Is Memory Lane Always This Bumpy?

I was relaxing on the couch a few years ago when my phone buzzed unexpectedly. Facebook Messenger popped up, with a message from a girl I hadn’t heard from in two decades. I was never all that close with her, but her step-sister was the first love of my life. At the time, I thought she’d be my only love. The one I lived for. What a nightmare that turned out to be.

I was so taken aback from seeing this unforeseen ping that my heart leapt into my throat. Why was I so nervous? There could only be one reason she was contacting me: something to do with her sister. Susie was my first girl, that first one that makes you do, think, and say crazy stuff. Stuff you’re not supposed to do, think, and say. The two of us got into so much trouble that we often felt like it was just us against the world, desperately clinging to the hope that amateurish teenage love would be the only thing we’d ever feel. The only thing we’d ever hope for. We thought the only two people in the world that we needed were each other. To hell with everyone else, right?

But every great love story has a tragic side, with two lovers that simply were fated to not be together. Everything imaginable stood in our way, from friends, to teachers, to law enforcement, everything. And we each became the bane of the other’s parents’ existence. My mother even refers to Susie as “That Bitch.” Put a capital letter on That and Bitch, because it is indeed a hard-earned title. I even went so far as to bring Susie home one night when I had come back for a few days during college. Mom thought it was another one of my ex-girlfriends that she actually liked and wanted to say hi to her. But I dodged her request which made her suspicious. 

“Who’s in the basement?” mom snarled, knowing full well who it was just from my shiftiness.

“You know who it is.” That’s all the response I could give her, along with packing my bags and getting out of the house as fast as possible.

Mom didn’t talk to me for months after that. I had to grovel my way back into my own family household on account of a night of drunken nostalgia. In a way, I’m glad the sleepover with Susie happened in mom’s basement, because there’s no telling how long it would have gone on had mom not been there to interrupt. Good Lord, thinking of the path life could have gone had we produced offspring just sends shivers down my spine. Weird how life’s road winds back in on itself, and yet offers exit ramps that lead to new highways.

Anyway, here I am, sitting on the couch, and all these memories just come crashing back on me from simply seeing the message from Susie’s step-sister. It read: “hey, when was the last time you talked to Susie?”

“1997. Why?” Just a few characters for a response, not really knowing if sis wanted to talk or not. I hesitated to believe this was going to be a fruitful conversation.

“Our family lost touch with her. She might have had a mental breakdown. She wrote us a long letter that was all about you. We were wondering if you’ve talked to her lately.” 

“It’s been over twenty years since I last even saw her. I don’t know what she’s up to.” But that’s just it. This is how the first step down memory lane starts. It seems innocent enough, but then we dig up these memories that were best forgotten, like corpses in a graveyard. We do not want those zombies coming back to life. And yet, here we go. I can’t shake her. This is exactly how it’s always been too. I could never just step away from her. Just toxic.

This brief text exchange actually led to some friendly catching up between two people who tangentially lived alongside one another for a few years. We had a mutual, and one we both cared for deeply. But a couple months went by after this conversation happened, and I realized Susie’s birthday was coming up in just a few days. Weird how I can’t seem to remember my weekly teaching schedule, but I remember my first girlfriend’s birthday like clockwork. So I did the natural thing: I googled her. And I immediately regretted it.

Susie’s face popped up in the headlines, screaming from every news outlet on Colorado's Front Range. She had spent quite a bit of time homeless, and yet was up to some kind of ill-intended doings in a seedy motel. When the police showed up to serve her an arrest warrant, she pulled out a pistol and fired several rounds. No police officers were hit, but no one takes shots at them and gets away with it. They returned fire, hitting Susie and injuring her. And off to jail she went. 

She slid into that blackhole where people who care about her have no access to information about her. It’s the kind of hole that people fall into, and often from unintended circumstances. Somewhere along the way, Susie’s life took a massive crap on her. She had been a photographer and ran her own business, and then something happened. Maybe we’ll never know what happened. She might not even know. She may have woken up one day and realized that whatever it was was too mighty to overcome. A beast you just can’t slay. 

But now she’s the beast that haunts my dreams. All the memories have come back, and I can’t shake her out of my mind. I feel compelled to write her a letter, but I can’t just ask how she’s doing. She’s in prison. She’s not getting out for a really long time. And I don’t intend her any more harm. Maybe a letter from me would just be a new form of torture for her. One that would keep her up at night, reliving nightmares in her head. She doesn’t need any more nightmares, but I can’t wake up from them. 

I never thought my first love would spend her life in prison. And I never expected that she’d become a penpal. But sometimes, even dead love comes back to haunt us.