Thinking about long ago lost friend Kim. A person of profound influence on me. The smartest girl. Showed up at my school in the sixth grade. Her family finally leaving the city for the country. Remet in high school. Her big house with a pristine all white upstairs and a little round grandma within her own apartment, a surprise little sister to take care of, a dad - my favorite dad of all dads - who was warm and fuzzy and never failed to tell her he loved her as we got out of his latest broken down car when he dropped us off somewhere. The year he made the turkey and three kinds of stuffing. A mom who unlike other moms not only worked but had a career. Her real hair washed and in pin-curls under a wig. Her real feelings covered by secret alcohol. A mom who paid the bills and bought the house; We called it a "role reversal." Till then unknown in our affordable suburb.
What did we know?
Her room with deep blue walls covered in rock and roll posters.
The short hair cut she got in senior year. Her combing through it in front of her mirror.
Kim - the person who once explained inflation to me while too young to be worried. "Someday bread will cost $1.00 a loaf!" she said. You had to babysit for two hours to make that much. (She meant the generic white bread that existed for baloney sandwiches. Not the varieties that exist today, said to be baked in-store that cost you $6.) The two of us, our skinny asses, sitting on a board in a tree paging through the magazines her mom allowed her to buy and inspecting album covers; she got an allowance, she babysat.
She went away to camp.
She went away.
She got loose.
The last time I heard from her it was a note that said her dad had died, that she got the message to 'come quick' but had not made it to his bedside to say goodbye. Those three lines said more. That she knew she had been loved, that she felt a sense of guilt, that she knew I would want to know. Her dad who had once begged her to meet up with him in New York City, just for an hour.
"You can trust your car with the man who wears the star!"
The last time I looked her up, it turned out her brother had died, right after her mother. His obit mentioned how he'd cared for their parents. I knew the truth. He had been the son who had stepped up, the one who sacrificed, the one who never married, the one who had nothing left to live for. There was a photo of her with her mom - broad smiles. I hoped they had finally come to understand each other though mutual appreciation.
Her mom, hunkered down in a seat, depressed, asking me, " Why did she do it. Christine?"
The big shock was that her mom had left her - living so far away - to deal with their estate as if it were a last bid to bring her home.
The last notes I sent to her - years ago - went unremarked upon.
She had not been there for my sorrows or successes.
I realized - eventually - that she had not only been an influence.
She could be manipulative.
She'd been a salesperson.
She'd been manipulated.
She'd been a slave.
She'd been seduced: he told me he had slept with twelve women.
She told me he was a 'pain in the ass' so why would I think he meant something?
She'd become aware.
She damn well knew what she was doing.
She could not get out.
It was too late but then...
Time told.
"What's happening now is that people are going home," she said.
R.M.A.
Hearts, Money, Luck.
"I'm not renting a car this trip home. I can't drive to New York and bring you back here," I said.
"Then will you please go to visit my mom?" She said.
I said yes but didn't. I remembered on the plane back.
She's faithfully married. She says she got a good husband.
"The only thing is he does not get my sense of humor."
They have children to be proud of. They own a house worth half a million not far from the headquarters of the cult that she gave her life to. I only know this because it's on the internet.
Which proves that a person can veer, even loose control, but straighten it out before crashing. And even if you do crash, sometimes it's a long recovery or you change forever, but its not guaranteed fatal and you can forget wishing it were. I imagine her thinking, "You could never understand." But let me say this to her, and to you; Never underestimate how much a person who has empathy does understand. You don't have to be on the same highway to be driving. The sign that says "You can't get there from here" can be a liar.
Happy Birthday Kimmie. Our skinny butts are still on the same board up in that tree, paging though magazines and inspecting album covers.
Oh, I still have all your Beatles albums. Should I send them?
Christine
C 2023 Christine Trzyna
