Wendy Lane - Wishful Thinking

 

‘Smarty, is that you?’

No one ever called me that name. Except my onetime best friend I had spent years trying to forget, Wendy Lane.

We had been neighbours in Bundaberg North. At that time, I had been nine. She had been two grades older than me, and the star of the basketball team in school. When she dribbled and shot that ball, everyone cheered and chanted her name. She was really good at it.

I wasn’t. I played soccer. Girls didn’t play soccer, but she had watched the World Cup Argentina 1978. She admired Paolo Rossi, Marco Van Basten and Mario Kempes as much as I did.

She climbed trees just as good as I did. There was a huge mango tree, which had branches jutting over the roof. We would climb, sit on the roof, pick the ripe mangoes, peel them with bare hands and devour them. We spend hours laughing and talking, while watching and occasionally commenting on people passing by on the street down below. We talked about the world cup games, about people that annoyed us, about our dreams, about anything really.

As a popular girl in school, she had had many friends and admirers, but one day she had blurted out that I was her BEST FRIEND. That was something. That was a crazily big something for an unpopular loner like me. Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong. I thought popular was overrated and unpopular was underrated. I had been special. Yes I had been a little shorter than average, and my hair was dark and soft. I didn't cut my hair as short as most boys did. Instead, I allowed it to grow thick enough to develop natural waves and curls. I did this to cover my misshaped head. I wore plain, solid-colored shirts and pants — nothing loud, nothing hip, nothing bearing popular sports team logos or name-brand signs. All was good, and I was proud to be different.

OK, I confessed. I felt my heart swell at those words. ‘Best friend of Wendy Lane’. Yay!

Ever since that moment, I was pumped up, really excited every morning going to school. School life went as usual; nothing changed, and Wendy was Wendy. She acted like whoever she was. The celebrity. The girl who was always busy, surrounded by many. The girl who didn’t always have a chance to greet me, even when I was in her way. She passed, I smiled, but she didn’t see. Just didn’t see me. I however accepted it as the way it was. Everyone was different, so what? What matter the most, I had the title of being Wendy Lane’s best friend. I was the best friend.

Days went by, she found herself a boyfriend. His name was Gochin. Who had an ugly name like that? He ought to be as bad as his name, and time would tell. You know, boyfriends wouldn’t last, but best friend would. I didn’t get bothered about him, I didn’t get jealous. Nobody compared to me, I was Wendy Lane’s best friend.

I moved south, so Wendy and I were not neighbors anymore. Since then we never saw each other outside school. She didn’t see me anymore, she didn’t come around. Then, a few months after, I noticed that we weren't as close as we used to be. And she, in my opinion, changed. She used to admire and treat me like I was important. Well, at least that was what I thought.

I was so happy when she came into my life because before her, I didn't have any friends. I found that I cared so much more about her, than she did about me. It was no longer just longing, or being out of my league, it became sad to watch. I didn’t know how I got there, because for me, nothing changed.

Later, I found out that she started being friends with a new girl she called her ‘best friend’!

I had been running late to my presentation when I bumped into her. My books scattered all over the floor, I said sorry and she did too at the same time.

‘Smarty, have you met Brooke?’ Wendy had said while helping me collecting my books on the floor.  As we both knelt down to grab my Robotics Handbook on the floor, we looked into each other’s eyes. A pair of beautiful hazel eyes with a mischievous twinkle both calmed and invigorated my nerves at the same time. What a great moment. Then she said, ‘She’s my best friend. She’s new, just moved from... and....and..’ Blah blah blah, I couldn’t hear any of the other words that were coming out of her mouth. All I heard was, best friend, best friend, best friend. 

I felt unwanted. Because I was the one she had once called her best friend but, just like I was a passing phase she was calling someone else her best friend.  I disliked the new whatever-her-name was who took my place as I felt like the substitute took away my only friend.

I tried to forget about Wendy. I thought it would be easier when she left primary for high school, but it wasn’t. It took a strong effort to forget her. And I came up with many ways to forget. One of them was by wrapping a piece of rubber band on my wrist. Whenever she crossed my mind, I just pulled up the cord and then released it hard. It hurt. I did this thing few times in a week, in a period, then I developed a conditional instinct. Every time I started thinking about her, the past friend, I felt the pain and instinctively stopped remembering.

Even though I was over it, deep down I still wished we were best friends and that she was the person that she used to be.

And now she was here.

‘Hi Wendy’, I answered uneasily. My heart skipped a beat; my knees trembled.

‘Years had passed, more years than I cared to count, but I recognise you immediately’, said Wendy with a stunning smile. ‘You look exactly the same, Smarty. How are you?’

Wendy was bombarding me with questions. She wanted to know which high school I went, the studying, about the boys school experience, things like the fraternity of boy, the studenthood without girls. I threw some short questions back at her, and she responded them with lengthy comments. This was a dream come true. We hang out for a while in a busy and noisy street before we found ourselves in Concetta’s café.

As we stepped in, the double doors of the café shut behind us. It was a cramped, narrow place with a half-dozen small tables, but I could see a couple of low coffee tables with couches and stools on the corner by the window. We took the one just by the window with the perfect look out on the Parkland.

‘Wait for me here, I’m going to the ladies, then get some fro-yo. Any specific flavour you like?” Wendy asked.

‘That one looks good,’ I pointed to the big picture with ‘Original’ word on the menu. ‘Thanks.’

“Good choice, I’ll be back soon.”

I sat on a soft round stool. Chandelier on coffered ceilings, timber table set amongst rattan tables and chairs, oil painting of The Common Caterpillar constituted the décor of the back wall. Nice.

In the painting, a grey caterpillar looked appreciative, admiring beautiful creatures around him. A gorgeous red lady bug landing nearby, a striking yellow bumble bee hovering above, an intricate sculptural spider clinging on its silky cobweb, and a snail with extraordinary spirally shell reaching out for a green leaf. The background depicting the beauty of the world around. Exotic mushrooms, cherry trees, a hollow trunk, lovely flowers in purple, drops of dew reflecting glorious sunshine.    

Yet the eyes of the caterpillar showed an intense emotion. Feelings of discontent with who he was and his struggling to find his identity. The pale eyes spoke to the idea that the subject was having trouble dealing with the social environment he was in, making him feel like a creep.  The watchful eyes portrayed the feelings of the pains of not being able to have what he wanted. It was a metaphor for how the subject saw everyone in the world as more special than himself, and saw that they all have places to fit into, which he couldn’t seem to find for himself. He wanted to be like the beautiful creatures that he saw around him.

The great thing about the painting was that, if I looked at it careful enough, squinted my eyes a little bit, it rendered a giant beautiful butterfly. It was a magical scene revealing that God hadn’t finished with him yet. He, the dull caterpillar, didn't know that one day he would become a stunning butterfly.

There was a lot of movement in the painting and the scene was energetic. The over-saturation of action created a sense of vibrancy. Figures and objects in the painting were presented in great detail.  Colours were so bright, to an unrealistic level, and that well emphasized the energy. It was a very busy sight to my eyes, nevertheless I admitted that everything was masterly rendered.

I scanned the crowd. There were beautiful people and then there was me. Sigh.

The room was noisy with conversation and the clinking of bottles and silverware against porcelain plates. The double doors kept on swinging as patrons came by and left.

Wendy came back with the treats in both hands, ‘Here we go,’ she said while handing over the famous Concetta frozen yoghurt to me, ‘they’re the best.’

She jumped onto the couch by the coffee table and we talked heart to heart in a very relaxing mood while indulging the frozen yoghurts.

She said that she had been trying to contact me and felt like I avoided her. Oh dear, how I had had wasted my time trying to forget her. I regretted had jumping into my hasty and childish conclusion. So silly of me.

“I, I was busy,” I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand.

She was content with my excuse. We continued the good times together, with no drama. I was over the moon. I couldn’t comprehend that I was here with her. I felt hot, my palm were sweaty, I began blink more and talking faster. That happened when my dopamine level increased. At some point I asked, or offered her something, I couldn’t actually remember what it was when I wrote this story. But, I remembered that she seemed like she ignored my offer and instead said something more important, something shocking. Amongst the noise in the background, I swore I heard her said,

‘I love you.’

I could not believe my ears. No romance, or nothing sexual or anything like that between us. I admired her as a friend but it never crossed my mind the possibility we would be lovers. But, boy and girl in 15 and 17, having relationship were completely normal. Being friends or lovers, didn’t matter to me, but losing her again was the last thing I ever wanted. So I said,

‘I love you too.’

She, to my horror responded instantly,

‘No, I said I’d love too.’

I felt a gigantic demon’s palm slapped my face. My body quivered from the pure adrenaline coursing through my veins. My blood rushed to my face and burned my ears red. How embarrasing!

I considered explaining, but did not know how to start. Should I had told her that I didn’t actually love her and said that just to pretend so she wouldn’t be disappointed, and that I didn’t want to lose her again? Wouldn’t that offend her instead, made her mad and she’d leave me again?

‘Oh’, nothing else came out of my mouth. I sinked. I slid lower in my seat. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I wanted to hide my face, to disappear, or to fly away. But really, wishing this was just a pipe dream. Everything seemed to move slowly that a few seconds seemed like years.

She was remained cool. She acted like nothing had ever happened. She never let anyone spoil a good time. She smoothly took the situation under control, changed the subject, talked about her stuff, told a funny story about people trying too hard to be somebody else, and a funnier story about people who forgot about their mojo.

I was acknowledged in entirety. My presence, my mistakes, my strengths. I glanced at the caterpillar in the painting. Everyone had their unique weaknesses, as much as their unique strengths. I realised that everyone was truly special in their own way.

We left the café fifteen minutes later. I accompanied her, or she allowed me to accompany her to the Philately Expo. We spent the rest of the afternoon together. All good.

Since then we never saw each other again.

Years passed. Ten years passed. 20 years passed before we found each other again, thanks to Facebook.

She now lived somewhere in the States. Columbus, Ohio. She was married with children as I far as I could tell from the photos she posted. I am too, married. We were Facebooking, I liked her posts, I commented on them occasionally, and she did the same. We both genuinely want to meet each other one day.

Recently I found out that she was terminal ill. I saw someone’s post about her in a hospital. I PM’ed what happened; she opened up her secret. She said that her condition was chronic. It had been lingering for years and she had been on an on-going treatment forever. I hadn’t known about this.

She convinced me that the disease won’t kill her and instead she would be well one day. She was winning. That was her word. But I knew, that was just her. She would always keep everything to herself, and be positive about anything. I had heard about the power of mind, that just by being positive, one could cure any disease. I hope that was true. I wished I could be as positive as her, but honestly, I didn’t know if we could actually ever meet again. Would we have any time to meet again? Or would it be just a wishful thinking?

 

 

 

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.11.2012

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