Stars against the Dark Night

In the end, we were different people.

               Bea closed the door to her daughter’s room after hand-delivering a plate filled with pizza rolls. Through the door, she heard shrieks of merriment, the unadulterated glee of friendship. She’d worried constantly that Judith might retreat into a black cloud of gloom, but she had apparently overestimated her influence on her daughter’s life. Or maybe she’d just been projecting. Or maybe it was simply because Judith had a support system independent of Bea and her ex-husband. A support system that was currently depleting Bea’s freezer of mozzarella bites and ice cream.

               Bea sat at her dining room table and begin to sift through her stack of mail, laying out bills in order of priority. The raucous beat of JoJo’s new album served as a faint soundtrack for the task. When we were that age, it had been the Spice Girls. Bea always wanted to be Ginger and Addie wanted to be Melanie C. The rest of the group had come and gone, an interchangeable stream of Poshes and Scaries, but we were constant. We were a power couple, the subject of admiration and deference. Everyone else wanted to be our friends, and we allowed most of them, but they always knew they were replaceable. We held steady. 

It had been a long time since Bea’d thought about us. So much of her life lately—well, for the past ten years—had been about other people: Kenny, Judith. And she’d been happy with that, hadn’t she? Maybe she just hadn’t taken a moment to think about herself and her own happiness, so consumed she’d been by making sure others had theirs.

               “Mom!”

               Bea blinked. Judith stood in the doorjamb. “What, sweetie?”

               Judith rolled her eyes, bringing attention to her haphazardly applied dollar store makeup. “Do you have any of those face masks you like to wear? Can Jenny and Kylie and me use some?”

               Their old yellow landline started to ring. “Only if you turn that music down,” Bea said over her shoulder as she walked to answer the antique on her kitchen wall. 

               “Got it!”

               “Hello?” Bea answered, turning to find her daughter had disappeared. Knowing Judith, she’d already grabbed the face masks and was just asking permission as an afterthought. Better than not asking at all, Bea thought ruefully.

               “Beatrice, Rhonda Jones just quit her job at Purple Mountain,” Bea’s mother said by way of a greeting. “She told me this afternoon. I mentioned you and she said she’d put in a good word, if you want it.”

               Bea had been looking for a job for the past four months, ever since the divorce was final. But in her tiny town in a remote corner of the world, there weren’t a lot of options—especially for someone with no experience. “Yeah, Mom, that could be great.”

               “Wonderful! I’ll call Rhonda and let her know. You should go by Monday and fill out an application. Since Uncle Peter works there too, you are a shoo-in!”

               Bea hoped so. While she didn’t exactly think it was fair to use her family and friends to get a job, she was at the end of her rope…and the bank’s goodwill. “I’ll do that while Judith’s at school.”

               “Oh, this could be just the answer to all your problems!” her mother exclaimed. She went on to detail everything she knew about Rhonda’s job and her history with the water company.

               The job, should Bea get it, would definitely be the answer to the most pressing problem. Bea glanced at the pile of papers on the table in the next room. But not all of them. It wouldn’t solve Bea’s loneliness, her discontent, her regret. It wouldn’t change the hurt she felt when Kenny said he didn’t love her anymore. It wouldn’t result in a flurry of phone calls from her nonexistent social circle offering sympathy and casseroles. It wouldn’t give her daughter a present father. 

A loud bang came from the other side of the house followed by peals of laughter. Bea covered the mouth of the handpiece. “That sounds awfully dangerous for a spa night!” she called out. More laughter in response. She barely remembered what it was like to be that young. Or to have a spa night. A memory tickled at the edge of her mind. A minty smell, a thick green paste, the texture of swamp mud.

We laid side by side on Addie’s oldest sister’s bed.

“What is this supposed to do exactly?” Bea asked, lightly touching the green film she’d just spread over her face.

Addie slapped her hand. “Don’t touch it! I don’t know. Give you skin that glows like the moon?”

“So all the boys at school will fall in love with us?”

Addie snorted. “You can have them. Half are my cousins anyway.”

Bea could remember the tightening of the mask as it dried while they watched She’s All That. We’d been so close once.

“Mom,” Bea interrupted. “Do you ever talk to Miz Ramsay?”

Bea’s mother hummed. “Every now and again, but not often. I did run into her a few weeks ago at the Olla Fair.”

“Did she anything about Addie?”

“Just the usual.” Bea could hear the faint disapproval in her mother’s tone. Maryanne Howell, like most people in this town, didn’t think people should be allowed to leave. They should die in the same place they are born. “She’s fine. Doesn’t call home often enough.”

“Where is she now?”

“New York? No, that may have been a few years ago. It’s hard to keep track.”

“It doesn’t matter as long as she isn’t here,” Bea murmured wryly.

“Don’t you back-sass me, Beatrice Marie,” Bea’s mother scolded. “That girl is not grateful for a single thing her family gave her. No sense of responsibility.”

Or obligation, Bea thought.

Bea put the phone back on the hook after promising to go to her mother’s church on Sunday, the same church Rhonda and Uncle Peter attended.

Now that Bea had breathed life into Addie’s memory again, she couldn’t stop thinking about us. The contests we would have to see whose Sky Dancer could fly highest, building ramshackle dollhouses for our Fashion Pollies, rushing to Cloud 9 to purchase the newest Beanie Baby on the market. Bea wondered when she’d lost that. At what point do true friendships wither and poor facsimiles take their places?

As Bea ruffled through her recollections like entries in a card catalog, she noticed that those revolving around us tapered as we reached high school. When was the last time she’d seen Addie? What was our last moment together?

Addie entered the hospital room and gave Bea a small smile. It had been months since we’d been together in the same room. We had splintered when Bea married Kenny almost a year ago, fresh out of high school. Addie had wanted us to conquer the world together. We’d been unstoppable once, on the jungle gym, queens reigning over our people. We could do it again. We could be that happy again. But Kenny was a rock, jettisoned into the windshield of our friendship. As time passed, the crack he’d caused had stretched. As strong as we had been together, we were still no match for the world around us. We’d let down our guard. We’d let someone else in and we’d fractured.

“Addie,” Bea said tiredly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Kenny just went to get Judith. That’s her name, my daughter. Judith. After Grammy Carlson.”

Addie stood next the bed and grabbed Bea’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Bea answered, “but fantastic. She’s so beautiful, Addie. She looks like Kenny.”

Addie tried not to show her annoyance. Bea did this now, she only talked of Kenny—and now, apparently, his spawn—and never of herself. As if he had absorbed her, fed on her, until she was shadow of a person. Addie did not care about Kenny, the scum who had cheated on Bea in eleventh grade with Lori Powers. She did not care about this infant she’d never met. She’d begun to wonder if she even cared about Bea anymore. How can you care about someone who no longer exists?

Addie faked a smile. “That’s great, Bea. Oh, um, I brought a present.”

               “Oh, you didn’t have to,” Bea started—the door opened. Kenny came in, a dark, squirmy bundle in his arms. Bea motioned vaguely to the far side of the room. “Just put it over there.”

               Addie couldn’t control the twinge of hurt she felt at the dismissal, nor the bite of resentment she felt. Obediently, she crossed the room and placed the bag on the table in the corner. It was a copy of The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. We’d loved fairy tales when we were younger. And when we’d learned they were gorier than we’d originally been led to believe by the cartoons we’d watched, we became obsessed. Addie’d hoped it would be a treat for both mother and child.

               Addie turned to look at the family unit. Bea was holding the baby now, fussing over nothing, and Kenny bent over them both. “I guess I’ll just go,” Addie announced.

               “Okay, thanks,” Bea responded absently, not bothering to look up.

               Addie sighed. This is it, she thought. She’d tried so hard to hold us together. But we’d been a spiderweb of fissures on a pane of glass for too long; now we were shards on the dash. Addie felt the cuts of each sharp edge on her soul as she took one last look at the woman who had been an extension of herself. 

Perhaps we were never as strong as we thought, if one external factor could break us so completely. 

“I also need $20 on the first pump,” Bea informed Catherine as the older woman rang up her purchase at Cogman’s Quick Stop. 

               “Got you covered, Bea,” Cat said.

               Bea thanked Cat and hurried out of the store. Even though she didn’t have to devote any time during the holidays to Kenny’s family—a silver lining of her divorce—she still felt as if she was doing nothing but rushing through them.  It seemed like she had more to do than ever, probably due to her desire to make sure Judith lacked nothing this Christmas, their first Christmas without Kenny. Caught up in her to-do list, Bea didn’t notice the woman on the sidewalk in front of her until they’d collided. “I’m so sorry!” Bea exclaimed out of instinct.

               The other woman wasn’t fazed at all. “No, I’m sorry! Excuse me.” 

She ducked to move past Bea, but something in the woman’s voice caused a bell to chime in Bea’s mind. Bea turned. “Addie?”

The woman turned back. She bore a vague resemblance to the Addie in Bea’s memory. Then she smiled and her slightly crooked front tooth confirmed it. “Bea Howell.” Addie had never used Bea’s married name. “Wow. Funny running into you like this.”

Bea was slightly shocked. “The danger of a small town like this.”

Addie nodded.  We stood there, staring at each other. Friends who were strangers, strangers who were friends. “Well,” Addie spoke, “it was good to see you.”

 “Wait,” Bea called out. “Are you busy right now?” Bea didn’t want to let Addie get away. She’d spent months ruminating on their friendship, what had gone wrong and when, why she couldn’t seem to spark that again with anyone else.

“Actually, yeah,” Addie replied. She pointed to the store. “I’m only here to pick up some fried chicken before going to my aunt’s.” 

“Oh. Well, how long are you here for?”

“Just a couple of days. I leave the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Bea repeated, dejected. “Okay then. Um. Good to see you too. Tell everyone I said hi.”

“I will,” Addie said with a smile. Then she vanished into the store. She might as well have been a ghost of Christmas past.

“Bea?” Addie opened the door to her mother’s house fully after seeing Bea standing in the light of the porch. “What are you doing here?”

               “I wanted to talk to you.” Bea pushed past Addie and walked into the house. “Where’s your mom?”

               “Working the night shift.” Addie crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, wholly suspicious. “What’s up?”

               Bea sighed and looked around. She’d never actually been in here before, but she recognized some of the furniture and pictures from Addie’s childhood home. Addie’s parents had split when we were in high school, but her mother had only moved into this house a few years ago. “I wanted to talk to you.”

               “About what?”

               “Us.” Bea turned to Addie and half-sat on the arm of the couch. “I’m sorry about everything that happened between us back then. I’m sorry we stopped being friends. I’m sorry we aren’t friends now.”

               Addie’s face softened and she chuckled. “Beatrice—”

               “No,” Bea cut in. She pointed an accusing finger at Addie. “I know what you are about to do. Don’t make light of this. I’ve thought a lot about it recently. My daughter is eleven now. She has these two friends and they are inseparable. They take such joy in one another, such pride in their friendship. It’s an incredible thing to see. 

               “And when I remember that I had that myself once, that it was something I let go as if it meant no more to me than a Britney Spears CD I might sell at a garage sale, I get so angry and disappointed with myself.” Bea took a deep breath. “So I am sorry. I know I am largely to blame for the way things ended between us, for things ending at all.”

               “Bea, it’s not your fault.” Addie moved to the overstuffed armchair next to the couch. Bea gave Addie a pointed look. “Okay, it’s not totally your fault.”

               “I remember high school, Addie,” Bea objected. “I distinctly remember times when I chose spending time with Kenny over spending time with you.”

“Bea, that’s life. When you’re young, your friends mean everything. As you get older, you develop other priorities.” Addie shrugged. “That’s how the world works.”

               “I can’t believe that. I can’t believe Judith won’t have that same relationship with her friends in just a few short years.”

               “Things change, people change.”

               “But that much?” Bea slid onto the couch. “We had so much history between us. We were an invincible unit.”

               “No,” Addie said wistfully. “We weren’t. The truth is: if we had been so invincible, we wouldn’t have let anything come between us. But we had different paths to walk, opposing dreams.”

               Bea felt each word like a stone, rocks of reality, crushing her beneath them. A dull ache began to pulse in her heart. “Let’s say that’s true. Let’s say we accept the past as it was and call it water under the bridge.”

               “Done,” Addie agreed.

               “So let’s be friends now.” Bea grew worried at Addie’s silence. “Addie? We can be friends now. Pick up the pieces and continue on.”

               Addie leaned forward and grabbed Bea’s hand, just as she had in the room at St. John’s all those years ago. “I think we shouldn’t.”

               Bea rotated so that she could look fully into Addie’s dark eyes.  She placed her other hand on top of our joined ones. “Why not?”

               “Beatrice, our friendship was one of the greatest things I’ve ever experienced. And when the book of my life is written, you will be the only one who ever had the title of ‘Best Friend.’ I relish those memories of us together. Of seeing how late we could stay up. Of dipping cookies-n-cream candy bars into nacho cheese. Of seeing who could finish the newest Harry Potter book the fastest, which,” Addie reminded her, “I always did.”

               “Totally not fair,” Bea interjected, “you have a superhuman ability to read quickly. That game was rigged from the start.”

               “Anyway,” Addie continued with a grin, “those memories are bright, shining lights. Like stars against a dark night. I don’t want them to be replaced with whatever dull sixty-watt version of long-distance adult acquaintanceship we would have now. In our pasts, we are friends and we always will be. We will play Clue and sing off-key forever in the annals of our remembrances. We can never recreate that.”

               Bea couldn’t keep her eyes from welling with tears. “So that has to be enough?”

               Addie nodded solemnly as she reached over and grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “It’s good to know you’re still a crybaby though.”

               “Shut up,” Bea laughed, dabbing at her face. “I guess I just wanted something real after the crap year I’ve had. I’ve just felt so alone and like I made all the wrong decisions.”

               “You aren’t alone,” Addie pointed out. “You have your mom, which is like having ten people on your side. And Judith.”

               “But I mean, someone like a friend. Someone my age who can understand me.”

               “You’ll find someone. You’ll have to work at it though. Nothing is easier as an adult. And Bea.” Addie squeezed our joined hands until Bea looked at her. “Our friendship may not be a present reality, but it’s still real.”

               Bea returned home soon after. Our visit hadn’t turned out exactly how she’d wanted. She’d envisioned us picking up where we’d left off—or rather, a few years before we’d left off, during our own little Golden Age. But Addie had good points. A scant, insubstantial version of a friendship would be far more disappointing than only having been true friends once. 

We would both have to live with only the nostalgia of us. In the end, we were simply different people—from each other and from whom we were before.