Just somebody I used to know
Once upon a time I had this friend. We were very close. My kid called her "Auntie". She made my husband and I godparents to hers. Given the problems I have with my own family, it was a really big deal for me to cross that line from friend to family with someone I'm not actually related to. It was nice.
This friendship went on for many years, until it abruptly stopped. I wasn't consulted with its stopping. I was aware that it was failing, sure. I did what I could to fix it, kept trying to make plans, create an opportunity to talk, but she kept begging off. I was heavily pregnant with my daughter, and really could have used my best friend. But she was pulling away, for reasons she didn't feel a need to explain. She met my daughter once, but only by accident. When I didn't hear from her in the months after giving birth, I accepted that the friendship was dead.
I think the thing that upset me most was that I didn't even warrant a conversation. I had my suspicions about the reasons: I offered a critique of her latest novel that she didn't ask for. She found a new writer bestie who enjoys the same guerrilla tactics of self-marketing, an approach I'm not into. She made overtures, without asking me, to bring her bestie into a project that had been a collaboration between the two of us--I refused. I think our differences outpaced what we had in common and we grew apart. It happens. I just don't understand how someone could think enough of me to ask me to stand up in a church and make a promise to God over her firstborn's curly head, but then scuttle away and ghost me with no explanation, no "fuck you" and goodbye.
As a Gemini I don't typically handle lack of closure very well. I did pretty good--we even accidentally did a writing event together, and we were civil AF. But apparently it was there, a little thorn in the paw. Years later, the story of our godson's Christening came up--how the Kinglet, in Tom's arms, made the promises right along with us so that, technically, he's a godparent too. I had a beer or two in me, which got my Irish fired up, so I messaged her about it: I took that promise seriously, and it hurts me that I can't keep it. Let me know if you ever want to talk.
The fact that she did not respond was closure in its own right. Those are her choices: to slink away on account of whatever perceived slight, to shrug off family and friendship and religion with no further comment needed, to ignore a pointed request for armistice. I think it shows a fundamental lack of character; it's frustrating and hurtful, but it's no fault of mine. I tried.
Mostly, now, when I think about her I just snicker. Without the blur of friendship, her flaws are bright and bold and comical. Someone I used to know.
But I thought about her the other day while going through bins in my basement, hoping to downsize. I still had copies of all her early books. I pitched most of them into the donations pile, but thought twice about the one she gave me right before the Kinglet was born. It was inscribed with love for him, with bright hope for his future, from Ti-ti. Should I keep it, for his sake? I put it aside.
Then, in the way of these things: a mutual writer friend referenced her this morning on Facebook, with links to an upcoming event that I couldn't see because, apparently, at some point she blocked me. Blocked me. Because of the message, I suppose.
Which solves my dillemma--no I'm not saving the book for Kinglet. The bitch deserves to be forgotten.