The Secret of Counting Gifts
by
Heidi Kreider
Smashwords Edition
copyright Heidi Kreider 2012
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Mark Coker. Smashwords Style Guide (Kindle Locations 1498-1502). Mark Coker.
dedicated to my warrior friends,
those who have battled breast cancer and won
and those who are currently in the fight
also
to the memory of those
who have gone on ahead...
save a place for me,
I'll be there soon!
chapter 1
“Can I get you anything else, friend?” I ask, offering her the straw to her ice water.
“No,” Liz replies, taking a small sip. She can hardly swallow. Years of battling cancer have taken their toll on my long time friend.
“Time for gifts?” she rasped. “Here, now?”
“For you, I have all the time in the world. And, yes, your gifts are on their way,” I reply, with a small smile. Liz's time, though, is running out.
Twenty-eight years ago, I met Liz for the first time. Eighteen years young and full of life, we thought we could conquer the world as college freshmen. From the first time we, literally, bumped into each other in the hall of the Williams Dormitory, we have been inseparable. Blissfully, we thought we had forever to live life together. We rented our first apartment together, stood up for each other at our weddings and held each other's babies. She held my hand when I buried my father and I stood with her when her husband walked out. It was I who encouraged Liz to pursue her dream of song writing when she lacked purpose, and it was I who found her agent. When my son was deployed, it was Liz who framed his Army portrait and put it on her mantle. I think Luke is as much her son, as he is mine. And, it was Liz who threw the party when Luke returned from Afghanistan. No one throws a party like Liz. The boundaries of our lives blurred long ago.
“You?” she quietly asks me. Even in her death, she still looks out for me... asking me how I am.
We both know where we stand. Twenty-eight years have not been enough. Yet twenty-eight years will be all we will have. She will soon go and I will be the one left. Weeks ago, she began the process of letting go. We talked about her last days. She insisted that I gather her “living gifts” as she calls us. She wants her family around her for her last breath. I spent the earlier part of today gathering. Her gifts are on their way. Much to my chagrin, she also made me executor of her estate. It will fall on me to be sure that her funeral is what she has requested... “please don't wear black, no hats and for goodness sake, have a party...with balloons!” And, it will be my responsibility to finish the plans for her daughter, Jenny's, wedding. Jenny has already asked me if I would walk her down the aisle in place of her mother. It's funny that I would even object. As she said... “who else could do it?”
I don't answer Liz's question, of how I'm doing, right away. Silence is our companion. I look at her frail body lying in her big queen bed here at the Estate and I memorize the laugh lines around her eyes. Much is spoken in the quiet. I want to savor this moment because I cannot stop time. Seconds, minutes, hours have blended into weeks, days and years. Together all of those blur into sweet memories and forgotten stresses that make up a life long friendship.
“I'm okay. The list is long today,” I answer.
An understanding passes between us. She knows my list, for she has one, too. Together we count the things for which we are grateful. It was her idea to count. As her sickness progresses, Liz's list gets longer. She has become the most grateful person I know. The days when our lists intersect are my favorite days. I feel, as if, for a moment, I am as grateful as she is. Although, we both know this is hardly true.
“Tell me first,” she wheezes. I cringe at her labored breathing. I hate being here with her. Yet, my love for Liz is greater than my hate of her disease.
I chuckle. This is a game we play. Liz first came up with the idea of counting our gratitude gifts together. As the IV dripped the chemo poison, yet again, last spring, she read a brilliant book aloud to me. The book spoke to both of us. From that day forth, we began keeping a gratitude journal, and sharing our lists of thanksgiving with each other. Of course, she soon learned not to tell me her gratitude list until I gave her mine. Apparently, I cheat. I didn't realize it was cheating to say, “Oh, I'm grateful for the sunshine, too!” when she said it. She never believed me when I told her that I honestly hadn't thought of it before she mentioned it. Not only is Liz much more grateful than I am, she is also more thoughtful.
“Ok,” I say. “Today, November 10, my list is this... you.”
“What?” she groans. “Cheater!”
“Well, since I've previously been called a cheater, I figured I might as well behave as one and list you again. Besides, if you would stop interrupting me, I will tell you why I'm listing you twice.”
“Go on” she whispers, closing her eyes.
I'm touched anew at how much this dreaded disease has changed my friend. Though still witty and feisty, she no longer has the strength for long banter or conversation. My heart constricts. For a moment, I close my eyes as well. What will I do without her?
“Well, Ms. Elizabeth Renee Ashley-Bower,” I begin taking a deep breath, “I am deeply and truly grateful for all you've taught me and all you've been to me. Shall I refresh your memory?”
“Again?” came the moan from the bed next to my chair.
“Yes, again! And, again and again and again,” I laugh. “I will tell you this for as long as your ears are willing to listen to it.”
“They're listening,” she looks and attempts a smile. My eyes fill with tears.
Ours is a friendship filled with tradition. We have Christmas traditions, birthday traditions, Easter and Mother's Day traditions. We revel in tradition and have been known to break out singing “Tradition! Tradition!” from Fiddler on the Roof, which, of course, embarrasses our children immensely. Liz and I have a habit of developing traditions around just about everything. Now our traditions are coming to an end. Our first Friday pizza tradition started in our early college days and ended last month when Liz could no longer chew well. Counting our gifts has become a tradition, just as telling this story has. When Hospice moved in, ten days ago, we started our last tradition. Each and every night, I tell her our story, these details that we still remember. Together we count all the gifts of gratitude that came along the way. And, as is true to our relationship, we rarely agree on what constitutes a gift.
“Love you, friend,” her voice hardly above a whisper. “Find the secret.”
“Secret?” I question, holding her hand. “What secret?”
“Secret of counting gifts,” she whispers, closing her eyes again.
~*~
“There you go. You're all finished with your freshman registration. We're so glad you chose to come here. If you step over to that table there, you will get your dormitory assignment and you can move in,” the student hired as the university's welcoming committee pointed to a table a few feet away. “Good luck!”
“Can I help you?” an older woman asked, as I approached the table labeled “housing.”
“Ah... yeah... um... my name is Kristen Murphy.”
“Murphy, Kristen... you are in Williams Dorm, 3rd floor North, room 312,” she read off the master list in front of her. “You should find your resident assistant in the lobby of Williams. Her name is Julie. Here is your key. Replacement cost is $7. Good luck this year!”
I carried my key, my student ID and the registration packet to my parents' car. My brain felt mushy with information overload. I wondered how I would find my classes, remember all the information that I was just given, and not lose my key. A small part of me wanted to turn around and go home. Instead, my Army chaplain father drove us across campus to Williams Dormitory and to Julie.
“Feels like just yesterday that I went off to college,” my mother rambled. “Isn't this exciting for you, Kris? I just know you are going to have such a great time here!”
Fortunately, before I was required to give an answer, my dad found a parking place in front of Williams Dormitory, my new home away from home... or so they say. Home is a concept I had never understood. Because of my father's Army career, our little family moved regularly. We never lived in one house long enough to make it a home, or to even really memorize the address. I lived in many houses. I had never been home.
“Welcome! My name is Julie and I am your RA. That's short for Resident Assistant. Are you ready to get moved in?” A small girl, with a name tag identifying her as 'Julie', cheerfully asked, as we walked through the open lobby doors.
“Oh, great!” I muttered to myself. Perky little Julie belonged on the pep squad as a cheerleader not on the dormitory staff as a resident assistant. She wasn't big enough to be anyone's RA.
“Pardon?” Julie asked.
“Please don't mind our daughter, Julie. She's just tired.” Although “being tired” was my mom's excuse for everyone's negative behavior, I was thankful for the excuse and took it.
“Yes, I'm ready,” I replied, faking a smile.
chapter 2
“One,” Liz whispers.
“Whatever,” I smile. “Actually, Mom's little white lie to Julie was a gift in disguise, so we'll count it.”
“Of course,” she coughed.
“No written list tonight, though. I'm getting too old to be able to read and write at the same time. It's that whole early dementia thing again,” I say.
“Gift. No dementia,” Liz sputters at her own joke.
I feel my heart skip and my lungs deflate. This is so much harder than I ever anticipated it to be. It takes me a deep breath or two before I can go on with our story.
“You are not as funny as you think you are,” I quip back.
A deep sense of humor has seen Liz through some really rocky terrain in life, and in these last months she's turned into quite the comedienne. Before I know it, though, Liz's sputtering laughter turns into her coughing up blood and gasping for breath. This is the part I hate the most... this pretending with humor, while her lungs labor for air. However, she will allow nothing but humor. So, I humor her, while her nurse, Emma, gives her another shot of morphine.
“As soon as Her Highness is ready, I will continue,” I say, watching Emma give me a knowing glance. She props Liz up with another pillow. Liz's thin frame is enveloped by all the pillows surrouding her up in her big queen bed. She absolutely refused a hospital bed.
“Cheater,” Liz wheezes. “I'll sleep.”
Liz only agreed to "comfort measures" when she made her first appointment with Hospice a month ago. “I don't want to spend the last of my life drugged,” she said confidently. I sat with her at that meeting as she blindly made her wishes known. Neither of us had any idea the struggle that dying could be. Thankfuly, the Hospice office nurse knew. Wisely, she shared some of her nursing experiences with us, and guided Liz, as she chose how she wanted to live out her last days.
“I know,” I smile, “and, if you do fall asleep, I will be here when you wake up.”
Slowly her hand reaches for mine, as she falls back against her pillows. Her eyes close again. How many more times, I wonder, will she have the strength to reach? How many more times will she sputter a laugh? My heart hurts. Holding Liz's hand gently, I continue our story, counting the gifts by myself.
~*~
"Your room is down North Hall on the third floor. We can take this elevator here since you are tired,” Julie replied.
“Thanks. I didn't realize dorms have elevators. Guess I'm tired from staying up so late packing,” I stammered.
I felt gawky and gangly trying to balance my load. In the early morning hours, I had loaded all of my worldly possessions into my parents' car. After a three hour drive and two hours working our way through registration, I was not looking forward to trekking all of my stuff up to 3 North, room 312.
“Excuse me, honey!” I heard my mom's voice. I turned to look just before I heard my art box crash. “Are you okay?”
“MOM!” I yelled. Nibs, ink, pens, pencils, erasers, and more scattered around my feet.
“It's not your mom's fault, it's mine. I'm so sorry. Let me help.”
“No. Really. Please... I'll get them.”
I didn't even look to see whose hands were touching my things. My writing and art supplies were my life. My high school art teacher had taught me that we all create art. Some people create art in their music. Others create art in their writing. Still others through their camera lens. Me? My art comes in the form of lettering and drawing. Though I had won a few awards in high school, I drew and lettered for myself. It was my way of relaxing and creating... my way of escaping stress. My supply box held the keys to art for me. It held all the tools I needed. Painstakingly, I had arranged all of the inks and paints, pastels and pencils in the box. In horror, I tried to gather all of my tools before any of it was mistakenly stepped on.
“I understand. Sometimes you just don't want anyone touching your stuff.”
I looked up to see her standing there holding my pens. As she handed them back, I knew that I just met a kindred spirit.
“Thanks for understanding. I'm Kris,” I said, holding out my empty hand.
"Liz.” she replied, handing back the pens. “And, you're welcome. Where's your room?”
“312.”
“Hey, that's just down the hall. I'll help carry your stuff.” She smiled, as she picked up a bag.
By the time we reached the door to my room, Liz had managed to endear herself not only to my mother, but also, to my dad. Not an easy task. My life has been spent moving from one base to another, as Dad pursued his army career. Though I deeply loved my father and his Army ways, any friend I had ever had was immediately intimidated by Army Chaplain Donald Murphy.
“My official ranking is Army Chaplain, not Colonel.” I heard Dad laugh, as he tried to explain his title to Liz. “Please just call me 'Murph.' All my friends do.”
“Ok, Colonel Murph,” Liz laughed. Dad rolled his eyes and smiled. Another gift.
“Oh my,” my mom whispered when I unlocked my door. Without looking, I pushed past her to set my bags inside the door and was instantly overwhelmed... with cats.
“Wow,” giggled Liz. “This could be interesting.”
There have only been a few times, in my life, when I have been at a loss for words. I looked around. There were no words to express the horror I felt. The university administration had paired me with a roommate who apparently had quite a love affair with felines. Cat posters, cat figurines, cat curtains, cat this and cat that... everywhere!
“Ugh. Cats,” I moaned. “I really hate cats...real or imagined.”
“Now, Kristen,” Mom chirped, “you're going to have to learn to get along with everyone.”
I bit off a sarcastic reply. In that moment, I realized that the cat room was the lesser of the two evils I faced. I could either live with an unknown feline lover or take my stuff back to the car. I had no desire to go back home and be parented any more. Somehow, in my 18-year-old genius, I thought I was all grown up.
“I know. I know!” I huffed.
"My roommate cancelled,” Liz casually mentioned. “We could check with Julie about switching your room.” That was the best gift of the day, probably the second best gift of my entire life.
After the initial roommate fiasco was solved, college life was great. Liz and I settled into a comfortable routine. She declared music as her major. She loved every single music theory class she attended. She played guitar, piano, and flute. When she decided she wanted to learn a stringed instrument, she didn't just settle for learning to play the violin. Instead, she mastered the harp. Nothing in life gave Liz more pleasure than making music.
I am tone deaf and have no rhythm. Liz can hardly draw a straight line. We were a perfect match. There was no competition between us. While she pursued her music with a vengeance, I pursed a social work degree. The 18-year-old me was ready to change the world, one child at a time. While I attended classes, seminars and wrote countless papers, Liz's music became her life. Often she would be the last student in the music room, practicing late into the night. She dated other music majors and went to every recital on campus. My art remained my solace, my respite from the world. While Liz would be out, I would be in.
“You're hiding your light under a bushel,” she would say. When I asked her what that meant, she laughed loudly, and said, “I don't know. It's just something my grandma used to say to me.”
Throughout our college years, I often felt as if Liz lived life for both of us. Liz was fun and exciting. Everyone loved being with her. Though she adamantly denied it, she was also jaw-droppingly beautiful. She stood at a stately 5 feet 9 inches with a gorgeous athletic build, long dark hair and brown eyes that danced with joy. She genuinely loved people and loved being with them. She dated often, hardly ever the same guy twice. When I asked her about that, she responded, “I haven't found what I'm looking for.”
Neither had I. But, then again, I wasn't trying very hard. Though just an inch shorter than Liz, I found myself hiding in her shadow. I was probably more athletic than Liz, but I would never be described as being gorgeous. I spent my high school years as a swimmer. Thus, I had a swimmer's build. My hair was a plain shade of brown and matched my eyes. Since I was always awkward in a group of people, I was the proverbial wallflower. Plain wallflower, with over-developed arms and shoulders, described me well. In my mind, I was the antithesis to Liz's beauty.
At the end of our freshman year, Liz announced that she was not going home for the summer. The hunt for an apartment began. We called every advertisement we could find. We asked graduating seniors for leads on vacant apartments and we scoured neighborhoods. In the end, the place we found was perfect. A tiny two bedroom attic apartment with dormers and rounded doorways. It had a small galley kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. Standing in the empty living room, for the first time in my life, I felt at home. We paid the deposit. A week later, we both moved in. I called my parents to let them know I was staying with Liz. I signed up for a local summer internship and Liz signed up for summer classes. The apartment wasn't big or fancy. We didn't care. It was home. Another gift.
chapter 3
“Remember air conditioner?” she whispers.
“How could I forget? I still have the scar,” I chuckle. “You were so quiet. I thought you were sleeping.”
“Nah,” came her quiet reply.
“Do you need a drink?” I ask. My concern for Liz runs deep. I don't know how to feel anything but concern. Concern, and a deep sense of pending doom.
“No, cold.”
Tucking her hand back under the electric blanket that lay on top of her, I turn up her thermostat a few more degrees. Liz has become so frail that extra blankets cause extra pain. We all adjust the thermostat whenever she asks.
“Thanks,” she slurs.
She so hates that the pain medicine makes her feel and sound drugged. I am, however, grateful for any relief from the pain that she can get. I silently add “drugs for Liz” to my mental gratitude list.
“I'm heading home, now,” Liz's nurse, Emma, pokes her head into the room. “Liz, do you need anything before I go?”
A small shake of the head is Liz's only reply.
“Ok. Rest well,” Emma answers. “Jana is your nurse on duty now if you do need anything.”
I add “Liz's nurses” to the list in my head. Their concern has been a blessing to me as I watch them care for Liz.
“Shall I continue or do you want to sleep?”
“Keep going. Sleep later,” comes her sleepy reply.
“Ok. And, I will add the air conditioner that you dropped on my hand to the list.”
“Bah,” is the only reply from the bed.
~*~
Though we loved that attic apartment, it was as hot as the Sahara in the summer. The first summer, we suffered through the heat with four fans and hourly showers. We vowed that we would save every penny we could find to purchase a window unit for the next summer. And, save we did.
All throughout the fall, winter and spring, we would drop our change into the big pickle jar that Liz brought home from her job at the diner around the corner. I marveled at Liz's diner job. Liz came from Western New York and old New England money. While I worked three part-time jobs and carried a full class load, Liz worked at the diner and took a partial class load. She didn't have to work. She wanted to work.
“My grandma taught me to work hard, and to enjoy every minute of it,” she replied, any time I would bring it up.
“I don't hate my job, just my uniform,” she would laugh and then strike a pose in her gaudy double-breasted gold dress.
For three years, she endured that ghastly uniform. As well as the old men who drank coffee and gawked at her backside. She said she thought they were just lonely. I thought they were gross. Fortunately for me, the job also included lots of tips which helped fill the pickle jar.
At the beginning of May, the jar could hold no more. On May 5, we spent an evening counting and wrapping pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters.
“Hey, here's a half dollar. What do you think we should do with this?” Liz asked me, while counting out fifty pennies.
“How many half dollars are in here?” I questioned.
Liz shrugged her shoulders and continued counting. She set the half dollar off to the side. As we sorted, counted and wrapped the other coins, the little pile of half dollars slowly grew. Seventy minutes later we had $362 wrapped in various coin denominations and twenty-seven half dollars.
“I'm starved,” Liz exclaimed, kneading the stiff muscles in her neck. “What do we have to eat around here?”
“I think there is still some day-old bread from the diner and a box of mac-n-cheese,” I muttered.
“Pizza. I need pizza.” Liz sat straight up. “Let's use the half-dollars for pizza!” She picked up the phone and called Village Pizza for delivery. Our first Friday pizza tradition was born.
“Is $362 enough for a window air conditioner?” I asked, while we waited for the pizza delivery.
“I hope so!” she exclaimed. “It ought to be for a tiny little ice box in the window. Do we even know what size unit we need?”
“SMALL!” We blurted together. Everything in our apartment was small. A small unit would be all we needed.
“Monday, I will take all of this,” Liz motioned to the pile of wrapped coins, “to the bank. Can you go a/c shopping on Monday?”
“I have class until 4 p.m. and then I work at the Psych Department office until 7. I will probably be back here around 7:20. Want to go then?”
“Sure. I'll see if Dan will take us.”
Liz had dated Dan a few times the year before, but their very platonic relationship had settled into a great friendship. I teased Liz when she first brought Dan to the apartment. Liz tended to date very attractive men. Tall and gangly, with red hair and blue eyes, Dan McClintock wasn't one of the more attractive men that Liz had dated. He was a great guy though. I soon came to learn that it was Dan's heart that attracted Liz. He was the nicest guy she had ever met.
They developed a deep and abiding friendship. Perhaps, it was because they were both over-achievers. Maybe they became friends because they shared a “Type-A” personality. Personally, I think the glue that held Dan and Liz together was their need for affirmation. Dan grew up with an alcoholic father who kicked him out of the house on the night of his high school graduation. Liz was raised by a society mother who dressed her up and showed her off, and always expected Liz to be on her best behavior. Neither knew unconditional love. They found that love in each other.
Dan was who we called whenever we needed help. As a poor college student, he worked cheap. All he required was food. As long as we fed him, he was always more than willing to lend a hand.
“Bring home day-old lemon meringue pie and he'll be here,” I promised.
Sure enough, Monday evening I walked into the apartment to see Dan sitting at our tag-sale table enjoying half of a day-old pie.
“Diz iz gud,” he mumbled around a mouth full of meringue.
“It always is, Dan,” I replied. “Thanks for helping!”
“Sure. Where are we going?” he asked, before he shoveled in another bite.
“Ask Liz. She's put in the most money. She gets to decide.”
“The Warehouse,” piped Liz.
Getting to know Liz was an ongoing study in contradictions. Though she had a sports car her parents had given her for her high school graduation gift, she left it at home. Liz never flaunted money or status. She rode the city bus, shopped at resale shops, waited tables, and lived a life pretending that she didn't have a trust fund that was paying for her education. Her life was one I couldn't comprehend.
The three of us piled into Dan's little old truck. He fondly called it “Mighty Truck.” Honestly, there wasn't much “mighty” about it. However, it eventually got us where we needed to be. Though I wasn't nearly as fond of Mighty Truck as Dan was, I found myself grateful that we weren't trying to haul an air conditioner onto the bus. When Liz and I began looking back and counting gifts, Mighty Truck made the gratitude list.
“Kris is doing the negotiating tonight, Dan,” informed Liz.
“Of course she is,” he replied.
I loved negotiating, especially when the bargaining was centered around how much money I would spend on something. My grandfather negotiated everything, from lawn care to new vehicles. I often watched him, eventually learning to haggle almost as well as he did. He would have been proud of me tonight. In the end, when we walked out with a new air conditioner unit, we had enough money left for dinner out and gas for Mighty Truck. If only it had been so easy to get the unit up to the apartment.
We stopped for dinner out at a restaurant. Dan chose the place. Buffet types of eateries were Dan's favorite. Though tall and thin, he definitely got his money's worth any time he went to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Years later, I learned that Dan's homeless summer between high school and college left him hungry on more than one occasion. He worked that summer for a local landscaping company. He slept and showered at a friend's house and biked to work each day.. As soon as he got his first paycheck, he bought Mighty Truck. Dan lived in that truck for the remainder of the summer, eating peanut butter and day-old bread. He often ran out of food before his next pay day. I wondered if all-you-can eat buffets were like a gold mine to him.
By the time we returned to the apartment, with our full bellies, we were all tired. However, since we fed him a huge meal, we still had Dan's help. Liz and I learned, a long time ago, to take advantage of every minute of help that we could get. The three of us staggered and stumbled up the outside steel stairs with the air conditioner.
“Don't drop it!” Liz cautioned. “Be careful, don't bump it! Watch out for that corner! Tip it slightly to the left.”
“LIZ!” I yelled.
“What? I'm just trying not to damage our brand spankin' new air conditioner!” she huffed.
“LIZ! My hand is there!”
By tipping the air conditioner to the left, Liz managed to pin my hand against the steel handrail of the staircase and the sharp edge of the air conditioner. I could feel the blood oozing.
“Where?” she glanced around.
“Is your hand where the blood is?” Dan joked.
“YES! And, I'm not laughing! LIZ! Please tip it back to the right... right now!”
“Oh...oh... oh!” was her only reply. Liz has many, many great qualities. Helping in an emergency or seeing blood, though, are not included in her list of admiral traits. After she tipped the unit back to the right, she looked pale and shaky.
“Liz, just go unlock the door,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
“Just don't drip blood on the floor,” she stammered.
Dan and I managed to get the air conditioner to the living room. Only about fifteen splotches of blood landed on the floor before I found a towel to wrap around my hand. Without a word, all three of us piled back into Mighty Truck. Dan drove me to the campus' 24 hour clinic for seven stitches across my hand.
“Oh, I'm so sorry!” Liz flittered. “Are you okay? Are you sure? Do you need anything? Can I do anything?”
“LIZ! GET IN!” I bellowed. Apparently, I'm not very nice when I'm in pain. Dan just laughed at both of us and drove us home.
“You owe me another pie,” he yelled, as we tumbled out of his truck.
“Tomorrow, Dan,” Liz retorted. “Tomorrow.”
chapter 4
“I don't flit,” she rasps.
“My story, my words,” I say, holding her straw again for another weak sip. “You can tell it next time.”
“Nah,” came the delayed response. We both know that she is far beyond story-telling. We just do not know how far beyond.
“Do you mind if I listen?” Jana, the night nurse, sweetly asks. I am grateful for the change of topic and add it to my ongoing gratitude list.
“We'd love the company,” I quietly answer.
“Jenny called ten minutes ago. She's on her way home,” Jana informs us. “I'll bring in another chair.”
Jenny and I have been taking turns sitting with Liz. Mostly, though, we end up together, sitting in Liz's bedroom... watching and waiting. My husband, Dan, joins us between his hours at the clinic and Luke stops in whenever he can, which is becoming more and more frequent. Tonight, he and Dan are driving to the airport to pick up Liz's son, Mark, who is flying home from the West Coast. Soon we will all be together, and Liz will have all the company she could ever want.
“Did she mention if Mike would be joining her?” I quietly ask Jana.
“She didn't say. Should I plan on him?” she asks back.
“Yes, if you don't mind.”
“Not a problem. I will start another pot of coffee and put the tea kettle on for Jenny,” Jana states, walking out of the room.
“Looks like a party is on it's way, friend,” I say, smoothing her blanket. “Are you warm enough?”
A slow nod in the affirmative is her only response.
“Hi Mom,” Jenny's tentative voice fills the room. “How's she doing?” she asks me.
“You can ask her yourself. She's awake.”
Jenny steps quietly to the other side of Liz's bed. She sits down gently and kisses her mother on the cheek. Liz replies with her signature wink.
“Love you, Mama,” Jenny smiles.
“Love you more,” Liz whispers.
“Your mom and I are reminiscing and counting gifts again tonight. Care to join us?” I ask Jenny. “Mark, Luke and Dan are on their way back from the airport. They'll be here soon. Is Mike coming?”
“He's on duty until 11 p.m. He said he'd come after his shift,” she answers.
Jenny's fiance, Micah Caldwell (Mike to all of us) is a local firefighter and paramedic. When he isn't working his shifts at the firehouse, he works in my husband's clinic as a medical technician. I guess that's the fancy title to say that Mike takes the histories and vital signs for Dr. Daniel McClintock's patients. A few years ago, Dan gave up his partnership at Crawford Family Medicine to pursue his dream of medical missions. He joined an indigent clinic for the uninsured here in Western New York and twice a year the clinic closes for ten days. Dan takes his staff to the mountains of Guatemala to practice medicine there. The very first year, Liz went with us. She said it changed her forever. Since that time, she has anonymously funded every single trip. Over the years, she's learned to be grateful for the trust fund that she grew up hating.
“What about Ryan?” Jenny asks, glancing at me. My other son, Ryan, is in his sophomore year at the university on a football scholarship. He and I have talked much over the past few days. Rarely is dying convenient and rarely does death wait for an appropriate moment.
“He'll come when we call. He cut classes and drove over yesterday to give your mom a hug and a
kiss.” A look of understanding passes between us. Ryan already had his time to say goodbye to his Aunt Liz.
“Please continue the story. I'd love to listen. You know, this is my favorite fairy tale of all time. I don't even know how many times mom has told it to me. However, it's always best when you tell it together,” Jenny smiles, reaching for her mother's frail hand. “Has she met my dad yet?”
In the pale evening light, I see the pain reflected in her eyes. Jenny's unfaithful father, Robert, left. He's never come back. The little girl in Jenny's heart still mourns the loss of a father she hardly knew. That same little girl's heart still hopes for the return of Prince Charming.
“I was just getting to that part.”
~*~
After the stitches were removed from my hand, Liz and I heaved the air conditioner unit into the only window in the entire apartment that could hold it. Unfortunately, that window was the one window at the end of the galley kitchen. All summer the kitchen felt like a refrigerator and the tiny bathroom on the other end felt like a sauna. However, if we sat, slept and studied in the living room, we were perfectly content. We haven't forgotten the air conditioner over the years because it helped keep Liz cool the summer she fell in love.
On a steamy July afternoon, Liz waltzed in from her shift at the diner, humming “Someday My Prince Will Come.”
“I'm in love,” she proudly announced.
“Again?” I jeered.
“You dare mock me?” she quipped. “Those others, they were just practice for falling in love. Mere boys, mind you. Today, I met my man.” With that, she sashayed to her room to change out of the atrocious uniform.
“So, what's so great about this MAN?” I hollered at her closed door.
“Everything,” was the only reply as she darted into the bathroom. “He's picking me up in ten minutes to go to the senior recital that is on tonight at the Performing Arts Center.”
“Wow. A date already, huh? And a free one at that,” I huffed jealously. “Wouldn't a real man take you out for Broadway, or sushi or something nice?” There was no answer from the closed bathroom door. She had already learned to ignore me when I became petty. The only sound I heard was the shower.
Eight and a half minutes later, she emerged no longer looking or smelling like the diner. I attempted to make small talk until the man... pardon me, HER man, arrived.
“So, where did you meet this man?”
“My man?” she asked innocently.
“So sorry,” I mocked.
“If you must know, he came into the diner today.”
“Serious?” I laughed uproariously. “You seriously fell in love with a diner drop-in?”
“Yes... he stayed all through the lunch rush. After I refilled his coffee for the fourth time, he asked me for a date.”
“Liz?” I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with her. “Do you know anything about this guy? Like, for instance, is he related to Charles Manson?”
“You worry much too much!” she giggled. “He's a perfectly nice gentleman. His name is Robert and he's new to the business faculty. Besides, if he's good enough to be hired by the University, he's good enough for me.”
“Is he old?” I questioned.
“Not too,” she replied to the knock on the door.
Liz rushed to open the door. In walked the man who would eventually crush my friend's spirit. I should have kicked him out right then and there and locked her back into the bathroom. Isn't it funny how hindsight is always 20/20? However, on that evening of July 7, Robert charmed the socks off of both of us.
“You must be Kris,” he said smoothly, holding out his hand.
I shot Liz a look that said, “seriously? He knows my name?!” She only shrugged in return.
“Yes, I am Kris,” I flustered. “Obviously, you are Robert.”
“Yes, DOCTOR Robert Bower,” he replied emphasizing his doctoral title, “the university's newest associate professor of business ethics. And, I'm pleased to meet Elizabeth's roommate.”
“Elizabeth?” I questioned. Whoa. Liz never let anyone call her that... other than her own mother. I only dared call her Elizabeth if I wanted to pick a fight. She and I had an understanding. She never called me Kristen and I never called her Elizabeth. This made me wonder about Dr. Bower.
“Robert insists on calling me Elizabeth. Isn't that sweet?” she gushed, as Robert held the door open for her.
“This is worse than I thought!” was the look I gave her as Robert closed the door behind them. That quickly, they were gone. I was left gawking at the door.
Between my hours at the Psychology Department office, the campus bookstore, and tutoring, I didn't spend much time with Robert and Liz. Liz, however, had all the time in the world to spend with Robert. He was the reason she quit waiting tables at the diner, turned in her apron, and donated her ghastly gold dress to the Salvation Army. Instead of waiting on customers at the diner, she waited on Robert. They picnicked, strolled around the campus lake, and went to all the summer recitals. He bought her flowers, clothes, and jewelry. He charmed her with gifts, and only expected all of her time in return. When Robert had a class or a department meeting, Liz lost herself in a practice room and played the piano by the hour. When Robert wasn't teaching or meeting, he expected Liz to be at his beck and call. Robert enjoyed nothing more than waltzing around campus, attending cocktail parties, and generally just being seen with his trophy on his arm. Liz was completely satisfied fulfilling that role. Soon after Labor Day, he began hinting toward a wedding and 'living happily ever after.' Liz was smitten, of that there was no doubt.
The doubt, though, stood in the form of Alistair Ashley... Liz's father. Liz was Ash Ashley's only daughter. She was his princess. He had spent her entire life paying for the absolute best for her. He invested in years of music lessons, private school, and dance classes. His wife, Beatrice, also known as Bea, spent a small fortune on clothes, shoes, and accessories for their daughter. Ash never regretted a penny spent for his sweet girl. In his mind, there was no one good enough to marry his Elizabeth. Convincing her father to see the good in Robert, and haggling with her mother over the wedding details, gave Liz and I one last year together in the attic apartment. A year spent planning a storybook wedding. Another gift.
“Mom! Please listen to me, I only want one attendant. Kris. No more!” Liz sat surrounded by fabric swatches, menu samples, copies of Brides magazine, and a cup of tea. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the tea. Liz only drank tea when she was stressed. Looking at the number of tea bags on the counter in the kitchen confirmed she had been on the phone for a long time.
“Mother,” she groaned. “I don't care about proper etiquette, society protocol, or Emily Post. I will only have one bridesmaid, Kris. I think the simplicity of having just one attendant will be quite elegant.”
The wedding became Liz's life. In fact, not only did she quit her job at the diner, she dropped her classes. As their only daughter, Ash and Bea Ashley, were determined to marry Liz off in a high society manner. Between time with Robert and phone calls with her mother, Liz's life didn't have room for much else.
“It's the first Friday of January, wanna go get pizza or have it delivered?” I asked.
“Mom,” Liz interrupted her mother's monologue. “Mom, I have to go. I will look over the napkin swatches one more time and decide tomorrow. Bye.”
“Phew! Thanks for the rescue, friend!” sighed Liz.
I'm not sure when it had happened but we had both slipped into the comfortable habit of referring to each other as 'friend.' Rarely, did we call each other by name.
“So, pizza?” I asked again over a knock at the door.
Somewhere along the way, Dan discovered our first Friday tradition. Before Liz could answer my question, I opened the door. Dan was standing on the threshold holding two pizza boxes and a bottle of wine.
“Dan, if I weren't engaged, I'd marry you!” Liz shouted. “You're amazing!”
chapter 5
“And, I'm forever grateful that both of you were quick to recognize all my amazingness,” Dan says, quietly walking into Liz's bedroom and slipping in next to me. With a quick squeeze of my shoulder, he leans over and gently kisses Liz's forehead. “How are you doing tonight, Lizzie?”
She opens her eyes and an entire conversation takes place in a moment's look between them. Theirs is a mutual admiration built on years of kindness, compassion, and lots of laughter. It is also an exclusive club. I've never been invited. I gave up any jealousy a long time ago.
“Mom,” Mark's voice catches as he steps to Jenny's side of the bed. Holding Jenny's hand, he gently leans down and whispers in his mother's ear, “I've missed you, Mom. It's good to be home.”
“Home,” Liz croaks. “Soon.”
“I love you much, Mom.”
“Love. You.”
“To the moon and back, Mom,” tears pool in Mark's eyes, “to the moon and back.”
Jenny leans into Mark, her protector. Just three years apart in age, Mark solemnly took on the role of Jenny's protector the day Liz brought Baby Jenny home from the hospital. When little Jenny woke up to find her daddy gone, she fell asleep in her big brother's bed for months. I used to marvel at the fact that Mark and Jenny never had sibling arguments.
“They're best friends,” was Liz's only answer. “They learned early to cling to each other.”
As I watch the exchange between Mark, Liz, and Jenny, tears stream down my cheeks. Saying goodbye is hard. How do children prepare for this? How does a mother say goodbye? How will we breathe without her?
“Remember to count the gifts,” I hear her voice from conversations past. “Even at the end, count... and count for me too.” Tonight is for her. Her gifts came home to give her one last gift. Sometimes counting the gifts is the gift itself.
I don't realize Luke's presence until he puts his hand on my arm. Standing, I hug him. My son, an Army chaplain like my father... a musician like his other mother. He belongs to both of us. In the silence of Liz's room, I realize that we all belong to each other. We are bound by a deep love and a deep history that centers around her. Together, we are her family.
“I've got coffee and tea ready in the kitchen, and the church auxiliary group dropped off a deli tray earlier,” Jana says, stopping outside the bedroom door. Jana, the one with experience. She who has done this before. Tonight, she is our leader and we deftly follow her to the kitchen.
“I can't do this,” Jenny sobs. “Please, someone, please help her.”
I search Jana's eyes for help, for wisdom, for the How-To manual to do this thing called death and grief.
“Jenny, if I may,” Jana steps in wrapping her arms around Jenny's petite frame. “Honey, the absolute greatest gift you can give your mama tonight is to stay by her side. This is equally hard for her. She needs to be surrounded by those she loves and who love her.” Jenny nods into Jana's shoulder.
“I know this is the hardest thing you have ever done. It will also be the greatest thing. I promise that a day will come when you will look back on tonight and be thankful for this last night with your mom.”
I marvel at Jana's wisdom. This night, tonight, is a gift.
“Love on her, Jenny, she needs you,” Jana gently lets go of Jenny and hands her a box of tissues.
“Now,” she says with authority, “I made a promise to your mama.” She looks around at the five of us gathered in Liz's kitchen.
“I made a promise to your Liz,” she repeats. “I could not promise no tears, but I did promise no pity. She wants to celebrate this combined family tonight. Let's give her a celebration of your family... her life. I, for one, would like to hear more of the story.”
Jana's pep talk speaks to our hearts. We all smile at her reference to “your Liz." Liz is ours... she belongs with all of us. With a collective deep breath and filled mugs of coffee, tea and even hot cocoa for Luke, we gather around our Liz. Jenny and Luke sit on either side of her and Mark sits at her feet. The rest of us pull chairs close and listen to the November rain on the window pane.
Gathering my thoughts is becoming more and more difficult. I cannot remember where I am in this story... our story. In a matter of seconds, a myriad of memories flood my mind, all jumbled.
“You were at the wedding,” Dan reaches for my hand.
“Theirs or ours?” I question.
“Both.”
~*~
“When are you going to wake up and see the treasure standing right in front of you?” Liz asked me one night while I brushed my teeth.
Wah?” I mumbled as I brushed.
“Darlin', Dan is one hundred percent prime-time in love with you!” she giggled.
“Serious? Dan? Me?! No. Way.”
“Uh. Huh,” she looked at me. “Wait a minute... are you telling me this is a mutual feeling?”
“Oh Liz! I'm crazy about him, but I've always thought he was still interested in you,” I wailed. “I don't stand a chance.”
“I can't believe this!” Liz screamed. She started dancing around the room singing, “Match-maker, matchmaker, make me a match. Find me a find. Catch me a catch....”
Liz loved the Fiddler on the Roof musical. She would often randomly sing the songs from the show. I had no idea, though, that while she was singing, she was conniving.
“We need a plan,” she announced. “Hmmm, what we can do?”
Liz liked to have a plan for everything. She wanted to stay up all night creating a fool-proof plan to get Dan and I together. She tried to talk me into a late night planning session. I was exhausted. The only plan I wanted to be part of was a plan for a good night's sleep. Had I been willing to stay up with her, we might have had a fool-proof plan. Instead, I left it up to her and went to bed. Liz came up with a plan on her own. It equalled a disaster... and another gift.
“Dan, would you mind helping us move a new couch up to the apartment?” Liz asked over the phone.
“You can come at 6? Great! We appreciate this SO much,” she gushed. “Of course, we will feed you. See you then.”
I shot her daggers. She lied to one of her best friends. There was no new couch. Her lame plan, though, included lying to Dan to get him to come over. As soon as he came in, she would “remember” that Robert's class was finished and they had a party to go to. The plan was lame, but that wasn't the worst part about it. Liz left it up to me to explain to Dan that there was no couch and then to treat him to dinner instead. She even pressed a twenty into my hand when she hung up the phone.
Needless to say, the entire evening was a disaster. We walked to Village Pizza and waited forty minutes for a table. When we finally squeezed into the smallest booth they had, we had to continue to wait. In the end, we waited over ninety minutes to eat mediocre pizza with burnt cheese and pepperoni. The pizza was so bad, even Dan didn't want to take home what was left. After I awkwardly explained Liz's antics, there was nothing left to say. I paid with Liz's money and we walked home. The evening felt like a fiasco. However, if Liz's plan was just to get Dan and I together, the plan worked beautifully. On the walk home from an awkward and pathetic dinner, Dan took my hand and said, “I'm glad Liz did this for us.” He always did understand her better than I.
For a few weeks, Liz gloated over her match-making victory. It didn't take long, though, before she poured her energies into planning not just one wedding... two. She would leave pictures of wedding dresses on my dresser, pamphlets for reception facilities, and lists of florists on our table. The bathroom mirror sported yellow sticky notes reminding me to call a photographer, look at the pamphlets on the table, and decide how many attendants I wanted to have.
Overwhelmed, I simply ignored her efforts. Instead of giving in to an anxiety attack, I just walked away from Liz's wedding suggestions. When Liz continued to hound me and I could take it no more, I locked myself in my room and opened my art box. When she realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with me, Liz turned to Dan. After a brief conversation with him, I wisely turned my wedding planning over to both of them. It was perfect. Liz loved surprises. And, Dan loved nothing better than to surprise me. I often caught them whispering and giggling. I pretended not to notice. My only request was that our wedding not take place while Robert and Liz honey-mooned in Italy.
Liz not only put her foot down about having just one bridal attendant, she also insisted that Colonel and Mom Murphy make it to her wedding.... as if they would disagree. My parents were under her spell just like the rest of us. Liz and my mom spent an entire week on the phone calling back and forth to arrange schedules, flight times, car rentals and lodging. Liz paid for it all. How she convinced Colonel Murph to let her pay, I will never know. The fact that he agreed, though, is another gift.
As soon as graduation was over and Robert's office was locked for the summer, the four of us traveled to the Ashley Estate for the wedding week. My parents arrived shortly after. Bea Ashley had the entire week planned out for us. She scheduled a bridal shower luncheon, threw a bachelorette breakfast, and had the bachelor dinner catered. She arranged various garden parties, photography sittings, and cocktail parties. There were distant relatives to meet and society to greet. All to be done before Liz walked down the aisle. As always, Liz played the part of graceful bride and thoughtful daughter perfectly. I played a brilliant role as the quiet bridal attendant. Once again, I had no idea the tricks up Liz's sleeve.
Friday morning, I opened my eyes to see a note and a white rose lying on the pillow next to me. When I sat up to read the note, I saw the most beautiful cream and antique lace dress hanging on my closet door.
I don't want to wake one more morning without you. Would you meet me for breakfast in the gazebo? All my love, Dan
Even though she loves surprises, Liz can hardly keep a secret. Before I could get out of bed, she poked her head in my room grinning from ear to ear. Without saying a word, she ushered me to the bathroom, opened the shower door for me to step into, and walked out. When I finished in the bathroom, Liz was dressed and ready to go. She wore a gorgeous coral-colored lawn dress with matching nail polish on her toes. Painting my toes to match, she soon had me dressed with my hair done and my makeup perfect. Even better, we walked barefoot across the early morning dew-covered grass. I have always hated wearing shoes.
“How?” I finally asked, not sure if I wanted to know the details. Knowing, though, that I did not want to be in the dark any longer.
“All details will be explained by Dan, later,” she grinned. “I will tell you that I designed your dress. Since Janet, my seamstress, already had your measurements for the dress for my wedding, she was able to make this dress for you.”
“Liz!” I squealed. “Really! Really, friend, this is too much!”
“You get what you get and you don't throw a fit,” she answered laughing. “Please, let me do this. Honestly, the dress is really all I did. My parents are providing breakfast and Dan did the rest. Ask no more questions until later, or you will ruin your day.”
Standing in the lawn under the morning sun, I hugged her and we wiped each other's eyes. Then we picked up our skirts and ran the rest of the way to the gazebo. Liz opened the screen door and I walked into a fairy land of little lights, lace, and the love of my life standing with Robert, my parents, Liz's parents and a minister. As the colors of the sunrise painted the sky, Dan and I pledged our lives to each other. Over the most elaborate breakfast I had ever seen, we celebrated with those we loved most. Liz's photographer captured my moment. I danced barefoot to Liz's accompaniment on the harp. For the moment, I lived my own fairy tale. The two I loved most planned a wedding for me that could not have been more perfect.
Later, that same day, while the sunset colored the sky canvas in reds, yellows, oranges, and magentas, guests gathered in an enormous tent on the south lawn of the Ashley Estate. With the brilliant sunset reflecting off the outside of the huge white tent, little white lights and candles lit the inside. Among lace and flowers, friends and family, Liz's fairy tale wedding took place. Dressed in a sapphire floor-length silk dress and matching shoes, I held Liz's bouquet and adjusted her long lace train. In her white silk Cinderella gown, she vowed to love, honor and cherish Robert until parted by death. With seven hundred and fifty of their closest friends and family, the two became Dr. and Mrs. Robert Andrew Bower. Two fairy tale weddings in one day. Two best friends in love.
The party waned in the early morning hours. After Ash and Bea sent Dr. and Mrs. Robert Bower off for Italy, they handed us the key to their guest house. Liz's last wedding gift to us was a stocked pantry and refrigerator. There was no need to go anywhere, so Dan and I locked ourselves in. We didn't come out for a week. I spent the week asking Dan a thousand questions about all the details of our fairy tale wedding. He spent the week answering each and every one. Liz's wedding week... my wedding week... became a week of a thousand gifts and more.