Illustration by Victoria Borges
It’s been more than 15 years since I lived in my childhood home in a small Virginia town at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I can still picture the route to Kamala’s house.
Take a left out of my driveway, and another left onto the main road. Drive a few miles and turn right onto Independence Boulevard. Go to the end, take a left, go under the bridge, take the next right, and I’m there.
It’s a route I’ve traveled countless times in the past 30-plus years.
Kamala loves to tell the story of how we met in a bathtub at the public library when we were both 3 years old. Filled with cushions and soft toys, the white claw-foot tub had been converted into a reading nook. That’s where we ended up next to each other during story time one summer day, our moms probably nearby chasing our younger brothers.
As we grew up, my house was her house, and hers was mine. I can remember eyeing her extensive American Girl doll collection — Molly, Felicity, Addy and Kirsten neatly lined up across the frilly yellow comforter on her white post bed. The hours spent having sleepovers and watching movies on the old TV in her living room that looked like a piece of furniture, operated with a dial. And the summer night we celebrated the end of band camp playing “light as a feather, stiff as a board” in her sloping backyard, surrounded by trees and lightning bugs.
We were on the tennis team and joined Girl Scouts and pretty much every other activity together. Her mother, Mrs. Payne, was even my kindergarten teacher. In fact, our parents were often surrogates for each other. When our Girl Scout troop went to Europe, Mrs. Payne was responsible for me. And Kamala and I were only allowed to join our friends at senior beach week if Mr. Payne stayed in the condo with us.
Later that summer, Kamala and I both left for college. She went to Mary Baldwin College, while I went to James Madison University. The distance between our houses went from 10 minutes to 30, and our lives naturally went in separate directions. Other than breaks, I can only remember a handful of times when we visited each other at school. We stayed in touch via our moms, who at that point were teaching in adjoining classrooms.
After graduation, when Kamala landed a job as a scientist in Richmond, I rode with her to look at apartments. I had moved home to figure out my next move, and I was living vicariously through her as she moved to “the big city.”
As I read off the directions from our MapQuest printout, Kamala exited the interstate and turned down Monument Avenue. We were certain the cheap apartment she had found on Craigslist was inside one of those homes. Let’s just say, it wasn’t quite that nice.
We spent the rest of the day driving around and exploring. It was my first taste of the city I would eventually call home (after a brief detour to D.C.).
More than 10 years later, we’re back to living about 10 minutes away from each other. When my husband and I bought our first house in North Side, Mrs. Payne happened to be in town for a visit. She had Kamala drive her there — I’m not sure we had even moved in yet — so she could text pictures to my mom.
Kamala and I still go through phases when we speak constantly, and weeks when our moms keep us updated.
But I always know if I need her, I just have to take a left out of my alley, and a left onto the main road. I’ll drive a few miles, go over the bridge, take the next right, and I’m there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kim Catley followed Kamala’s lead and moved to Richmond in 2007. She now shares her home with her husband, toddler son and greyhound.
