Audrey L. Skelton

Audrey and I were friends when we were in our early teens. I remembered the day I walked to her house after what was to be the last beating from my mother.  

I was 15 years old. The beating ended with my mother twisting my leg when I fell to the ground trying to escape. She grabbed my leg, flipped me over and stomped on my head. It left a big strawberry on my nose, in the same place that I would decades later have MOHs surgery. I carry that scar like a merit badge for the rest of my life.  

I had no place else to go other than to Audrey Skelton house. The walk out to the country was long in Florida sun with a raw nose, but I made it. I told her I would sleep in the stable. She was much more mature than I was, feisty and independent, but this time oddly serious and quiet. She got me busy tending to horses and quietly slipped away to tell her mother what was happening. Unbeknownst to me, her mother called my mother and arranged to return me by night fall.  

I’m not sure what was said, but my mother was very contained when i got back. She later said, “You think those people are your friends, but they are not.” This was a time when I had become very conscious that my every move betrayed my secret. I often wondered what Audrey’s mother said. I think her father was involved too, but they were always in the background and trusted Audrey’s independence. I feared that they must have talked openly to my mother about me being “different” and “sensitive.” That would have been the only reason why my mother thought these good people were not my friends, and why she wouldn’t tell me what they said, but the beatings stopped.  

I didn’t have a birthday that year. No special dinner, cake or presents. There was a card. I was made to read it aloud at the dinner table. I tried, but the card meant nothing. A Hallmark card for someone else. I started to cry and was dismissed to my room.  

The next time I saw Audrey, she invited me to a birthday pool party at her house.  

“Is it your birthday?”  

”No, it’s for you!”  

When I arrived at the party it was in full swing. It was obvious that it wasn’t for me. I didn’t know anyone. They all appeared to be Audrey’s older sister’s friends. I felt awkward, and I’m still not comfortable with birthdays – my birthday. But it was the thought that counts. I wandered around and had my first swig of whiskey in one of the bedrooms where a group of teens had found their space. It immediately choked me causing me to turn towards the door spitting it into my hand. I struggled with my whiskey-soaked hand to open the door.  No one laughed or took notice, but I worried later how I had left evidence of how much of an uncool kid I was.  

It’s funny how Åudrey’s obituary mentioned how she “remembered birthdays of strangers and people she met when she was a child”, how she “never met an animal she didn't want to help or a person she didn't want to mother,” and how she was also the “person they turned to for help, advice and fun.” And to think that she was only a teen when I knew her.  

I didn’t stay in contact with her after we left Homestead. She died this year five days after my kidney surgery. Her obituary also shows that she supported the humane treatment of animals, LBGT rights, and youth programs. We never spoke of these things when we were kids. We didn’t have to. We were soul mates.  

If anyone knows her children, please pass this story on to them. They can reach me at [email protected]