Musings that Have Nothing to do with Spain
I knew a girl called Catherine (well her name was Katya, but we all called her Catherine). I think she was Russian; she spoke with the slightest hint of an accent, anyway. We were never friends, but always friendly. We attended the same middle school, and later the same high school. We'd had more than a handful of classes together-never friends, but always friendly.
My best friend in high school was dating Catherine's best friend. One night, he and I were on a walk through one of the paths that extends out from my neighborhood, connecting it to the surrounding ones.We were talking about Catherine and the fragility of human existence (you know, normal topics of conversation among teenagers) when we encountered a cat. The cat, a stray we named Katherine after our classmate*, walked with us for a while, then disappeared for a while before rejoining us to walk for a while before disappearing for a while. This went on for the majority of the duration of our walk, until eventually after the fourth or fifth time, Katherine the cat disappeared and never rejoined us.
I take you now to an unremarkable Thursday morning. I was in my junior year math class when the morning announcements came on, done by a fellow student, just like every other day. But unlike every other day, the principal followed with a special announcement of his own. He told us that Catherine, along with another classmate of ours, had been killed in a car accident the night before, and requested a moment of silence. I was stunned and couldn't have made a noise if I had wanted to. Moments passed (or minutes, or hours; I couldn't say) and I was brought back to reality by the girl who sat next to me, who asked me if I was alright. In retrospect, that was a really sweet and brave gesture. Something must have shown on my face, but I insisted that I was okay. Catherine and I weren't friends after all, just friendly. I didn't want the sympathy or the attention. There were more important people, people closer to Catherine, who deserved it much more than I did.
After the funeral, I drove to the site where she died. I was not alone. Parked about 200 yards behind was an SUV. I was standing on the side of the road, looking at the jagged pieces of car littering the ground, when a man came up to me and asked if I knew Catherine. I said I did, and he told me he was here with his wife, who had been driving the other car involved in the crash, and would I like to meet her. The surviving party.
I met our friend's killer. That is a weird thing to say. She couldn't leave the car for a severe leg injury, but she wanted to talk to me. She wanted to talk to one of Catherine's friends, but not only that, but she seemed to really want me to know that I was making the choice to talk to her. She had her husband walk over and preface the conversation I was about to have, and ask me if I'd like to meet her, and assert that she would understand if I didn't.
The walk to the car was long, but over before I wanted it to be. I didn't really know what I expected to be there in the passenger seat, but it turns out it was a woman. Just a person, like me.
She cried. She told me what had happened, but I didn't really want to hear it. Speed was a major factor, as I'd heard many times in the preceding days. She told me that God had said that it wasn't her fault. She knew in her heart that it wasn't her fault. I told her that I knew it, too. Of course it wasn't her fault. But still it felt empty to say. It was true, certainly, but I didn't feel like it would mean much coming from me. I wasn't her friend, really. We were just friendly, did that really count for anything?
Reporters and news stations were calling her around the clock. They wanted to interview her, to use her to turn Catherine into a local news 4 minute exposé on the driving habits of 16 year-olds. She asked me if she should do it, just get it over with, tell her side of the story, or would it be the wrong move? Would Catherine's friends be forgiving or bitter at hearing from the crash's only survivor? How would they take the interview: As a broken hearted woman trying to right a wrong, or as a killer vying for sympathy on television?
I thought it over for about 3 seconds, and told her not to do it. You know how teenagers are, I told her. Melodramatic and distinctly unforgiving. Let them heal on their own time. I don't think she knew this, but I was telling her all this while feeling like a third party observer. I don't know if I had the authority to speak on behalf of Catherine's friends and loved ones. I wasn't her friend. Just friendly.
She didn't do the interview. I wonder a lot if I made the right choice, if I gave the right advice. I wonder if those closer to Catherine needed to hear from her killer, if it might have given them some comfort or closure. What I said was with the best intention, and from the objective point of view of a not-quite-friend. I still don't want the sympathy, because I still don't deserve it. I just want to know that I did the right thing.
Anyway, I don't know why I'm thinking about this six and a half years later. We weren't even friends, after all.
*I'm not sure why Katherine the cat is spelled with a K, while the girl she was named for was Catherine with a C. It's just how I imagined it in my head.
My best friend in high school was dating Catherine's best friend. One night, he and I were on a walk through one of the paths that extends out from my neighborhood, connecting it to the surrounding ones.We were talking about Catherine and the fragility of human existence (you know, normal topics of conversation among teenagers) when we encountered a cat. The cat, a stray we named Katherine after our classmate*, walked with us for a while, then disappeared for a while before rejoining us to walk for a while before disappearing for a while. This went on for the majority of the duration of our walk, until eventually after the fourth or fifth time, Katherine the cat disappeared and never rejoined us.
I take you now to an unremarkable Thursday morning. I was in my junior year math class when the morning announcements came on, done by a fellow student, just like every other day. But unlike every other day, the principal followed with a special announcement of his own. He told us that Catherine, along with another classmate of ours, had been killed in a car accident the night before, and requested a moment of silence. I was stunned and couldn't have made a noise if I had wanted to. Moments passed (or minutes, or hours; I couldn't say) and I was brought back to reality by the girl who sat next to me, who asked me if I was alright. In retrospect, that was a really sweet and brave gesture. Something must have shown on my face, but I insisted that I was okay. Catherine and I weren't friends after all, just friendly. I didn't want the sympathy or the attention. There were more important people, people closer to Catherine, who deserved it much more than I did.
After the funeral, I drove to the site where she died. I was not alone. Parked about 200 yards behind was an SUV. I was standing on the side of the road, looking at the jagged pieces of car littering the ground, when a man came up to me and asked if I knew Catherine. I said I did, and he told me he was here with his wife, who had been driving the other car involved in the crash, and would I like to meet her. The surviving party.
I met our friend's killer. That is a weird thing to say. She couldn't leave the car for a severe leg injury, but she wanted to talk to me. She wanted to talk to one of Catherine's friends, but not only that, but she seemed to really want me to know that I was making the choice to talk to her. She had her husband walk over and preface the conversation I was about to have, and ask me if I'd like to meet her, and assert that she would understand if I didn't.
The walk to the car was long, but over before I wanted it to be. I didn't really know what I expected to be there in the passenger seat, but it turns out it was a woman. Just a person, like me.
She cried. She told me what had happened, but I didn't really want to hear it. Speed was a major factor, as I'd heard many times in the preceding days. She told me that God had said that it wasn't her fault. She knew in her heart that it wasn't her fault. I told her that I knew it, too. Of course it wasn't her fault. But still it felt empty to say. It was true, certainly, but I didn't feel like it would mean much coming from me. I wasn't her friend, really. We were just friendly, did that really count for anything?
Reporters and news stations were calling her around the clock. They wanted to interview her, to use her to turn Catherine into a local news 4 minute exposé on the driving habits of 16 year-olds. She asked me if she should do it, just get it over with, tell her side of the story, or would it be the wrong move? Would Catherine's friends be forgiving or bitter at hearing from the crash's only survivor? How would they take the interview: As a broken hearted woman trying to right a wrong, or as a killer vying for sympathy on television?
I thought it over for about 3 seconds, and told her not to do it. You know how teenagers are, I told her. Melodramatic and distinctly unforgiving. Let them heal on their own time. I don't think she knew this, but I was telling her all this while feeling like a third party observer. I don't know if I had the authority to speak on behalf of Catherine's friends and loved ones. I wasn't her friend. Just friendly.
She didn't do the interview. I wonder a lot if I made the right choice, if I gave the right advice. I wonder if those closer to Catherine needed to hear from her killer, if it might have given them some comfort or closure. What I said was with the best intention, and from the objective point of view of a not-quite-friend. I still don't want the sympathy, because I still don't deserve it. I just want to know that I did the right thing.
Anyway, I don't know why I'm thinking about this six and a half years later. We weren't even friends, after all.
*I'm not sure why Katherine the cat is spelled with a K, while the girl she was named for was Catherine with a C. It's just how I imagined it in my head.
Well written. It's always good to remember those who shared our lives, even when they weren't "friends."
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