I liked everything about Amy, from her freedom to her big rocker hair and her generous use of mascara and eyeliner. She was the skinny that I wasn't. She reflected the cool head-banging style of the times. It was the eighties, so her jewelry was brightly colored in geometric shapes. Tight acid-wash jeans. Structured jean jacket. Amy loved, loved, loved Bon Jovi. Her boyfriend at the time had the prerequisite layered long rocker dude tresses. Me and my rather bland wardrobe, complete with low-profile hair and hyper-scrubbed face, made the yin to her yang. We were physical opposites. But I longed to express a bit of my wilder side with a little nudge from her. I actually remember hanging out with her one afternoon after her shift at the downtown Burger King, feeling so much older in my dark kohl-rimmed eyes ringed with a double-coating of mascara. She'd even divulged her secret for creating the perfect eyelashes -- separation with a safety pin.
At first glance, an outsider might believe her to be tough, jaded, living for herself. The outsider would be wrong. Amy's heart was wide open. Even toward her absent mother who created the situation which caused Amy to leave in the first place. She was strong. A girl fending for herself in the big hostile world had to be! Her sense of responsibility and work ethic were admirable in one so young. She had a decided soft spot for many of the homeless and troubled people who set up camp in and around her fast food job. A few cheeseburgers may have made their way into hungry grateful hands. And she was a great friend. Swapping dreams, heartaches, and laughs with equal candor and earnestness. No judgment. No questions. Just the promise of good company.
But as was the status of my life at that time, all good things must come to a sudden and swift end. Two of my younger siblings, Gary and Rebekah, ran away. The third, John, asked to go to our father's in Washington State. It was me and mom. As an adult, I can understand her need to hold on even tighter to the last child under her parental thumb as I wriggled and struggled beneath her. At the time, I only understood my own need to escape her nomadic life of faith and the unknown. One day we were there in Anchorage, living in a low-rent apartment with friends, and the next we were gone. Off to another state. And into a surprising new chapter which would unfold in stranger ways than I ever thought possible. But the gist of it for this story: Amy and Gloria were no more.
Fast forward past California and Mexico and Nevada, skip through Washington, pan and scan over Israel, and take a tight shot of me graduating from Livingston High School. California. Again. Two years after finding a way to leave the moshav in the Golan Heights where my brother and I had been sent by our father to again live with our mother. Except for my BFF for life from Colorado, Laurie Geiser, there were no girlfriends from my wandering past who remained in my life. In fact, I would ditch a full-ride scholarship to UC Santa Cruz to resume my connection with Laurie and escape pressures from well-meaning family members who understood very little of who and what I was.
Through details sketchy in my memory, Amy and I reconnected for a time through letters. She was in Arizona. We caught up. Swapped stories on the happenings of the years now between us. She filled me in on our common pals. I'm sure we promised to remain in touch. And then our lives, mine first, were taken over by those little things which almost always rule us human beings: babies.
That brings us to the here and now in Middle Tennessee. One online night two years ago, while perusing MySpace and wondering just what the heck to do with it after posting umpteen pictures and selecting the perfect background, I decided to search for past connections. Aside from Laurie and her extended family, including the handsome first cousin I married, and my 9th grade high school English teacher, there was nary a handful of names at my disposal. I thought of Amy,whose last name I could not recollect, and I thought of my ex-boyfriend, John. His last name was in there. After asking my husband if it was okay to search, I gave it a try. In minutes I had his page. I was curious to know if John was all right. If he had made it through the crappy trenches of his own life. We'd all been a rather mixed-up motley crew back then. It was him who put me in touch with Amy and vice-versa. He'd found her in a small town by the name of Smyrna. He wanted to know if I'd heard of it because it was in . . . Tennessee!
Well, Smyrna is a stones throw away from Murfreesboro. Turn right off of Thompson Lane, head down Broad Street, and cruise on into one of my favorite cool confection stops, Karin's Custard, on the outskirts of, where else?!, Smyrna. You tell me what the odds are of THAT happening? Turns out Amy had taken up residence here about eighteen years prior to our mutual discovery of one another. Our initial marathon phone call revealed that she, too, had a daughter named Ashley. Her Ashley was one year behind mine. Another interesting coincidence. Further talking over a lengthy lunch, the first of not nearly enough, exposed a long line of similarities in family issues and experiences over the course of our divergent adulthoods. It was incredible. It IS incredible.
That's the story folks. How a three-month stint twenty five years ago turned into the neighbor practically next door. I knew Tennessee was good for something.
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