I Love You, Always and Forever

      Emma and I always said that we would be best friends forever. You know, when you’re nine and you make friendship bracelets and you truly believe that this girl, right here, will be your best friend forever.

           I loved going over to Emma’s house. She always had to coolest gadgets and toys that I would go home begging my parents for. We could have sleepovers in a tent in the middle of her living room. We could make up songs on her electric piano. We could ask boys out on the dream girl TV game. And her mom would never get mad at us for being too loud or making a mess. Partially, because she was never there.

           Emma’s mom was a work-a-holic. She was the head news anchor for our hometown news station. Because of this, she cared a lot about image. I remember watching the news with Emma and listening to her brag that her mom let her pick out her outfit today and that’s why she was wearing the flowy turquoise top. I remember thinking how cool that was.

Emma’s favorite color was turquoise. Whenever we got to pick out new shoes to buy for our character in dream girl, she would also pan over to turquoise without a question. For her tenth birthday, Emma’s mom booked a party at this fancy beadworks place, where we could all make our own bracelets with fancy beads (while keeping in mind that the fancier also meant the more expensive). Emma’s was all turquoise. Mine was all purple.

Donned in our new jewelry, Emma’s dad picked us up and drove us to her favorite gelato place. I remember wondering what the difference between gelato and ice cream was that made it so much more hard to spell. On our way there, we sang “I love you always forever, near and far, closer together” along with the radio at the top of our lungs. “I Love You Always Forever” by Donna Lewis had been Emma’s favorite song for as long as I’d known her. Somehow, I still couldn’t seem to get the hang of the lyrics outside of the chorus.

For the talent show in 5^th grade, Emma and I wanted to do something together. The only talent she could think of that she had was gymnastics, and the only talent that I could think of that I had was playing piano. So we stuck them together. I would play the “Olympic Fanfare” on piano, and Emma would do flips and tricks on stage. An automatic crowd pleaser. So we practiced and practiced. Emma and I came up with a routine for her that went perfectly with the music. When the big day came, we had talked up our performance to all of our friends, and our parents had come out to see it. Emma’s mom couldn’t take off work, but her nanny was recording it for her.

Our turn was up. Emma and I made eye contact, her behind the curtain on stage, me on the piano bench, peering over the top of the piano at her. I took a deep breath, and started playing. It was awesome! We were totally in sync! Until suddenly, Emma froze. She was in the middle of the stage, supposed to be doing a toe touch, but she wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t know what to do. Should I keep playing? Should I slow down so she can gather herself? I tried with everything in me to telepathically communicate the routine we had both memorized to her. But it didn’t work. Emma started crying and ran off stage. I quickly found a good stopping point in the “Olympic Fanfare” and tried not to run out of the gym after her. I found Emma crying in the girls’ bathroom with her nanny. She started to apologize profusely when I walked in, which I dismissed right away. I knew how excited Emma was for this performance, for all of her peers, and her family to see how good of a gymnast she was.

Emma turned to her nanny, “Will you delete that video, please?”

As we grew up, Emma and I also grew apart. When we left elementary school, Emma’s parents enrolled her in the private catholic school and I stayed in public school. We never had a falling out or anything, we just slowly drifted apart. Our schools would sometimes play volleyball against each other and I remember being at the games with my new friends and seeing her with her new friends. We would talk and I would realize how different we were becoming. She had already figured out that whole eyeliner and eye shadow thing and it seemed like she just never stopped getting taller. I had always felt a little smaller than Emma but the feeling just seemed to become more and more magnified each time I ran into her.

In high school, our paths began to cross less and less. We weren’t friends on social media because our friendship existed long before we had cell phones. I occasionally saw pictures of her cheerleading in local news articles about high school sports and wondered how she was doing, and what I would do if we ran into each other.

But I never figured out an answer to that. Because we never ran into each other again. My parents heard about it before it reached the newspapers. Word travels fast in a small city like ours. I got a call from my dad in the middle of the day. I was laying on the couch after lunch and about to leave for my afternoon class.

“Hello?” I answered confused. Normally our class were pre-planned to ensure it fit with all schedules. We didn’t mess around with small talk for long before my dad said asked if I remembered Emma Good.

“Yeah, of course, Dad,” I responded, almost offended that he would think I’d forget about my childhood best friend.

I don’t think he really thought I wouldn’t remember her. He just wasn’t sure how to bring it up. “She, um, passed away. Last night.”

“W-wh-what? How do you know?” It wasn’t like our families had kept in touch all of these years. My parents had known just as little about Emma’s life as I had since we had drifted apart in middle school.

He reminded me that our close family friend works with Emma’s mom, Amy at the news station and that she had taken off work indefinitely because of it. “But, don’t say anything to anyone about it. I don’t think it’s public knowledge yet.”

I wondered who I would tell about this that even knew Emma. “I won’t,” I said. I wondered if her friends knew. I wondered who her friends were nowadays. I wondered where she was living. I wondered what happened. My thoughts were going a mile a minute.

My dad seemed to sense my whirlwind of thoughts from my silence. He offered up the little information he had. “They aren’t sure what the cause was yet, but it looks like overdose.”

Overdose? Overdose???? How is that explanation supposed to help me process this?

I thanked my dad for telling me. In the days to come, I read every single article I could possibly find about Emily. I stalked all of her social media profiles back to the day they were created. I questioned my family constantly on if they had heard anything new.

I struggled to find my place in the mourning process. Who was I to mourn the death of someone I hadn’t spoken to since I was 12? Who was I to miss her when she hadn’t existed in my life for so long? Who was I to reminisce on who she was when my last memory with her was ten years ago?

Amy posted a video in memory of Emma on social media. I watched it for the first time alone in my bed one night before I went to sleep. The pictures and videos started from when she was a baby, and went chronologically throughout her life. My eyes welled with tears as I saw Emma’s bright, shining smile as a baby, preschooler, and young girl. Then, I saw my own face next to that shining smile. Showing off our science fair project. Hugging each other after an orchestra concert. And, a picture of Emma cartwheeling across the stage at the 5^th grade talent show. The tears escaped my eyes and the memories came flooding back.

I have thought of Emma frequently since her death. It seems like everywhere I go, I am reminded of her. I went on to become a 5^th grade teacher. In this job, I’ve learned a lot about friendships among young children. And I have seen a lot of friendships that remind me of my own when I was younger.

During recess one day, I asked two of my students, Valerie and Sydney, if they have always been best friends. These two girls are attached at the hip, constantly drawing pictures that say “Best Friends Forever.” They looked at each other and giggled. “No, not really,” they answered honestly. I let out a little laugh to act like I understood whatever was funny and ask them when they became best friends.

“Well, in third grade I had some problems, and Valerie helped me through them, so we started to like, be friends,” Sydney explained. “And then I helped Valerie through some problems in fourth grade and that’s when we became best friends forever.”

I smiled. I wondered what kind of “problems” these young girls could have. I guess I would never know exactly, but I was glad that they had each other. I was reminded of my best friend forever at their age, and the types of problems that we had encountered. I thought about Emma confessing to me how much she wished her mom could come to more of her events. I remembered the talent show. I thought about how I would have answered that question if someone would have asked me about my friendship with Emma when I was in 5^th grade. I am sure I would have used the same terminology that they had: “Best Friends Forever.”

I settle into my couch to get some work done on my laptop. I pull up Spotify to find some background music to help me focus. Ahhh, “Work Day Vibes,” sounds like the perfect playlist. After a few songs I had started to ignore the music in exchange for grading my students’ papers. So, you could say the playlist had done its job perfectly.

I am in the middle of reading Daniel’s superhero story when I hear “I love you, always forever…” come through the speakers and I stop in my tracks.

“…near and far, closer together…” I sit silently. My hands still on the keyboard, looking at the last word I typed, not sure what to do.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the song in years, since before she passed.

“…everywhere, I will be with you…” Suddenly, the lyrics have adopted a new meaning. I can’t seem to stop staring at my screen, frozen.

I mourned the loss of my spunky, outgoing, childhood best friend. I mourned the loss of the keeper of all of my secrets. I mourned the loss of the gymnast with stage fright. I mourned the loss of my talent show, science project, and life partner, for many years. I came to realize that Emma and my growing apart did not change the fact that we were, in fact, best friends forever. The memories I have with her are forever. The impact her life had on me is forever. And I will love her, always and forever.