Claire and I met through Mrs. Hardy’s 6th-grade homeroom. Our lockers weren’t far from each other, and she said she thought I was popular. Is there anything more important than being popular in middle school? Nope.
She was from Keezletown Elementary, which seemed so foreign and new. However, the mesh of McGaheysville, Keezletown, South River, and Elkton Elementary Schools to Montevideo Middle School widened the net of popularity. Early childhood groups were breaking and meshing into others. Claire was my other.
It didn’t take long for our parents to get close. Our brothers, Brian Lee and Eric, were in the same grade, so it made play dates easy. Within six months, we had family meals, holiday celebrations, and vacations away.
I was raised in the Sullivan household.
The Sullivan House on Cumberland Drive was not just a home to me but to all of Claire’s latchkey friends. We would waltz on in through the glass door and go straight back into the kitchen. Her mother, Leanne, always kept the kitchen stocked for us, stray teenagers.
And if it were the weekend, we would graze on Ramen and toasted grain bread into the early morning hours. Two giant speakers pumped Alkaline Trio at mid volume, and then back to My Chemical Romance when it was my turn. Slumped over the kitchen seats or perched atop the counter with our knees tucked in, we’d lament about crushes. The funnier jokes draped us across the floor, clasping our stomachs with each hurl of laughter.
I watched all of my first horror films in Claire’s basement. We watched The Shining every weekend for six months and then would Google weird shit to scare ourselves. Stick and glow stars faintly adorned her ceiling as we hurled ourselves into her bed in the wee morning hours. If it were the weekend, we’d wake up after 10.
It was the early 2000’s, and we were misunderstood. Hot Topic lured us with its wall of band t-shirts and Tim Burton end caps. We plucked new CDs from the racks with our black-painted fingertips. She would stick her thumbs through the end of her sleeves and then safety pin them together. We were so damn cool.
Claire’s parents, Kevin and Leanne, always understood our love of alternative music. Her dad was always bopping around to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club and Leanne let us listen to the American Idiot CD on replay for hours.
Leanne took us to the 2003 Warped Tour and then had to take us home early because Claire broke the only rule: no crowd surfing. We had to get her to a medic tent before the two-hour drive home scolding.
What skater boys we didn’t date, we befriended. As a result, our small circle grew coed and doubled in size over the years. By the time we got to high school, we had established a solid group of guy friends, of whom many were still her friend up to her last day.
The years brought more challenging days. My mother’s antics became out of control, but the Sullivans were still family. My mom would kick me out, and I would cut through my backyard on Baybrook Drive to Cumberland.
When my mom decided she didn’t want me anymore on my 16th birthday, she called the cops to remove me. The cop took pity on me and asked where I wanted to go. I was in the Sullivan driveway within 2 minutes.
Leanne rushed out to buy me a birthday cake, and Claire held me through my tears.
After school one day, I came home to my mom on a bender. She took the phone book on the kitchen counter and smacked me hard across the face with it. I called Claire while dodging her blows. Claire showed up within minutes.
There are dozens of stories like this. Over and over, I’d sheepishly dial Claire’s number, and she’d burst into my rescue. She didn’t take shit, especially for those she loved. Her fierce love and loyalty were cornerstones of her foundation.
Two days after high school graduation, I left for New York. Claire stayed at my house the last night, and we reminisced about our pubescent years. She saw me off as our other friend’s mom drove me to the train station.
But eventually, the trauma she endured at my family’s expense became too much. When the Sullivans tried to cut ties with my mom, she retaliated by purchasing the house next to theirs. No longer free to roam their own property, Claire had to let me go. And for seven years, our friendship sat in silence.
I spent years pining over her. Wondering why she couldn’t separate me from my mother. But I also understood; I would never have voluntarily dealt with my mother’s antics, so how could I expect that from anyone else?
And then, she finally messaged me. The message turned into a five-hour phone call. I switched positions from laying on my back porch to pacing around my kitchen to sitting on the countertops laughing, just as we had done years before. We were reunited.
Over the years, we stayed close. I visited her in Colorado, and we made the trek to the real Stanley Hotel, a callback to our days watching The Shining. She goofed around with Jet and held my teething daughter. She was true to herself the whole time and donned her goth gear. Her dreads swung in the summer wind while her coated black nails followed her hand-gestured expressions. It was as if no time had passed.
Upon my diagnosis, Claire was a regular phone call away. Leanne sent me the snuggliest care package, and they both sent me a complete boxed dinner for my whole family. I had planned to visit with her in the spring, the soonest my doctor would clear me for a trip.
Claire had just started living on her terms, prioritizing her needs. Embracing the fun of figuring out her own wants and needs. With the company of her sweet dog, Bodhi, she was down for almost any adventure. She was 31.
I’m sure from her otherworldly perch, she is packing a bowl and slinging back a breezy mojito. Where ever the hell she resides now, she stays, having forever left a mark. I will miss her every damn day.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 