Page 125 of Phishing for Love
Grandma glares at her too. But her glare is more like,Stop asking yes-or-no questions!
Unperturbed, and evidently a quick learner, Kate continues, “Where do they live?”
He names a location that, yes, is far from here, information I already knew, but Kate is on a mission to hammer her point home. In anticipation of her next question, Aaron adds, “A fifteen-minute drive from my house.”
“Do you see much of them?”
Aaron’s jaw flexes but still he answers her. “When I’m home, I try to see them as often as I can, at least twice a week.”
I set my fork down a little harder than I intended. “Okay, that’s enough, Kate,” I warn. But what I’m also furtively thinking is, his parents live nice and close and he sees them often. That doesn’t sound like his family possesses a dark underbelly or a deathly hallows secret.
I’m hoping that’s the end of the interrogation, but Aaron and Kate are locked in some silent exchange that has disaster written all over it.
Mom gives a nervous laugh and asks if anyone wants more dessert. No one does. Tension creeps up on the table.
Dad clears his throat. “Kate,” he begins.
That’s when Grandma, à la Brutus, says, “We should meet your folks sometime, Aaron. Would they be interested in coming round for lunch?”
I shoot her a scolding look. She’s shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that when you’re over a certain age you’re liable to get away with so much more.
I glance at Aaron and feel a slow sinking in my stomach. There’s no visible change in his expression, but I know him well enough to glimpse the strained tightening under his skin.
I’m about to haul us out of there when I hear him exhale a resigned breath. He flicks a glance Lisset’s way. Kate, grasping his concern, hustles Lisset to the TV room and settles her in front of a movie.
When Kate returns, Aaron draws in a steadying breath and says, “When I was at college, my dad lost everything—our house, their life savings—to a scammer. The devastation and embarrassment nearly broke him. He was never the same after that and some of his brokenness bled over to my mom.”
“Is that why you work in cybersecurity?” I ask, suddenly understanding so much.
“Yes.”
Shame washes through me when I think of my flippancy toward Aaron’s security concerns. His phishing tests were a game to me. I didn’t take them seriously. Now I’m hit with the revelation that phishing scams have ruined real people’s lives. People like Aaron’s parents.
“I’m sorry to hear about your folks, Aaron,” Dad says, sympathy etched in the lines across his face.
Aaron blinks at the table. “Thank you.”
“But that’s not everything, is it?” Grandma says softly.
“No, it isn’t.” Aaron’s face is carefully blank, but I suspect it’s so blank because he’s feeling so much and trying to keep it contained. I reach across the table and take his hand because it feels like the next story is going to be worse than the first and I can’t bear not to touch him while he dredges it up.
“I had a twin sister,” he says.
And then he tells us how, five years ago, his adventurous and fun-loving sister climbed Mount Everest but never made it back down. She froze to death and ended up in Rainbow Valley, her bright red jacket joining the other colorful jackets of climbers who’d died climbing the treacherous slopes. There are over two hundred bodies there, Aaron tells us, and his sister is one of them, the multicolored jackets belonging to the perfectly preserved bodies giving the place the incongruous name of Rainbow Valley.
“I don’t understand,” Mom says, lowering her voice to a whisper, her hand pressed to her chest in horrified disbelief. “Your sister’s body is still up there?”
Aaron nods. “It’s too dangerous to retrieve the bodies so that’s where they remain.” And he tells us that that was the final straw for his parents. It destroyed them that they couldn’t have a proper burial for their only daughter. “They live in a nursing home now,” he says, “and they no longer communicate with anyone. I sit with them and hold their hands.”
We are all stunned into silence. My throat swells with unshed tears for what he’s endured. What his poor parents, now shells of their former selves, have endured.
But my family aren’t gawkers in the face of someone else’s tragedy. And they don’t revel in salacious details.
Dad gets to his feet and rests a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, son,” he says simply.
It’s the perfect thing to say. With those four words, my dad is letting Aaron know he still has family left. That we’re his family now.
Aaron nods, swallowing hard.
