Dating Hester Prynne
​Emily Livingstone


 
I met Hester Prynne online. How else does anyone meet anyone these days? I’m a little shy, and even though I’ve been “out of the closet” (it feels so old-fashioned to say that) for a while now, I still feel nervous about approaching women IRL (in real life—I’m learning the language of internet dating), and besides, I hadn’t met anyone I really liked in my little Virginia suburb. She had the most gorgeous profile picture on Facebook, and then I saw her name and thought, well, that’s not the Hester Prynne, but it’s someone else who loves literature, someone like me.
 
I sent her a private message, introducing myself, telling her that I thought she was beautiful and that I loved The Scarlet Letter too, and thought that Hester was a great heroine. It was true—I had been an English major in college, and even with all other books I’d read, I’d never lost my initial infatuation with Hawthorne’s novel. Junior year of high school, when I was overweight and ignored, thought to be a boring, good girl—I loved the passion boiling under the surface in that novel.
 
The message I got back from Hester was puzzling: I find it strange that you say you “love” the Scarlet Letter, when to me, it has been such a source of pain. It is true, though, that at times the pain has felt almost exquisite. I have worn the letter so long now that it is part of who I am, so if you love it, I suppose I must be thankful that someone loves me along with my deepest flaw.
 
I was stunned. Who was this person? I thought a relationship must be out of the question. This seemed more like someone looking to play a role, a game. But the game seemed fun. And I wanted the beautiful woman in that picture. I’d never had someone special, and this woman was singular. Maybe our flaws would fit together. I’d never fit into anyone’s life before, not even my family’s. So I said:
 
The last I heard of you, you were living alone in Boston, after Dimmesdale’s passing. I’m sorry for your loss. How is Pearl? I hear that she is in Europe?
 
And then the reply:
 
Your last communication bewilders me further. Arthur did not die; I’m not sure where you might have heard this. Little Pearl is only five, and she is always by my side. Your picture is beautiful, too. Tell me more about you, and your life. I am at a disadvantage, since you seem to know so much of mine, even if you have been misinformed on some points.
 
Soon, Hester and I were messaging every day. I sent her more pictures of myself, my apartment, my spider plant. She sent me a picture of the Scarlet Letter, beautifully embroidered in red and gold thread, and when I imagined myself as close as that letter was to her skin…  We exchanged phone numbers and spoke every night. I fell asleep to the sound of her voice reading me Bible passages about sinners, Mary Magdalene, and the Flood. I wanted to video chat, but she didn’t have a smart phone and she said the camera on her computer didn’t work. I offered to buy her a new phone, and she said she’d think about it.
 
I didn’t tell anyone about Hester. When I spoke to her now, I couldn’t tell myself that she wasn’t real. To me, she was the woman from the book, incongruities and all. When I thought about the details too much, about how she could possibly be a pilgrim and a woman with an online profile, I started to get anxious and pick at my cuticles. She was my miracle—a test of my faith in love and God. I had gone through Sunday school at the little Episcopalian church in town, and though I no longer went, the feelings of holiness, striving, and guilt were there in the very cells of my body. Hester was meant for me—to test me and to reward me, all in one.
 
Even without seeing Hester’s face when we spoke, I could imagine her perfectly—the luxuriant chestnut curls that must fall around her shoulders as she sat in bed talking to me. I’d read the forest scene in The Scarlet Letter about a thousand times—the one where they finally unburden themselves of their secrets and shame and embrace, right there in the woods outside the settlement, with the sunlight pouring down on them. Of course, I tried to imagine myself in Dimmesdale’s place.
 
We told each other our deepest truths and our darkest fears.
 
When I look around me, she said, I see sinners everywhere. The boy who makes my latte watches the neighbor woman through her window when she showers. The woman who bags my groceries is a liar. Even in my very building—the man two doors down is a murderer—I can feel the blood in his mind when he passes me in the hall, and I shiver at it. And then there is me. That one sin—that one moment of passion that produced my child—people know and can read on my chest, but what of my other sins? Could there not be a whole alphabet there now, if people were to look—an entire Satanic litany written in fiery red letters? Would you still speak to me if you could read it?
           
You break my heart, I told her. I love you. I dream of you. I would wrap myself in every letter, every strand of hair, every fiber that is you, and count myself blessed.
 
You give me hope, she said. Your text fills me with it. I love you, too.
 
These words of Hester’s I carried with me everywhere. When I ate lunch alone in my cubicle while others headed to the break room, laughing together, I took out my phone and texted Hester, or just read the words she’d typed to me before: I love you. Loading groceries into my plastic basket, just enough for one, I thought, Hester loves me, and when we’re together, we’ll need a cart to carry the food for both of us. At my parents’ house, when I visited, they avoided asking about my dating life, though they were always going on about whoever Laura was seeing. I know they thought I had no one, that I’d always be alone, but they didn’t know. I dreamt of Hester, of embracing her and loving her intellect, her sins, her good Christian upbringing. I would bring the two of them, Hester and Pearl, to the beach and let Pearl run on the sand and learn to swim in the wild waves.
 
Let’s meet, I urged her. I love you. I will be a second mother to Pearl. If everything fits together in person the way it does online, we should live together, be a family.
 
No messages for two days. It was an eternity. Then:
 
And what of you? I’m afraid to look at you with these cursed eyes of mine and see what sins you hold inside you, sins that you may not even be aware of, but which I would see, and be unable to expel from my mind.
 
I felt offended. I was hurt. But I needed her. I told her every bad thing I remembered doing, even down to elementary school—refusing to eat carrot sticks my mother packed in my lunches, pushing my little sister down when she wanted to play with my toys. I told her my more recent transgressions, too, and begged her forgiveness—I didn’t go to the gym even though I had a membership. I watched terrible TV. I had a larger carbon footprint than I should. I walked by homeless men on the street and avoided their eyes. But I can change, I assured her. I can make any change for you. I could feel myself desperate, begging, but I couldn’t help it.
 
For me? she asked. I’m not worthy of such devotion. And yet I love you and I want you. Send me another picture. Send me one where your body is as bare as the sins you’ve confessed to me. I will treasure it.
 
I trembled as I took off my shirt and my bra, and held out my phone to take the picture. I took several before I had one that looked all right.
 
You’re beautiful, she said. I can’t wait to meet you.
 
Send me a picture, too, I prodded. One without the letter or anything else—only you.
 
She didn’t reply right away, but it was late. I tried to sleep, but I kept picking up the phone and staring at the screen, waiting.
 
It was 3am when the reply came:
 
This is Arthur, Hester’s HUSBAND. You seem to know so much about Hester, you must know that she is MARRIED. Stay away from Hester. Get your own life. Go flagellate yourself in a closet.
 
I was so confused. Married? How? There was a burning hole in my stomach. We’d talked for hours and she’d never mentioned a husband. And where was he, anyway? And what about the novel? In the novel, she and Dimmesdale were never married, that was the whole problem! I stared at my phone, unsure what to do.
 
I kept my phone in my hand while I ate all of the Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer. I stared at the TV without caring what I watched. I wanted to hear from Hester. I wanted her to tell me that nothing had changed, that some crazy person who was not her husband had stolen her phone.
 
Just after midnight, the call came. She was so sorry. She and Arthur were separated, and divorce was only a matter of time. He was very jealous and possessive; that was one of the reasons they’d split.
 
I forgave her.
 
She sent me a picture. It showed a beautiful woman, bare-chested and smiling. Looking at it, I felt panic and arousal simultaneously. I logged onto Facebook. Could this be the same woman from Hester’s profile picture? They both had dark hair. They were both beautiful, but weren’t the eyes different? The shape of the face? And that provocative smile—how could that come from the woman who had read Bible passages to me with such fervent whispers? You should stop talking to her, I told myself. She’s lying. She’s toying with you. She’s much too beautiful for you. But I wanted her.
 
I couldn’t get enough of her voice. It was a drug to me. I needed to hear it as often as possible, and yet hearing it did not satisfy me.
 
“I need to see you,” I said.
 
“You have seen me,” she said.
 
“I need to hold you,” I said. “Don’t you want that?”
 
Finally, I got her to agree to meet me. She said she could get some time off from work this Saturday and a friend could watch Pearl. We could both drive and meet halfway. With her coming from Boston and me from northern Virginia, that put us just about in New York.
 
In the days before our rendezvous, I had vivid dreams that were almost real. I woke, bare limbs twisted in the sheets, with tears on my cheeks.
 
On Friday evening, I started packing my things for the trip. Junk food for the car. The Scarlet Letter audiobook. A blue silk teddy I thought she’d like.
 
Then I got the text. My heart sank. She tended to text me if something was wrong.
 
So sorry! I can’t make it. Pearl came down with a fever, and I really can’t leave her.
 
I threw the phone down and let out a groan. When I picked it back up, there was a crack down the center of the screen. Of course, I understand, I said. I hope Pearl feels better. I’m just so disappointed. I want to see you.
 
Next weekend, I promise.
 
The following Friday, I packed again, this time with a sick feeling underlying my excitement. It almost felt like I’d called misfortune to me with my ill thoughts when I got her text: The car broke down. I’m so frustrated. I’m not going to be able to make it. I’m so sorry.
 
That’s OK. I’ll drive the whole way. We won’t have as much time together, but it will be worth it.
 
Oh, darling, that’s so noble of you. I wish so badly that you could come here, but Arthur’s mother is in town, and he told her she could stay here. I’m so mad at him, but she IS Pearl’s grandmother.
 
This was getting out of control. It was really Hester. It had to be, but why wouldn’t she meet me? I didn’t reply.
 
Late that night, the phone rang. She was sobbing, and even in my anger, I comforted her. I told her she was beautiful and strong, and that others might not understand her, but I knew her, and loved her.
 
“No,” she said. “No, you don’t understand. You don’t know the real me. You think I’m good, but I’m not. I’m a sinner. I ruin people’s lives—Roger and Arthur, my exes—and I’ll ruin your life, too.”
 
No matter how I reassured her, she wept. Only the next day, when we spoke again, was she able to calm down and act like herself.
 
We made a final plan to meet. Noon in New York, on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, just like in An Affair to Remember. Hester hadn’t seen it, but I explained it to her, and she loved the romance of it.
 
I got my packing done that Friday night, and there was no text to call it off. I woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and dehydrated, heart beating too fast. I texted Hester: You’ll be there, won’t you? How can I believe it’s really you, that you really love me, unless you come?
 
She didn’t reply, but it was the middle of the night.
 
The next morning, I woke to see that she’d texted me back: Have faith.
 
I tried. I drove to New York. I parked, paid, and found myself on the observation deck, looking out over the city. I was early, and I had my phone in my hand.
 
I knew I’d recognize her instantly, and I couldn’t wait for the electric moment when our eyes would meet. Surely, my body would begin to hum with energy the second she stepped out of the elevator.
 
I’m here, I sent.
 
Noon came and went.
 
Where are you?
 
No reply.
 
It was 1:30. No Hester. No text. No call. Why? Had she seen me and turned right around and descended down the 102 floors and driven right back to Massachusetts? Have Faith, she’d said. I’d tried. I’d driven here, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t believe the way I was supposed to, or she’d be here.
 
Hester, I don’t understand. I’m here, waiting for you.
 
Are you all right?
 
How could you DO this to me???
 
???!!
 
I finally left as the sky started to darken. When I got home, Hester had deleted her Facebook profile. When I called her phone again, her number had been disconnected. All I had were the messages I’d saved, and the picture she’d sent.
 
I did tell this story. I told Becca, who’s in the next cubicle over at work, and she said that Hester was definitely some fifty-year-old guy living in his mother’s basement who was probably a pervert and messed with people for fun. That made me feel really shitty. But I knew it wasn’t true. I just needed to have faith, like she said. Hester was real. If anyone was at fault, it was me.
 
END










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About the Author: 
​Emily Livingstone is a writer, teacher, and mom. Her work has appeared in Fiction Southeast, Atticus Review, Jellyfish Review, The Molotov Cocktail, and others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She tweets @Emi_Livingstone.

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