Friend Zone

the gift of an old, old friend

Forgot the selfie of the two of us but not the ab fab living room

Last week I made a thirty-six-hour trip to New England for a doctor’s appointment. I have finally realized, perhaps a little late in life, that I should always take a detour to see dear friends. And so I did. My friend Julie picked me up at the Hartford airport, and we drove to her house on the outskirts of Northampton, MA. She lives adjacent to the Mill River, and the birdsong and lush vegetation were a welcome reprieve from the severe drought gripping the West. Stepping into her house filled me with joy. It's colorful, innovative and belongs in a design magazine.

Julie cooked a killer harissa chicken, and we didn’t stop laughing until bedtime because that is what you do when you’re with Julie.

The next morning, I hired a car to take me to my doctor’s appointment. I settled in, looking forward to taking inventory of my short stay and our long friendship. Chevy (“like the car”) announced, it was 6:15 am, mind you, that talking to the driver was optional. I didn’t need to talk to Chevy. He, however, told me about the geographic charms of the Hartford area, the saga of his two failed marriages, and his favorite places to dine.

I realized the timing of my visit was far from serendipitous. I don’t believe in coincidences anymore anyway.

In three days, I would be pushing through the second anniversary of our daughter Bailey's death, and I just flat-out needed Julie’s company. Julie is the oldest friend I have, the one I kept up with, which is saying something as a former foreign service brat. Many friends have been instrumental to our survival these last couple of years, and I can never express my gratitude enough for their love, compassion, kindness, and tenderness.

But the old friends know the past tense you. Julie is someone who has seen me evolve, knows my wacky family history, my own struggle as an introvert in a fairly visible family, knows the secrets, and understands my creative trajectory because she is also a restless creative.

Our birthdays are two days apart, and every year we never fail to call each other. Now we do so much more often, gabbing about our kids, the highs and lows of our lives, politics, culture and crap culture, and have now added health to our long list of topics to cover. She’s also an artist, one with a broader range than mine— a musician, designer, writer, and quilter. And one hell of a raconteur, which is an art form, and a dying one.

We met in middle school, attended the same high school, and weaved in and out of each other’s adult lives. When she was a punk rock star, I braved her Pussy Galore concerts, standing out in my Levi jeans and hippie tunic shirts. I was her token “crunchy granola” friend, as she dubbed me, an anomaly with only two (ear) piercings and no tattoos, a backstage curiosity. At least I was wearing Doc Martens.

one of Julie’s textile paintings

When Bailey died in New York, friends and family converged to meet us there. I was not eating, not sleeping, on autopilot. Each friend became indispensable: food, conversation, physical support, a presence, a gatekeeper, company at the funeral home. On the second day, maybe it was the third, a large group had gathered in the living area of our hotel suite. Some friends knew each other, some did not. It was a form of sitting shiva, I suppose.

I was struggling with my new reality. I hated being the center of attention, which was unavoidable, and my anxiety was escalating. I caught Julie’s eye, and she knew what to do. I needed to laugh.

She started telling stories about meeting me for the first time when we were both twelve years old. It was her first day as the freaked-out new kid at school, and she spotted me sitting separately from the other girls, dreamily combing through the grass. What the hell was I doing, she wondered. Like some kind of Luna Lovegood precursor, I was looking for four-leaf clovers. Yes, I was still looking for clovers in middle school. I have always been a bit superstitious and fond of any guarantee of good fortune. Julie was intrigued and knew right away this weirdo was destined to be her friend.

People hesitate to laugh in front of the bereaved, but soon I was howling at memories I’d long forgotten. And the room followed suit. And for an instant, just an instant, I was distracted from the darkness. That long summer after Bailey’s death, we talked constantly. Julie is no stranger to heartbreak and has experience with the toll of drugs and addiction that took many of her friends in her punk days. Her wisdom and pragmatism helped coax me out of some dark corners. She reminded me directly and indirectly not to lose wonder, not to abandon creativity. She challenged me when I felt like a failure as a human and as a mother, reminding me that I could and would survive.

When you lose a child, you’re drawn into a twilight realm of what-ifs and nostalgia. You yearn for a simpler time, a kind of childhood innocence. Lingering in memory and longing becomes an intractable part of your new self, appearing and receding at odd moments. Julie is part of my history, but she is also very much a part of my present. And with any luck, the four-leaf clover kind, my future.

I spent this second anniversary of Bailey’s death in the best way possible —I helped our daughter plant her own vegetable and flower garden. Julie, of course, checked in. And of course, she made me roar with laughter.