Saving Grace

She called almost every night to talk. Eventually it became a ritual that I would come over to her house every lunch hour and after school. We were joined at the hip. She was a blessing in my life. She showed me love, ambition, passion and strength. As I got to know her I realized that she too had skeletons that lay in her closet. 

One night I stayed over and she wasn’t able to keep her secret any longer. A skeleton burst through from her closet and hit me flush in the face. My cheek was blush and tingling in pain. I looked up and realized that it wasn’t actually my cheek that ached but rather my friend’s. Her mother had hit her, called her nasty names and threatened to throw her out onto the streets. I was lost, confused, and I felt like a tonne of bricks had come barrelling down on my poor little body. 

We were only 14 years old. Her mother hated her. I could not understand how someone could commit such harsh acts of violence against someone else, let alone someone of their own blood. My eyes were wide with fear. When she was done calling my friend all kinds of harsh names she turned to me. I took a big breath and braced myself. Ready for whatever physical or emotional abuse she was going to throw my way. As a teenager I had gotten used to the abuse adults would throw at me. Being a straight-A, dedicated and “brown-nosed” student, I could not understand how even I was seen as a symbol of misbehaviour. But over time I got used to my school bag being inspected by the retail security guards, waitresses asking me to leave restaurants, and police officers telling me and my pals to go home when “loitering” in a park. I had succumbed to a ubiquitous feeling of guilt and sin as a teenager. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong but I knew I was bad. Thus, when her mother came towards me I was well prepared with my experience as a teenager for the hate that she was about to throw at me.

What caught me off guard was she did not start hurling words of disgust at me like she did at her daughter. Rather, she started to speak calmly, collectively, as if I was someone she looked up to. She spoke to me as an adult, civil and endearingly. Then she turned around and started yelling at her daughter. Demanding her to give reason to why she couldn’t be as sweet and straight-edged as me. My heart started to hurt, and my body became cold all around. I was horrified. My feeling of guilt became even more pronounced. Not only was I hated by most adults for being of my age group, but now my best friend was surely going to hate me for being loved by her mom. Shocked I stood there as still as an ice sculpture waiting for the evil witch’s departure.

When she finally left I approached my hunched over, sobbing friend. She kept shaking her head and crying. I wanted to console her but did not know what to say. Instead I just sat there, rubbed her back and tried not to cry myself. I would continue to go over to her house every night that I could. Her mom would not touch her or yell at her when I was around. I stood as a symbol of hope and peace in that strained household. I was stuck in-between, a place I did not feel fit to occupy. I wanted to protect her forever.

My friend never hated me, she took what her mother said and stored it internally as a truth. The pain her mother caused was hidden beneath a shell of confidence. Later on our friendship would fall too pieces as I came to complain too much and my friend’s conceit would get under my skin. At such a young age I did not understand that her conceit was her armor of deception. She was one of the most confident, determined and inspirational women I would meet in my life to this date. We would not talk for years after our falling out. Later we would see each other when we were much older and share a look and silent acknowledgement of understanding. She had moved out and moved on. Peace at last.