The Treehouse

Leaves crunch under my feet as I follow the path into the clearing. Sunlight pours through the trees, tinged with nostalgia. The funeral is starting soon, but I can’t wait to see the treehouse for the first time since I was a teenager. 

The cute little house is tucked into the branches of a sturdy oak, just as I remembered. Another feature I had forgotten about: a second tree leaning close to the main one, partly growing into its pathway. I take careful photos of the scenery with my phone, adjusting so the lighting falls perfectly on the house. The photo doesn’t even need any filters before I post it online.

I hear footsteps behind me and turn. There’s Maddie, blonde and blue-eyed, wearing a black ensemble. She’s the one person who's synonymous with the treehouse in my mind.

We grew up within a mile of each other, hanging out at school and meeting at the treehouse on weekends. We grew apart after attending different colleges and got caught up in our separate lives. It was hard to maintain the long-distance friendship when we had to juggle new friends, clubs, summer internships, and classes. I figured Maddie felt the same way, because we stopped talking altogether. It was comforting at least to see that she liked all of my social media posts, although she never posted anything herself. I am excited for an excuse to reunite with her, despite the morbid circumstances of attending our neighbor’s funeral.

“Maddie! It’s been so long!” I run forward and give her a hug.

“Hi Stephanie,” she says after we break apart. She steps back to study me. “It’s too bad about Mr. Newson, isn’t it?” 

I look towards the treehouse. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He was so generous, letting us hang out in the treehouse all the time. I wonder who inherited this part of the land from his will?”

She looks at her watch. “The service is starting soon. We'll come back to visit the treehouse later." She walks back down the path, and I follow.

“So how’s life been for you?” I ask. "We haven’t seen each other since when? High school graduation?”

“Yes,” she responds. “Graduation was 20 years, 3 months, and 13 days ago.”

“Wow,” I say, unnerved by the specificity. “Time really does fly.” 

“Sometimes,” she says. I feel awkward now, trying to break the twenty year silence between us. There's a tension in the air I can’t name.

We reach the graveyard, where several rows of arranged seats are nearly full. My parents are sitting in the front row. I spot Maddie’s sister Amy in the back row right away.

“Stephanie Lee!” Amy says when she sees me. “It’s been a while." I sit next to her, and Maddie sits on the other side of me.

“It's Stephanie Miller now,” I say. “Good to see you! Are your parents here?” 

Amy shakes her head. “They moved to Colorado for retirement. They couldn’t make it out here in time.”

Before I can reply, the service begins. We bow our heads and remember Mr. Newson. He and Mrs. Newson used to bring cookies to the treehouse and play board games with us. Sometimes Amy joined us, but mostly it was me, Maddie, and the Newsons, the kind older couple whose own children had moved out.

The reception is at the Newsons' house. I flit between neighbors and acquaintances I haven't seen in two decades. One neighbor asks how long I'm staying. "I'm flying back to Vermont tomorrow night," I say. "I have a class of third graders who need me on Monday."

The neighbor asks Maddie, "How about you, darling?”

Maddie shrugs and says, “We’ll see.” The neighbor nods, and turns her attention back to me.

The next hour proceeds in a similar way, where I chat with the neighbors and Maddie stands by me, not talking much. When someone asks her a question, she gives one-sentence answers. I usually break the silence that comes afterwards. I’ve never been good with silence.

I sink onto a brown couch to rest my feet, and Maddie leaves to use the bathroom. I take this opportunity to check my phone. There's a text from my husband Ben saying everything is fine back home. He’s sent me a picture of our son Riley hugging our golden retriever Cookie. My treehouse picture already has a decent number of likes. I plan a follow-up post for the interior of the house.

As I scroll through my feed, Amy sits down next to me.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen Maddie since high school?” she asks in a whisper, leaning close.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I admit.

“Have you found out what’s wrong with her yet?”

“What do you mean?” I whisper back, alarmed. 

“She’s closed off to everyone. She doesn't post anything online or reply to our texts with personal information, so I don’t really know anything about her life. Even at family gatherings, she doesn’t share much about her job or family life."

I remember Maddie as a teenager. She was quiet, but not closed off. I did most of the talking while she listened, but she would share her thoughts if I asked. “Not everyone has to use social media. And I think she’s always been quiet. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with her."

“This is beyond just quiet. Whenever my parents or I ask what she’s up to, she just shrugs.” Amy hesitates. “She talks about you a lot. Like ‘Steph is doing this, Steph is doing that.’ My parents are frustrated because they want to know what she’s doing, but she only tells them what you’re doing. Now we all barely speak to her. It’s really weird.” She takes a sip of wine.

I’m perturbed now. “How long has it been like this?” I ask.

She shrugs. “It started when you guys went off to college and got worse. All I really know is that her husband seems like a total pushover. Maybe you can help her, she’ll talk to you. You were the only one she would talk to.” We both spot Maddie returning from the bathroom. “Hi Maddie, how are you doing?” Amy asks brightly when she draws near. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

Maddie shrugs, and says, “Some hotel in town.” She turns to me. “Can we go visit the treehouse now?”

“Sure,” I say, getting up. “Are you coming?” I ask Amy.

“No, you two have fun. I need more wine.” She raises her eyebrows at me, then disappears back into a circle of standing people.

The whole ten-minute walk back to the tree house, I mull over what Amy said. Maddie seems content to walk in silence, though she looks back at me from time to time. Her glances make me uncomfortable, now that I know she knows everything about my life, and I know nothing of hers.

The late afternoon light casts a spell over the clearing, transporting me back to childhood. We walk up the wooden steps. Maddie throws the door open to the treehouse, and I suck in my breath. Everything looks the same as it was: throw pillows on the couch, a bookshelf with chapter books, twinkly lights hanging from the ceiling. I go straight to a cabinet adorned with decorative items, taking meticulous pictures of everything and brainstorming captions: my childhood can be summed up in one room...

“Remember this?” I ask Maddie, shaking a snow globe. She is looking out the window. I go to sit on one of the couches, fluffing up one of the pillows. There’s an ash tray on the table in front of me, with the ghost of past cigarettes. “I can’t believe how stupid we were back in the day, smoking in a treehouse. I’m glad those days are over.”

“You quit smoking.” It's not a question.

“Yeah, about ten years ago, when I was trying to get pregnant.” I figure she knew this; I shared my pregnancy journey online.

“Me too.”

I stare at her. This is the first piece of personal information she’s offered. “Oh, so you have a ten-year old as well!”

“No, an eight-year old. I couldn’t get pregnant until two years later. Believe me, I tried very hard.” She laughs, then sits down next to me.

“I can’t believe our kids have never met each other even though we grew up together. I don’t know anything about your life. You don’t post anything online.”

Maddie shrugs. “There's nothing worth posting.”

“What about your wedding? Surely that’s worth a few pictures.”

She shakes her head, but offers no explanation.

“Well,” I say, holding back my impatience. “At least tell me about your husband. How did you meet?” 

“About thirteen years ago. I met him in grad school.”

“Oh, me too!” I said. “I also met my husband about thirteen years ago while getting my masters in education. That’s a fun coincidence!” She says nothing, just smiles. Maybe if I share more, she’ll reciprocate. I take out my phone and scroll through some of my online photos. “Here's my third grade classroom. This is Ben, my husband, and here’s our son Riley. Ooh, and a cute picture of our golden. Her name is Cookie, and she's two years old.”

She nods impassively. “I saw those. I'm happy for you.”

“Well, tell me about your family.”

“I don’t have much to tell.”

“Why not? You look me up online. You know all the details about my life. I don't know anything about yours.”

Her face gives away nothing.

I make another appeal. “I want to know about your life. We were best friends!”

“Best friends!” I jump back, shocked by her outpouring of sudden indignation. She is coming alive with anger. “Best friends? You went off to your fancy college and left me behind in the dirt! You stopped talking to me!”

“What…?”

“You want to know about my life? I have a husband named Ben Miller. A daughter named Riley. A two-year-old golden retriever named Cookie. I got my masters in education and now I’m a third-grade teacher. We live in a medium-sized town in Vermont!”

A wave of shock crashes over me as I recognize those intimate details of my own life. “That’s too many coincidences. What’s happening?”

Now that Maddie is talking, she can't seem to stop. “When I got to college, I felt so aimless. I messaged you over and over again, but you didn’t have time for me. I wanted everything to be normal, like we were in high school. I waited for you to text me so we could share our lives together. But you forgot about me! And you were shoving all your new friends and hobbies and perfect life in my face online. I was so ashamed of how helpless I was, while you had all the answers!”

I want to curl up in a ball of guilt. I thought that our parting of ways was mutual, a natural part of growing apart. But Maddie is not finished. She gets up and begins pacing back and forth.

“It started small at first. I didn’t know what to study. You posted online that you picked education as a major. So I did the same. I hated it, but I didn’t know what else to choose. Then after graduation, you posted that you were going to grad school to be a teacher. So that’s what I did. Then you started dating your husband. I found my own Ben Miller on campus. Don’t look at me like that. The name is a dime a dozen. So are golden retrievers named Cookie. So the next life step is having a baby right? How do I know when the time is right? You gave me the answer when you posted that you were giving up smoking to try for a baby. Of course, it took me longer, but it always takes me longer because I’m not the golden child like you.”

"That's..." A string of words come to mind: creepy, stalker-ish, sad, identity theft. But I refrain from calling my former best friend names. “So you were using me as a blueprint of your life. Why don’t you make your own life choices?” The look in her eyes make me wonder if I should plan an escape route.

“I was lost without you!” Maddie is shouting now, wringing her hands together. “I can't chart a path through life by myself! Especially after school, when everyone does their own thing. I thought if our lives are so similar, I could feel closer to you. I could pretend we were living the same life, even though you’re so happy and I’m miserable!”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” I whisper. 

“I hate rejection! I hate messaging you and not receiving an answer because you’re so busy with your own life! I wanted to be able to look you right in the face when I ask: why did you abandon me? I needed you! You were the only one I could talk to!” She sinks to the couch and succumbs to sobs that wrack her whole body.

I sit and stare at this husk of a woman. She’s even styled like me, from the makeup that’s now running down her face, to the haircut that looks like mine, to the black dress that is no doubt ordered from the same catalog. All I want to do is run as far away as I can. 

I move closer. I no longer recognize this stranger, but she needs me. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and hug her delicately. She clings to me, shaking like a leaf.

With one hand, I rub her back. With the other, I start a new post on my phone: “I’ve used social media for years, and…” I delete the post. Then I open a note-taking app and start listing all the friends I haven’t talked to in a while...