I was sitting on Maria’s back deck, a place where hours upon hours of my summers are spent. Midnight had passed; feeble candles and pale moonlight lit Maria’s face dimly. Beyond the deck, not much could be seen except the murky silhouette of conifers. I should probably go home soon, I thought to myself. Caroline had just left but I decided to stay because I was comfortable in the warm summer air and happy to be with my friends. It was the July before our junior year of college. The four of us were drinking and laughing and talking. The perky chatter eventually mellowed into yawns and drooping eyes. After Caroline left Maria and I slouched into the navy blue cushions. It was calm; I was content.

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        Caroline, Maria and I met in Mrs. Gordon’s fourth grade class. Sometimes afterschool we would stay in the classroom and talk. Mrs. Gordon called us her “Coffee Club” but there was no coffee involved—only idle chit chat of nine-year-old girls (most likely about High School Musical). The three of us remained best friends throughout all of high school—a remarkable feat actually. We survived the teenage storm of puberty, first boyfriends, prom, SAT’s, college applications—honestly, we deserve a fucking medal (I guess that’s what the diplomas were for). The eleven years together unavoidably left our friendship scuffed and scratched. But it was whole and it was ours.

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         I can ask Maria anything; we balance each other in humor and temperament. Whether it’s trivial banter or heavy introspection, talking with Maria is always fruitful. It’s my philosophy that true friendships are bonded more by the difficult conversations than the easy ones. Maria and I drift apart every now and then—a side effect of our tumultuous college lives. But we share the responsibility of periodically checking in and nurturing our friendship.

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         Caroline and I have a different relationship. We don’t talk the way Maria and I do. Caroline doesn’t verbalize her feelings readily and even being one of her closest friends, I hardly hear her speak her mind candidly. I’ve seen her face contort in between tears and I’ve seen her mouth purse into a hard line of anger, but she doesn’t like to say what’s truly on her mind. I’m the exact opposite. Whenever we talk, I try to lure the words out of her by finishing her sentences or asking leading questions. I’ve never given her the podium. However, that’s not the way it used to be.

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         Caroline used to be my closest friend. Our friendship began with Chips Ahoy cookies and Gilmore Girls. After school we had developed a ritual of going to Caroline’s house, eating exactly two Chips Ahoy chocolate chunk cookies—not one, not three: two. Balancing the cookies and a glass of 1%, we slid carefully into Caroline’s living room and settled into the buttery, brick-colored couch. The enviable banter of Lorelei and Rory Gilmore filled the living room. Fearing the wrath of Vera (Caroline’s formidable housekeeper) we nibbled delicately on our cookies, careful not to get crumbs on the immaculate green carpet. After the show ended we would talk and do homework. During soccer season we walked to practice together and sat together on the bus to away games. My friendship with Caroline consumed so much of my life; it was cherished and alive. I could’ve never predicted that ten years later, I would be sitting on Maria’s deck talking about Caroline as if she and I were strangers.  

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Assuming Caroline’s response would’ve been chipper, vague and incomplete, I decided to ask Maria instead: “How is Caroline

 

doing?”

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A moment too long passed before Maria spoke. “Not so good” her voice trailed, “she’s been taking medication.”

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“Medication?” My voice swung up in confusion, “medication for what?”

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          “Depression,” Maria continued cautiously, as if she didn’t know if this was something she was allowed to say. “Since freshman year she’s been seeing therapists and counselors at school.  At the beginning of summer she decided to try anti-depressants. She’s tried a bunch of different kinds, but none of them are really working.” Maria’s demeanor was quiet and calculated. Her eyes were cast downward. The heft of her words rolled onto the deck in an uncomfortable fog.  I said nothing. A disoriented stream of thoughts stumbled furiously through my mind. At first I resisted, Depression? Not Caroline, it can’t be. Then I felt betrayed and jealous. Why didn’t she tell me? But eventually I felt ashamed, embarrassed and guilty. How did I not know? I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t figured it out on my own. I felt like the shittiest friend in the history of shitty friends. (I wish I could use more eloquent language than “shitty” but in this moment I can’t find another word quite as appropriate). A lump of hurt and frustration settled into the back of my throat. It weighed heavy and dull, blocking my voice. I wanted to ask questions that Maria couldn’t answer. Where did it go wrong? Will she be okay?

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            In retrospect, everything changed when we went to college. Two years ago Caroline, Maria and I each packed our cars with an overabundance of provisions courtesy of Bed Bath & Beyond and diverged to Boston, Washington D.C. and Ann Arbor respectively. I braced myself for the transition from spending every hour of the day together in high school to spending months apart. But when I got to school, I still craved the intimate relationships I left at home. I felt underwhelmed by the cheery, shallow hatchlings of friendship typical of freshman year. I missed Caroline and Maria, and video chats could only hold me over for so long. It was a matter of months before we arranged a reunion. The first time we saw each other after going off to college is a moment I haven’t forgotten and it is a moment I will never forget.

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            In late October of freshman year, I flew the 500 miles from Detroit to Baltimore. From the airport, I rode a shuttle to the Baltimore train station. Boarded a train to Washington D.C. From the train station I submerged underground, loaded into a subway and ended up in Union Square where I was greeted by Maria. “Peanut!” I shouted. I scurried over to her as best I could, dragging my suitcase behind me. Hugging ensued. I breathed in her familiar scent of crisp linen that I had missed so much. As excited as we were to see each other, the nature of our reunion was solemn. I was at Georgetown with the purpose of consoling Caroline who had come to break up with her cheating boyfriend, Derek.

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            Derek has always been a dickhead. Derek and Caroline had been dating since Valentine’s Day—gag—of freshman year. Caroline loved him and I loved Caroline, therefore I did my best to be civil with Dickhead (which wasn’t easy). He was deceptively charming; the type that adults adore because he was confident and outgoing with mature conversational skills. But he had a mean side. His cruelty manifested itself in snarky comments and scathing comebacks. I trusted him as far as I could throw him.

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            We were in D.C. not to see the Lincoln Memorial, not to party, but to provide a net onto which Caroline could fall: a net of familiarity, safety and love. She didn’t want to break up with Derek, but she knew she had to. So she did.  After Caroline had broken it off, the three of us were in Maria’s dorm snuggled onto her twin bed. Caroline was silent, recovering from a barrage of tears and trying to hold back another flood.  She didn’t want to talk about the break-up because the wound was too fresh. So we just lay there, nestled in the comfort of familiarity.

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            It’s been more than two years since Caroline and Derek broke up. She’s reached out to him in moments of misjudgment but he never reciprocated her efforts. Which is for the better in my opinion but it devastated Caroline. I couldn’t understand why the hurt was lasting so long. I thought to myself: he was just a high school boyfriend and he’s a dickhead, good riddance. It’s impossible for me to say whether or not breaking up with Derek sent Caroline into this depression. It’s possible that it did and it’s also possible that Caroline’s depression was the confluence of many anxieties. Regardless, that moment in D.C. when we were all cuddled in Maria’s bed was the last moment that I felt genuinely connected to Caroline. Perhaps the months of absence or the geographic distance furtively pushed us apart. Maybe we haven’t been true friends for a long time and I haven’t noticed because Maria has been the buffer between us. What I do know is that when Maria told me that Caroline had been taking anti-depressants and seeing therapists, I was devastated. I blamed myself for not being more perceptive to Caroline’s emotions and I started to doubt the sincerity of our friendship. I couldn’t escape the ambivalence of guilt and betrayal. She was struggling and didn’t reach out. She was struggling and I didn’t even notice.

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            In early August Caroline left for Quito, Ecuador to spend the semester abroad. We said goodbye late at night, in the middle of Thorne Place. The street on which we spent our childhoods together: playing kickball, riding bikes. The nighttime darkness chilled the air, and a streetlight cast an artificial spotlight. I came with a gift: a handful of basil from my vegetable garden I had been nurturing all summer. As I was leaving my house to say goodbye to Caroline I remembered how the first time I had ever heard of pesto it had been in Caroline’s house. We were in the kitchen and Caroline’s older sister Allison was making it with our help: pine nuts, olive oil, Parmesan, and basil.

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            “I brought you some basil,” I stated proudly, extending the bundle of fragrant herbs.

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            Caroline’s brow curled upwards in surprise and delight. “Oh my god, yes! Allie is going to be so pumped about this.”

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            Caroline’s cheery response reminded me of the Caroline from my childhood. Again I found myself in the painful wake of being excluded from her struggle with depression. The same messy queue of doubts scrambled through my mind: does Caroline see me as the friend that I see her? Am I a shitty friend? Is our friendship over? After fumbling my way through the initial shock and pain, I came to the realization that no, we are not the friends we used to be, but that’s okay. Our relationship has undoubtedly transformed from the intimate bond we had in our youth. We have changed; our relationship has changed. Now, we are distant but affable. I haven’t lost Caroline as a friend: she is still in my life and I’m in hers. But compared to the organic, carefree relationship we had as children, our relationship now is emaciated and hungers for nourishment. I’m still upset by not being told about the depression, and I think feelings of betrayal, hurt, jealousy—while embarrassing—are natural and human. What got me through the initial sting was the realization that no relationship is all good, all the time. The strong relationships are the ones that recuperate from the bad, and cherish the good while it’s there. A rejuvenated relationship with Caroline is still possible: we hold onto to each other with a weak grasp but we hold on nonetheless.

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            “You’re going to have so much fun in Ecuador,” I assured Caroline.

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            “I think so too,” Caroline agreed.

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            Caroline opened her arms and invited me in for a hug. I wrapped around her and we stayed there for a long time. After we said goodbye I lowered into my car and turned the key in the ignition. The headlights lit Caroline’s path and I watched her walk towards the green-shuttered house. She opened the front door, a door through which I have entered countless times to eat Chips Ahoy cookies and watch Gilmore Girls. Before she disappeared through the door, she turned back and waved. I waved back and smiled, watching her slip out of sight. I rolled the car gently down Thorne Place and headed home.

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            My relationship right now with Caroline is suspended in time. I watch her life unfold on my computer screen in sequences of tagged Facebook photos: sunny, colorful and smiling. I sense she is doing better, but I no longer trust my senses. I have to do more than “sense” or “hope” she’s okay. I need to make sure she is doing better so I will start little: text messages, snap chats. When we reunite in December maybe we’ll have a long talk, similar to the one I had with Maria months ago but there will be snow on the ground and a bite in the air. I can’t predict what the future yields; the same way ten years ago I couldn’t have predicted the decay of my relationship with Caroline. But for now, I’m not ready to let go of the after-school, two Chips Ahoy memories we have. I won’t give up on us, not yet.

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