I should have been getting ready to go. I should have been in the shower or brushing my teeth or any number of other things I needed to do. Instead, I sat cross-legged on my living room floor and opened the box of old photos the postman had just delivered from my mother. Somehow in the move I had forgotten to pack it and was glad to have it in my possession again. It had been more than a decade since I had even looked through its contents but somehow putting my hands on it as I sat brought a sense of comfort, familiarity. The knot of anxiety in my gut loosened as I lifted out piles of photos, stacked them on the coffee table.
Pictures of my ‘before’ life flipped by as my fingers shifted each photo from the front of a stack to the back. Friends from various stages of my life, school field trips, photos of cute boys taken on the sly. I found myself overcome by emotion, from elation to grief and every nuance of feeling in between.
One photo in particular had me laughing and mentally strolling along the familiar streets of my youth. It was taken the summer before sixth grade. It was when our friendship was strongest, and we had thought, as kids are inclined to think, that it would last forever. Just the two of us, her arm around my shoulders, a grin that stretched the width of her face and eyes that always sparkled with more than a bit of mischief.
She was the girl I wanted to be like but was never able to muster the courage with which she was so naturally infused. By appearance she was just like the rest of us. Her wild curls brushed smooth and tamed into a high ponytail at the back of her head. Somehow, though, she was still different. Not necessarily better. But definitely more.
Hadley wasn’t afraid of anything. She never made people feel bad about being afraid but she didn’t let them hold her back either.
Oftentimes spring in New England meant rain. And with rain came puddles. The best puddle Hadley had ever seen pooled along the sidewalk that ran alongside the softball field at our middle school. It must have been at least fifteen feet long. Like every other girl we walked with, I had stepped around the puddle into the grass and kept walking. Not Hadley.
As usual, the other girls didn’t wait but I had to know, to see with my own eyes, what Hadley would do. Like a sprinter before a race, she stood at the top of the puddle, eyed the length of it. Shifting her weight from one Ugg-booted foot to the other, she hiked up her backpack, tightened the straps. At the sound of the starting gun only she could hear, with great leaping strides, she took off directly down the center of the puddle. Like a speed boat through the ocean, water splashed to the sides as she cut through, step after step after step.
The first thing I’d thought of was how mad my parents would be if I had done that, and then how uncomfortable Hadley would be for the rest of the day in soaking wet fleece-lined boots.
Like I said, Hadley was different. As she completed her last stride, she jumped, both feet together, and landed on the dry pavement at the end of the puddle. Head thrown back, fists thrust into the air, Hadley gloried in her triumph.
“Can we go now?” I had asked.
With a triumphant nod and a grin, she walked next to me, her feet making little squishing noises with every step she took.
Returning the photo to the box, I dabbed the tears of laughter that had collected at the corners of my eyes. I hadn’t thought of Hadley or the Puddle Incident, as it had come to be known, in years.
Then a glance at the clock set my heart racing. Somehow my trip down memory lane lasted well over an hour, meaning I would have to haul my butt into gear if I was going to make it on time. I had only been in this new city for a few weeks and I still didn’t know my way around all that well, especially in the dark.
I cursed myself for giving in to sentimentality as I ran the brush through my hair, finally gave up and pulled it up into a ponytail. A passing glimpse in the mirror told me I was presentable enough, so I grabbed my purse and hightailed it out the door.
At the front door of AJ’s Steakhouse a grip of fear took hold in my gut. With my hand on the doorknob I stood, panicking. What if this guy didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like him? What if we avoided talking through dinner? What if we had nothing to talk about and we sat in silence the whole time? What if he ate his peas one at a time? What if? What if? What if?
After mentally slapping myself in the face I pulled the door open. Then I let it close. Opened it. Let it close again. Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw her. I heard her. “What are you so afraid of?” memory-Hadley asked. “Just open the door and get your butt in there!”
Tightening my ponytail and squaring my shoulders, I adjusted my imaginary backpack. At the sound of the starting gun that only I could hear I yanked the door open and stepped through, cut a path straight down the middle of the puddle of “What Ifs?” that stood between me and what could be.
E.A. Brady 