head at my own silliness, because I still knew that number and worse, I knew exactly where the other two photos were. Or had been, anyway, way back when any of that had mattered. That was the kind of junk that I carried around in my head – the mess that filled the spaces where there could have been all kinds of other things. Things like some awareness of what had been going on in my marriage right under my nose, for example. If Brooke were here, she would have let out that cackle of hers and told me I was ridiculous, and I would have agreed. I sat back, leaning against the wall of cubbies that housed all of Tim’s shoes and the shirts and sweaters he kept folded in neat rows. I felt almost lightheaded with loss.
What the hell had happened? How had I lost my best friend? When she’d been so much more than that term could encompass – when she’d been like another limb, or my heart and lungs, as integral to my ability to function as any of those things?
We hadn’t had any fights that I could remember – and I felt sure I would remember. Wouldn’t I? There hadn’t been any big, traumatic scenes, any unforgivable words flung at each other. She’d been the maid of honour at my wedding – something that seemed odd to me, as I thought about it, given that I’d managed to put up pictures of our wedding all over this house yet not one of them with her in it. Things had become strained between us when I’d moved in with Tim, I knew, but I’d put that down to necessary growing pains.
Brooke and I had lived together for almost ten years at that point. We’d shared everything. Of course it was weird for her when I moved on. And then I’d really started focusing on my career, and she’d become busier and busier herself, juggling more book manuscripts per week than most people read in a year. We’d gone from talking all day every day to more and more infrequent phone calls, from living in each other’s pockets to a dinner every month or so. We’d gone from knowing every detail of each other’s lives and thoughts, so much so that we had our own language of private jokes and inferences and shared moments that we could communicate in a glance, to a few awkward hours of playing catch-up over sushi.
This was called growing up, I’d told myself then, as I’d prepared for my wedding and the life Tim and I so carefully plotted out together. This was what happened. All friendships had to change, because we weren’t eighteen-year-old freshmen at NYU any more, and we wouldn’t ever be again. Look at me and Lianne. We’d kept in touch throughout my Manhattan years, but had only really reconnected when I moved back to Rivermark. Which was right about when I’d last spoken to Brooke, now that I thought about it. We’d exchanged emails for a while – a few earnest lines here and there, promising to make plans that never materialized.
It was as if I’d discarded Brooke along with the rest of my twenties. I couldn’t understand it. Just as I couldn’t understand how I’d managed to block all of that out – my whole history – with such success that it now felt as if I didn’t have access to my own life, my own memories. My mother had said I’d had
plights
I’d been so concerned with. Yet when I thought about it now, all I could remember about those years was Brooke. Brooke and me and all of that bright, gleaming future spread out before us, ripe for the taking.
How had I lost all of it? All of that brightness, and Brooke too?
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket then, though it took me a long moment to recognize the sound and vibration and haul myself out of the past long enough to dig it out. It was a text from Carolyn – who had finally accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to answer her calls.
Come to the hospital right now!! 911!!!!
it read.
I went completely cold.
This was it, I thought through the iciness that spread through me. It had finally happened. Tim must have taken a turn for the worse.
I held
What the hell had happened? How had I lost my best friend? When she’d been so much more than that term could encompass – when she’d been like another limb, or my heart and lungs, as integral to my ability to function as any of those things?
We hadn’t had any fights that I could remember – and I felt sure I would remember. Wouldn’t I? There hadn’t been any big, traumatic scenes, any unforgivable words flung at each other. She’d been the maid of honour at my wedding – something that seemed odd to me, as I thought about it, given that I’d managed to put up pictures of our wedding all over this house yet not one of them with her in it. Things had become strained between us when I’d moved in with Tim, I knew, but I’d put that down to necessary growing pains.
Brooke and I had lived together for almost ten years at that point. We’d shared everything. Of course it was weird for her when I moved on. And then I’d really started focusing on my career, and she’d become busier and busier herself, juggling more book manuscripts per week than most people read in a year. We’d gone from talking all day every day to more and more infrequent phone calls, from living in each other’s pockets to a dinner every month or so. We’d gone from knowing every detail of each other’s lives and thoughts, so much so that we had our own language of private jokes and inferences and shared moments that we could communicate in a glance, to a few awkward hours of playing catch-up over sushi.
This was called growing up, I’d told myself then, as I’d prepared for my wedding and the life Tim and I so carefully plotted out together. This was what happened. All friendships had to change, because we weren’t eighteen-year-old freshmen at NYU any more, and we wouldn’t ever be again. Look at me and Lianne. We’d kept in touch throughout my Manhattan years, but had only really reconnected when I moved back to Rivermark. Which was right about when I’d last spoken to Brooke, now that I thought about it. We’d exchanged emails for a while – a few earnest lines here and there, promising to make plans that never materialized.
It was as if I’d discarded Brooke along with the rest of my twenties. I couldn’t understand it. Just as I couldn’t understand how I’d managed to block all of that out – my whole history – with such success that it now felt as if I didn’t have access to my own life, my own memories. My mother had said I’d had
plights
I’d been so concerned with. Yet when I thought about it now, all I could remember about those years was Brooke. Brooke and me and all of that bright, gleaming future spread out before us, ripe for the taking.
How had I lost all of it? All of that brightness, and Brooke too?
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket then, though it took me a long moment to recognize the sound and vibration and haul myself out of the past long enough to dig it out. It was a text from Carolyn – who had finally accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to answer her calls.
Come to the hospital right now!! 911!!!!
it read.
I went completely cold.
This was it, I thought through the iciness that spread through me. It had finally happened. Tim must have taken a turn for the worse.
I held
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