“Hello. Am I speaking to a Ms. Eliza Mimski?”
I was at work, substituting for a middle school class that had just filed out. Another rambunctious class would be coming in soon. “Yes, it’s me, but I only have a minute. Can I ask what you’re calling about?”
“I’m Ms. Allen, the building manager for your friend Rececca. She’s listed you on her application as her contact person.”
My heart dropped. I sensed what she was calling about. “My friend’s okay, isn’t she?”
*
Rebecca died. It’s been two years now. She just didn’t wake up one morning. We always joked that when we left this world behind we hoped we’d go this way.
She was my buddy, my pal. She was my good friend. Rebecca was younger than me by about four years–I was seventy-six when she passed–and for a long time she’d been part of our group of four female friends who went out to dinner every few weeks. She was the quiet one, the rest of us noisy and laughing too loud and leaving big tips to hopefully compensate for our boisterous behavior. But after a few years Rebecca stopped coming to the dinners because of her chronic fatigue and bodily aches and pains that made her too tired and took too much effort for her to leave her apartment.
Because of her physical problems our friendship shifted and we became phone friends. I couldn’t visit her because that took too much energy for her to deal with. We’d talk most every day in the late afternoons when I’d take my beloved, precious and very reactive dog Tiger for a walk. Before I called her, I’d make sure my brindled pitbull had pooped a couple of times and I’d thrown away the poop bag since I only had two hands–one for his leash and the other for my phone. On the days when Rebecca didn’t answer I’d feel so disappointed and hoped she’d call me back.
What did we talk about on my long walk with Tiger that lasted a good hour or more since he had to stop every few feet to pee, to smell every blade of grass, every plant, every bush, not to mention asking her to hold on as I crossed the street to avoid another dog? Just that Rebecca and I recounted the minutia of our day, details interesting to no one but us. How she’d watched TV while thinking about getting up off the couch but it just took so much energy. How she’d finally managed it and made coffee. How she’d taken two naps, one for an hour and one much longer. I would listen as if this were headline news, sorry for her continual health problems.
My minutia. If I’d substitute taught, I’d tell her about the lesson plan or the two mischievous boys who wouldn’t stop hitting each other and acting out, or the fire drill where I’d forgotten to take the roll sheet with me outside. And if I hadn’t worked, there’d be the recap of how I’d gone to the grocery store, or worked on my latest novel, etc.
One of the things that must be mentioned about Rebecca was how she excelled at listening. I’ve met very few people in my life who have had the ability to really make me feel heard, and truth be told I’m not that great of a listener myself. She was quiet in her listening, never tiring of it, never butting in and taking over the conversation, and she didn’t seem to need as much attention as she was willing to give. I could talk about the minutia but also talk about my fears. Fears like I’d never get my novel published or the huge fear that blocked my foreground, my fear of losing Tiger who’d been diagnosed with cancer.
Another thing about Tiger. When he was a puppy he’d been bitten on the face at the dog park and he’d never gotten over it. He’d been reactive ever since. So when I’d walk Tiger and the neighborhood German Shepherd would appear with its owner, the two of them coming down the sidewalk, I’d tell Rebecca I had to cross the street. Only I wouldn’t say it in quite that way. Instead I’d say: That Mother Frucking shepherd is coming right at us, whereupon she’d shout, and this would be the most energy she’d exhibit on anything: Mother Frucking shepherd! Tell it to go back from where it came from. And the same would go for the Chihuahua that Tiger hated, and the French Bulldog and the Yorkshire Terrier, etc, all of whom Rebecca and I called the Mother Fruckers as if the dogs were responsible for Tiger’s behavior…
It was horrible, learning about her death while I was working. This kind of thing should never happen to anyone. The call came through about ten in the morning and I didn’t get off until three-thirty that afternoon. The next class swarmed in, took their seats and there I was, acting as together as I could as their substitute teacher. This swell of emotion that I was experiencing needed to be held down. Yeah, I could have called the office and told them what had happened but I chose to stay at work. I just didn’t have it in me to say the words aloud.
As the day wore on I was practically jumping out of my skin. I don’t know how I made it through sixth period without breaking down but I somehow did. I guess we do what we have to do. The moment the bell rang I grabbed my stuff, ushered the students out and locked the classroom door. I checked out in the office, gave back my classroom key and fled the building. Once in my car I drove a few blocks and pulled over–I didn’t want anyone from the school to see me breaking down–and with my forehead on the steering wheel I finally started sobbing.
After a few weeks, when the reality of her death had sunk in, I was relieved that she had died because she wasn’t in distress anymore. I suppose everyone says this when someone they love who’s been in a lot of pain passes away. For Rebecca, it meant no more awful aches and pains or being wracked with depression, no more being a prisoner of the couch, no more loneliness of living all alone. No more sorrow, and I picture her up there above the clouds, satisfied, comfortable, and finally at ease.
I remember after she passed away how lonely I felt without her and our check-ins. It was just me and Tiger up and down the San Francisco hills. I’d tell him how Rebecca was gone and I wouldn’t be talking to her anymore, and I wondered if he missed her calls too.
A year came and went, and then Tiger’s cancer suddenly got worse and he passed away within a week’s time. Then it was just me. No Rebecca. No Tiger. At first I’d wear his leash around my neck, taking it for a walk. I’d tell Rebecca how lonely I was without him, without the both of them. Just me walking down the hill all by myself.
My memories of Rebecca are precious to me. She’s gone and this is what I have left of her.
I WRITE BECAUSE I AM ALWAYS HUNGRY. 