When it rains, it truly pours. And sometimes it rains 3 inch nails. Three inch rusty nails intent on giving you tetanus.
I go in to the office the next day as usual. And that is where the normalcy stopped.
I get a phone call while en route to the office from the cramped, shaky, disconcerting elevator upon which I was the only person (using the term charitably, now) without a tear drop tattoo on my face. Immediately begin humming "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" to calm my nerves in closed quarters with murderous ne'er-do-wells. Answer phone cheerfully but never taking my eyes off the others in the appliance-carton-on-a-string contraption.
It is Lars. That "sprain" Hil had suffered to her ankle (not sure I've mentioned it, it was such a blip on the radar of our exciting life) is actually a break and she needs to be home for a few days, can I fetch her?
Of course I can, provided I emerge from the elevator alive, but let me retrieve some work from the office first.
However, upon walking into the Outer Limits I call my department, am immediately waved over by my boss who is wildly gesticulating about something critical to the ongoing security of our nation, natch.
I patiently take a seat at his table as I have a thousand times before. But this was different.
Seems there are changes afoot, positions being eliminated, people bringing in their own people to feather their own nests, new sheriffs in town, reorganization abounding, yadda yadda yadda, blah-dee, blah-dee, blah.
However the big news is I will have a serious choice to make. Because in a few short months, the job I have will be eliminated.
There is a buzzing in my ears and I am not at all clear on the details of what Don has just prattled on endlessly about following lowering the boom. I do know I can have what could very generously be described as a "future" in the department, but this is one of those winning occasions where both ends of the lollipop are fairly fuzzy.
I look at Doug directly, and he at me. I can tell he's wondering if I am about to cry (fat chance) or leap across the table and hack open his cranium with the business end of paper cutter that currently resides on his table, for reasons that can not be adequately explained.
I do neither, so he speaks again. Tells me to take a few days and think on things. I tell him I have to go and tend to Hil's ankle. She's broken it. Built like me, something was eventually bound to snap. He laughs and assumes everything is okey-dokey. It is not okey dokey but he'll never hear that from me.
I return to my car, riding this alone this time on the rickety death trap elevator, and immediately start making phone calls.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
One Foot In Front Of The Other
The next morning, Julie arrives at my house early. I am still primping, so I make her some coffee and introduce her to the cats. She's bantering on and on and drinking decaf. I don't know where she gets the energy without full on doses of caffeine.
Eventually I have sufficiently primped and am appropriately turned out to honor the dead. We hop into my car and meander thought the neighborhood. Lyla's Mass is at the church I share with Toni and Del and their girls.
So many people already. Julie and I start to scan the pews for two seats together.
Our eyes evidently land on the same woman at the same time. Her hair is whipped up and affixed to the top of her head in what appears to be an 8 inch industrial spool of yarn.
"She's headed to the looms later," I remark.
"Oh here we go again," Julie laughs. And then points out another woman, rail-thin, dressed for the night club, pin-up girl hair and push-up bra with black outlined lips and gold hoop earrings the size of 45 rpm records from our turntable pasts. "No idea she was going to church today," she quips.
All this and we are still not even seated.
We find a spot and continue people watching - and eventually find people we know. We kiss and shake hands with a bunch of old friends we share with Toni. And then scurry back to our seats. The vocalist/organist has taken his place on the bench in the choir loft. Show time.
We all rise and everyone begins to process in. The 6 ladies I'd met at Niles' house a few nights before, Lyla's besties since grade school who Niles calls the Taliban, are the pall bearers. It is enough to break my heart. I ask Julie for a tissue. She's left hers in the car at my house. We are each handed a bunch by a kind woman in front of us who looks like Dame Judy Dench. I thank her profusely and she pats my hand.
Behind the Taliban are the grandchildren, being escorted by Toni's twin girls. The twin furthest from me sees me and begins to smile and then tears form and she is horrified that she is already beginning to cry. I blow her a kiss.
Niles is flanked by his children. He's finally come undone. This is the final day. Tomorrow a new life must be contemplated and begun.
And then there is Toni. She and Del have her mother by her arms. And Toni has begun to sob.
Mass has not even begun and we are all a wreck.
But as Mass often does, it strengthened me - many of us - and attempted to put a hopeful spin on the unimaginable. All the while I wondered about the eulogy. I can't imagine anyone having the composure to do it. And soon enough, it is Del at the pulpit. Once again being Toni's hero.
He begins with a poem one of the girls had written for Lyla and had intended to read but could not. And then, always the thespian, he proceeds to beautifully articulate the myriad thoughts and expressions that had been shared about Lyla in the days since her death. Endearing terms, funny stories, quirky habits and sayings, the fact that she'd married divorced and remarried Niles. We are laughing, dabbing our eyes, smiling.
At the cemetery I am pleased to learn that Lyla will be only a few yards from Dad. I visit his grave after the tearful end to the service there. At this point, there is full on hysteria at the grave site. The physical departure is so palpable. I ask Dad to keep watch over Lyla - and think with how much Dad adored Toni, he'd think Lyla was a pisser.
Del finally cracks at lunch. He ad libs a non-denominational, all-inclusive blessing and for the first time I hear his voice quiver. The poor thing has been a rock for weeks and as he rounds the final turn, he is starting to unravel. I go to the bar, I get us two drinks. I walk over to him and kneel beside his seat at the table, give him a hug and a kiss and a look that tells him it's okay to be a wreck in front of me. He knows what I'm saying and nods, his chin shaking. He recovers as if by shear will and tells me that he still has my shaker that I'd delivered the martinis in. Extends an invitation to join him and Toni for another round as soon as they can begin to think about life returning to normal.
And I know in my heart that that won't be soon. The rules have all been changed and the playbook scrambled for Toni and Del and all of us who knew Lyla. Everyone will be learning how to live a life without Lyla. We may as well learning to walk.
Eventually I have sufficiently primped and am appropriately turned out to honor the dead. We hop into my car and meander thought the neighborhood. Lyla's Mass is at the church I share with Toni and Del and their girls.
So many people already. Julie and I start to scan the pews for two seats together.
Our eyes evidently land on the same woman at the same time. Her hair is whipped up and affixed to the top of her head in what appears to be an 8 inch industrial spool of yarn.
"She's headed to the looms later," I remark.
"Oh here we go again," Julie laughs. And then points out another woman, rail-thin, dressed for the night club, pin-up girl hair and push-up bra with black outlined lips and gold hoop earrings the size of 45 rpm records from our turntable pasts. "No idea she was going to church today," she quips.
All this and we are still not even seated.
We find a spot and continue people watching - and eventually find people we know. We kiss and shake hands with a bunch of old friends we share with Toni. And then scurry back to our seats. The vocalist/organist has taken his place on the bench in the choir loft. Show time.
We all rise and everyone begins to process in. The 6 ladies I'd met at Niles' house a few nights before, Lyla's besties since grade school who Niles calls the Taliban, are the pall bearers. It is enough to break my heart. I ask Julie for a tissue. She's left hers in the car at my house. We are each handed a bunch by a kind woman in front of us who looks like Dame Judy Dench. I thank her profusely and she pats my hand.
Behind the Taliban are the grandchildren, being escorted by Toni's twin girls. The twin furthest from me sees me and begins to smile and then tears form and she is horrified that she is already beginning to cry. I blow her a kiss.
Niles is flanked by his children. He's finally come undone. This is the final day. Tomorrow a new life must be contemplated and begun.
And then there is Toni. She and Del have her mother by her arms. And Toni has begun to sob.
Mass has not even begun and we are all a wreck.
But as Mass often does, it strengthened me - many of us - and attempted to put a hopeful spin on the unimaginable. All the while I wondered about the eulogy. I can't imagine anyone having the composure to do it. And soon enough, it is Del at the pulpit. Once again being Toni's hero.
He begins with a poem one of the girls had written for Lyla and had intended to read but could not. And then, always the thespian, he proceeds to beautifully articulate the myriad thoughts and expressions that had been shared about Lyla in the days since her death. Endearing terms, funny stories, quirky habits and sayings, the fact that she'd married divorced and remarried Niles. We are laughing, dabbing our eyes, smiling.
At the cemetery I am pleased to learn that Lyla will be only a few yards from Dad. I visit his grave after the tearful end to the service there. At this point, there is full on hysteria at the grave site. The physical departure is so palpable. I ask Dad to keep watch over Lyla - and think with how much Dad adored Toni, he'd think Lyla was a pisser.
Del finally cracks at lunch. He ad libs a non-denominational, all-inclusive blessing and for the first time I hear his voice quiver. The poor thing has been a rock for weeks and as he rounds the final turn, he is starting to unravel. I go to the bar, I get us two drinks. I walk over to him and kneel beside his seat at the table, give him a hug and a kiss and a look that tells him it's okay to be a wreck in front of me. He knows what I'm saying and nods, his chin shaking. He recovers as if by shear will and tells me that he still has my shaker that I'd delivered the martinis in. Extends an invitation to join him and Toni for another round as soon as they can begin to think about life returning to normal.
And I know in my heart that that won't be soon. The rules have all been changed and the playbook scrambled for Toni and Del and all of us who knew Lyla. Everyone will be learning how to live a life without Lyla. We may as well learning to walk.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tears of a Clown
I make plans to meet Julie for the viewing. We get there as it is starting. There is already no place to park in the funeral home lot and we are cruising the side streets and main drags for two spots reasonably near each other. As if it matters where we park.
The entire free world has poured into the funeral home to pay their respects. Julie and I recognize an occasional face, but there are hundreds and hundreds of moist, drawn, saddened faces that pass us as we make our way through the lines that snakes this way and that through every room in the home. I remember when we buried Toni's Dad. The viewing was here , too. And I remember there was wine. I am secretly wondering if a glass of something soothing will be politely placed into my hand by an austere gentlemen with a serious but kind face. And wondering if I can scam Julie's too since she doesn't drink. Her nerves will have to fend for themselves.
And Jukie and I begin to catch up on all the mayhem that has come to pass since we last saw each other, which may have actually been at Toni's Dad's viewing. I had been with J. then. I whole relationship has come and gone since then. Geez. I better become a better pen pal.
Jukie and I catch up on the usual top topics. What's going on at work (nothing good). How the kids are (a little of this and a little of that and a few adorable photos). Updates on the rest of the family inclusive of sibs and pets. (Where to begin?) And then turn to small talk. Memories mostly. Which turns to funny stories (Did I mention Julie is our crazy friend?) and eventually escalates into full on irreverence.
She reminds me of the time I got caught at a sales meeting having sketched a none-too-flattering pen and ink drawing, complete with shading effects, of our Service Manager's very unfortunately shaped legs protruding from an equally unflattering skirt, crossed at their thick, shapeless ankles under the board table.
I ask her to clarify for me if she actually did what she said she'd do when she found out her live-in boyfriend was cheating on her or if I'd just made that up. She says, no, she did indeed get out her sewing machine and sew over, hundreds of times, a random shirt sleeve, or pant pocket, or suit jacket sleeve lining, or pant leg (invisibly at the cuff of course) before chucking all of his precious things onto the lawn and changing the locks. The sewing was intended to be the reminder that just kept popping up for years to come.
At one point I am laughing so hard I need to sit down on one of the high backed velvet chairs intended for those who are overcome with grief, just to keep from peeing.
We are getting an occasional hairy eyeball from the overwhelmed in the crowd and when we get to the flowers and the casket, dim the lights on the comedy show.
The messages from the friends and family on the arrangements are lovely. Layla's casket is closed. Evidently she had once said she did not want to be remembered dead. Instead, next to the casket, as we approach Niles, is the beautiful black and white photo Lyla had sent to Toni the night before she'd died. Smiling beautifully, dancing at a wedding, a much better parting image.
We somehow make it through the line of bereaved - Niles, Toni's Mom, The children and grands, to Toni. She'd heard the ruckus we had been making. She said it made her smile for the first time in days. Lyla would have wanted to hear that there was laughter at her wake.
Julie and I go out to a local place for beer (me) and coffee (her) and resume or story telling. We are again the loudest people in the place. We have caught up completely, as old friends do, and are ready, we think, to face the funeral.
The entire free world has poured into the funeral home to pay their respects. Julie and I recognize an occasional face, but there are hundreds and hundreds of moist, drawn, saddened faces that pass us as we make our way through the lines that snakes this way and that through every room in the home. I remember when we buried Toni's Dad. The viewing was here , too. And I remember there was wine. I am secretly wondering if a glass of something soothing will be politely placed into my hand by an austere gentlemen with a serious but kind face. And wondering if I can scam Julie's too since she doesn't drink. Her nerves will have to fend for themselves.
And Jukie and I begin to catch up on all the mayhem that has come to pass since we last saw each other, which may have actually been at Toni's Dad's viewing. I had been with J. then. I whole relationship has come and gone since then. Geez. I better become a better pen pal.
Jukie and I catch up on the usual top topics. What's going on at work (nothing good). How the kids are (a little of this and a little of that and a few adorable photos). Updates on the rest of the family inclusive of sibs and pets. (Where to begin?) And then turn to small talk. Memories mostly. Which turns to funny stories (Did I mention Julie is our crazy friend?) and eventually escalates into full on irreverence.
She reminds me of the time I got caught at a sales meeting having sketched a none-too-flattering pen and ink drawing, complete with shading effects, of our Service Manager's very unfortunately shaped legs protruding from an equally unflattering skirt, crossed at their thick, shapeless ankles under the board table.
I ask her to clarify for me if she actually did what she said she'd do when she found out her live-in boyfriend was cheating on her or if I'd just made that up. She says, no, she did indeed get out her sewing machine and sew over, hundreds of times, a random shirt sleeve, or pant pocket, or suit jacket sleeve lining, or pant leg (invisibly at the cuff of course) before chucking all of his precious things onto the lawn and changing the locks. The sewing was intended to be the reminder that just kept popping up for years to come.
At one point I am laughing so hard I need to sit down on one of the high backed velvet chairs intended for those who are overcome with grief, just to keep from peeing.
We are getting an occasional hairy eyeball from the overwhelmed in the crowd and when we get to the flowers and the casket, dim the lights on the comedy show.
The messages from the friends and family on the arrangements are lovely. Layla's casket is closed. Evidently she had once said she did not want to be remembered dead. Instead, next to the casket, as we approach Niles, is the beautiful black and white photo Lyla had sent to Toni the night before she'd died. Smiling beautifully, dancing at a wedding, a much better parting image.
We somehow make it through the line of bereaved - Niles, Toni's Mom, The children and grands, to Toni. She'd heard the ruckus we had been making. She said it made her smile for the first time in days. Lyla would have wanted to hear that there was laughter at her wake.
Julie and I go out to a local place for beer (me) and coffee (her) and resume or story telling. We are again the loudest people in the place. We have caught up completely, as old friends do, and are ready, we think, to face the funeral.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
The Crying Game
I stay in touch with Del as promised. And we agree to an evening when I can come and spend some time with him and Toni. I will bring martinis and whatever. We just need to see each other.
On the day we agreed upon, I text Del to make sure that it is still okay. It is, he says, but they are all at Niles' and Lyla's. meet them there. All are welcome. It's a great big love in.
I have not been to Lyla's home since Toni's baby shower. The twins are in 7th grade. How has that happened? I put th e address in my navigation app, pour the martinis, pack up the hummus and flatbreads and port wine cheese and crackers, brush my teeth, fix my face, brush my hair, change my outfit, take a deep breath and drive.
I am a wreck.
I get to what will now be Niles' house and sit for a moment. The moment I've dreaded is here. Time to face my friend and her horrific loss.
I approach the front door. Niles' son opens it as I get there. I tell him who I am. He says he knows who I am, of course. He looks over at Del who warmly greets me with a kiss and a hug and takes my things from me. I warn him not to spill the martinis. He says he'll get Toni and some glasses.
And Toni emerges. Lipstick perfectly affixed to her beautiful, troubled face. She looks thin. She walks toward me and I toward her and we are immediately sobbing. All I can think to say is, "My dear, dear friend, I am so sorry."
It seems so inadequate. But her sobbing to me somehow makes it okay. She's letting go. Friends allow you that. Sometimes that is what it takes. The presence of an old friend who knows all of your secrets, your strengths, your insecurities, your private thoughts, and has a deep abiding love and knowledge of your very soul, to unleash what you hold inside.
We pour drinks. She and Del gamely introduce me to people I have known for years. Toni and Del have huge sprawling, loud, consuming, inviting families. I have met 100s of them since becoming Toni's compadre way back in our 20s. They all seem so grateful that I am there. When really it is I who am grateful. Grateful to be welcomed to the inner circle of family at such a personal time.
I listen to stories. I share a few of my own memories of Lyla. I look at pictures with Toni. I step outside with her because she has resumed smoking. The twins arrive from where they'd spent some time with other relatives. I comb their long tresses like their mother would if she could stop shaking. I give them each a long beautiful Katniss braid. They are practically purring.
And after many drinks, and many kindnesses shared, I say my good nights, make a round of kisses, and head out. I walk past Lyla's white SUV, probably up for auction within a week. I think about all of the decisions Niles must face. I think about the lonely tomorrow's Toni must brace herself for, without her own Super Hero sister.
I get in my car, pop the clutch and turn the engine. And begin to cry. And do not stop until I am at home with Trinket and Gidget curled up in bed with me.
On the day we agreed upon, I text Del to make sure that it is still okay. It is, he says, but they are all at Niles' and Lyla's. meet them there. All are welcome. It's a great big love in.
I have not been to Lyla's home since Toni's baby shower. The twins are in 7th grade. How has that happened? I put th e address in my navigation app, pour the martinis, pack up the hummus and flatbreads and port wine cheese and crackers, brush my teeth, fix my face, brush my hair, change my outfit, take a deep breath and drive.
I am a wreck.
I get to what will now be Niles' house and sit for a moment. The moment I've dreaded is here. Time to face my friend and her horrific loss.
I approach the front door. Niles' son opens it as I get there. I tell him who I am. He says he knows who I am, of course. He looks over at Del who warmly greets me with a kiss and a hug and takes my things from me. I warn him not to spill the martinis. He says he'll get Toni and some glasses.
And Toni emerges. Lipstick perfectly affixed to her beautiful, troubled face. She looks thin. She walks toward me and I toward her and we are immediately sobbing. All I can think to say is, "My dear, dear friend, I am so sorry."
It seems so inadequate. But her sobbing to me somehow makes it okay. She's letting go. Friends allow you that. Sometimes that is what it takes. The presence of an old friend who knows all of your secrets, your strengths, your insecurities, your private thoughts, and has a deep abiding love and knowledge of your very soul, to unleash what you hold inside.
We pour drinks. She and Del gamely introduce me to people I have known for years. Toni and Del have huge sprawling, loud, consuming, inviting families. I have met 100s of them since becoming Toni's compadre way back in our 20s. They all seem so grateful that I am there. When really it is I who am grateful. Grateful to be welcomed to the inner circle of family at such a personal time.
I listen to stories. I share a few of my own memories of Lyla. I look at pictures with Toni. I step outside with her because she has resumed smoking. The twins arrive from where they'd spent some time with other relatives. I comb their long tresses like their mother would if she could stop shaking. I give them each a long beautiful Katniss braid. They are practically purring.
And after many drinks, and many kindnesses shared, I say my good nights, make a round of kisses, and head out. I walk past Lyla's white SUV, probably up for auction within a week. I think about all of the decisions Niles must face. I think about the lonely tomorrow's Toni must brace herself for, without her own Super Hero sister.
I get in my car, pop the clutch and turn the engine. And begin to cry. And do not stop until I am at home with Trinket and Gidget curled up in bed with me.
Monday, May 27, 2013
A Whole New Ballgame
My first call is to Julie, the friend Toni and I grew up in our careers with before we all flew off in different directions and found the industries that would make us experts at something. Julie is our Crazy Friend. Everyone has one in some form. Some make you think about taking bail money when you go out. Some make you think about throwing a net over their heads. Some make you wish you could occasionally make your house invisible. Some are a combination of all three. The jury is still out on Julie.
I tell her what I know, which isn't much. She is as horrified as I was and in a panic about what to do. Nothing seems right. Nothing seems enough. There really isn't a play book for this. I tell her that I will stay in touch with Del and fill her in on details as they trickle in.
And they do. Painfully slowly and fraught with complications. Planes only fly off the island two days a week. Lyla was an American in a foreign country. The family flew to one place; she went to another. There is something cosmically appropriate that her body went to South Beach. One last party before going home.
Julie and I decide to connect to attend the viewing. And the funeral. It's is one of those instances where I need to be there for all of it.
But in the meantime, I plan to visit Toni and Del and bring them some nosh and a shaker of martinis. Del is keeping all the plates in the air and losing his marbles in the process. Toni won't answer the phone for fear of having to rewind and repeat the past few days events. I need to see her and she needs to see me. The madness of it all is something she and I need to look into each others eyes and understand together. Toni without Lyla is an unimaginable horror.
And I am compelled against my will to thInk of me and Charlotte in the same circumstances. it makes me wince. we mean so much to each other. family you count among your friends. she has made a career out of throwing herself in front of moving trains for me. I have been the What-the-Hell-What's-the-Worst-That-Can-Happen free-spirit for her (hence all the moving trains...) What in the world would we do without each other to roll our eyes to, secretly text about our idiot brother with, scratch our heads together over Estelle's many antics, share private WTF looks over perfectly set holiday dinner tables? to say nothing of the relationships with one another's precious children. We are second mothers to each of them. Fun permissive versions of each other! Who would I talk to all damn day???
And I think of Kate and her sisters. How they can't be separated from each other in other people's minds, or in our own hearts. I remember when Kate lost her brother suddenly. And Joy lost her brother just as tragically a few years later. Unimaginable losses, made worse by the suddenness, their youth, our not having prepared for or even considered the possibility, even on the remotest of terms. How does anyone go on putting their feet on the floor each day and willing themselves to live another second?
Perhaps it is our time. Our age. Our friends and people we love will start some of these journeys soon. Sick parents. Our own bodies revolting against us. Ailments that don't subside. Maintenance prescriptions. Specialists and special dietary restrictions. Bad feet, bad circulation, high cholesterol, low bone density, hormone replacement, low sex drive, gray hair, sore backs, reading glasses. But losing any one of these people is just not fathomable.
Or so it is. With Lyla's passing we face the harsh reality that we will someday, maybe sooner than we'd thought, be forever separated from one another. The loss feels like a lost limb; the hollowness aching and concave.
The game has been changed.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Funeral for a Friend
Indeed something terrible has happened. Terrible and unexpected. Terrible, and unexpected, and unimaginable.
Toni's dear sister, Lyla has had a terrible thing happen. A stroke. A big one. And while traveling no less. Spending a few days with their brother and his family, on a blissfully, peaceful island where Lyla and her husband have a secluded little villa to escape to once in a while.
But let's face it, not the place to be if you need serious, urgent medical care.
Though her husband was not with her, she was among family who love her, and they were, at this moment, waiting to see what would happen, praying for a miracle, bracing themselves for the inevitable. The outcome, short of a truly miraculous, defying all medical odds reversal of events, would surely be grave. Lyla, to all reasonable people, was dead. The actual loss of life was just a detail. She would never wake again.
And I am immediately crying. And so is Del. And I feel terrible for making him crack like that. But this is the power of friendship. You know each other's hearts and have no need to shield them from each other. The exposure is innate and natural.
I focus on practical things. How can I help? Where is Lyla now? Where is Toni and who is holding her hand? What does she need? What about their mother? My God she just buried her husband! This is crazy! The poor woman! (It is obviously not innate and natural for me to focus on the practical for very long.)
Del and his broad, loud overwhelming family, and all of Lyla's friends have asked the same things and feel equally as helpless to find that Lyla is still out of the country, her husband has flown to be with her as she leaves this world, and Toni's brother and his family are handling all the logistics of this unthinkable nightmare.
And for now, I can do almost nothing. Call a few friends of Toni's for Del to spare him the agony. Sit and wait for details to unfold. We end the phone call with words of kindness, kisses for everyone, and a promise of constant prayers.
And in between the phone calls to friends and the dribbling in of information, I have endless stretches of time. Time to be alone in my own head. And the thoughts of what Toni must be feeling scare me to death.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
The Call of Duty
In the meantime, something terrible has happened.
At some point, amid all the running around in all manner of weather and seeing all manner of sights, I miss a call from Del, Toni's husband.
Let's be honest. It is never a good thing when your dear friend's family member calls you instead of the friend herself. It is not likely that he's calling with good news. The husband doesn't call to tell you about a new baby, or a promotion, or invite you out to celebrate her boob job over cocktails.
And, he called from her phone. Something about that completely unsettles me.
I retreat to a little corner of privacy to call Del back. But first I need to listen to his message. On the hope that he, against all odds, was calling to invite me to a surprise party. How old will she be this year? Nevermind. it's a longshot.
The message is short. But Del's voice gives him away. Measured. Serious. Dare I say "grave?" Clearly he's not calling to see if I can make it to a last minute karaoke party.
I call him back on one of the two numbers he's left.
Two numbers. It's important. Oh, crap.
I leave a message on the first. I mirror Del's seriousness. Then I call the second number. He answers right away and I am bracing for the worst. I am sure it is bad news. I am sure it is about Toni's dear mother. I am immediately remembering her at Toni's Dad's funeral. And at Toni's wedding. And how sweet she was to me each time I bumped into her when I was getting married. Such a Mom. Toni and Del and I were just talking about her on a recent happy hour excursion. Quite a character. I hope she's okay, but a call like this isn't usually simply to update anyone on anyone else's bunion surgery or new dentures.
I stiffen my back as Del and I plow through the normal courtesies.
And then he says, he has some awful news.
And I have that sinking feeling that unfortunately I was right.
And he begins his practiced, artistic, thespian delivery of the news he's clearly delivered a few times now. And as I listen for the words I am sure he's about to say, he doesn't say them.
I'd been wrong. I am stammering to ask him to repeat them. Rewind. Please, start over, and slow it down when you get to that last part.
Oh. My. Just when you have prepared for the worst, Life throws you a curve, and the unimaginable happens.
I am standing with the phone pressed to my head, struggling to make sense of the devastating news Del has been assigned to carrier-pigeon all through the entries of their joint address book.
And for the first time in ages, I am unable to breathe or speak or even think. All I hear is the roaring of blood through the vessels in my head and I am sure I am about to faint.
At some point, amid all the running around in all manner of weather and seeing all manner of sights, I miss a call from Del, Toni's husband.
Let's be honest. It is never a good thing when your dear friend's family member calls you instead of the friend herself. It is not likely that he's calling with good news. The husband doesn't call to tell you about a new baby, or a promotion, or invite you out to celebrate her boob job over cocktails.
And, he called from her phone. Something about that completely unsettles me.
I retreat to a little corner of privacy to call Del back. But first I need to listen to his message. On the hope that he, against all odds, was calling to invite me to a surprise party. How old will she be this year? Nevermind. it's a longshot.
The message is short. But Del's voice gives him away. Measured. Serious. Dare I say "grave?" Clearly he's not calling to see if I can make it to a last minute karaoke party.
I call him back on one of the two numbers he's left.
Two numbers. It's important. Oh, crap.
I leave a message on the first. I mirror Del's seriousness. Then I call the second number. He answers right away and I am bracing for the worst. I am sure it is bad news. I am sure it is about Toni's dear mother. I am immediately remembering her at Toni's Dad's funeral. And at Toni's wedding. And how sweet she was to me each time I bumped into her when I was getting married. Such a Mom. Toni and Del and I were just talking about her on a recent happy hour excursion. Quite a character. I hope she's okay, but a call like this isn't usually simply to update anyone on anyone else's bunion surgery or new dentures.
I stiffen my back as Del and I plow through the normal courtesies.
And then he says, he has some awful news.
And I have that sinking feeling that unfortunately I was right.
And he begins his practiced, artistic, thespian delivery of the news he's clearly delivered a few times now. And as I listen for the words I am sure he's about to say, he doesn't say them.
I'd been wrong. I am stammering to ask him to repeat them. Rewind. Please, start over, and slow it down when you get to that last part.
Oh. My. Just when you have prepared for the worst, Life throws you a curve, and the unimaginable happens.
I am standing with the phone pressed to my head, struggling to make sense of the devastating news Del has been assigned to carrier-pigeon all through the entries of their joint address book.
And for the first time in ages, I am unable to breathe or speak or even think. All I hear is the roaring of blood through the vessels in my head and I am sure I am about to faint.
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