Appearances are Deceiving

From the outside looking in, the development where my parents lived in North Carolina is a near utopia for those who rode the Wall Street highs of the ‘90’s and got out while the getting was still good. Dream houses sit back on wooded lots, manicured lawns decorated with artsy statues of the family’s little white dogs sit neatly next to the front door welcoming Friday night dinner clubs or saying good bye to their owners as they rush out for early morning tee-times.

I’ve driven through the club gates and passed Teddy’s house countless times. I love this house. In my own future utopia, I hope to have an exact replica. In fact, when I see Teddy sitting out on the front lawn, I usually pull over and make it a point to say “Hi!” to him and his owner, Cathy.

I’ve known Cathy for as long as my parents have lived down here. She walks Teddy (her 6-year old Bichon) past my parent’s house at exactly 5:30 every night and more often than not, Teddy runs up to our door and peaks in the window hoping to see the face of my pup staring back waiting to play. More often than not, I open the door and let the pups romp around the living room before chasing each other down the driveway to where Cathy is usually waiting at a respectful distance.

Everyone Has a Story ...

Cathy is the town gossip. She knows who’s coming, who’s going and what they did in-between. So, after my parents died, I’d get the local scoop from Cathy (and Teddy) each night while standing at the bottom of the driveway. Usually it’s petty retired stuff about people I’ve never met—which daughter is pregnant again. Whose son lost their job. Who’s moving to the street and where they are from, etc. etc. Honestly, I could care less—and I always knew she is just waiting to get the scoop on me, but there’s no more gossip here. (Two parents dead within a year, and no—we haven’t put the house on the market yet so don’t bother asking us what we plan to list it for...)

Needless to say, I’ve driven past Cathy’s house countless times, so when a different neighbor the other night asked me if I’ve ever noticed her son staring out the window in the upstairs room, I looked at them like they were crazy. After all of these years, I had never noticed him. In fact, I never knew Cathy had any kids except for Teddy.

… And a Cross to Bear

As it turns out, Cathy does have a son. He’s my age. He had a girlfriend. He had a good job selling real estate. When the market tanked, so did his job and bye-bye went the girlfriend.

But that’s not the story. We’ve all lost jobs and girlfriends/boyfriends. Life goes on right? Maybe for us. The story here is that he took a shot gun, aimed it at his face and pulled the trigger…

… and lived.

At first the doctor’s wouldn’t do the reconstruction surgery. They asked him point blank if he wanted to live and said that he needed to undergo months of therapy before they would even rebuild his face. This sounded harsh to me at first, but after you realize it wouldn’t just be one surgery, but a succession of surgeries that will test his pain threshold for years (and his will to live) it’s a question that had to be asked and taken seriously. He said “yes,” agreed to the surgeries and now lives with Cathy and Teddy in the beautiful yellow house overlooking the manicured lawn on Wexford Way.

Appearances are Deceiving

I keep thinking about Cathy’s son. The guilt he must live with each day. The depression he must overcome just to get out of bed. And I think about Cathy—the bubbly town gossip who seems to live vicariously through other people’s lives—because her own must be unbearable.

As I passed Cathy’s house for the last time this summer, I couldn’t help but look around and wonder what other incredibly sad stories are lived out each and every day on this street—a perfect little street—from the outside looking in.