Under the Birch Tree

by Nancy Chadwick

  “Mom, I’m just trying to make it through each day. It’s different at school, there’s lots of work, and new people, and the girls are different. They’re really smart. It’s easy for them …” I tried to explain this to Mom as she prepared dinner in the kitchen. I wanted her to stop, put the knife down, and turn around to look at me. I hoped she would see the brink of my tears or hear the sadness in my voice or even feel my weariness as much as her own. How much I wanted my mom to sit with me a while and hold my hand and tell me everything would be all right. I needed a support and cheerleader like I had been to her when she was faced with something new. She owed me this comfort in kind. But she continued working in the kitchen, back and forth with her back turned to me, void of response.

  Martha, my friend from Carlisle, was also my classmate, but her acceleration in classes, her membership in student council, and her other extracurricular activities separated us. We were no longer practicing friends but just two girls who had grown up together. What had bound us in girlhood had been detached. We had disconnected, my friend excelling while I moved laterally, trying to find my way with little progress.

  I yearned for home, for the once-innate connections that I had embraced freely and automatically as Dad seemed to have done in his new home. Dad had started over, making new connections to a wife, friends, church, and home. He had done this with ease, as if the other end of the connection was already there, and he just had to join his end. I still struggled to connect with other ends. All I could see was that which wasn’t connected.

  if only I weren’t fifteen

  I turned fifteen the summer after I completed my freshman year. My journal writing started then with a pink hardcover book that invited me to fill its empty lined pages. A latch glued to the back of the book fit snugly into a lock glued to the top. I held my first journal in my hands, a gift from my mother. She thought every girl my age should keep a diary, especially a pink one. I thought so too. When I had been introduced to my new best friend, I had giggled, knowing I would soon be sharing my secrets. And then I grew serious. I was ready to transfer my thoughts and dreams and hopes from my heart, to commit them permanently to paper, filling my book with the joys of expectations. Neither out of reach nor out of mind, my journal rested on the middle shelf in the middle cubby atop my bedroom desk as the center of attention, where Nancy Drew mysteries, a black ceramic bank that was indeed a pig, and a small terrarium surrounded it. I lifted my book of secrets and confessions from its place, held it firmly in anticipation of forthcoming dialogue, and carried it to a sequestered spot on the floor at the foot of my bed, ready to commence writing upon release of the latch.

  I began the first line of my journal entry: “I guess I got into the habit of writing my thoughts when we had to keep a journal for Morality class… . My mind has expanded so much so that I find a need to write things down.” Journal writing fulfilled my need to organize my thoughts, to have a conversation with … someone, to feel not alone, to learn about myself. I was a young girl growing up, eager for clarity in an adult world I found disorienting. My vision of the world was not just about me but about everything else alive. I began to think about having a place, and that there must be a purpose. I yearned for inner guidance to navigate my world, to understand that there are other Nancys and houses and Carlisle Streets worlds away. And then I continued about some guys named Tom and Bob who were at my house with Lynn and Adam and what a great time we had.

  My journal became the emotional cauldron of my yearning to meet boys—not necessarily to have a boyfriend, but to attract male companionship. That summer was great … well, good … but maybe not so good, because being fifteen was awkward with harbored yearning for male attention and social interaction with others my age.

  I remember Bob, a stocky lifeguard with light brown hair and blue eyes, who worked that summer at the swimming pool next to the parking lot. I would watch him from my bedroom window as he sauntered, displaying any new athletic injuries to his legs with a stiffness in his gait. He was a college guy at Michigan State, and I was excited to have met a new friend. I wanted him to like me; I craved the attention and validation that someone wanted to be with me. It had been a long time since I’d felt good about something.

  Going to the pool before dinner and on weekend afternoons was an alternative to staying home with my mother and having to share in her malaise, complaints, and sadness. I rested on my beach towel, draped on top of a sticky, strappy white plastic chaise lounge chair poolside, with noises on every level unconditionally welcoming my presence. This was my place to be at that moment.

  It was weeks into the summer before I had enough confidence to say hello to Bob. Until then, the dialogue in my head played, rewinding to rehearse what I was going to say.

  “I had to get in here, getting hot. Water is nice and cool,” I said to Bob, squinting at him as he walked near the pool’s edge. The sun and his face competed against each other for my eyes’ focus.

  “Yep,” he said in a deep voice. I caught him stealing a glance at me.

  “Busy today?”

  “No, not too bad, except for these kids, lots of kids,” he said, surveying the pool’s dimensions.

  “Yep.”

  “How long are you stayin’?”

  “I don’t know, till dinner or so. Why?”

  “You comin’ back after dinner?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “Then it’ll clear out and I can talk.” He spoke as if our conversation were covert, with subtle lip movement and eyes concealed by sunglasses.

  I was confused. I was excited. I was confident. I was feeling attractive in my own tanned skin wearing a bikini. With my womanhood underway starting in junior high, I wasn’t toting my chubbiness anymore as I had through middle school. My maturity had worked with me as I entered high school; my petite frame was coming into focus.

  Most nights I returned to the pool after dinner and stayed till closing. Bob and I would stretch out on our lounge chairs underneath a spotlight. The white cement beneath our feet glowed in the dark after absorbing the sun’s rays all day. He and I were alone. The quiet was magical, the darkness mystical. Silence was punctuated by the rhythmic overtures of chirping crickets, buzzing cicadas, and burping frogs in a symphony that was so summer. The season slowed; I dreaded the ending of moments like these. The unity of Bob, me, and the summer’s night created a dance where I swayed with the rhythm of present moments. Life was good again.

  As the summer spent her days, I didn’t know what to make of my friendship with Bob. As much as I wanted to encourage a special friendship, I couldn’t. I got stuck. And being fifteen was the hurdle. I could not have made Bob more aware I was available to be a steady girlfriend or a Friday-night date. I would arrive early before he opened and stay late to help him close.

  One morning the pool opening was delayed. “Come on, come with me. This rain should pass soon,” he said, directing me to come with him to the clubhouse.

  My heart raced. Alone? With Bob? I played it cool and met every step with his as he opened the door for me.

  Inside I noticed the earthy colors of the room and the scent of damp, fresh wood as if I were in a cabin in the woods, only this house was in a parking lot. The chunky furniture, in shades from chocolate brown to light tan, was cozily arranged with a dark green carpet underfoot. The setting was conducive to an intimacy that made me uncomfortable.

  I was cold and shaky sitting at the card table across from him. Maybe it was nerves, excitement, or the cold blasts from an out-of-whack air conditioner that contributed to my trembling.

  “So, when do you think you’ll reopen?” I asked. I tried to spark conversation, maybe initiating direct eye contact.

  “Huh?” He raised his head from the sports page of the newspaper. “Probably in a couple of hours.” He resumed reading.

  “And you’ll just stay here?”

  “Yep, too far to go home and then come back.” He turned the page.

  I looked away
from him to chairs in front of a large stone fireplace complementing the cozy structure, trying to pull something to say from the blank air space.

  “You know, there’s just not many people around here to be friends with … I just hate being fifteen.” I thought I’d encourage personal conversation by divulging what was on my mind, as if bearing a secret to a clandestine lover.

  “Why? It’s okay. Nothing wrong with it. We talk. We’re friends,” he said. The sports page was clearly more interesting than I was.

  “Yeah, I guess. Well, I’m gonna go now. I’ll see you later.”

  Time had stopped for those few minutes. The intermittent pauses of conversation had shown me a lack of the connection I was hoping for, but I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was being alone with Bob.

  Labor Day 1977. My journal read: “As I look at the summer of ’77, it was probably the best summer I have ever had. I met Bob, had great times with him, and I got the greatest tan. I think for the first time in my life, I kind of feel different in some way. Since all of the difficulties passed with the house and my parents, I now have time to think about me, where I’m going and what I’m going to do. I feel good about it.”

  I read that passage forty years later, and I see how I had started to direct my own destiny. I had started to pull away from the need for Mom to hold my hand, instilling comfort while ensuring me everything would be okay, to becoming more centered on what was making me happy. I was considering my wellbeing, taking control of life’s offerings rather than the previous drama taking control of me. I was growing up.

  No, Bob and I never dated or spent any time together away from the pool, but he did talk to me when he could. Brief conversations between us gave me hope that we were friends, even if he only asked what book I was reading. His conversation and acknowledgment were simple gestures I referred to as “great times.”

  The end of August came quickly, and his summer job ended. He was going back to college. I stayed with him till the closing of the pool.

  “My last night here. Thanks for visiting during the day and keeping me company till close at night,” he said as he crammed his backpack with sundries and headed to the pool’s gate. He had never been this honest or personal with me before.

  “So, can we stay in touch?” I asked as I followed his lead.

  “Sure.”

  “Will you write back?”

  “Sure. I may even call, easier for me.”

  I wanted to keep the conversation going and delay his departure, but I couldn’t think of anything to talk about that would require his attention. I knew the effort would be futile, so I settled for a stroll next to him, noticing his hands’ grasp on a textbook, notebook, and towel. Our arms swayed in sync with our tandem steps. I looked at him and studied his white teeth, blue eyes popping out of a tan face, and messy sandy hair. Would he hug me right now if I weren’t fifteen? Would he kiss me? Would he tell me he’d had a good summer job because I was his companion at night when the pool was empty?

  “I’ll see you. Take care now.”

  I watched him sitting behind the wheel of his pea-green Vega as I had many times before when he’d arrive at the pool and park against the chain-link fence. I felt abandoned as I watched him pull out and away. He wasn’t coming back. I stared unrelenting until his car disappeared around the street’s bend.

  I replayed our closing conversation, keeping my eyes shut to will his face back into my head. I didn’t want to forget what he looked like, or a single word of our goodbye dialogue. He was going to write back, maybe even call. He gave me something to look forward to as I walked across the parking lot to the house. I replayed this assertion in my head to calm the surfacing doubt in my gut. During the school year, I wrote him a few times as if he were my best friend, narrating the minutiae of my high school life. I held on to the possibility that maybe he’d call just in time for the big spring dance. Would he go with me if I asked him?

  “Sorry I’m calling kinda late … by the way, thanks for the cookies … they were a big hit around here … the reason I was calling was to tell you I got pinned.”

  “Pinned? Oh, wow, that’s great. That’s really good.” It all makes sense that he would have a steady girlfriend by now—and now he’s calling to share the “good news” with his little-sister friend. To think that maybe he would have gone out with me if I just weren’t fifteen. I hate being fifteen!

  My heart splintered with loneliness. I yearned for the attention, the familiarity of the connections I had left behind and was struggling to find again. Someone had stepped in to provide the feeling of comfort I got from knowing I was at home. He had made me feel at home.

  Driver’s education class my sophomore year was a long-awaited event. I maneuvered my way into the driver’s seat of a tan 1977 Ford Pinto. The days were warm that first semester in September, and the four of us, including the instructor, were tightly squashed in the two-door. I was stimulated and feeling adventurous. With warm wind blasting through half-opened windows, my cheeks flushed in response to the lack of air conditioning as the Pinto grabbed the open road ahead. I was steering. I was in control of something.

  “Are we going on the expressway today?” I asked my instructor as I buckled up for safety in the driver’s seat.

  “No, nope, not yet,” Mr. Johnson answered, talking to his clipboard while adjusting himself in the passenger seat. “We’ve got to learn to park first,” he mumbled.

  My question to him was an underlying metaphor for permission to break loose. I wanted to hit the road, to gas it past forty miles per hour to catch up to others. My need to overcome my awkwardness, feeling stuck and dull, translated to a need for speed. But first I had to learn how to maneuver through a situation in front of me, to learn how to park before I was ready to break for the open road. This sounded like a mandate for getting through the school year.

  Getting up in the morning for school, especially during the winter, was always a struggle, not because I wasn’t a morning person but because I faced an aura of anxiety created by my mother that spread like a virus due to her lack of feeling in control.

  My only way to get to school was for Mom to drop me off at Martha’s, who remained in the house up the street from the Carlisle house. Whenever we approached her home, I was reminded I didn’t live on this street anymore. There had been many changes, yet this familiarity remained unchanged. I noted how time never erased the familiar, no matter how many changes affected me. My connection to this place was reiterated. My connection was timeless.

  “No snow day. You’ve got school,” Mom said one early winter morning. She turned, plunked a bowl of oatmeal down on the table in front of me, and clicked off the radio to which I’d been listening, hoping to hear the name of my high school.

  “We’ll have to take a cab to Martha’s,” Mom said. On many a snowy winter morning, she deferred to a surrogate driver.

  “What? But it’s just snowing now, there’s nothing sticking on the ground. Can’t you drive me yourself?”

  “I can’t drive in this. Please, Nancy, don’t do this to me. Not now.”

  “Do this to you? What is this? What about me? It’s always about you. Why can’t you just drive like a normal person?”

  My words cried out for her to take care of everything, seamlessly and without anxiety.

  Of course, these arguments were too much for Mom and never ended in my favor. The arduous cab ride to Martha’s made Mom and me edgy. When we finally arrived, Martha wasn’t quite ready, so she politely invited us to step inside. Mom and I sat quietly in the family room until the calming silence lost.

  “Martha, do you think I could bother you for an ashtray?” Mom whispered with a giggle. She was cajoling as if she knew she wasn’t supposed to have one, let alone ask for it.

  “What?” I whispered. “Can’t you just sit without having to light up? You can’t start smoking in their house. You’ll stink it up.”

  I was mortified. I shot Mom an embarrassed look. There were no ash
trays in the house, but a decorative something was found. Mom lit up, took two puffs, and filled the clean air with plumes of smoke, enjoying her fix.

  “I think we need to go, Martha,” I said. I was being parental, taking control by extricating an offender. Martha’s mom never did quite make it to the family room for the visit. Perhaps wafts of Nina Ricci mingled with cigarette odor had wound their way through the house, signaling to her that Mrs. Chadwick was present.

  I started to realize during this school year that I had a voice to my feelings, and owning a voice meant I was gaining some control. Something as simple as learning how to drive became a metaphor for getting behind the wheel of my burgeoning adult life, in control of my steering while directing my speed and direction. I had spoken up to my mother about getting in the car and driving on those winter mornings and about her offensive smoking.

  I was earning my grownup status. If-only-I-weren’t-fifteen soon turned to sweet sixteen, where getting a license was an addition to my grownup ways.

  My junior year of high school was just another year to get through. When it came time to visit prospective colleges, I dreaded it. I didn’t know where I wanted to go or whom I should talk to. Pressure mounted to start planning now for something that was going to happen later—in two years—at a time when I was trying to live one day at a time.

  It was difficult to focus on the future when I was still living in the present. As a young girl, my youthful innocence clung to me when I thought life could not have been any better, as I posed for my picture on my first day of kindergarten. My girlhood days were automatic, with each advancing school year temporarily interrupted by steamy summer days and warm, muggy nights. But after high school, I would be in a grownup world where adult responsibility would replace childhood ambitions. I prayed for divine intervention and guidance as I invoked my Catholic ways and the Lord. I tried to remain positive because I trusted it would work out.

  I participated in college open house day in body but not in spirit. I wasn’t ready to face that day of planning my future. I eyed the smiley people, representatives of popular private colleges, as I plodded past them, standing behind the brochures, placards, and posters displayed upon tables in front of them, resisting their grab for my attention to tell me they wanted me. But did I want them? How did I know now if I would want to be a part of them in a couple of years? I couldn’t make these decisions. I was just trying to get through the school week.