“No,” I said.
Sue stood up and raked her bangs across her forehead from left to right, a habit of hers that often resulted in dirt on her face when she was gardening. “So you haven’t seen.”
“Seen what?”
Sue explained that while I had been visiting Lindy, the reporter who’d covered the original grant—her name was Abby Mara—had tried to reach me. When she couldn’t, she’d talked to Sue instead.
“I’m sorry, May. I think she must be a frustrated poet or something. She is just so interested in you having this leave.”
“What did she want to know?”
“She caught me at the end of the day. I was so tired. Blake and I had spent the afternoon raking the Green.” I knew what that meant. It was one of the hardest jobs of late autumn. On the rest of campus, leaf blowers could be used, but the Green, a large, terraced lawn at the historic center of the university, had to be raked by hand. Allegedly this was in keeping with the traditions of the founders of the university; mainly the faculty who lived in cottages around the Green preferred it because it was quieter. Every year Sue grumbled, and I agreed with her. Living on a college campus should not feel like living on an estate with a grounds crew.
“She wanted to know if you were traveling. Where were you going? Were you taking all the time at once or in bits and pieces?”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“I ended up telling her about the fortnight idea.”
“But I’m not doing that.”
“I know. But that fortnight-friends thing you talked about.” She raked her bangs again, leaving a smudge above one eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Well, she loved it. She wrote another story about you that appeared in the online version of the paper.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And it went viral.”
“Viral?”
“Pretty viral. She started a hashtag: fortnightfriend.”
“But I’ve never used a hashtag in my life.”
Sue looked confused. “That doesn’t matter.”
“But it feels weird.”
“Hashtags always feel weird.”
I pointed at my forehead to indicate the smudge on hers.
“Well, this one doesn’t seem so bad. I’m sure it won’t last.” Sue stripped off a gardening glove and rubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “But check out your Twitter feed when you get home, okay?”
I had two thousand new followers that night. Abby Mara might have invented the hashtag, but she credited me with the idea and had linked to my account. Two days later, the hashtag—and, interestingly, its plural—were trending:
Hugs to all my #fortnightfriends! You know who you are.
#fortnightfriend visit this weekend! Hooray!
Work on your #fortnightfriends y’all. Mine saved my life.
Thrilled to have a #fortnightfriend from each place I’ve lived. #lucky
It must have been the time of year: mid-December, visits with family and New Year’s resolutions looming. The collective consciousness of Twitter was primed to embrace friendship as a balm for a challenging season. Distinctions were debated: the fortnight friend could not be someone whom you wanted to visit for two weeks, but someone who would have you for two weeks. Some said it wasn’t real—no one had visited like that since the Victorian era. Others pointed out how little of modern friendship is actually real (IRL).
The backlash started the following week:
Asked my boss if I could have time to visit my #fortnightfriends. Yeah right. #mustbenice
Can’t I just be your #friend? #fortnightfriend
Srsly thought #fortnightfriend was a euphemism for something else.
What the #@&% is a fortnight? #fortnightfriend
Eventually Lindy posted on Facebook again.
When I met May Attaway in sixth grade I was the new student in class and we didn’t immediately become friends. She was quiet and didn’t seem too worried about people liking her, which was cool but intimidating. That year we had to write stories every week for our teacher, who would give us a prompt. May and I always got 99% on them, week after week, because our teacher said he never gave a perfect score. But then one week May got 100% and he asked her to read it to the class. I remember sitting there thinking, I’ve got to be friends with this girl. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made. May is my original #fortnightfriend. So proud of her!
There was no photo; the daffodils must have wilted. I liked the post and thought about leaving the blushing emoji, but I have never used an emoji and I didn’t want to start. I also didn’t want to craft a comment that would be a further testament to our friendship for the benefit of others. The story she mentioned had been about a cat at a shelter who is not adopted and is ultimately put to sleep. It felt like the only good way to share that would have been to make a joke about it and I didn’t want to.
* * *
—
THE SEASON WORE ON. We dutifully put up the signs around campus that said THIS LAWN CLOSED FOR WINTER REST AND RECOVERY, which the students always ignore. Christmas came and went. My father and I had dinner together, but otherwise didn’t make much of a fuss. Holidays are hard for the same reason social media is hard: they allow us to think we know what everyone else is doing. My father and I aren’t great at doing things at the same time as other people: planting on the last frost date, reading the latest bestseller, eating turkey. I don’t know if it’s chronic procrastination or a dislike of team sports. Back in the era when we still gave each other thoughtful Christmas presents, we used to have a tree and put up stockings. We don’t have a tree now because I can’t stand all the nice things said to the fresh trees each year as they’re brought inside, decorated, and loved, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the curb a few weeks later, and my father can’t stand the artificial ones. The town mulches the trees for the park service, but it still makes me sad. If I were a six-foot Douglas or Fraser fir, I’d be very bitter.
Then it was my birthday, the last day of the year. I’ve never been able to get used to it. Long ago my mother would say that on New Year’s Eve the whole world was celebrating my birthday, but that just made it worse. When it became clear I would have been far better suited to a quiet day buried in the middle of the year and shared with no one else, she gave up. I am grateful, however, I was not born in May, and I assume, although I have never asked, that my parents would have chosen a different name had I been. Possibly not; the Hebrew meaning of my name is “wished for” child, which my mother knew. It’s also, and this I prefer, another name for the hawthorn flower.
Unfortunately, the December birth flower is the narcissus (common name daffodil), specifically the winter-blooming variety, or the paperwhite. I have spent many a birthday sneezing from the strong scent of these surprisingly durable flowers. My father always gives me a pot of them that he buys at the grocery store wrapped in green or red foil. Daffodils were brought to Britain by the Romans, who thought the sap had healing powers. In fact, it contains crystals that irritate the skin.
American holly is the lesser known flower for people with a December birthday, and I was astonished when the UPS truck made a stop at my door that afternoon with a square, flat box. Inside was a small holly wreath and a birthday card from Lindy. She’d written, “December holly for May. Happy birthday, dear friend.”
I stared at the wreath for a long time. Then I found a hammer and stepped outside. I pounded a big nail into the front door and hung the wreath.
I stepped down the front walk to admire it from the street just as Janine came out to work on the icy patches that had been making her front walk treacherous for days.
“Hi, May,” she called cheerfully. “Happy New Year.”
I waved.
“Is that a new wreath?” she asked. “It’s lovely.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s from a
friend.”
She looked surprised, but I just waved again and went inside.
I spent that snowy evening making more travel plans and ordering bulbs. Katharine White, who didn’t change her clothes to garden because she thought it inappropriate to “dress down to the plants,” loved gardening catalogs, too. She said it was like no other reading experience because you read for pleasure and knowledge, while at the same time planning the future. In that way, while the snow fell, I crossed into the new year.
Nesting
March 10
Dear May,
Just want to say again that I’m sorry things were so bumpy with Sara. She’s only four, but strong-willed and opinionated, as you know. I imagine she’s missing the feeling of her mom and dad together and found the presence of another adult, in what must have seemed to her like her dad’s space, very threatening. He’s been sleeping in the guest room for some time.
But I’m writing to let you know that Sara loves the bumblebee you brought her! We play a game to remember where it came from, and when I name you, she laughs. So in spite of all the difficulties, you clearly made a good impression.
I hope we can plan another visit again soon. I’m glad you reached out; it was great to see you. Next time I’ll show you more of Seattle.
Love, Neera
P.S. I’m enclosing a postcard that came for you just after you left.
* * *
—
NEERA LIVED IN the suburbs of Seattle and had given me directions for a taxi from the airport. My flight was delayed by thunderstorms, so while the plans had originally involved my getting there in time to go with Neera to pick up Sara from preschool, I ended up arriving after dinner. Neera answered the door in a wooden mask, which was, she explained, part of the bath-time routine. I was a little disappointed. In accordance with epic tradition, someone was getting a bath, but it wasn’t me and I’d been on a plane for five hours. She handed me another mask, which was held in place by biting on a little ledge at the mouth, rendering conversation difficult. I asked after Adam and Neera removed her mask to say he was out. Then Sara streaked down the center hall and Neera went after her, leaving me in the hallway with my mask.
It was one of the more unusual arrivals I’ve experienced, and I’m not sure I’d recommend it, but it did break the ice. Neera and I hadn’t seen each other since before Sara was born, and within minutes I was helping to carry the child to the tub.
“Hi,” I said to her. “I’m May.”
“I know,” Sara said. Then she whispered something to Neera. When neither of them filled me in, I asked what she said.
Sara shook her head, but Neera told me anyway. “She said you have more starlight in your hair than I do.”
So Penelope had Athena boosting her beauty at opportune moments; I had a four-year-old telling me I was grayer than her mother.
I assumed Adam would be returning later, but after Sara was tucked in and we’d eaten dinner and Neera started to open a second bottle of wine, I asked after him again. Neera, Adam, and I met in the first month of college, during those anxious weeks of new friend making that most seemed to enjoy and I survived. When Adam and Neera started dating in our second year, I wasn’t surprised. When they got married after graduation and Neera asked me to be her maid of honor, I was. I’d assumed she had closer friends.
Neera put down the bottle and looked at me across the kitchen table. I held my breath and thought, until she spoke, that Adam was sick, or in the hospital, or that something awful had happened. She’d always kept her hair in a short, neat bob, which was now ragged and grown out to her shoulders. This suddenly seemed like a bad sign.
She said, “Adam and I are nesting.”
Unfamiliar with this term, yet painfully aware from Neera’s expression that this was not good news, I didn’t say anything. When it was clear that it would have to be explained to me, Neera resumed her work with the wine bottle.
“We’re getting divorced,” she said. “Nesting is when you keep things as stable as possible for the children. They stay in the nest, while Adam and I rotate in and out.”
Fly seemed the better verb, but I didn’t say anything. “What happened?”
“He had an affair. Twice, actually. We got through the first time, started counseling, then he started seeing her again.”
“I’m so sorry, Neera.”
Neera shook her head and poured us more wine. “I know you’re friends with us both, and if you want to see him, you can. I’m not interested in sides. I just want this whole thing to be over.”
“No, that’s okay. I came to see you.”
Neera burst into tears.
When a friend is suffering, it seems you have three options: You can sit silently with her, you can make suggestions, or you can share heartache from your own life. None of the three is as simple as it sounds. I knew someone in college who was so full of advice it was exhausting to share problems with her. You left with a small treatise of self-improvement ideas and the urge to lie down. Share too many of your own stories and tragedy starts to feel competitive. I opted for the first approach and put my hand on her warm back while she sobbed.
Neera had always been the kind of person who warns you of the mess, then you step into her dorm room or house and it’s immaculate. This time, though, it was not. In fact, it felt a little like a nest. But the only difference between human homes and the homes of the rest of the animal kingdom is compartmentalization. It isn’t warmth or durability or a penchant for decoration that distinguishes our homemaking; it is merely that we organize our space into different areas.
House or nest, I was going to have to get another hostess gift. I’d brought a set of blue nesting bowls, which seemed now a distinctly bad choice.
Before we went up to bed, I asked if she’d like help cleaning the kitchen. Neera looked around, as if surprised to see it wasn’t clean. “Why?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some people like the closure.”
“I don’t need closure on the day. There’s just going to be another one in the morning.”
* * *
—
SARA WOKE ME UP by very quietly and very deliberately pulling each of the blankets off my bed. I tried to make a game of it, but Sara was serious. She did not want me in the bed, in the room, in the house. I ended up standing in a corner of the kitchen while Neera made coffee and tried to reason with her. Nothing worked until Neera proposed a walk to the playground. I was genuinely surprised. Sara seemed so adult in her demands. What on earth would she do at a playground?
But she liked to swing. And she specifically liked me to push her on the swing, so that’s what I did, trying all the while to shake the feeling that Sara, as she couldn’t get rid of me, was pleased to be putting me to use.
It was a windy, relatively mild day and everything was wet from the day before. Neera kept a towel in her bag to dry the slides and swings, which I thought was very clever of her. We ran into a couple Neera and Adam knew, but while the woman came over to say hello, her partner stayed on his phone. He looked up once with an irritating half-smile.
Neera introduced me as an old friend from college and the woman said, “Oh, so you must be one of Sara’s godmothers!”
I looked at Neera, who just smiled.
“We love Sara,” the woman said. “She’s such a riot.” We all turned to see Sara getting ready to do a somersault down the slide.
Neera said, “Excuse me,” and rushed to stop her.
“Nice to meet you. Have a lovely visit,” the woman said, steering her daughter to another part of the playground.
“She’s English,” Neera said, returning from the slide. “The godparent thing is a big deal to her.”
“Does Sara have godparents?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Yes. Friends from here.”
I was not hurt, just surpri
sed.
“I really didn’t think you’d be interested,” Neera said, and that did seem fair, though for some reason it made me a little sad.
“Is there somewhere we can get ice cream on the way home?” I asked.
We ate our cones while we walked, and in front of Neera’s house I noticed her garden needed attention. It looked as if the fall cleanup had been aborted. Perennials that should have been cut back before winter were wilted on the ground, several shrubs needed pruning before they started to bud. An eclectic array of ceramic pots lined the front steps, too many for my taste, all of them holding soggy, dead plants.
“Do you have a landscaper?” I asked.
“No, we . . . I do it myself,” Neera said.
“That’s great! I’d love to help. I could do some weeding for you tomorrow.”
Neera stared at me. “You do not need to do that.”
“But I’d enjoy it. I like weeding.”
“May, I don’t want you to weed for me.”
“We could do it together, with Sara.”
Neera surveyed the front of her house. She walked to the steps and straightened a few pots, pulled dead plants out of a couple more and dropped them in the grass. “No, I don’t care and I don’t have the time.”
Just as it is unwise to offer unsolicited parenting advice, so, too, gardening tips. I conceded, but the next morning I couldn’t help myself. I woke up early because of the jet lag, and lying in bed thinking about that neglected garden was torture. I got dressed quickly and went out to do a little work before Neera was awake. I don’t think she even noticed.
* * *
—
FOR SOME PEOPLE, the presence of a visitor acts as a kind of stimulant, inspiring outings and fine meals. Lindy is like this. For others, a visitor registers as grit in the gears, leaving everyone a bit sluggish and on edge.
Neera fell into this category. When the next day dawned overcast and rainy again, I encouraged her to catch up on a few errands while I watched Sara, who’d warmed to me just enough to make this possible. We put on Sara’s favorite show, Angelina Ballerina, and after several episodes, I began to feel the lulling comfort of children’s programming: one problem at a time; you see it coming from a mile away; you watch it rise, evolve, and resolve all in less time than it takes to bake a batch of cookies. And friendship, though it may be challenged during the half hour, is always golden and secure by the end.
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