.”
My heart is hammering so hard I think I can almost hear it pounding against my chest. I open the next one, praying it’s not what I think. What I know.
Beth: “It’s perfect! Hurry up. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
Josh: “Stuck on BART. Will be there as soon as I can. Is anyone else looking at it?”
Beth: “Someone at three. We can’t lose this place. Hurry.”
Included in the text is a photograph of a cute living room with a period fireplace and hardwood floors. From the window is a view of a busy street. I can’t tell which street, but I think the two spires in the distant background is Saints Peter and Paul Church in North Beach.
