The shop was closed and we were sitting at the front desk when I said: “I don’t believe in fate or manifestation or anything.”
Sam laughed. He said, “You say that all the time.”
And I laughed too–at the honesty of it–how true it felt for him to say that–because it makes sense for me to say it all the time–because I think it all the time.
It’s like a disclaimer or the small print at the bottom of a waiver. THIS and THIS and THIS, but *I don’t believe in fate*
My issue with fate is, in part, logical. Some people die in car crashes when they’re sixteen years old. That’s not fate–or at least it’s not the kind of fate that I want to believe in. Which means that to believe in fate I’d have to sustain dueling belief systems. Sometimes it’s fate. And sometimes it’s just luck. Can you believe both? (Now that I’m actually writing the question…it doesn’t seem too unreasonable.) But it always seemed like you had to choose one.
The thing is we are hardwired for it. The fate stuff. The meaning-making stuff. There was a cool article in NPR a while ago about people whose brain halves had been severed for medical reasons. The studies stunned me into an awareness of how desperate we are to make stories out of things–beyond logic, even beyond awareness. Ultimately, our desperation for a story is a testament to how essential meaning-making is to our survival.
This month Sarah Gerard came out with a new non-fiction book Carrie Carolyn Coco: My Friend, Her Murder, and an Obsession with the Unthinkable. I remember Sarah. Many years ago she read at the Tables of Contents reading series at Egg–where I worked. We ate deviled eggs and Limoncello based on an essay from her book Sunshine State. I read one of her books after that and followed her career loosely. That’s all to say, I remember her well. There’s no way she remembers me.
As soon as I started reading the review for Carrie Carolyn Coco the hits started coming hard and fast. Carolyn lived in Ridgewood Queens while I lived there. She lived on Stanhope between Woodward and Onderdonk. Both Woodward and Onderdonk are one way streets with bike lanes: I took Woodward to work and I rode Onderdonk home. Carolyn was murdered in her apartment by her white, affluent, male roommate on September 28th 2016. I can tell you exactly where I was that day: I went to the Pyscho Barn exhibit on the roof of the Met and then Britt and Elizabeth and I went to Adele’s house in Ridgewood and cuddled. I know this because September 28th is my birthday and there are pictures of these things on Instagram.
There is a part of me that shames me for making this story about me. It’s not about me. It has nothing to do with me I never met Carolyn. But there is also a part of me whose job it is to make these connections. To notice that I’m not Carolyn but I’m also not that different from Carolyn. To notice that there are a lot of connections that bind us even though we can’t always see them.
After the book review, more coincidences: Sarah Gerard now lives in Denver and there would be multiple book launch events here. At first I was probably going to go to one of the readings. Then I was definitely going. Then I was going and I was going to talk to Sarah. I was going to get her number and ask her out to coffee. I started telling everyone this. I’m going to Sarah Gerard’s book reading this week and I’m going to get her number and we’re going to be friends. *I don’t believe in manifesting* but I was manifesting.
By the time I got to the reading on a Friday night I was pretty hyped up–too hyped up–on fates and meant-to-bes. Sarah and her husband sat next to me and I said hi but I didn’t tell her who I am because it was before the event started and I think she was a little nervous, and I didn’t want to throw her off. Afterwards I waited in the book-signing line. It was quiet, there was no music and I felt like everyone could hear our conversation when I did tell Sarah–I saw you read at Egg! I remember the deviled eggs we ate. I hear you live in Denver now. She was so nice and gracious. But I couldn’t ask her for her number. It felt like putting her too much on the spot. I was the only weirdo that had brought two of her books for her to sign. I chickened out.
I took my signed books out to my bike and put them in the basket and started to unlock my bike from the rack. I was a little disappointed in myself for not doing the thing I said I was going to do. But oh well. And then some chick came outside and stopped next to me and my bike. We had talked briefly in the book-signing line. She said if I wanted to go to more readings I should text her, she went all the time. She asked for my number. Her name was also Sara.
Anne Foster 