It was late at night and I was doing some light perusing on facebook. When I saw Lily's picture on my friend's list of friends, my stomach flip-flopped with a familiar pang of guilt. I added her as a friend and was surprised to see the confirmation. It really didn't help, though. Seeing Lily pop up as my friend seemed only to remind me of the weighty lessons I learned many years ago at her expense. 
It was December of seventh grade. Lily, three friends, and I were gathered together for a holiday party and small gift exchange. When Lily opened a giant box with her name on it, I was unprepared for her gift. It seemed that the 3 others had concocted a "gag" gift for Lily with deodorant, tampons, mouthwash, and toothpaste. As Lily pulled one item and then another from the box, I was speechless. What could this mean? Lily was clearly uncomfortable, blushed, and made the best of it with a nervous laugh.
The gag gift itself was nothing serious. But it heralded a period of torture for Lily. Although I was mortified by what came next, I stood by silently. I comforted myself with the idea that I wasn't participating in the harassing phone calls, mean behavior or whatever else they were conjuring up. Somehow, they knew not to call me into their inner circle of scheming. Nonetheless, I stayed on the edge, quietly tiptoeing along.
One evening I was with my mother as she was preparing dinner, when Lily's mother showed up at my house. There she stood, in my kitchen, determined to be heard. She had an accent from Europe and she was agitated and I couldn't understand everything she said. She started to cry and shout and I did hear her talk about how it was "just like when I was a child" and "the phone calls". What was happening to her daughter was bringing back memories of being a Jewish child in Germany. The mother of my friend had been separated from her family at age nine. They were all killed by the Nazis. Lily's mistreatment seemed to have triggered a flashback.
My mother helped her calm herself and assured her she would take care of things. Lily's mother turned and left. What came next was very difficult for me, thanks to my mother. She asked me a lot of questions. Beginning with "But I didn't do any of it", I told her everything.
What she said next seemed very unfair. "If you stand by and do nothing while you see others hurting someone, you are also guilty." She told me this was also a lesson from the Nazis. She said I had to be Lily's friend. I was sure this would herald my own downfall, as the others would turn on me. I had been afraid to give Lily her birthday present (lest the others find out). So it had been sitting in my room for a few weeks, all wrapped and ready. My mother said she was driving me over to Lily's house after dinner and I was giving it to her. She said, "This ends tonight."
I gave Lily the gift and she invited me into her bedroom. We both awkwardly acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the last few weeks (or months, I can no longer remember). I didn't apologize. My own part in this had not yet become clear to me. My mom picked me up. I told her it had gone okay. I resented my mom for sending me on this suicide mission as I was sure that by the next morning I would be the next target.
Today, over 30 years later, I can't remember how the other girls found out I had gone to Lily's house and given her the gift. But I know they did. Because it did end that night. The next day at school Lily was just another kid. She was no longer their target. They never did turn on me. With my act of "normal" behavior, of doing what was right, my part in this incident became crystal clear. All along I had had the power to end it, and I had not acted. Therein lies my guilt when I see Lily's picture.
A few weeks after Lily confirmed me as her "friend" on facebook, the green dot next to her name tells me that we are both "on" at the same time. I start the chat. She responds. She's acting casual, but before I know it, my apology is tumbling off my fingertips. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I tell her I have never felt right about it. I tell her about her mom coming to my house (though she already knew). I tell her that many times I have spoken out because of what I learned from that experience. She shares with me that what we did had a big impact on her. She's glad we chatted. I am too. I feel better. I feel purged, cleansed. It lasts a few days. But today, weeks later, as I am typing this another lesson rears itself upon me. I still don't feel right. Sorry helps. Being forgiven helps. Forgiving myself helps. Apologies and amends are powerful. But, in the end, what we do, is done, never to be undone.
