Familiar Stranger

I watched her grow for years, and yet I never knew her name...until yesterday. I would see her along my commute, you know, that period of time after you leave the family you love in the morning until you arrive at your workplace and actually start making a living. In general, people would probably be far more pleasant on the road if this period of time was included on their time sheets. I enjoyed it anyway.

Why did I enjoy it? Well, for quite some time I commuted to downtown Springfield. I sat at multiple red lights while observing the occasional drug deal. My walks to lunch consisted of listening to horns blowing and overshadowing buildings that blocked even the strongest of sunrays. When I finally changed jobs, I couldn't have asked for a sweeter ride.

Changing from the city of Springfield commute to the town of Hampden commute was like someone pulled me from a raging river. There were probably 1,000 trees to every Hampden resident. The sun would shine brighter, or at least the trees were a more lenient guard than the concrete and steel buildings I was accustomed to. No more traffic lights, only two stop signs along a rolling road ... heaven on earth.

The first week I took only a passing notice of the little girl as she stood by her father in their driveway waiting for her bus to arrive. Determined to make an impression, I merely thought to myself "get to work on time, you idiot, it's your first week."

By the second week, I did notice her, or rather something about her that struck me. The Mother of the Year Award would escape my grasp yet again as one day that week I itched to get out of the house after a heated battle with my own daughter to brush her hair before her bus arrived. We parted far from good terms. I was a half mile from my job when I first took notice of the girl waiting in the driveway. She must have been about five or six. She was holding her father's hand, looking up at him with a smile like she was observing the Statue of Liberty up close for the first time.

The father didn't notice her stare as he gazed in the direction of the oncoming school bus. It was obvious he eagerly awaited the bus' quick arrival, for they stood by their car as the exhaust pipe exhaled its steaming fumes. No doubt, ready to begin his own morning commute. He didn't notice his daughter's stare, but I did...and it was the most tender look I had ever seen. As I was driving 35 miles per hour, it was a scene that moved me in all of six seconds. An immense guilt struck me at not being able to see my own daughters off on the bus each morning, messy hair or not.

As the years passed, there were mornings when the father and daughter held hands, at times appearing deep in conversation, then there were other days when they seemed disconnected. She would be shooting baskets while her backpack sat next to her father as he leaned against the back of his car smoking a cigarette. Occasionally the mother would handle bus stop duty. She was impeccably dressed. I imagined similar battles she herself must have engaged in with her own daughter, for the girl was often found wearing ensembles such as pink high striped socks with green polka-dotted shirts. You could tell who won the daily battle by how the little girl was dressed. 

A couple years ago there were suddenly gaps in the bus stop routine. The girl would be away for days, even weeks, at a time. I figured the father most likely decided to take her to school so he could get on to work faster, but often his car remained in the driveway. And then when she returned after these hiatuses, a little light seemed to have left her eyes. She appeared to be a shell of the girl she was before somehow. These periods of absence puzzled me, but I didn't think much about them. After all, I didn't even know these people.

Though I could tell the girl had great spirit, there were times I thought her parents were letting their daughter get away with murder when it came to her hairstyles. It was something else to see a ten-year-old dye her hair hot pink, and another time letting her don a full-fledged Mohawk! I believe in letting my children express themselves, but at this little girl's age, this appearance was ridiculous in my opinion. It wasn't until four years later, yesterday, in fact, that it all suddenly made so much sense.

My general morning routine involves getting a little exercise in the basement and then enjoying a cup of tea while perusing the headlines of the paper before the impending whirlwind of my children getting ready for school begins. I'm not sure what made me break from the usual routine, but I decided to flip to the obituary page…and there she was. My heart wrenched, for her picture was unmistakable.

Pamela C. Stephens
1995-2008

Hampden - Pamela C. Stephens,
13, of Hampden died March 2, 2008
at Mercy Medical Center after a
long illness. She was a lifelong
resident of Hampden. She was
a voracious basketball player,
and an avid Celtics fan, who
declared one day that "if I beat
Leukemia, I will become the first
woman Celtics player." The Celtics'
future just became a little dimmer.
She leaves her mother, Elizabeth,
her father, Edward, numerous aunts,
uncles, cousins and friends who
often voiced their admiration of
her spirit and determination. Services
will be held Wednesday at St. Mary's
Church on Main Street at 10 am.
Pamela's final wish was for attendees
of her funeral to wear green instead
of black.

I read the piece not once, or twice, but three times, and still I could not believe it. My little familiar stranger was gone forever. I thought about her poor parents and doubted I could ever endure losing one of my own children. The tears flowed effortlessly.

"Why are you crying, Mommy?" came my youngest daughter's voice behind me.

I snatched a napkin from the lazy Susan and wiped my tears. "A young girl passed away yesterday." My daughter came closer to look at the paper. I pointed at the picture.

"Did you know her?"

I thought for a moment, "I like to think I did."

"That's sad, Mommy, and it's okay to cry, you know," she said with sudden enthusiasm. "Remember you told me that after Grandpa passed away?"

I smiled and laughed a bit at her innocence and the simplicity of her statement. "Yes, I remember." Then I hugged her and cried harder than before as I realized how blessed I was to have my daughter there at that moment. I'd never experienced comfort like that of feeling my seven-year-old's hand rubbing up and down my back as I sobbed upon her shoulder.


A few weeks have passed. Now that she has gone, my commute has become a trek of emptiness. No longer does anyone stand in the driveway holding hands on cold, bitter mornings. Her father's car is always gone by the time I pass by. Pamela Stephens, a girl I never really knew; Pamela Stephens, a girl I will never forget.



Writer's Group Prompt - Use the word "shell"