I’m thinking a lot today about my friends. About how blessed I am to have certain people in my life. Like Jane and Mary Clair who came here yesterday to rescue me, on a beautiful Saturday, when surely there were more exciting and wonderful things to do than dig through the mountains of Dave’s chaotic mess of receipts. My elementary and high school friends are still rescuing me, and I’m so thankful.
It struck me yesterday that we are still so high school. In high school, we thought that talking about somebody the minute they turned the corner meant gossiping. But I laugh because we do it now in such a non-judgmental way. We want to protect one another at all costs…. “Girl, ya hurd what she said…” and “Girl, ya think that’s ok? What she said?” “Girl, I’m worried about what she said” If you have some girls in your life who talk about you in hushed and worried tones the minute you turn the corner, you are doing good.
Like the girls who befriended me in Panama City Beach 20 years ago. The ones who heard what happened, and immediately packed their suitcases and just drove here. The ones who actually volunteered to drive with an armed robber to the ATM in my place because I refused to leave my kids. Really. And my ‘muthas’ here in the neighborhood. The ones who cried and prayed and made a tight circle around us and truly did everything I couldn’t do everyday for so many days, and are still doing it. The ones who rescue us repeatedly when I literally can’t be in two places at once. And especially my sister, and my niece. The ones who live 50 steps from my door, the ones who run over barefoot when I call and scream “I.JUST.CAN’T.TAKE.IT.ANYMORE.I.JUST.CAN’T.DO.THIS.” They are the ones I can tell anything to, be really freaky with.
My niece and I found ourselves in the garage last night looking for paint. Suddenly I blurted out, “I found some bloody gloves!” I found them months ago. A girl loves a clue, right? I found the mother of all clues one desperate day, laying down on the cold and dirty garage floor and looking under Dave’s work benches. I pulled them out and realized immediately the bloody latex gloves must have been tossed aside and lost by either the EMS people or whoever cleaned the garage. Prior to this, I could not even find a piece of hair. Nothing. Once big darling and I found a piece on the collar of a soccer fleece, but I dropped it, and we never found it again. Why can’t we find hair? It doesn’t matter, because I have the motherload now. I have his blood. On some gloves. I will die with those gloves. You can bury me with them. I don’t look at them a lot, I don’t take them out. But I know they’re there.
My niece stooped down low and pointed to a tiny spot on the wall. “I found a splatter of blood” she said. Just knowing that when she finds herself in the garage she wastes most of her time looking for a clue makes me feel so much better. So much more normal. Why do we do this I ask her? We have to verify he really existed, she says.