Ghost Whisperer

Sometime during its second season, MJ and I discovered the television show Ghost Whisperer. She liked death and watching Jennifer Love Hewitt cry; I liked ghost stories and being scared, and, well, I could relate to a character who had a secret she only felt like she could share with a chosen few. Since we came in during the middle, we decided to go back to season one and get caught up. It became a ritual. When the DVDs came in the mail, we’d gather in front of the TV and watch two or three episodes at a time. We’d forbid each other from watching current episodes on Friday nights, because we didn’t want to know what happened without watching the previous episodes. We ended up watching all of the show this way: avoiding Friday night airings and watching all of it on DVD.

I was pretty excited about season four being released last week. I hadn’t seen a single episode, and I was looking forward to it. So when I knew it was coming in the mail, I organized an evening. I chose a night and we were going to watch the first four episodes, one after the other. It would be a mini-marathon. Naturally I invited MJ. It had been something we liked to watch together. I was sure her feelings would be hurt if she found out we had watched it without her. We had been looking forward to it for more than a year.

We planned to start about 6:00 PM. When 6:45 rolled around and MJ had still not arrived, I became impatient and I sent her a text. She had forgotten. She was coming. That, I guess, was my first clue.

We finally started it about 7:00. Because we were watching it at my sister’s house, there were the typical interruptions, like people coming to the door, and the telephone ringing, and the baby crying, and the toddler wanting something to eat. It’s annoying, but that’s the way it is. My second clue was looking over at MJ during the show and finding her texting on her phone. More than once.

At the end of episode two, she was done. She stood up and announced that her attention had expired, and she left. Just like that. I tried to digest this, but it would not settle with me. My sister just shook her head. “I told you,” she said. “She’s done with us. She’s moved on.” She didn’t even want to hold the baby. Didn’t even greet the three year-old she had taught in nursery. “You need to let her go,” my sister said.

And she’s right. I guess watching Ghost Whisperer is just one more thing we used to like to do together, washed down the kitchen disposal like last week’s leftovers.

After she left, I sent her a text: “Are we still friends? Think about that before you answer.”

Her response came as I was going to bed.

MJ: Yes. Why wouldn’t we be? I don’t stop being a person’s friend.
me: I don’t either. But we don’t talk anymore. It feels like you have moved on, and you don’t need my friendship anymore.
MJ: I have moved on. Our friendship isn’t the same, but we are still friends. You can talk to me anytime. It goes both ways. This friendship makes us individuals, and that’s what I need.

She was right, of course. I do need to let her go. I need to quit holding on to the idea that she still cares about me, when I can see no evidence of it. I need to quit hoping that we’ll always be friends, when she no longer makes any effort to invest in the friendship. I suppose that as a friend, I served my purpose, and she no longer has a place for me in her life.