It was a typical day. I ambled along the Intracoastal Waterway with two small dogs in tow, chatting to God and enjoying the birdsong.
I’m in the last stretch of a life well-lived, if not always wisely. As often happens with the aging, memories visit. I thought of a close, loved friend who had shunned me decades ago. The hurt is faint now, but the confusion remains. What had I done to make her reject me like that?
The voice came softly: “You were selfish.”
Selfish? Me? I asked for an explanation, but the silence returned. So I took a trip down Memory Lane.
Her name was Gardi—short for Irmgard. A lanky five-foot-six, boyish, with short, self-cut hair, bottle-green eyes, and an elfin face with dimples. We both worked in travel—she at an agency, I for an airline.
Memories came in rapid flashes. Sitting in the jacuzzi, siphoning wine through a kitchen towel after breaking the bottleneck. Lugging an injured stray onto the back seat of my Volkswagen Beetle. The torrential rainstorm when she stuck her head out the window to guide my driving, and we arrived at the vet, soaking wet. The cat that darted under my wheels, leaving me to board a flight to London with blood across my cream woolen trousers.
We were young, chaotic, and inseparable.
Then life shifted. I remarried and drew my new husband into our circle. Soon after, his work took him abroad. I followed later, moved to Belgium, and stepped into a whirlwind of a new country, learning French and having a baby girl.
I was busy, overwhelmed, and absorbed in my new world. I never wrote. No postcards, no newsy letters. Just silence. This was long before social media.
Yet once a year, when I returned to South Africa, I’d call her first thing, expecting us to pick up where we left off. I wanted to know how she was, what she was doing, what the old in-crowd were up to, and I wanted to tell her about my life. But each time, I met a frosty, standoffish reception I didn’t understand. I even offered to buy her a plane ticket to visit, but she refused.
Then came the final year. Her response was brief: It would be better if you didn’t contact me again.
Forty-five years passed before that soft voice on my walk explained why.
“You were selfish.”
And clarity came. I had left my best friend behind for a new adventure and never looked back. Once a year, when I returned to South Africa, I’d drop into her life, expecting to pick up where we’d left off. I was oblivious to her circumstances. Was she still in the same job? Was she still living with her mother? Was there a new love in her life? Along with awareness came an enormous wave of guilt that squeezed the joy out of my day. Facebook searches brought up nothing. I don’t even know if she is still alive.
We had moved to the United States many years before, one of the most demanding times of my life. It was truly a foreign country, and I floundered. A Catholic priest who had spent time in Europe came to my rescue and fully understood my struggle to adapt to the New World.
The Catholic Church became my new home. The priest was my saviour, leading me by the hand. A motherly nun became my sponsor, and I converted to Catholicism.
I need to confess, but not in a quick in-and-out line before Mass. I want to tell someone our story—hers and mine—and honour what we had. But the priest who brought me into the Church, the man who would have listened and understood, is in Memory Care now. He wouldn’t remember who I am. My sponsor passed away some time ago.
So, I carry my shame and guilt along the water, wondering whether I should call the Monastery and ask if a priest there might sit with me for a while.
