Oldest Friends | V.J. Hamilton

Imogen stands at the entrance to Blythewood Cemetery, a canvas tote of books looped over her shoulder causing a crick in her back. Already she regrets how quickly she flew out of the house, without checking her messages. Her friend Stella was likely delayed, leaving a bubbly last-minute message, whereas she, Imogen, rushed down here like clockwork, instead of letting life unfold naturally like a freshly washed cloth on a breezy day.

Imogen squints at the map painted on a plywood sign. Pain pinches her chest. She keeps looking for “You Are Here” but does not see it. Except for this flaw, the map would be helpful, with all the labelled places. There is even a defibrillator location marked on the map. Imogen wonders if that might not be conflict-of-interest at a cemetery.

 “There you are!” cries a voice behind her.

“Stella!” The two women embrace amid profuse apologies. Yes, Stella says, she had left a message saying she’d be a “teensy bit late”; something to do with finding a kid’s textbook; and then she had boarded the wrong bus. It’s always something.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have told you which bus to take,” says Imogen. She does not feel odd, apologizing for her friend’s mistake.

“No problem,” says Stella. “You really need a cellphone, you know.”

“Well, yes. But here we are,” says Imogen. “Look at you! You look fan-tas-tic!” Stylish and professional, Stella could have stepped out of a clipart business photo.

“So do you!” Stella says reflexively. “Let me get a pic.” She holds out her smartphone to get a photo, but Imogen is wiping her nose. Then she’s combing her frazzled hair.

They talk. Or rather, Imogen, the soon-to-be divorcée talks. Venting, unburdening, hashing and rehashing. The crick in her back has vanished. She notices—and is grateful for—the fact that Stella does not tell her what to do. Stella is an ideas generator but makes herself stay neutral to all potential courses of action while Imogen extrapolates and rages. Mainly rages. Stella has no advice; she has only an arm to wrap around her. Her husband has refused to touch her for months—an invisible leper, so she feels—and the contact calms her. Imogen’s chest pain vanishes. For a fleeting moment she imagines something more.

They retrace their route, passing the oldest headstones again. The stones are unreadable—except for the ones they’ve brushed off. Tending—to things, to family, to friends—has always been their once-a-year habit.

Finally, they are at the gate. “Look, I know you have to get home,” says Stella. “But how about tomorrow? I’ll call with a lawyer’s contact info, okay?” Tip-tap, an auto-reminder flies into her phone before Imogen can protest.

Imogen feels fortified; she and Stella share a lingering hug. She wishes it wouldn’t end. Then the women break away; unseen forces tear them apart. There are stones to tend; there are lives to mend. There are houses and jobs and pets and groceries. There are useless maps and dirty sneakers and broken purse straps and cell phone plans and lawyer’s retainers. They hold each other’s shoulders, two swimmers surrounded by wreckage at sea.

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After sojourns in Germany, Japan, and New Zealand, V.J. Hamilton calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, Canyon Voices, and The Penmen Review, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest. Most recently, her fiction appears in The Hong Kong Review.