The dinner plates were being cleared when Brenda approached me again.
This time, she wasn't smiling.
She held a small glass of water.
"May I sit?"
I looked at Carol.
Carol understood without asking.
"I'll go check on the photographs."
She left us alone.
Brenda pulled out the chair.
She sat down and placed her glass on the table.
For a few seconds, she stared at her hands.
Then she looked up.
"I've been thinking about what you said."
I waited.
"About the apron."
I nodded.
She took a breath.
"I shouldn't have done that."
It was a simple sentence.
No excuse attached.
No explanation about the budget.
No complaint about the missing servers.
I looked at her carefully.
"Why did you?"
She seemed uncomfortable.
"I don't know."
I didn't believe that was the whole answer.
Brenda had always known what she was doing.
She had known which words would embarrass me.
She had known which moments would attract an audience.
She had known when to laugh.
I looked down at the tablecloth.
"Do you remember my prom dress?"
Her face changed.
For a moment, she seemed genuinely confused.
Then she nodded.
"The blue one?"
I swallowed.
"My mother made it."
"I remember."
"She worked on it for three weekends."
Brenda looked away.
I continued.
"She was proud of that dress."
I could still picture my mother standing beside the mirror.
I could still hear her voice.
You look wonderful.
I had believed her.
Until Brenda made me doubt it.
"At the dance, you told Tommy it was made from tablecloth fabric."
Brenda moved her glass slightly.
"I was seventeen."
"So was I."
She didn't answer.
I looked at her.
"Do you remember what happened afterward?"
She shook her head.
"I went home alone."
I paused.
"Without my coat."
Brenda's eyes returned to mine.
"I didn't know that."
"No. You didn't."
I could have told her more.
I could have described the walk.
The cold.
The porch steps.
My mother sitting beside me.
But I didn't need to give her every detail.
The important part was that she had never wondered what happened after everyone stopped laughing.
She had moved on.
I hadn't.
Brenda looked down.
"I don't remember thinking about it afterward."
I nodded slowly.
"I know."
That was perhaps the hardest thing to explain.
The people who hurt you don't always carry the memory.
Sometimes they forget the words they said before the person they hurt has even reached home.
Brenda rubbed her forehead.
"I was cruel to you."
I didn't respond.
She continued.
"I suppose I enjoyed being the one everyone listened to."
I looked at her.
"Yes."
She gave a small, uncomfortable laugh.
"I wasn't exactly a nice person."
"No."
The word came out more quickly than I intended.
She looked surprised.
I almost apologized.
Then I decided not to.
There was no reason to protect her from a truth she had finally begun to acknowledge.
Brenda took another drink.
"I remember your tenth reunion."
I nodded.
She looked toward the ceiling for a moment.
"I introduced you as the woman with the little coin laundry."
I remembered that evening very clearly.
I had been standing near the dinner tables.
Brenda had approached with a group of former classmates.
She had asked what I was doing.
When I told her about the laundromat, she had smiled and introduced me as the owner of a cute little coin laundry.
The others had laughed.
I left before dinner was served.
"Yes," I said.
"I shouldn't have said that either."
I looked at her.
"Why did you?"
She seemed to struggle with the question.
Then she shrugged.
"I thought it was funny."
I nodded.
"That was the problem."
She stared at me.
I continued.
"You thought it was funny when I was embarrassed. You thought it was funny when other people laughed. You thought it was funny when I walked away."
Brenda's eyes became wet.
She looked down quickly.
"I didn't realize you remembered all of it."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Why wouldn't I?"
She didn't answer.
I wasn't asking her to feel sorry for me.
I wasn't asking her to fix fifty-five years.
But I wanted her to understand that the things she had treated as jokes had become part of someone else's life.
My mother had spent years trying to teach me not to confuse cruelty with truth.
It had taken me much longer than I wanted to admit.
Brenda finally spoke.
"Did you ever hate me?"
I considered the question.
There had been years when I did.
I had hated the sound of her laugh.
I had hated seeing her name on reunion invitations.
I had hated the way my stomach tightened whenever someone mentioned Oakridge High.
But hatred had never built anything for me.
It had only kept me connected to those old moments.
"Sometimes," I answered.
She nodded.
"I understand."
I shook my head slightly.
"I don't think you do."
She looked at me.
"Hating you never made me feel better. It just meant I kept carrying those years around."
Brenda wiped the corner of one eye.
"I am sorry, Martha."
I looked at her.
This time, I believed she meant it.
That didn't mean everything had suddenly become fine.
It didn't mean I trusted her.
It didn't mean I wanted to become friends.
But I could hear the difference between an excuse and an apology.
And I appreciated that she had finally offered one.
I took a small sip of coffee.
"Thank you."
She nodded.
Then she looked toward the ballroom entrance.
"I suppose I should go back to my table."
"All right."
She stood.
Before leaving, she paused.
"Your company sounds wonderful."
"Thank you."
"You must be proud."
I thought about Arthur.
I thought about the old machines.
The leaking roof.
The first nursing home contract.
The nights when we wondered whether we would have enough money to make the next payment.
"Yes," I said. "I am."
She gave a small nod.
Then she walked away.
I watched her return to her friends.
Nobody applauded.
Nobody announced that an apology had taken place.
The reunion continued around us.
And that was how it should have been.
Some conversations are not meant for an audience.
Carol returned a few minutes later.
She sat beside me.
"Did you talk?"
"Yes."
"How did it go?"
I looked at the empty chair Brenda had left behind.
"Honestly."
Carol smiled.
"That's a start."
I nodded.
It was.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: When the Evening Finally Settled, I Realized the Apron Had Never Been the Embarrassing Thing, and I Had Nothing Left to Prove
At Seventy-Three, I Thought I Had Finally Outgrown the Girl Who Used to Make Me Ashamed of Everything I Wore
Part 7 of 10
One Comment on “PART 7 – When Brenda Finally Sat Across From Me Without an Audience, I Learned That Some People Remember Their Cruelty Differently”