March 2004 Issue - Essay # 8
Snapshot
By Catherine Saar
I
like the way we look in this snapshot: smiling in our bright colored
tanks and baggy shorts; at ease, forgetting that we are two different
people, riding the crest of energy we have formed between us.
It’s pleasant, not at all like the pictures I hang in my house: the backs of solitary individuals walking away down two rows of
hedges in It
was second grade. Carolyn
Walters and I often walked all the way home from school: St. George
to Stapleton, probably two miles. Her
mom and sister called her Carol. She
had alabaster skin and puffy blowfish cheeks with a pink pinched mouth
that kept her from being a beautiful girl, even though I thought she
looked like a fairy-tale princess. Her
hair was black, thick and short, her build, thin and fragile.
She
was my first best friend. I
was the stockier one, with healthy, rosy cheeks and blonde, baby-fine
hair. An unlikely pair, but
oh so close. We talked about the Monkees.
She loved Davey Jones, I preferred Mickey Dolenz with his curly
hair and split apart front teeth. We
would play in her finished basement for hours; make-believe wives and
families of the Monkees. But
after a while, we were ravenous to go outdoors.
I would, of course, have to borrow a pair of shorts from Carol,
not having planned to stay for so long.
We
crossed the street from her house and climbed into the steep rocky open
space you could still find on I
loved climbing the hills. We’d
lie in the deep grass and imagine what the clouds really were.
We’d play until we were very, very tired, or until I ripped
Carol’s shorts right up the backside seam.
It was inevitable. The
Walters affectionately called me 'lamb chops,' and to this day, I have a
bubble butt that makes that name an obvious choice.
I
remember Carolyn’s mother clearly.
She was very intelligent and also overweight.
I think she was the closest thing to the first feminist I’d
ever met. She held nothing
back in conversation, but she was also nice and fun, although a little
whiny from time to time. She
had a strange husband. I’m
not sure now if it was Carolyn’s real dad.
He was thin and quiet with very oily, pockmarked skin.
His silence was creepy--like he was watching all the time; kind
of how I imagine a child molester might watch the world without really
participating. But then he never did a thing to indicate that he was
anything but a regular dad. Still he was an odd one.
Carolyn
had a sister named Virginia--or “Ginnie” for short.
She was probably thirteen, and I liked her.
She had a sturdy build like mine, but she also had a Patty Duke
thing going on: a shoulder
length bob.
Between
Ginnie and her mom, I learned a lot at that house.
That’s where I learned about sleepovers and raiding the
refrigerator in the middle of the night, and about the fact that women
bleed. I learned about D&C’s. I was shocked
the time that Carolyn’s mother came home from the doctor sniveling,
lying around the living room, asking the girls to bring her towels to
sop up the torrent of blood that flowed from between her legs.
What
was this all about? She
announced that she had been pregnant and didn’t know it.
She had a procedure, a D&C, to clean it all up. This was a
whole new world for me. I
got a brief explanation, but it wasn’t until fifth grade that I
learned more about the process of baby-making.
That was even more surprising. But
most shocking of all, was when I learned how it felt to have your best
friend’s mother tell you your friend can’t come over to your house anymore
because she doesn’t want her daughter to see your father when he’s
drunk. Mrs.
Walters didn’t know that my father was a harmless drunk.
He might slur his words, but mostly he just passed out.
He didn’t hurt anyone or even touch anyone. He didn’t curse.
I didn’t try to explain that to her.
I don’t think I had the words.
I choked back my tears of surprise and sadness.
I was so embarrassed. It
was the first time that I realized that who my family was mattered.
How
they seemed would affect me in the outside world. Our
friendship continued for a while. I
stayed at the Walters' most weekends.
From time to time, Carol would still come over after school when
my dad was at work, but my house didn’t have a cool basement or a
mountain to climb. In
fact, I didn’t have a room of my own; my two older sisters had the
only two that were available. I
slept on a convertible sofa in the living room with my mom. She said
that dad snored too loud for any human being to sleep in the same room
with him. It was true that
he had a horrible snoring problem; so, all in all, sleepovers were
impossible anyway. In
fifth grade, Carol left PS 16. By then, I had inherited a room of my own
from my teenage sister who had converted the attic into her personal
hideaway. Mrs. Walters had
another baby--an activity she seemed to engage in about every seven
years--and I learned a few more things at Carol’s house that I had
no hope of learning about at my own.
If my parents knew any of this vital life information, they
certainly weren’t sharing it with me.
And
now, with a child of my own, a house with many bedrooms and a finished
basement, I discover this snapshot at the bottom of an old, dusty trunk,
Carol and I on a lovely spring day, smiling and laughing.
And I wonder, where she is and what she’s doing.
Is she happy and satisfied? And,
more than anything, I wonder, what the truth about her family was, after
all.
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Author's Biography Catherine
Saar is a freelance writer and editor living in When she's not writing or editing, she does yoga, drinks Chinese Yunnan tea and hangs out with friends and family. E-mail Catherine at peacemkr@aol.com |
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