I’ve been teetering on the edge of writing about something for the last month or so. I would say it was something that happened to me and that is true but also misleading.

Trigger warning:

My neighbor jumped to her death from the roof of her building last month. When I say it like that, it sounds like I knew her but I didn’t. She lived in the building across from me. Surely I had walked by her before when I was walking my dogs or going to or from my car. It was days before I learned her name and saw a photo of her. If I had walked by her, and again, I probably had, I had no recollection.

I came home from work one Thursday in March to find more than ten police vehicles, my street closed and an ominous white tent assembled in front the building across the street from my building. I drove around the block, found parking and walked toward the yellow caution tape that surrounded both entrances of my building. Two policeman told me they needed to escort me in since the street was a crime scene. I asked what happened and one policeman told me a person jumped from the roof. The other policeman quickly added, “jumped or fell, hasn’t been determined yet.” They told me they were waiting for the coroner and that the street would be closed until they came.

I made it to my apartment and for the next four hours kept watch of the happenings outside my window. The police stood around, seemingly bored, sometimes laughing, occasionally kicking people off of their own lawns. I was fixated on the white tent. Inside, a person was dead. Was it someone I knew? It seemed unlikely it was an accident, but why did they jump? Did they feel alone in this world? Were they sick? Did they have money woes?

Finally, the coroner came around 8:00 pm, the body was removed and the tent deflated.

The next day, flowers started showing up in the spot where the body landed. Someone wrote in chalk, “you are loved.” Maybe this person was loved, I thought, but maybe not. It’s a hopeful and kind thing to say but a little presumptuous.

Within 24 hours, from someone who lived in my building, I learned that the victim was an older woman, around 70. I couldn’t think of anyone I saw regularly who fit that description. Was it maybe the frail old lady who wore a dark brown wig and bright red lipstick who had been running stop signs since I’d moved in to the neighborhood 25 years ago? She’s probably 90, not 70. Still, I wondered.

It was a week before one of the local newspapers printed an article with her name and age. If I were to write about this, I pondered, because I’d been considering writing about her since the day she died, would I share her real name or give her a pseudonym?

I’m going to call her Carlotta Valhalla. She sounds like a character from a movie, I know. She sounds beautiful and mysterious and dramatic. I’d like to think the real Carlotta would appreciate such a grandiose pseudonym.

Once I had Carlotta’s name, I found what I believed to be her FB page. There were few posts, a picture of her in a kitchen, smiling warmly and also a picture of French toast from a bakery in my (our) neighborhood. Under the picture of her a woman wrote “hermosas” to which Carlotta responded “gracias” and three gracias emojis. The French toast picture had a handful of comments from people saying it looked delicious and every time, Carlotta responded, “Come see me in LA, I’ll take you to this place.” According to Facebook, Carlotta was from Canada. So friendly, I thought, so Canadian.

I also found that Carlotta had a profile on the Wallis Annenberg Center. She had done storytelling events there. And at least two were posted to YouTube. I thought about watching the videos but didn’t. They’ll make me sad. I thought.

Still, I did not stop thinking about Carlotta Valhalla. For two weeks, every day, someone placed flowers on the sidewalk. They would wilt and die and melt and then be replaced and then the replacements would repeat the cycle. Every time I walked by, I looked up at the roof. One day, there was an elegant crow watching me from the spot where I presumed she stood. I see you, Carlotta, I thought.

I wondered if other people thought of Carlotta as much as I did. I checked her FB to see if anyone left a condolence message. “I am so sorry I didn’t come to LA to see you!Rest in peace, my dear Carlotta.” In reality, I saw nothing but it appeared Carlotta had not been active on FB for five years. A lot has happened to all of us since 2019.

I have searched every few days for “Carlotta Valhalla Obituary” or “Carlotta Valhalla Los Angeles Obituary” or “Carlotta Valhalla Canada Obituary.” Nothing. Surely, someone misses Carlotta. Surely, someone loved her.

This week, I told myself it was time to write about Carlotta. Yesterday, I watched her YouTube videos. I had a hope that they would be astoundingly good and I would repost them and both she and my blog would go viral. She would get the recognition from life that I believed she yearned for. Like most of us LA transplants, Carlotta was once an actor.

The first video wasn’t exactly a story, just a 30 second introduction. The second video was juicier, a yarn about a beautiful coworker that a then 19 year old Carlotta brought home to dinner with her mom. Carlotta offered to help the coworker get a job with her boyfriend. After the coworker left, the mother warned, she’ll sleep with your boyfriend. And within a week, that’s exactly what happened. I’ve been there, I thought. Relatable.

When I was a sophomore in high school, one of that year’s two English teachers taught us a poem called No Man is an Island by John Donne.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself;

Every man is a piece of the continent, 

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

As well as if a promontory were:

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

I’m not sure how we were even tested on this poem. Maybe we had to write or recite it from memory. I am sure I did not get a good score. I am sure any number of my classmates’ grades and comprehension were better than mine. And yet somehow this old poem hooked into me. I have thought about it at least once a week for the last 40 years.

Today, I walked to Larchmont to buy a baguette. I thought about my dear Carlotta, wondering if we’d ever been in the same queue at Peet’s, if she’d stood in line for the opening of Levain bakery. Did she buy produce at our farmers’ market? Sometimes I go to Larchmont and run into friends and we gossip and catch up and I feel such a part of the continent. And other days, it feels like the entire street is one big password protected inside network and I’m the clod being washed away by the sea. Did Carlotta feel that disconnect?

I’ll never know the whole story and it’s likely I’ll never know much more about Carlotta than what I do now. But I will remember her, I have shared a bit of her story. You can pray for her or think good thoughts or wish peace upon her soul or whatever you might do to honor this woman, as we grapple with our own place in this sometimes isolating world. Not quite a friend, but certainly no stranger.