PDF I didn’t think she’d come. And frankly, I didn’t know if I wanted her to come.
But now – when the flight from Houston is actually marked as “landed” on the screen up there … now it is for real. In about 30 minutes, max, she is going to walk through those doors and back into my life. And I’m still not sure if that’s the right thing – for both of us … Can a 15 year black hole in a friendship be mended just like that?
In the years that have passed, I’ve thought like crazy about the ‘why’. Yeah, she got married, with kids and all like the rest of us … but that wasn’t the entire explanation. And whatever it was, to me it was ultimately betrayal. After the accident everybody said I was not to blame, but in their hearts they felt I should be blamed. Two careless kids playing on the cliffs … that’s what they thought. One chases after another. And suddenly the world ends as we know it.
Few people stop to wonder why there is a chase to begin with, perhaps because they don’t want to acknowledge that kids can be so cruel to each other. ‘It’s a period of innocence, don’t spoil the picture … ‘ But Siné said she trusted me – that she would always be my friend – even after I locked myself inside myself, after coming home from the hospital. All the more reason it hurt like a knife twisted in your gut when she stopped writing – only a few months after we had fled from Scotland, back to a Cleveland family that didn’t really want mum to return.
And now … do I want her, to step through those doors? It’s moot, isn’t it? I can’t just butt out now. No, I have to go through with it, but after weeks of thinking, I still don’t know how I will go through with it. The first part is forgiveness, isn’t it? And how do we go about that? ‘Uh, I’m glad that you found me on Facebook and that we got all talking again and all, but I really still have a problem with the way you just cut me off back in ‘95. But hey – let’s go have a cappuccino and talk it over’.
After she ‘friended’ me on Facebook and we began talking again, we haven’t even touched on this, not in any mails, messages, nothing – just pretended, I guess, that it wasn’t so important. We were teenagers. Lifetime ago, right? But it was all the time like a dead man buried in a garden, we all knew he was there and that we had to dig him up and now we’ve decided to meet in the garden and we have to do it. Don’t we? Maybe I should have told her how I felt about the past before I said ‘Oh, so you and your husband are staying in Houston with some of his business pals? Well, Texas is not so far away from Arizona … you could drop by, just for a few days … ‘
Why do you always end up agreeing to such things, out of politeness or whatever, way before you get to talk about all the essential stuff? I mean, I really can’t – I just can’t imagine giving her an honest hug, even if … well, I just can’t imagine that. Because we have to clear that dead man out first, get him properly cremated before we can move on. But what exactly does she have to do before I can forgive her?
“Cairistiona?”
Oh, my … there she is, behind those two black mamas …
“Siné – over here!”
There she is … small green bag, flung over her shoulder; her short, blonde hair slightly faded but still looks soft; a little more plump around the belly and hips; a few more thin lines under the eyes, but her face still … shining like a bright spring day. All of that and a blitz of memories about secret curled-up paper messages under our school desk ; salt-water sprints in our faces as we raced our little dinghy out to the island on the far side of the bay; Girl Guide campfire tales until the wee hours … and when we got older: taking a beautifully aching pride in being ‘lonely together’ on school prom nights while Steve Tyler sang about why it was all so ‘Amaaazing’.
I still have to forgive her, though.
She walks towards me, slowly, perhaps sensing my hesitation.
“It’s good … ta see ye again, Cairistiona.”
I still have to forgive her. She owes me an explanation. We have to get it sorted out.
“It’s good to see you again, too … Siné.”
She tries a smile but I can see that it’s about to die before it even comes alive on her lips. All my fault, I know, because I’m standing here, frozen as a corpse, hands glued to my side. This is already going so bad. I should never …
“Ye’ve not … changed much,” she then says, voice thin as a gossamer thread, probably sensing that her own worst fears are already coming to pass. “Well, except ye’ve got that funny Southern accent now … “ She tries a new smile to go with that.
For a moment neither of us make a move.
Then she drops her bag, opens her arms. They tremble a bit.
… And I fall into them.
*
I think I shivered, like I had been ill or something … or maybe it was her. Or maybe I cried. Or we both did … Or maybe … we just stood there clutching each other tightly, jabbering incoherently, completely ignoring the heavy-weightlifter from Tampa commenting loudly behind us why the two “whiny chicks” didn’t just clear the isle ….
Or maybe we just didn’t need to dig up the dead man anymore.
*
Last edited by C. Marcus on December 26, 2011
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Feedback: I hope you enjoyed the story. All stories are (copy-)edited regularly. I'd like to hear what you thought of it - or - if you have corrections of US English grammar or suggestions for better use of language, particularly as regards my attempts at writing slang or local dialects. (English is not my native language.) You can reach me here: beyourstory AT gmail DOT com - or leave a comment on the Facebook fan-page Thanks! - Chris.
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