I
met Susan in sophomore English class in 1968. I sat at the desk
behind her, often staring at her thick, auburn hair wishing my thin,
mousy brown hair was as radiant as hers. I marveled at how confident
she was, offering her opinion without prompting. I, however, only
spoke when called upon to do so. Susan was a slender, attractive,
meticulously and fashionably dressed girl who was also popular and
gregarious. I was a plain looking, tall girl who wore handmade
clothes, was painfully shy and socially awkward, lacking
self-confidence, and who much preferred remaining invisible. She
smiled with ease; I was reserved. I yearned to be more like her and
dreamed of being part of her circle of friends. But we were not
likely to be friends. Or so I thought.
“You
don’t talk much,” she said turning around in her desk,
“but I kind of like you. Want to come to my house after
school?”
Okay.
Sure,” I said, containing my excitement.
“I
live in the white house just across the street from the high school;
it’s the only white house on the block with a swing in the
front yard. See you after school,” she said, rushing to her
next class.
I
knew exactly which house was Susan’s; I’d passed it
countless times on my way home from school, frequently pausing at the
front yard, enamored with the bench swing gently swaying underneath
an ancient oak tree.
After
school, I rushed to Susan’s house thrilled with the possibility
of a new friendship and found her sitting on the swing. “You
came!” she said with delight in her voice. “Join me here. This swing is
my favorite place to hang out.”
We
sat together and talked for hours, discovering that we shared a love
for literature; listening to classical piano music; watching musicals
and ballet performances; eating chocolate ice cream; and shopping for
faddish clothes. Our friendship quickly blossomed; we shared many
memorable moments including “borrowing” her mother’s
car; driving into town; and exploring Dallas’ high-end
department store.
The
clerks knew Susan by name. So whenever we arrived, they scurried
about bringing us iced tea, petit fours, and clothes for Susan to try
on. Afterwards, we oohed and ahhed over expensive jewelry and
fashionable shoes. I loved shopping with Susan and seeing elegant
things.
On
one such shopping excursion, Susan said, “Today’s your
birthday. I’ll buy you anything you want.”
“Oh,
Susan, I can’t let you do that.”
“Why
not?”
“I’m
not comfortable spending your money.”
“You’re
my best friend! I want you to have something special.”
Just
hearing Susan call me her best friend was an unexpected surprise and
a great birthday present.
“Okay,”
I said, not wanting to disappoint her. I searched the store and found
something that was luxurious yet affordable—an elegant,
full-length, lacey red slip.
For
the remainder of high school, Susan and I were best friends. I
flourished in the elegance that was our friendship, one filled with
shared secrets and our teenage hopes, dreams, struggles, and fears
about entering womanhood. Unfortunately, after graduation, we went
our separate ways attending different colleges, becoming new people,
and eventually losing touch. Countless years have come and gone,
leaving me to wonder whatever became of my elegant friend.
I
occasionally wondered about Susan and hoped I might see her at one of
our class reunions. Although she didn’t attend a single class
reunion, Susan was frequently the topic of discussion amongst some of
our mutual friends. No one knew of her whereabouts. Some speculated
she had run off with a rockstar. Others believed she’d become a
proctologist while others claimed she was living off the grid in a
remote Peruvian village. Seems as if my elegant, transparent, and
predictable friend had become commonplace and an unpredictable,
mysterious enigma.
Mysterious
or not, I yearned to see Susan and once again be in her elegant
presence. ‘How delightful catching up on 50 years of life would
be,’ I thought. Oh, if only the fates would allow us to stay
up all night and once again share our secrets as well as our hopes,
dreams, struggles, and fears—this time about aging. But Susan
was a no-show at our 50th year class reunion
forcing me to
accept the uncomfortable reality that Susan and I just weren’t
destined to be friends again. Nonetheless, I felt twinges of sadness
as I thought about never again seeing her or hearing her cheerful,
plummy voice.
But
the goddesses of fate quietly intervened on our behalf. Out of the
blue, I received a Facebook message from a former high school
classmate that read: “Susan’s daughter contacted me on
Susan’s behalf and relayed her address for me to give you. He
offered no explanation other than ‘she’d love to hear
from you.’ I could hardly contain my excitement at the
possibility of reconnecting with my long-lost friend.
At
first I was nervous, stumped as to what to include in my letter,
suddenly feeling like the awkward teenage girl I once was, the one
who doubted herself and her abilities. ‘How can I possibly
catch up on a lifetime of being apart? Where do I begin? What do I
say?’ I decided to write from the heart and not inundate her
with endless pages of drabble. ‘One letter at a time,” I
said to myself. I immediately wrote a five-page letter and mailed it
to her along with a few pictures. Then I waited…and waited.
After
three weeks, I finally received my first letter from Susan along with
a single picture of her. I immediately recognized her handwriting as
well as the lady in the photo—a slender, attractive, petite
older woman with silvery-gray hair and beautiful smile.
Our
first few letters were simply exchanges in which we shared facts and
information about our lives (husbands, children, career, etc.),
deaths, major happenings in our lives, and our cherished memories.
Slowly our letters became more personable and real. Over the course
of four years, we’ve talked on the phone numerous times and
written countless letters to one another. As I read her letters, I
feel as if I’m staying up late, sipping wine together on her
couch, and once again sharing our hopes, dreams, struggles, and
fears. I revel in our friendship and feel more complete, despite the
time and distance between us.
On
a final note, I still have the red slip Susan gave me on my birthday
in 1968. Seeing it reminds me of her; wearing it reminds me of the
gift of elegance and confidence she gave me then and the gift of
friendship she gives me today.
