Seeking the comfort of old friends

The first time I dreamed of being more was with her. It was 1980 and we were paired together because it was assumed we would hit it off. We were only a year apart in age, my sister was dating her uncle, we were going to be "junior bridesmaids" in their wedding because it would be too insulting to be flower girls, Lord knows we were too old for that, and so everyone figured we had a lot in common. They were right, though I don't know how they were. She was 11 and I was 10, but our similarities ended there. She had a ton of Barbies and read all the Sweet Valley High Babysitter Club books, and a mom who took her to the movies and roller skating. I did not. I read history books about the Titanic for fun and liked the woods. We were instant best friends. Scripture tells us iron sharpens iron but friendships are never so dramatic, are they? You like a certain gum or a brand of hairspray because that's what you both liked the summer you were 11. We knew "Coal Miner's Daughter" by heart. That wedding we were in, both of us in our matching yellow lace "junior bridesmaid" floor-length gowns with our flower crowns, is when I first wore a bra: I didn't need one but by God if she was going to wear one so would I. I nearly died of embarrassment when my older sister had to pull me into the bathroom during the reception to tell me my strapless "tube" bra that made me feel so grown up earlier that day was now crumpled up around my waist inside my dress and visible to all. My love-hate relationship with undergarments, and my yearning to be grown-up like her, started that day. I wanted to wear makeup when she did. I wanted to get taller when she did. If she said we're having a sleepover and we're saying Bloody Mary while staring in the bathroom mirror, I said OK. If she said we're dressing up as pirates and going trick or treating in five minutes, I didn't question her. And then childhood ended, subtly at first and then with the onslaught of a freight train. Her beautiful mother, her mother with the long hair and the glamorous eyes, the young one who knew how to sew and made her a full poodle skirt for her sock hop birthday party, the one who danced with us and took us to see "9 to 5" at the movie theater, started coughing and didn't stop. It was cancer. By the time I heard, it was too late. Within weeks she was gone. She was 32. My friend was only 13, her little brother 11. I remember going to that funeral, I remember what I wore that day, but I don't recall anything else. I don't think I spoke. My friend's entire life would change, moving in with her dad and his family. What good would "I'm sorry" do? It would be like throwing a pebble into her canyon of grief. Her mother had been my mother and I cried in secret so my own mom wouldn't know I grieved another woman. Now it's my mom who's gone, dying two hours before Mother's Day this past spring. That was just like her, not wanting to be a bother for anybody. One day last week I left my house at 3:30 a.m., flying out to meet my friend for our first sleepover since we were 14 years old. We wouldn't admit for days that we were a bit uneasy about the trip; would we get on each other's nerves? It had been 40 years, after all. We talked nonstop for hours — hours! — about nonsense and good stuff and bad stuff and the deaths of loved ones and all the times we've been there for each other, all before we even go to bed. Then: "At the worst times of my life — the very worst days — all I remember is looking up and there you are, at the end of my bed," she said. "You have no idea how much that means to me." No one knows you like the ones who know how you got broken. No one can appreciate your strength like the ones who know what you had to overcome to stand up again. And again. She says this to me, while sitting at the end of her bed. It's my first time in this room and yet it's as if this has been my assigned space all along. Pick a wrist, she says. I close my eyes and lift my left arm. Next thing I know, a thin silver band with a silver heart is wrapped around it. It's locked into place, with a real key. Its twin is on her wrist. "I bought these in Paris two years ago and I've waited until now for us to put them on," she said. "They are for best friends. It is for you." Love and friendship. It never ends. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.