Playing chicken, you have to accept that the train may win.

Yesterday I answered my cell phone with anxiety. It was a number from "503" area code, so I knew it was someone from Oregon, but yet it was not a number I recognized or have programmed. With a lot of my inner circle struggling with all kinds of stuff right now, I was nervous.
I don't remember if I answered, "Hello?" or "This is Sheri."
But the answer was:

"Sheri, this is your cousin Angela." Direct, firm, and a voice I have not heard in no less than eleven years.

Scared now, my quick response was "Sorry, what?"

"It's Angela, your cousin."

"Oh hey, what's up?", expecting now for her to say somehting was wrong with my dad. Something that would warrant her calling me out of the blue after all these years.
I know that lately she has been back in touch with him and sees him often. He doesn't see a lot of the family, so she is just as likely as anyone to make a call to me to tell me something dreadful.

Instead, she launches right in on asking technical advice about getting herself enrolled in our tribe. No small talk, no "how are you", no nothing. Just straight to the point as if I am merely a source of information.

Backstory: Ang is 13 months my junior. We were both only children raised by our single parents. Our grandmother took a significant role in raising us. And we were always together. Her mother was a non-functioning alcoholic. My dad was gone a lot, so we were there for each other, as companions, as friends, as support. Ang had long kinky hair that was always braided in one long thick braid that hung past her bum. She had a huge perfect smile and tan skin. Her eyes were almond-shaped with thick black eyelashes. But so many times she and others saw her as different. She was not purely Native American, but half Saudi. Back then, we all referred to it as "Arab". Grandma called her "Baby Arab" (pronounced like "a dab" of butter). She was shy. She was troubled.

She cried a lot. Her mama had lost a baby when Ang was only 3, and was never okay really. Her dad was a drinker and rarely made appearances. We were all poor. She had emotional problems, and her mom abused her. Auntie loved us and meant well, but Auntie was violent, impatient, irrational. Mostly she was bitter. But through it all, she loved Angela. She raised her with manners and laughed with us. She tuaght us a lot about doing the right thing. And Ang has always had a heart of gold, tarnished only by disappointment. But she is also proud and stubborn and hates pity. Eleven years ago, rage consumed her. She struggled with identity.

Eleven years ago I was twenty, she nineteen. And we stopped talking. 19 years of constant familiarity and bonds left behind. Stubbornness and anger washed all that away. I guess we've been playing chicken ever since.

I am overwhelmed with a million memories of me and Ang. All those days at the beach, where I stayed only waist deep because she was afraid. All those nights of pizza and movies. Listening to music for hours, singing and laughing, telling all our secrets. We played all kinds of games, and went to church on Sundays. I can hear her laugh, her giggle, her cry. I remember that she always smelled like smoke since her mom smoked alot. She always added a "oh..." in a sympathetic way when she laughed at something silly. She loved scary movies and Ralph Macchio. She was tough as nails and could KICK anything's ass. She knew my weaknesses and flaws. She babied me about them.

I thought I always babied her. But how do you let the one you "baby" walk away for all those years? I loved her like a sister and a best friend. Which means I sometimes was angry, which means I bullied and manipulated. Which means I have missed her so much. Which means I was wrong and petty and stupid.

When her mom died a horrible young death from drinking, Ang was essentially an orphan. She was 13. "What's going to happen to me Sheri?" she asked. To me, it was obvious, she was coming to live with us. I can admit now, that part of the only child side of me was happy to have a sleep-over guest forever. My live-in safety net. My dad was always away or working nights and I hated an empty house. But my heart broke for Ang. SHe was alone. I still had a dad and a mom. They may have been troubled but they were around and they could love me and take care of me. We had lost our grandma only a year before, but nothing compares to losing Auntie. As flawed as she was, Angela had never had anything but her mom really. I can't bring myself to think about it much, but to say it was the most fucked up thing is no understatement.

High school years we lived together. I was a cheerleader and all that jazz. Ang took to the rougher side of life. She hung with a more dangerous crowd. School was easy for me, hard for her. When I went away to school, she and my dad did not see eye to eye and she moved to another cousins. She kept wandering. She was so angry. I thought I was disappointed in her. I thought she was choosing to hurt us all. I thought she should straighten up and live in my shadow. Instead, she made her life her life.

Both of us have abandonment issues, clearly hers likely out-do mine tenfold, but all these years, I felt like she chose to cut me loose. I know now it was the other way. I should have chased her around. I should have loved her all the time no matter what. I did love her, I just didn't fight to make sure she knew. I attributed choices and strengths to her that were really just survival techniques. Fact is, I didn't just choose not to chase her, I ran.

Anyway, after a few minutes of talking about stuff, she loosened up. We chatted for about 30 minutes. At first it felt strange, and then it felt like it always should have. I hope that we will talk again. Maybe even regular. I must not be afraid, and not be ashamed of my failing her. I need to get on with it and be the cousin I always was before.

We are the same. We come from the same,and we loved the same. Sometimes, a girl needs that. And sometimes we are the girl to give that. I'm not sure who's who in this match, and I don't care. I just hope me and Ang will love again, and not waste any more years pouting. This game of chicken is over, and I am the chicken, and that train has been crushing a part of my heart for eleven years.