special book bonus

Chris’s death has profound meaning for the Purple Runner. Part 10.

Chapter 27

thad been a week since Chris’ death, but along the Dollis Creek the runner again found himself ruminating over the dead Californian. At the fountain ominous clouds began to release very fine snow. Yet rather than turning back he continued on, immersed in thought, toward Totteridge and Whetstone. He knew how much Chris had counted on doing well at the Greater London and how hard he had worked with Watson Doyle as his mentor. Why didn’t I help him more to improve? Continuing through the recreation grounds near High Barnet the snow abated, leaving a thin film of white upon the playing fields. Chris will never see snow again. On he pounded at a 4:50 pace, eventually veering off on May Lane. The traffic of hurrying commuters was getting heavy when he climbed the wooden stile over the fence next to the Cottage Farm, and soon he found himself dramatically having to slow his pace on the muddy public footpath threading between the farms above Mill Hill to avoid falling. He wished there were something he could do on the Californian’s behalf, but there was nothing. It was too late. Chris was dead. Deep grey cumulus clouds continued to scud overhead and the wind began to pick up. Reaching the bottom of the long downhill path his knee began to ache, probably from the interval session he had run in the dark on a cold windy night: 10 X 1 mile in 4:15 with alternating 440 and 880 rests between. Too much stress on the inside knee. The “overuse syndrome.” He would have to go easy on the track for a while. His shoes were caked in snowy mud and he could feel blobs of dried clay on the backs of his legs as he ran up the muddy road toward the medical research

laboratory, looming like he imagined Baskerville Hall might have looked against a forbidding horizon. No shortage of mud here, he smirked to himself.

Then he saw the Oregonian chess player from San Francisco bearing down on him; and the tall, arrogant, thin-hipped guy was slowing and waving as he approached. Just what he needed when he wanted to be alone.

“Hello there,” Warren said. “It looks like you’ve got more mud than I have.” The runner gave a brief smile, unhappily slowing to accommodate stopping for conversation, but Warren turned around before reaching him and began to run in the same direction. “Nothing like a clear day.”

“You’re out here quite a ways for someone who only does 20 or 30 miles a week, aren’t you?”

“An accurate observation,” Warren noted with pursed lips. “I figured if ’m going to be able to run the Greater London, I’m going to have to put in a few miles. This is a pathetic attempt at a fifteen,” he added before bringing up some phlegm from his lungs and spitting it out along the road. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Tt’s the drink,” the runner said, falling into Warren’s 6:30 pace. “If you drink a lot your lungs stay saturated and it’s really hard to breathe. I know because I used to really power through the beers. If you want to have an easier time on your training runs, I suggest you lay off the sauce.”

“Undoubtedly right, but I guess I’ve always felt I had enough natural ability to both run and drink, and I’ve got away with it so far. Life’s too short to go without the drink—unless, like you, you’re one of those few extremely talented souls.” He spit out some more phlegm before continuing. “For instance, take an old friend of mine I ran into over here in Europe. I think you’ve probably seen him—or saw him—his name was Christopher Carlson.” The runner nodded. “He lived up in the Oaks on Fitzroy Park. From what his girlfriend from New Zealand—you’ve seen the tall blond girl out on the heath—anyway, from what she told me, he apparently knew he had incurable cancer, but came over here just to run. The guy had no particular talent for running, but still he daily thrashed himself round the heaths in hopes of achieving some sort of modest goals. But then he drops dead while out on a run with his girlfriend and me! So what’s the point of shortchanging yourself from living life to the hilt? I say drink and be merry, for tomorrow may never come.”

“T would say he was living life to the hilt. For the more you run, the more you experience life itself: movement, eating, sleeping, drinking, touching, smelling, feeling, and even excreting. How can you really enjoy a drink if you’re not really thirsty? Or a meal without being truly hungry? Or sleep soundly without being genuinely tired? Chris was on the right track, alright. He was, to the best of his ability, trying to hone his body and mind into a healthy one. Unfortunately he began too late. But the attempt gave him great satisfaction. He was really trying.

And to try is to live; not to try is to die. That’s the real essence of life: the doing of something, irrespective of success or failure.”

“Yes, but variety being the spice of life, I still subscribe that to be really good at something you preclude tasting many of the finer delights of this earth. The extreme of spending too much time at one thing is unhealthy. Why not be fairly good at something and still have time for other things? If I had been Christopher Carlson with just a few months to live, I would have been doing more than bashing myself so much round these miserable climes as to be constantly drained of energy.”

“Perhaps an extreme amount of running is better than an extreme amount of drinking. And as to foregoing variety, no two runs are ever the same.” A smile stole across the runner’s distorted face. “To die trying something nearly impossible is far more satisfying than living in fear of failure. Not running because you are not as talented as someone else is like not opening your eyes to see because you must wear glasses. You may have enough natural talent to have beaten Chris if he had trained as hard as he could, but you will never have the satisfaction of knowing how good you could be. You may be merry today, but what happens if tomorrow does come?”

“Well, old boy, you just keep thrashing out the miles and eating alone, while I shall find suitable companionship for the odd drink and still run the Greater London Marathon within twenty minutes of the time you could run it in.”

“Really?”

“Mmm, really. But then after all your talk about fear of trying and failure, ’m sure you won’t be running it, so it’s a moot point. But if you should change your mind,” Warren taunted, pausing for effect, “you could always use Christopher’s number. He won’t be needing it—in fact, I almost forgot to mention that some of the last words out of the poor devil’s mouth may have been meant for you. We weren’t sure. He said: ‘tell Billy’-—then something about who you were—‘tell him I’m sorry I let him down.’ I don’t know if that message was meant for you or not; and then he said: ‘and tell Steve I can’t make seven . . .’ and then he died.” Warren looked down at the ground before continuing in a mildly penitent voice. “In fact his girlfriend was totally disconsolate, and neither of us had a clue as to who Steve might be. Do you know anyo—”

Before Warren could finish his question the runner had already pulled ahead of him and was widening the gap.

“Sorry, got to go,” he waved before yelling back over his shoulder: “Shoot for three hours in the Greater London and you’ll finish.”

Warren watched as the figure in black nylon shorts and purple hooded sweatshirt receded up the muddy lane, bolts of mud flying from his shoes like feathers from Mercury’s wings.

Chapter 28

Solian Lede could see her breath in the loo. She was miserable. Elizabeth and other supporters like Tika Bernheinns, Watson Doyle, and the many runners she had met on the Heathgate Harriers’ Sunday runs had all advised her to stay at least through the summer, but Solian felt so cold and alone since Chris’ death that it was all she could do to keep from returning to New Zealand before the Greater London Marathon. Her hands were constantly cold, Warren Fowles was constantly pestering her with his phone calls, and her energy levels had fallen so greatly that all of her mileage was being run pathetically slowly. She had waited for years to find someone to love, a man who would be a positive influence on her running, and then he had gone and died.

Looking in the medicine cabinet mirror she noticed she had developed several new skin eruptions. She just wasn’t Rudyard Kipling, and couldn’t keep her wits about her. “Uhhh,” she groaned aloud with gritted teeth and clenched fists. The darkest hour .. . the darkest hour . . . she told herself. Ride it out . . . the best thing for self-pity is action.

She thought of all those Kiwis lying on the beaches at the Tamaki Boat Club, Mission and Kohimarama Bays, and Mt. Manganui. Waves crashing, wind surfers gliding under the hot sun, and blue skies. Why was she enduring this winter? She had had a substantial taste of European competition; attained her goals. Sure, things had seemed wonderful with Chris, but he was dead. Dead. And she knew the chance of finding another like him were less than promising. The doorbell rang, and Solian found herself strangely hopeful. On the way to the front door she brushed a tear from her eye.

There stood an extremely thin girl in a white-and-black Harriers track suit. She was wearing long brown braids and was standing with her feet together.

“Hello,” the thirteen-year-old said softly, barely taking her eyes off the ground long enough to glance up at Solian, and only opening her mouth slightly in an attempt to conceal her overbite.

“Hello, Sarah. What a surprise. Come on in.” Solian knew the timid young girl idolized her from having talked to her during Tuesday evening club meetings at the track. Often the girl’s eyes would closely follow Solian during her interval workouts, and she had asked her occasional questions about training.

The girl stood motionless.

“I know you don’t know me very well, but Phillipa told me what had happened to Christopher and all, andI… well I… thought I would just drop over and see if there was anything you needed—I mean I know you’re probably quite busy and all .. .” the girl said, looking up at Solian.

“No, no, that’s fine. I’m not busy at all. Come on in and have a cup of tea or something. It’s real nice of you to come over, Sarah.”

Andy Yelenak

Sheepishly and awkwardly the girl crossed the threshhold and followed Solian into the parlour. Demurely she took a seat in a wing chair while Solian went out to put on the kettle.

“So, how’s the training going, then?” Solian asked when a plate of McVities and two cups of tea had been placed before them.

“Well, thank you. I live with my auntie since my parents are dead, and usually Thelp out at her shop most afternoons after school, but she is trying to allow me more time to train now, so coach Bould says he thinks I could break 2:30 in the 880 this spring.”

“Mmm, that’s good, isn’t it. I’ve been training for the Greater London,” Solian said after sipping her tea, “but I’m afraid things haven’t been going all that well. I’ve been feeling very tired.”

The girl nodded, her braids rising and falling slightly on her nylon jacket. “That is just how I felt when my parents were killed. I was so tired I couldn’t study at all. That’s why I thought I might visit you. Because I knew you might be feeling quite alone.”

“You are so right. I’ve been going around feeling quite sorry for myself. Normally I don’t even eat these cookies, but under the circumstances I haven’t even been able to care about what I eat.”

“Mmm. I know just how you feel.” Sarah placed a wafer on her saucer and then bashfully looked up at Solian. “Do you think it’s worth it being a runner—I mean

a female runner?” But before Solian could answer, the girl continued, “I mean … I don’t ever have … that is… the boys don’t seem to pay much attention to me, and… and I was just wondering . . . well, if it’s because I don’t look very feminine.” Solian could see Sarah had more to say but didn’t know how to say it.

“I wish I could be more encouraging, Sarah, but basically the more serious a girl becomes about running, the more I think she limits her prospects. Generally only males who run are sympathetic to her running. If you find a male who is also a runner, it can be heaven, but otherwise it can be quite difficult. But you have to be true to yourself first. Don’t arrange your life to what others think. Give yourself time. Don’t look for a man and all of a sudden you’ll find one will be paying attention to you. And don’t worry,” Solian smiled, “you look quite feminine. It’s just that I don’t think boys your age have had much chance to develop their interest in girls.”

“They seem to talk to Phillipa,” Sarah said, sitting with her knees together.

“Well, I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. Someday they’ll be talking to you, or even better, running with you if you train hard. Your day will come.”

“T’m supposed to have my teeth straightened soon. I hope that will give me more confidence. One of my friends told me I’m too shy,” the girl said before taking a tiny bite of a McVitie.

“Everyone is shy around strangers to some extent. But if you were really shy, you wouldn’t have come to visit me.”

“T guess you’re right,” the girl replied, looking down into the teacup held by her extremely thin fingers.

Then Sarah gently set the teacup down and reached into her jacket pocket. “T asked my aunt if she thought it would be alright, and she said it would . . . so I thought . . . with you going to run in the marathon . . . that you might want to wear this Heathgate pin my mother once wore in a race—you wouldn’t have to wear it outside on your vest or anything, you could maybe just pin it inside if you like—or you could just leave it in your house and maybe it would bring you good luck in the marathon,” the girl said, holding out a tiny black-and-white-onsilver ceramic pin.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Sarah,” Solian said, taking the pin. “I’ll certainly wear it on my vest in the race. I’I need all the luck I can get,” she smiled. “Which reminds me: I’ve got to run down to the track for my afternoon workout. Would you like to run down there with me?”

Sarah began to beam. “Oh, yes please.”

Solian took the tray of tea things back into the kitchen and then returned. “Your visit has cheered me up quite a bit, and after all,” she added while slipping into her jacket, “there are only four days until the marathon.”

Chapter 29

That same night at about eight o’clock, it became very still. The sky was clear, the stars were out, and millions of Londoners were huddled next to electric bar heaters watching their tellies. Not so for the anonymous runner. He was furiously pumping his arms and hands containing two-pound iron weights on the way to completing 10 X Swain’s Lane hill between the shrouded Highgate Cemeteries.

Bounding up the tenth he felt strong, but instead of turning around and gently jogging back down, he lengthened his stride up the remaining incline to the intersection of South Grove by the dairy shop. Reaching the end of the lane he held up the weights as if he were hitting the tape at the end of the Greater London, a grin spreading across his face.

But as he regained his breath while jogging toward The Flask, he knew he wasn’t going to run the race. Sure, it would be great to whip the cocky Oregonian, and it would be easy to assume Chris’ number, but he just couldn’t face the ceaseless questions and all those pitying stares. It was so much better running under the cover of darkness where his horrible, shocking scarring couldn’t be seen. Sometimes he wished he were dead, people’s stares and disguised horror tortured him so much. But, time to see what I can do, he reminded himself before crossing over the road in front of the pub.

Inside, illuminated behind latticed windows, he could see people with normal appearances drinking and laughing. How he wished he could just pop in for a pint like in the old university days! But no, they would just stare.

Dropping the weights behind one of the white wooden posts marking the top of Fitzroy Park, he clicked his stopwatch. Being four pounds lighter he was amazed at how strong he felt striding toward the left turn onto Hampstead Lane. That cocky San Franciscan, he thought, lifting his knees and kicking down the sidewalk. How he would love to whip him by 45 minutes! He knew he could do it. In fact, he was going to be surprised if the arrogant “bon vivant” even finished the race, because the guy would obviously go out like Emil Zatopek and then probably blow up at 17 or 18 miles. But he wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing it.

Momentarily he cleared his brain and concentrated on stretching out his stride and holding a fast pace; then alternately charged and eased off slightly along the length of the Kenwood grounds wall, darted through traffic, and wove down side streets to the Heath Extension. Down the sidewalk beside the empty park he hammered it; along the cinder path behind the houses of the Garden Suburb he pushed hard; then poured it on up around the rest of the Extension loop.

Just as he was climbing the sidewalk along Ingram Avenue to return to Hampstead Lane, there was the New Zealand girl Warren had mentioned and whose picture he had seen in Athletics-Europe, darting in a driveway. So that’s where she lives, he nodded to himself, realizing she was just finishing her evening workout.

Andy Yelenak

Mr. Armathwaite had a book of Chris’ for her. Maybe I could deliver it for him and get to meet her, he thought, momentarily forgetting his disfigurement. Nah, she’d just be frightened.

On he thundered past the climb up to The Spaniards Inn, on along the level sidewalk spectated by empty filigreed iron benches to Jack Straw’s Castle, then on down the alternately dirt and concrete trail paralleling East Heath Road. Lungs pumping oxygen to a VO2 uptake maximum of 88 plus, legs galloping over ground like those of a thoroughbred being whipped by a coat hanger, the runner plummeted to South End Green.

Turning the corner to head up Parliament Hill he allowed himself a two or three second breather, then drove hard again, stoking his engine like Flash Gordon shoveling coal into Ming’s furnaces. He blitzed by a dimly lit couple lying on the grass, on down to the Highgate Lakes, scrambled up the gravel path where a trenchcoat-clad man loitered by the park toilets, then used his arms to pump the final third of a mile back up the lane to the posts where he had dropped the weights.

As he flew over the line he clicked the chronograph, then kept on jogging to prevent the tightening of his legs from accumulated lactic acid. It was only when he reached The Flask that the runner checked out his watch in the yellow light streaming from a latticed window: 29:50.

Asmile stole across his face. 29:50 for ten kilometers after a hard hill workout. It was too bad he wasn’t going to run the Greater London, he thought to himself, because it would be real interesting.

On the way home he decided he would drop into Mr. Armathwaite’s to grab the book, then take it over to the New Zealander’s house while he was still warm and loose. It was only a mile and a half, and it would be a good warmdown.

But after setting out with book in hand, the runner hesitated next to the allotments fence: what if his face frightened her in the dark? However, he was sure she knew what he looked like. She had seen him running many times.

His lungs felt very clear continuing back up the hill at an easy 6:30 pace.

With the exception of a light in a bedroom window, Solian’s house was dark when he arrived, causing him to hesitate just outside the wrought iron gate. For what to most people would merely be an inconsequential act loomed as a forbidding task. It made him very nervous. The runner hadn’t called on a girl since his face had been destroyed. What if she freaks out? he thought to himself. One fist gripped the cold wrought iron as he looked up at the softly illuminated second story window. He let out a sigh and pushed his way through the gate.

Having rung the white porcelain doorbell, a nervous shiver ran up and down his back in the chill air. He told himself to relax yet shifted nervously from one foot to the other and played with the book in his hands. With a wet T-shirt against his body it was starting to get cold standing there. Then, in what seemed to him almost a form of rejection, a voice came from within:

“Yes, who is it?”

“Aaa… it’s an American runner,” he began, thinking he should add, with a scarred face, “who has been asked by Christopher Carlson’s former landlord to deliver a book to you—f it’s too late and you’ve already gone to bed I can come back another time . . .”

“Oh; no, that’s O.K.,” came the answer, the door suddenly swinging open. The runner watched, terrified of the reaction he knew would come, but there was just a brief, almost imperceptible bridling before a smile spread across the beautiful New Zealand girl’s face. “Hello… You’re the amazing runner we all see scampering about the heaths and wonder who you are,” she grinned. “Come on in.”

The runner followed her into the living room where traces of smoke and drifting scents from a blazing and crackling pine fire permeated the room. He was somewhat awestruck at Solian’s height and beauty as she stood facing him in silhouette, the backlighting of the fire creating a halo effect around the tips of her blond curls.

She extended her hand. “I’m Solian Lede, and I don’t believe anyone knows your name…”

“Billie Westwood,” he found himself answering after quickly clearing his throat.

“Hello, Billie,” she smiled. Her smooth tan hand was very warm to his touch and she seemed to allow it to remain in his for perhaps a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll just light some candles. . .”

She removed a long slender milky-white taper from a silver trophy cup sitting atop a kauri-and-glass case and lighted candles on pewter candlelabra. Very thoughtful, the runner observed to himself before Solian, dressed in jeans and a light-blue sweatshirt with a small black Kiwi bird just above her heart, plopped down on the couch opposite him. She is really striking, he thought, leaning back against a cushion.

“T guess I am sort of anonymous.” He paused, searching for the right words. “T sort of …”

“People do wonder who you are,” Solian smiled. “I guess because they notice you running.” She gave a short nervous laugh and shook her head. “I mean, the way you move over the heaths, everyone wonders why you don’t turn up at any of the races.” The runner’s mind was almost going blank. She was approaching delicate ground. Yet the crackling sounds, the pine scents, and the firelight occasionally reflecting off her moist white teeth and glistening in the curls of her hair were making her appear to him as no woman ever had. Her enthusiasm was entrancing him. Plus she ran. “You should, you know.”

“~.. [know I probably should,” he replied, barely having heard what she had said and doing his best to keep the left side of his face from being illuminated. “T guess I’m just not that competitive.”

“Ah, come on—everyone’s competitive to some extent. Someone told me you play chess. Why don’t you run the Greater London Marathon?”

“Not enough miles.”

Solian gave a bemused look of incredulity.

“Billie, if you’re not prepared, Alberto Salazar is unwilling to put himself into a state of dehydration in a race. And if it’s any encouragement, I’d like to see you run it,” she emphasized, pausing to stare into his good eye for punctuation.

“It’s probably too late for entries now, anyway. I read they were closed.”

“Well, if you change your mind, Chris’ number is available.”

The runner found his gaze drifting down to the floor. He knew why he avoided people and events, yet he didn’t want to tell people—especially Solian—the obvious reason. It always sounded so self-pitying.

“There’s a girl in my club—I’m sorry, you must be freezing. Why don’t you take off your jacket and sit by the fire so your T-shirt will dry, and I’ll go and make some tea.”

The runner took her advice. As the heat of the flames began to penetrate his cold hands and legs, he considered how good it felt to be sitting and chatting with a lovely girl. Several minutes later she returned with a tea tray.

“T never used to say what I actually felt,” Solian said while pouring the tea, “but Chris taught me to be more candid. Sometimes I can still be very reserved, but if I think a remark will be helpful, I try to say it.”

“You mentioned a girl in your club earlier?”

“Oh, yes. I was moping around the house feeling sorry for myself because I missed Chris so much and because my training for the Greater London wasn’t going well when a very young girl from my club visited me. Both of her parents are dead and she told me that she knew I would be feeling lonely. She was right. Later in our conversation she related to me that she was worried about not looking ‘feminine.’ Even though she was at an awkward age and had a severe overbite she hoped to have corrected, I reassured her that she looked quite feminine. But then I found myself telling her to forget about men and concentrate on her running.

“The reason I’m telling all of this to you is because you give the impression of avoiding everyone and everything because of your appearance.” He had been intently looking at her eyes while she was making this perceptive observation, but his gaze slipped downward. Why is it always so painful? “It seems to me you should forget about any imperfections in your appearance just as I encouraged the young girl to do, and just get on with what you do well. You’ve got far too great a talent to waste. If you enter competitions again I’m sure initially you would have to face the stares and certain others for the rest of your life; but so does almost everyone for one reason or another at different times; and after you had been competing for a while most competitors would begin to take no more notice of your appearance. Many people who are unusual in any sense—whether they be tall, fat, celebrity, or whatever—get stared at. People all want to get a look at anyone out of the ordinary; and even if you had no scars, people would probably stare at you because you’re a great runner.” He knew she was right, but flashes of some of the past reactions he had experienced sliced into his mind like razors. His only hope of snapping back to his senses seemed to be to change the subject.

“Why are you so worried about your training with only four days to go to the Greater London? I’ve read about some of your times in Athletics Weekly, and I think you should be ready to uncork a good one. Just take a day or two off if you’re still tired. It’s too late to train now,” he nervously rattled on, again trying to keep only the right side of his face illuminated by the candles and the fire. Then he held the paperback book out in his hand. “Reading this book from Christopher might give you some inspiration.”

“Once A Runner,” Solian softly said aloud having glanced down at the book.

Upon opening and reading the first page she covertly tried to blot a tear from her eye with a wrist. His instinct was to put his arm around her and comfort her. Instead he found himself avoiding her eyes and saying:

“I guess I’d better be getting back now. I just wanted to stop by and deliver the book.”

Solian quickly snapped the book shut. “Thank you very much for bringing me this,” she said, grasping it to her chest after arising from the couch.

“You’re welcome. The runners of Heathgate apparently told Mr. Armathwaite that Chris had mentioned his wanting you to have it.”

Slipping into his jacket, he turned toward the door. Peripherally he could see her wiping more tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“Tl certainly have to thank all my fellow club members for having thought of this.”

The two reached the front door, stopped, and turned to face each other: one of those awkward moments when two people find a thousand thoughts going through their minds. He sensed that not only did Solian have a lot more she wanted to say to him, but also that she wanted him to hold her. He stood there temporarily dazed, wondering if his perception was correct, and if he should comfort her with some affection or not. J might frighten her if I try to put my arms around her, Yet Solian wasn’t reaching the door.

“Well, I hope you get some inspiration out of the book,” he found himself saying as he pulled the front door open. To relieve the awkwardness he took a step outside before turning to face her.

“Thank you very much for bringing this over, Billie. It means a great deal to me. And remember what I told you about Chris’ number if you change your mind.”

“O.K., thanks. And thanks for the tea… and for… making me feel . . . sorry, I’m just mumbling.”

The runner turned toward the gate, feeling terribly intimidated and confused. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was and how kind, but lacked the words and the courage. Keep going, keep going, he told himself, feeling foolish for pausing before opening the gate. “Bye, Solian,” he sheepishly threw over his shoulder.

“Billie.”

His heart began to pound. Maybe she’s just waving goodbye, he thought to himself, turning to see why she had softly called out his name. Solian was leaning against one side of the doorjamb, her hands crossed in front of her lap.

“IT… would you mind staying just a little bit longer . . . it’s just that I’m still feeling very lonely and I’m not very tired yet.”

“Sure,” he nervously croaked, his pulse continuing to climb.

The runner found himself following the beautiful Kiwi lady to a spot in front of the fireplace where she flopped down on her stomach upon a rug made from several sheepskins.

“The fire’s nice and warm,” she said, patting the rug beside her before propping her chin upon her elbows to gaze into the hypnotic flames. He lay down beside her and just for a moment the sounds of the fire mesmerized the two.

“You know, Billie, I really loved Chris. He was the first man I’ve ever been with from whom I could accept kindness. I’ve done some crazy things in my life, but with Chris I felt as if everything had come together. We really enjoyed each other’s company and helped each other and shared so many things. I know my telling you all of this is not making any sense, but I’m very lonely and I need to tell someone.”