It Happened on Maple Street

Opening the box he saw two things that put a smile on his face: the pink yarn Tara had left on his class ring, and the glass-horse earrings that she’d left in his bedroom on Maple Street almost thirty years before. He wondered what she was doing. Where she was living. Hell, she could still be in Huber Heights, less than an hour away.

He had time. A computer. And in the past few years the Internet had made it possible to find just about anyone.

After a couple of hours of an exhausting searching that led absolutely nowhere, he thought of Classmates.com. He knew Tara had gone to Wayne High School. And that she’d graduated in 1977. He typed in her maiden name, expecting another dead-end.

“I’ll be damned,” he said out loud. He couldn’t believe it. Tara Gumser. The name was right there. She’d registered with Classmates.com. Which meant that she was out there somewhere. Or that she had been somewhat recently.

He could even send her a message.

If he registered with Classmates.com. So he would. A little thing like filling in a few blanks wasn’t going to slow him down. He was on a mission now.

He’d hurt two women because he hadn’t been able to let go of Tara enough to love another fully. And he’d never told Tara how he felt about her. He had to rectify that.

He registered. He was in. And he started typing.

January 21, 2007

Wow! I can’t believe I actually found you . . .

On Sunday night I slept like a baby. I had no idea where my life was going, but I’d reached a place of total honesty that brought a measure of peace. Of total acceptance. And when I woke up Monday morning, I lay in the bed, completely alone, and realized something: I was who I was. And, overall, I liked me. I knew my heart, my intentions. I knew that I really cared about other people and wanted to make a positive difference in the world. I knew that I gave my all. I tried my best—always. I meant well. Deep inside, away from the things I’d done and the things that had happened to me, I was still the young woman who’d driven to Wright State University in the fall of 1977 with conviction in her heart.

I was a good person. I really believed that.

It didn’t matter anymore if anyone else did.

At least, it didn’t matter then.

I realized, as I lay in the bed that next morning, staring at the generic painting of a colorful garden on the wall across from the bed, that I’d been moving toward this point for a long time. And in the end, it had only taken hours to get here.

Chris hadn’t been happy with me. But I h

adn’t been happy with him, either.

My happiness mattered.

I waited for the guilt to descend, to spread over me, consume me. You’re the most selfish individual I’ve ever known. Chris’s words played in my brain.

I don’t know whether it was the hotel, or if I’d really come through a thirty-year storm into the sunlight, but I seemed to have landed in a guilt-free zone.

You’re an incredible, giving, caring woman, Tara. Your readers relate to you because you get life. You get what matters. You’re loyal and honest. And a great friend.

Words from one of my writer friends came to visit me as I lay there. And I knew she’d be proud of me if she could see me right then.

I thought about calling her. But knew now wasn’t the time. I wasn’t calling my mother, either. This moment was for me. I had to get through it on my own.

I wasn’t quite as needy and helpless as I’d believed for so long. With TTQ’s help I’d somehow become the strong, capable woman who’d first walked into geology class. One who’d had experience that had brought understanding. And, I hoped, compassion.

And if I wasn’t, I could be. I would be.

Chris might be right. Maybe I was just selfish beyond belief. James had said I do things to men. I bring out the worst in them. Maybe they were both right.

And maybe not.

Maybe I had something to offer the world that neither one of them saw. I used to believe that I had plenty to offer. I used to be excited about the idea of contributing to the betterment of the world.

I was up, showered, and back in my car by seven. I had work to do. A book to finish. But as I drove, I thought about the past ten years of living virtually on my own. Emotionally isolated.

And I thought about what I knew about myself. My bottom-line goal. I wanted to love and be loved.