School Girls

In the last two weeks, I've been communicating with some women I taught years ago at a girls' school when they themselves were girls. On Facebook we chat and gossip and reminisce and share photos. They are strong women and have maintained strong friendships over a long time now and, in some cases, over great distances.

Just within this week, one daughter of an old friend found me on Facebook. We've exchanged lenthy messages and I've seen pictures of her partner and their two children. She has been a completely unexpected connection made through her discovery of my "friendship" with my niece, whom she had just befriended. I think that the last time I saw her, she was 8. That was at least 25 years ago.

This morning, an old friend called from New York just to check in. She and I met in a summer theatre in 1968 and still check in every now and then to see how the other is doing. I have a few other friends like P, but almost no long-term relationships like the McGehee women I know, even though I went to a girls' school too and even though I was once a girl.

When my sister-in-law of forty-one years died about fifteen months ago, my brother and his children organized a memorial service, or a Celebration of Life as it's called in the Episcopalian church. The day was beautiful -- sunny and warm, with clear skies and fall colors. In the courtyard following the service, I stood, somewhat apart from my brother, niece, and nephew, and greeted folks I know.

Among them were a few girls from my prep school. I'd have known their faces anywhere even though I hadn't seen them in years. Another woman, a bit older than I but who attended the same school, came over, spoke to me, and handed me a copy of a photograph I had forgotten posing for: a group of high school friends, relaxing in and around a swimming pool. I don't remember where we were or why we posed, but I think the photographer was a professional.
One of the girls in the front, wearing the white suit, smiles widely into the sun, eyes closed. The photocopy had been hers. She was a brilliant girl, smart and funny, articulate and idiosyncratic. She went to Smith when most of us stayed in the safe south. I used to see her during vacations, when we were in college and for a few years afterwards. Sometime in our twenties, she changed. Her mother told me she had been in a car wreck and suffered some kind of brain damage. Later I heard she had psychological difficulty. I never learned what happened.

I do know that she stopped visiting me and other friends, gained a lot of weight, and became a recluse, shuttered inside the little house she and her mother had long shared. After her mother died, she stayed in the house and rarely left it. I received the photocopy because Betty, who had become diabetic and suffered greatly, even to the extent of having an amputation, had died a sad and lonely death in that house. The woman who brought me the picture was her neighbor who had been allowed to enter the house after Betty's death. She took the copy especially for me.

Some of us former girls have such unexpected and difficult lives. I take strength from friendships forged among women, and for unexpected connections, I celebrate the social fabric of Facebook.