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I had a dream last night about my friend Jill.
Jill and I met in third grade in children�s choir at my church. Mrs. Thorpe was our choir director. Every Wednesday, she�d gather about 15 little girls in one of the Sunday school rooms and lead us through "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" and "Jesus Walked This Lonesome Valley" and other such children�s choir-appropriate songs. Then one Sunday a month, we�d all don these little white robes with big red bows at the neck and sing a couple ditties for the congregation at large. We were adorable. All these blonde-haired, blue-eyed children, faces scrubbed and shiny, angelic, really. Makes me gag to think back on it.
Anyway, my parents and I had just started going to the church when my mom decided choir would be good for me. The first Wednesday I went, I met Jill. We didn�t like each other at first. In fact, she wrote a composition for her third grade class about how I was a snob. Somehow, though, we ended up being friends, and then we were Friends, and then we were "BBF", which is the highest ranking you can get in the world of little girls (if you were never a little girl, that would stand for "best buddies 4-eva!").
We went to separate elementary schools, but played at each other�s houses after school at least twice a week. When we started fifth grade, we were thrilled to discover we�d been assigned to the same classroom. Our luck held in sixth grade, too. In junior high and high school, we never had a class together, but our lives were so intermingled, that didn�t matter. We ate lunch together, joined the same clubs, participated in the same after-school activities. We had crushes on the same boys. We talked on the phone every night, sometimes for two or three hours. When I�d go to my grandparents� house in the summer, we�d cry at being separated.
Even after graduation, we stayed just as close. She went away to school. I stayed behind. We wrote letters, visited whenever possible, ran up impossibly huge phone bills. Every Wednesday night, we�d watch 90210 together long distance. She was my best friend.
She was with me the day my dad died. I�d driven over to her house to pick her up for a trip to the mall. When I walked in, her mom said my mom had called, and I needed to stop back at my house first. Not thinking anything of it, we drove back to my house and parked. We walked inside to find my mom and stepdad standing in the kitchen, full of bad news. Jill caught me when I fell and didn�t leave my side for three days.
She was there when Brian broke my heart, held my hand in the days that followed when I�d lost the will to do anything but breathe, and kept everyone else a safe distance when I didn�t want to talk about it any more.
Christmas Eve, several years ago, she and her boyfriend walked into my mom�s living room and announced their engagement, Jill brandishing her ring in front of her like a passport to a better life. On New Year�s Eve, she asked me to be her Maid of Honor. I, of course, accepted. We�d planned this moment long ago�we�d always promised we�d be each other�s maids of honor and godmothers to each other�s children. This was a no-brainer.
The wedding planning started, and Jill transformed into Bridezilla.
I don�t even know how to describe what happened over the months between the proposal and the wedding vows, but it almost killed our friendship. By the time the wedding actually happened, one friend had quit her bridal party and another was hanging on by a thread. The whole process made me sad. She went on her honeymoon and I tried to remember why we�d been friends in the first place.
In the two years that followed her wedding, I barely saw her at all, except while we were planning another wedding, my friend Carla�s. Somewhere in the weeks just before Carla got married, I found out I was pregnant. I had the abortion less than two weeks before the ceremony. It was the hardest summer of my life. I couldn�t tell Jill about any of it. I knew she�d think less of me as a person if she knew the truth.
Shortly after, Jill announced she was pregnant. Her baby was born a month after what would have been the Artboy�s and my child�s first birthday. She called me from the hospital. I couldn�t bring myself to go see her. Lauren, her daughter, was two weeks old before I held her in my arms. Jill�s sister-in-law and her husband are Lauren�s godparents.
These days, I hardly ever see Jill at all. Our lives have gone in vastly different directions, and I always get the feeling she disapproves of the choices I�ve made. She and her husband bought the house next door to her parents and have the model American lifestyle. I live in the city in an apartment and, up until the Boyfriend, practiced the Rock and Roll Lifestyle. Yesterday, the Boyfriend and I were trying to figure out when the last time we saw Jill and her husband was. They invited us to dinner last March. I�ve seen her twice since then.
Last night, I dreamed that Jill and Geoff decided to renew their vows, and she called to ask if I would stand up for her again. It was a strange dream. I showed up for the ceremony in shorts with no shoes.
I know at least in part where the dream came from. All the talk about weddings in my life has brought back the question of the bridal party. I was Jill�s Maid of Honor. In no way do I want her to be mine. If I ask someone else, will that end our "friendship" for good? Should the thought even bother me? I don�t know what to do.
Not that I don�t have plenty of time to make a decision, but it still bothers me. These are the things that weigh heavy on my head.
Jill and I used to sing the song "Old Friends" by Simon and Garfunkle together. "Old friends, old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends." It was going to be us, years from today. The prospect of that never happening makes me very sad.
In other news, the Boyfriend joined us for Buffy Night last night. After everyone was gone, I shared the Artboy�s email with him. Then I answered the Artboy and came clean on all the omitted details. Afterwards, the Boyfriend and I had a long conversation about all sorts of things, mostly not Artboy-related. He�s ceasing to be a presence between us. My sense of relief continues.
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