As her friend, I existed in no man’s land. I wanted to help her, to show support and love and that I cared, but I didn’t know how. Like many millennials who move for school or career choices, I was in a different time zone, thousands of miles from Goldman.
I called once, twice — she didn't pick up. I worried that I was disturbing her mourning process. I sent a card. I texted, I called again, a week later.
Eventually, she answered.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m so sorry. How are you doing?” Pause. Silence.
At some point she asked how I was. I paused. Do I mention my latest work assignment, my holiday plans, my boyfriend woes? It’s what I’d normally talk about, but that seems horribly insensitive right now. I deflected.
Later, I called again.We had a conversation nearly identical to the first. If I was physically there, I could hug, laugh, touch her skin. Over the phone, it’s so removed, so remote. Sometimes she’d snap back quickly, with “normal” jokes and conversation. Other times, she would not stop crying.
Content Originally Published By:Zara Stone @ The Washington Post