An Unexpected Friendship

You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach? Listen to it.

~Sally Kathryn

I don’t know why I didn’t want to go. I just had this feeling that I shouldn’t. I couldn’t pinpoint why I was dreading it. Normally, I was a pretty social person. I loved mingling and road trips.

My good friend was celebrating her “big 4-0.” She was having a huge shindig in her back yard with close to seventy-five guests. The event was going to be catered, complete with a band. Many of my longtime friends who I hadn’t seen in years would be attending as well. I was very excited about the party at first. I was looking forward to the six-hour road trip and an overnight stay in a hotel with my husband. But now as the date neared, I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen if we went.

I expressed my concern to my husband. He assured me I probably had a case of the jitters about leaving our four young children home with a friend who would babysit. Thinking he was probably right, I tried to push my fear aside. After all, my friend has three children of her own, close to my kids’ ages. The kids often played together and got along great. If anything, my kids would have lots of fun and make fond memories.

It was the day before the party. We would be leaving the next morning at 5 a.m. to bring our children to my friend’s house before we hit the road. No matter my logic, I couldn’t help but feel that we shouldn’t go on the trip.

I was packing our suitcases when my husband walked in. He must have seen my worried expression when he asked softly, “Are you still having doubts about going? The children will be just fine.”

I had thought about it. I wasn’t having reservations about leaving our children. I knew in my heart they would be fine. It was something else, but I didn’t know what. “Maybe something will happen to us on our road trip,” I blurted. Harold shook his head sympathetically and once again assured me everything would be fine.

Reluctantly, I agreed. I was working myself up. That night as I drifted off to sleep, I heard a voice whisper one single word: “Stay.” I turned to my husband and poked him, “Harold, did you just say something?” His snore confirmed he was sound asleep. I realized I must have had a dream. The word “stay” lay heavy on my heart. I decided then that we shouldn’t go away for the weekend. “Are you positive?” my husband asked, bleary-eyed, when our alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. I couldn’t be surer. After I made calls to both friends about our change of plans, I felt a sense of relief.

We had a nice, laid-back Saturday. We took the kids to the park and ordered pizza for dinner. After I tucked the kids into bed, a wave of dread washed over me again. I got a sick feeling that something was wrong.

Something made me look out my kitchen window to our neighbor’s house across the street. It was completely dark. Mrs. Biddle was an older woman who kept to herself. She lived in a big house by herself and rarely left except to go grocery shopping. Her son would visit from time to time. All my efforts to be neighborly toward her had failed. I tried to strike up conversations, but she would cut me short. Oftentimes, if she saw me walking to her house, it was obvious from the scowl on her face that she didn’t want to be bothered. She would scurry inside to avoid me.

I thought it was odd that all her lights were off. Mrs. Biddle never went out at night. As a matter of fact, she was a night owl like me, with her lights usually burning way past midnight. That’s when it hit me: I had to go over to her house. I knew something was wrong.

I walked across the street and rang her doorbell several times. There was no answer. I tried peeking through her window, but her curtains were drawn. I went back to her door to ring the bell again when I heard something stir inside. “Mrs. Biddle?” I called out loudly. Then I heard a small voice. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I knew it was Mrs. Biddle, and she needed help. Running back to my house, I told Harold what had happened. I called 911.

Minutes later, the police arrived and broke down Mrs. Biddle’s door. Soon after, the ambulance arrived. As she was wheeled away on a stretcher, she looked over at me.

The next day, we went to the hospital to visit Mrs. Biddle. She had fallen down the last few steps in her house, hit her head as she fell, and broke her ankle. She was unable get up. She told us she was going in and out of consciousness. “Thank you for helping me. I will forever be grateful,” she said.

That’s when I saw her smile for the first time.

That evening, I realized we were meant to stay home and be there for Mrs. Biddle. All the fear of something bad happening finally lifted. I felt at peace. She could have been lying there the entire weekend if we had gone away. And something special came from that weekend — we became good friends with Mrs. Biddle. Her attitude changed, and she smiled often. She joined us for many family dinners and holidays and became an honorary grandmother to our children.

— Dorann Weber —