The Photograph

Oh, so you’re alive? The question rings in my head. I know I should avoid any sarcastic remarks, but a myriad of unanswered messages can drive any woman to extreme measures. This isn’t crazy. You’re not crazy. My attempts at reassurance in my current course fall flat in my mind. Some part of me thinks I should turn around and abort the mission, but the bolder and angrier side of me is winning. 

Destroyed. Destroyed may not be the correct word: gone or lost, those may be better descriptive adjectives. Whatever the word, this devastation is typical of a flood or fire, expected even, but not of movers. I don't blame them. I repeat the statement in my head praying it will be made true in my heart. Accidents happen, things get lost. The memories aren't in the object. With the last thought, my eyes begin to mist and I quickly blink back the moisture, driving and crying rarely go well together. I take in the scenery as it changes from subdivision to farm land to mansions. Well, something in the vein of mansions. She would move to someplace like this. My 2002 Volvo hatchback feels out of place as I drive among the high end luxury vehicles nestled in their driveways. I imagine these cars being the older models, the rejects, the cars that can afford some time in the elements instead of the shelter of the garage. Maybe this is their rec time, a quick trip in the sun and fresh air before being pulled back inside.  

Numbers come into view and I see hers. My car coasts to a stop as I pull into the half circle driveway and park behind a newly washed and waxed Mercedes Benz. My door softly squeaks as it opens and I step out onto the glimmering asphalt. The wind causes one of Newton’s laws to play out on the golden chime of half moons and stars hanging from the porch, at least, I think it is one of Newton’s laws. My steps to the front door are quick, but my hand stays glued to my side. The photo: the three of us, arms wrapped around each other, smiles plastered bright and happy. They were better times, simpler times. Times when friendship was easy and conversation light. Another breeze commences, this time stronger, and adds the rustling of orange and yellow leaves to the song of the windchimes. I look to the sky and note the approaching bluish grey clouds. A sign to leave? I shake the idea and return to the present task. I raise my hand to the ornate knocker when the door suddenly swings open. My heart skips a beat as my mind hurriedly scrambles to adapt. 

A mixture of confusion and disgust are displayed in her raised and furrowed brow. She is dressed in jeans (not of the discount store variety) and a ruffled floral blouse that are accompanied by point-toe low heels and a designer purse. A soft jingle comes from the keys left swinging in her manicured hands. 

“Abigail,” she says, my name more question than statement. 

“Hey, Bri. Long time no see,” I end with a chuckle that comes out more forced than I intended. 

“Brianna,” she corrects, “what are you doing here?” 

I motion to her purse and keys.

“Were you headed out?” 

“Yes,” she utters quickly in a dismissive tone, “how do you know where I live?”

“I still had that evite from the New Years Eve party.”

“Michael sent those out,” she utters as a slight snarl subtly curls her lips. 

The barb hits home and I feel a rush of heat creeping up my neck towards my cheeks. I knew it was a mistake from the moment I saw the sender’s address. Even though, deep down, I hoped it was an olive leaf, I followed my instincts and ushered in the new year alone. 

Brianna takes a deep breath and reorients her posture, “well, I have to get going so, whatever this is will have to take  a raincheck.” 

Brianna closes the door behind her and turns towards the car before glancing my way. She double checks the lock before descending the walkway towards the pavement. I follow, my tennis keeping pace with the click-clack of her heels. 

“I direct messaged you, but you never responded” I say.

“I’ve been busy,” she replies.

She opens her car door and something resembling anger clouds my vision. I place my hand on the door and push it closed. The handle snaps back and her hand recoils as shock with a mixture of rage takes over her face. 

“Hands off the Benz.”

I roll my eyes at her emphasis on the brand name. Ironically, it was my family that had more money growing up. In reality, it does not matter now, it never really did.

“Look, do you still have your time capsule?” I ask.

She laughs out a scoff. 

“They weren’t time capsules if we never buried them. They were just shoeboxes filled with stupid trinkets,” she replies.

I keep my tone even, “I lost mine during the move and was wondering if I could get a copy of the photo?” 

“You moved?” She asks with, although I could have imagined it, a hint of curiosity.

I nod my head. Silence falls between us. Her eyes look towards her house, a scaled down version of a colonial revival complete with symmetrical columns and large glass windows overlooking a garden fit to be classified as a botanic exhibit. 

“So, do you still have it?” I ask.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” she says.

I take a deep breath and ball my hands into fists before releasing them and extending my fingers as far as they will reach. 

“Would you mind checking? I kept meaning to scan it, but never got around to it” I ask, plastering what I hope is a pleasant smile that can mask the quaver in my voice. 

Brianna crosses her arms, her silver charm bracelet clinking together. She juts one leg out to the side and looks me over. 

“No,” she replies. 

“What is your problem?” I blurt out before my filter can catch my true feelings. 

I can remember the last time we truly spoke. The conversation was light and inconsequential. We were mid-teens embarking on the last stages of adolescence. We were confidants, equals. We were friends. Then, everything changed. Years of conversation abruptly halted and were replaced with silence. I would reach out, my calls unanswered, until I decided to stop being the sole seeker of repair. To this day I wonder what happened, what wrong I committed. Maybe what they say is right and some friendships simply grow cold. 

Brianna reaches for the door, moving my arm out of the way, “I don’t have time for this.”

I shake my head in disgust. Why don’t you care? I wish the words could come out, but instead they ring inside my head. 

“Have you even gone to see her?” I ask. 

This causes her to pause, the door sitting ajar. That is when I see it. Pain flickers across her face and in her eyes, but only for a moment before she shakes them away and regroups into her perfect posture. I can not place blame on her for not visiting. The smell of antiseptic and bodily fluids have always turned my stomach. Although the facility is meant to feel more inviting than sterile, it fails to fully sell the facade, especially when housing a semi-recently healthy young woman in her mid twenties. 

“It’s not like she would know if I did,” Bri replies. 

Brianna opens the car door wider. I place my hand on it once again, this time only with enough force to stop its trajectory. I turn pleading eyes towards her. 

“Ana was the only one who buried it, and now…” my words trail off as memories flood my mind. Three girls drawn together by a playhouse in the park. Three girls asking their parents for playdates and sleepovers. Three girls attending Sunday school and trips to the zoo. Three girls exchanging tiny pieces of ourselves, the things we loved most, notes, and three copies of a group photo taken one day at the park. The three of us placing our items in old shoeboxes and promising to bury them in separate locations, known only to the owner of the box. I meant to bury mine but was enthralled with one of the toy games from Ana. I wish I could remember the name of that game. 

The wind picks up and tosses a few strands of Brianna’s hair, and  then it stills. No birds chirp. No cars drive by. Everything is silent. She looks deep into my eyes, searching. They soften before hardening.

“I’m late for my appointment.”

With those words, Brianna lowers into the car. She places her bag in the leather seat beside her and drives away, never once glancing in the rearview mirror.

A rumble calls in the distance as the rain begins to fall.