Friday, September 17, 2021
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She Called Me "Sweetie"
Heidi was nearly thirteen and I only four when I came to live in with her and her family. Fresh out of foster care, my brother and I joined the house with four older children. She, the only other girl, had a new roommate. I imagine it had felt very invasive and annoying to share her things—her room, her bed, her dresser, her adolescent stuff—with a small child. And, while mostly compliant, I sometimes failed. I will never forget the chaos (and smell) when I dumped a full bottle of her precious perfume across her bedspread.
Still, she called me “sweetie.”
Heidi took me everywhere and never made me feel unwanted. I recall standing on her feet and dancing to Paul Simon in living rooms where she’d babysit other people’s children. I remember the summer days watching the wedding of Luke and Laura on General Hospital. During the school year, we’d trek after class to her friend’s house and gobbled snacks of tortillas with lime juice and salt. Over and over, we'd listened to her 8-track of Neil Sedaka and memorized every word to Calendar Girl and Laughing in the Rain. We ate french fries dipped in ketchup loaded with black pepper, and milkshakes at the local Coral Restaurant. Or, we’d get red slushes and jo-jo’s from the Leprechaun grocery deli. We’d roller-skate at the tennis courts, and swim at “the dump,” and she never complained about dragging me along.
She called me “sweetie.”
Heidi read books out loud and fabricated stories to keep me entertained. Patiently writing out the words on a small chalkboard, she’d taught me to read before I started elementary school. With these gifts, she had given me the power to escape to other worlds and helped to build my lifelong love of reading.
And, she called me “sweetie.”
She’d let me comb her beautiful hair and put makeup on her face. At night, we’d play a game called “switch” where we took turns tickling each other’s faces or backs, the other shouting “switch” indicating time to roll over in synchronicity and give the other their turn for the safe and loving touch. She’d cuddle me until I fell asleep and hug me close when I’d cried. When things seemed out of control, she’d assure me that things would turn out alright. She worked to protect me.
Yet, she called me “sweetie.”
Many years passed since we last talked—our relationship slipped to each of us going our own ways with our own families. And now Heidi is gone. She is gone.
Today, I struggle with guilt for lost time. And words unspoken. I believe myself an imposter with no right to her memory or legacy. Yet, I know—without a doubt—if I had one more chance to talk to her and apologize for my absence, just how it would go. I really do. She would take me in her arms for a big hug. She would smile and tell me, “Don’t worry about it.” She’d chuckle and say, “I love you, sweetie.” And she’d mean it.
So, please don’t fret. Don’t waste time on guilt. Or regret the words you missed saying. Don’t rethink the way you left things with her. I assure you. If she stood next to you today, you’d already be forgiven.
She’d call you “sweetie”, too.
