Friendship

She was waiting for me at the bottom of the escalator. Her long and luxurious hair was gone. In its place was a shoulder length, light brown wig. She secured it with a scarf. As we embraced, I realized that her silk jacket camouflaged how thin she had become. She smiled her usual sparkly, eye-popping smile. “I’m fine, really I am…” she exclaimed. She showed me the stubble that was starting to grow at her hairline. “Chris has been so loving,” she whispered.

Twenty years ago, I met Patti in Vermont. I had a son who was an unlikely Super G ski racer. Although he was agile, he was small and skinny. Super G racers need body mass to hurtle effectively down the hill. At eleven, Aron prevailed on guts and will. Patti’s daughter, Paige was twelve. She was tall like her mother and seemed fearless. In life, we click immediately with some people. Braving below zero temperatures and bracing our boots on icy slopes, we began to talk. I could close my eyes while she waited for my son to emerge through the fog. I did the same for her so she didn’t have to deal with the stress of watching her child speed around a turn.

With fall birthdays, we discovered that we were the same age. We each had three children and husbands who had been our partners for decades. We continued to adore these men. Now at dinner in a Boston restaurant, I looked around the table at Patti, her husband, Chris and my husband, David. We shared a history of children racing together in Vermont and beyond, our youngest children attending college together, marriages that had been tested by time and in their case, difficult illness. Patti is in treatment at MGH. She explained her personal regimen of yoga, painting and positive energy. She asked if I am still writing. She wants me to be her ghostwriter so she can tell her story.

I suggested that she write something, even one phrase, at least a few times a week. I explained that there is nothing more therapeutic than chronicling one’s thoughts. She said that when she attempts to put ideas on paper, they seem awkward and empty. I encouraged her that the more she writes, the more her sentences will flow. Over glasses of chardonnay, she explained that many people react strangely to her. They touch her elbow, peer into her face, and give her sad looks. What she would like to say is that it is so much more helpful when friends are upbeat and visit with her the way they always did.

Today I gift-wrapped and mailed her a journal with spaces for words as well as drawings. As an interior designer, she may be more likely to sketch her impressions.