This had nothing to do with Holly.
“How about we make an agreement?”
But I was too busy talking and laughing as we unpacked our things.
By the conference’s end, I knew her better than I did most of my longtime friends.
“We’re kindred spirits!”
we marveled, though on the surface we were opposites.
She was mother to a teenager; I was childless.
But in all the ways that mattered, we were the same.
We laughed at the same things, felt enraged by the same world woes, held the same values.
In that conversation, Holly was like she’d always beenfunny, sweet and kind.
A week later, I e-mailed her with the good newspregnant!
And then, only a day or two after that, with the bad: I’d miscarried.
Neither e-mail elicited a reply.
I was wrong, but still I didn’t make much of it.
I went on vacation, and then, before I knew it, a month had passed.
We were two busy women with full lives.
I certainly didn’t take Holly’s lack of contact personally.
She didn’t call back.
And so it went, as spring passed into summer, her silence continuing.
This is peculiar, I finally thought.
I wrote, I called, I e-mailed.
I shifted from being slightly offended to deeply worried about her; from hurt to angry to confused.
Still, it wasn’t impossible for me to excuse her behavior.
Holly was simply going through a strange time, I told myself.
I would hear from her soon, she would explain it all and everything would be OK.
I said too cheerfully into the silence of her voice mail.
“I’m here.”
With each passing day she didn’t contact me during that trip, I felt increasingly disturbed.
I considered driving to her house, demanding she explain why she’d disappeared.
She wasn’t connected to anyone I knew.
Perhaps she had developed amnesia and forgotten me.
More often, I questioned my own role.
Had I said something that caused offense?
I came up with nothing.
But I knew that none of these things was true.
Holly was one of the most well-adjusted people I’d ever met, not given to extremes or drama.
So I periodically Googled her, dreading I’d find her obituary.
Nine months after our last conversation, I wrote her a letter, begging her to respond.
I promised I’d never contact her again.
Nevertheless, a month later, I e-mailed, then sent a card.
I alternated direct appeals for an explanation with cheerful bits of newsI’m pregnant!
I sold my novel!as if pretending that things were normal would make them so.
Not one was answered or returned.
Holly was receiving them, I was certain.
She simply wouldn’t reply.
Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.
I’d lost friends, mostly as the result of distance or too little time.
A few friendships ended more explosively, because of conflicts or betrayals.
But I’d never literallylosta friend.
Nothing about what happened with Holly was comprehensible.
Why had she disappeared from my life?
Over time, I’ve gradually accepted things as they are.
That’s as close as I can get to resolution.
I don’t send Holly letters anymore.
It’s been ages since I’ve Googled her.
She’s gone, and so I’ve had to let her go.
Yet there are still times I replay it in my mind, the questions changing over the years.
Recently, I’ve wondered how much my giving love depends on my getting it in return.
Could I separate my love for Holly from her lack of love for me?
Must I stop loving her simply because she chose to withdraw herself from my life?
The answer isn’t clear-cut.
Even if she wanted to be friends again, I doubt I’d take Holly back.
When I refer to her now, it’s as a former friend who did me wrong.
I’ve decided itispossible to keep Holly near while letting her go.
Photo Credit: Aaron Horowitz/Corbis
