If only I could, the world would be a very different place.
Pushing my groceries to my car, I load up the bags and let the car warm up for a few moments before I put it in gear to finish the rest of my errands.
The tiny village of Brewster, located in Putnam County, New York, has a lot of history for only having a population of less than 3,000 year-round residents. Brewster’s history dates back to the Revolutionary War where a teenage girl rode through the once-upon-a-time farmland to proclaim, “The British are coming!” from nearby Danbury, Connecticut. Due to its proximity to New York City—made possible by the Walter Brewster donating land for the New York and Harlem railroads to be built—Brewster has become a sought-after address for commuters.
It’s sheer happenstance I happen to own a home here, but I’m grateful for this oasis outside the constant pressures of New York City my grandparents left to me as a result of settling here back in the ’60s. When I crawled back here with a broken soul and my honor more deeply stained than an antique mirror, this little village sheltered me without question.
Stepping into the Eagle Eye Thrift Store, I call out a hello to the proprietress. Receiving one in return, I wander up and down the racks of the clothes people drop off because they’re simply out of season or have a microscopic stain that can easily be hidden. “Ridiculous. This shirt is Tory Burch. I can cover the stain with a pin, and no one will ever notice it.” Holding the blouse in the air, I frown at the mere $4 being asked for it before performing a more thorough examination of the item. “Miss Thelma, I’m leaving you a $10 for this shirt!”
She pops her head out with a smile. “Go ahead and leave the money behind the counter, honey. I’m just sorting a few things in the back.”
I almost volunteer to help her, but I know her pride is as strong as my grandmother’s was. “Not a problem.” Just as I lay the $10 near the register, a pin catches my eye in the display case. The clashing jewels make me smile as they remind me of the colors of the walls in the home I’ve yet to repaint. “Grandma would have loved this,” I murmur to myself.
I open my mouth to call out again to ask about the cost, and my breath catches in my throat. There are two men standing outside the enormous bay window, staring agape. I’ve never seen either of them before in my life, in this town. One elbows the other before they both start talking animatedly, pointing at me.
My heart skips a beat. My hands shake even as I present them both with my back. I’m supposed to be safe here is all I can think. I quickly move toward the back of the store and the back entrance where my car’s parked. Trying to keep my composure, I call out, “If no one buys that flower pin, let me know.”
“Sounds good, Angie. You all set?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am. I’ll see you soon.” On a day where I don’t feel like I’m drawing everyone’s attention.
Calling out a goodbye, I slip out the door and slide behind the wheel, knowing no matter what, no matter where I go, the truth doesn’t matter. It didn’t back then. Ten years later, people who recognize me will still believe what they want. And those that do will immediately cast judgment no matter what.
Backing my car out, I make certain I’m not being followed before I head home. “Remember what Grandma said. No one sees you for what you are. They make assumptions based on things out of your control.” But repeating her words aloud doesn’t prevent the lone tear from escaping down my cheek.
“No, really. I’m fine, Sula.”
“You don’t sound it.” Just as I’m about to protest, she barrels on. “Every time I talk to you, Angie, you sound more and more despondent.”
Ursula Moore, my college roommate, is the only person I’ve kept in contact with since I dropped out the second semester my freshman year. Sula was like a one-man army fighting off the harassing phone calls from students and reporters. But in the end, even after I made the decision to leave, she wouldn’t let go of me. She wouldn’t let me give in to the edge of despair I felt. And every day of loneliness I’ve experienced, I’ve been able to beat back simply by having her in my corner. Never doubting me. Not once.
“I don’t know how to describe it,” I worry aloud.
“Try” is her quick response.
“Every time something happens and his name is in the press, it’s all rehashed. I can’t move forward because I’m constantly being forced to look back.” I manage to get the words out.
Sula’s quiet before she responds. “Do you resent me? Wish I hadn’t…”
“No.” My voice is firm. Resolute.
“Angie, your life is wasting away.”
“It isn’t.”
“Do you have dreams anymore?” she counters.
I open my mouth and snap it shut. I dream, but they’re all nightmares. Memories of days that changed the course of my life. I choose my words carefully. “How much of a life would it have been if I hadn’t told the truth?”
“Maybe it could have been different.” Sula’s voice holds years of heartache. For me. Although she transferred schools, she completed her degree on time and has gone on to set an example of the life I wanted to lead.
The life I should have led.
“And I could have ended up being another damn statistic.” The temper my grandmother used to say I was born with, something I buried so deep in the early years she claimed it was like living with a different child, sparks. “Different path, same outcome. I’d still have to deal with the shame, the embarrassment, the disbelief.”
Only they’d be private thoughts, not something for everyone in the world to dissect every time they recognize my face.
“Oh, I wish we lived closer. You know I’d take on the world for you.” Sula’s voice is laced with regret. As a project manager for an international technology company, she’s been assigned to a project in Ireland for the next few years.
“And how many times do I have to tell you, you already have.”
She hums. “How about we go to the beach house when I’m done with this project? We can go grab pizza in Mystic, wander the shops in Newport—anything you want.” Sula’s parents have a glorious beach home on the Rhode Island border that’s a small slice of heaven.
“That sounds perfect.” And some of the tension leaves my body at the thought of a week of relaxing with my best friend, my ride or die.
“I love you, Angie. We’ll talk soon.”
“Soon, my friend. I love you too.” I press End on our call, and my thoughts turn back to that night at college.
“Come on, Angie. You know we’ll have a blast,” Sula urged.
“It’s an upperclassman party, Sula. How on earth are we going to get in?”
I burst out laughing as her temporary disappointment transformed to conniving. “We’re pledging with a sorority, Ange. All we have to do is go with our sisters.” She announced which sorority was co-hosting the event, and even I had to give her credit. It wasn’t a bad idea, especially as we did plan on announcing our commitment to them the following week.
“Future sisters,” I corrected her.