The Best of Friends

by Sara James

  34

  SARA (2005–2006)

  MOMMY, LOOK! I’M riding next to Ryan!”

  Our four-year-old was bright as a sparkler at the prospect of test-driving her new bike with training wheels in her first-ever parade, and was glued to the side of my old friend Linda’s seven-year-old son Ryan. It was the Fourth of July in Goose Rocks Beach, Maine, and any kid on wheels could participate, including Jacqueline and cousin Sebastian, who sat side by side in their strollers, wide-eyed at the red, white, and blue commotion. My sister Susan grinned and hugged me. “Isn’t it fantastic?” she whispered.

  I found it hard to believe the entire James gang was here—Susan, Danny, and Sebastian up from North Carolina, my sister Elizabeth and John all the way from California, Mom and Dad from Virginia, as well as our tribe of four, all gathered at Linda’s beach home to celebrate the nation’s birthday, and my mom’s. A few days before, Granne had turned seventy. First there was a photo shoot of the entire family frolicking on the beach, a present from Linda and David, who had turned their love of storytelling and images into a thriving documentary wedding photography business. Next had come an elaborate feast. But perhaps Mom’s favorite gift of all had been the “card shower” organized by my sisters. Dozens of dear friends, students, colleagues, and relatives had written, including Mom’s four close-knit brothers and sisters. Letter after letter had praised my mother’s talents as a teacher and musician, and her loving, even nature.

  Beaming, my father looked on. While he’d retired from the University of Richmond, Dad stayed busy writing scholarly papers and books, as well as playing trumpet in a Dixieland jazz band, and relished his new role as babysitting Opa. I watched Dad reach for Mom’s hand, gently touch her ring. I thought back to how, as a twenty-two-year-old, I’d been angry, sure that Mom had been cheated out of a more lucrative and perhaps more highly respected career. “But I’m happy, Sal,” she’d replied. And as I’d watched her open those cards, witnessed her overwhelmed expression as she’d gazed at her husband and children and their husbands and the three grandchildren, I felt only grateful that she’d chosen the path she had, a choice I understood so much better now.

  And then I felt a small, sharp pang as I realized something else. As a mother, I had learned that the impulse to protect a child from danger and suffering is hardwired. With breathtaking clarity, I now understood how difficult it must have been for my parents to watch me willingly put myself in harm’s way. And yet they had never forced me to choose between their love and support and the life and career which I adored. I hoped I would have the same courage and confidence in our girls when they embarked on odysseys of their own, hoped I would give them the same gift of that harbor called home.

  “Mommy!” Sophie brought me back to the present. “The parade is about to start!”

  “I see, honey. Granne, can you push Jacqui’s stroller in closer so I can get a picture of all of you? Linda, slide in. You’re family, too.”

  But I don’t need a picture to remember what happened later that afternoon.

  “Look at her, Sara. She loves it,” Linda whispered.

  Jacqueline sat on the sand, letting the grains trickle through her fingers. Then she shoved a handful in her mouth. Our little girl not only was out of the NICU, but sitting on the beach at Goose Rocks. Linda’s prediction from ten months before had come true.

  AS THE MONTHS passed, Jacqueline continued to get stronger. When it came to milestones, she had her own timetable. She rolled over at six months. By her first birthday, she could sit unassisted. Two months after that, she began to crawl.

  “Look, Mommy!” crowed Jacqueline’s physical therapist, Alyssa Dominianni, just before Christmas. “Look who’s climbing the stairs.”

  Enrolled in a federal program called Early Intervention, Jacqueline received many hours of physical, occupational, and speech therapy each week. She was making steady, wonderful progress.

  Since she’d come home from the hospital the second time, Jacqueline hadn’t had a single seizure. “Sometimes babies just grow out of them,” Andrew’s sister Chrissie explained. “We’ll just have to wait and see.” It was incredibly comforting to have an NICU nurse in the family. What’s more, the medicine we’d initially given her every eight hours now only had to be administered twice a day, and we were decreasing the dose as well. I tried not to let myself get too excited. I’d learned not to look too far down the track.

  With Jacqueline thriving, slowly, carefully, I eased back into my part-time schedule at Dateline. It felt right. I was a mom. I was a reporter. Somewhere along the way the two had fused, and I was just me, Sara. It felt good to work on projects with a beginning, a middle, and an end, to think about the drama in someone else’s life instead of focusing on my own. And it felt good to work in a field I’d always loved with people who were dearer to me than ever before. But I had no doubt what came first.

  “Dr. DeVivo, do you think Jacqueline will get those awful side effects from the medicine we were warned about: extra hair, thick gums—”

  “No,” he responded. “Her dose is low, and getting lower all the time.” Gentle and wise, Dr. Darryl DeVivo was the director emeritus of pediatric neurology at Columbia University Medical Center. He’d been recommended by Wendy Belzberg, a new friend I’d met through my pal and Linda’s college roommate Bridget. Wendy had given us a wealth of practical information and astonishing personal support as we’d navigated the world of infant seizures.

  “Will we ever know why she had them?” I asked Dr. DeVivo.

  “Probably not. It may have been genetic, but don’t fret. There are some thirty thousand genes that make up the human genome, and it’s estimated that half of them play a critical role in the developing brain. A person can have a small genetic error and function normally. Besides, I think she looks great.”

  We did, too.

  IT WAS JANUARY of 2006. I was just back from France, my first overseas trip for Dateline since Jacqueline’s birth.

  “We have a surprise for you, Mommy,” said Sophie. “It’s—”

  “Shh, Soph, it’s a secret!” said Andrew, smiling. Then he gave his nodding permission for her to tell.

  “Jacqueline’s off her medicine!”

  It was fantastic news, especially coming on the heels of our baby’s recent EEG, which had been excellent. Despite that early assessment by one of the neurologists back in the hospital, our daughter’s brain was not a mess. And the best thing of all was—you didn’t need an EEG to know it.

  A MONTH LATER, as a frosting of February snow on the ground outside made our country house seem even warmer and more cheerful, Sophie and I went through the closets looking for ski gear. I pulled out a bright red NBC Sports jacket.

  “Mom, what’s that?”

  “It’s what I wore when I was covering the Winter Olympics four years ago. You were there. I brought you and Sherry with me for the month.”

  “Why aren’t you going to the Olympics this year?”

  “I only work part-time, Soph, remember? That way I can spend more time with you and Jacqueline. We’ll have our own Winter Games up at Catamount. What do you think?”

  “I’m glad. I like you home.”

  I liked home, too. More than I’d ever imagined as a young woman, restless and roaming, certain that excitement was a destination, and one that required a passport. Yes, I had missed the Olympics. But I’d witnessed a couple of gold medal events of my own. Andrew had been taking Sophie to a gentle ski slope near us, where she’d been practicing on the “magic carpet.” The week before, I’d watched my four-year-old ski down a green slope unassisted.

  And I’d just witnessed another extraordinary sight, this one in our own living room. Our seventeen-month-old daughter had giggled, and taken her first proud steps, all on her own.

  Step by step, Jacqueline was making progress, sometimes following in the path of big sister Sophie, often forging her own way. We loved her irrepressible chuckle. The way she adored peekaboo and blew endless raspb
erries. “You know what?” Andrew confessed. “I even like to hear her cry. And I don’t mind her little temper tantrums. Shows a bit of spirit. I’m going to find it hard to ever discipline her after having watched her in that hospital for so long.”

  Now Jacqueline was playing with Sophie, and I caught a glimpse of the three of us in the mirror. I realized I had many hopes for our daughters. I prayed that they would be healthy and happy. I hoped they’d appreciate having a sister as much as I adored and counted on mine. I hoped that they would be fortunate when it came to love and work. I hoped each would recognize what a unique gift she was, how much she could offer. I hoped they would know when to be bold in seeking their dreams—and when holding fast was the braver, truer course. I hoped they would have children of their own one day, and that it wouldn’t take them quite as long as it had taken me. And I hoped that they would also meet wonderful friends along the way—friends who made them laugh and who wiped away their tears, who cherished and occasionally scolded them, friends who reminded them to be happy for all they had, but especially for all they were, friends who would become like sisters.

  Many years before, I’d left home in search of adventure only to discover it could be found at home, as well as on the road. I’d been bent on reinvention only to discover that, whatever the earrings, the scarves, or the hairstyle, the freckled face in the mirror was still my own. I’d been certain that real life involved risk, a view I still held. But sometimes you dare to travel to the bottom of the sea, and sometimes you dare to give up something you love for something you love so much more.

  I touched the Olympics patch on the jacket. I loved my job as much as ever, but I no longer felt like my last name was NBC News. All those years on the road had taught me so much. But being Sophie and Jacqueline’s mom had taught me so much more. I’d learned to savor perfect moments instead of holding out for a perfect life. I’d learned to beware of those who predict the future. I’d learned that hope, wild and strong, can crack through a moonscape of despair, and that you must dare to let it take root. I’d learned that a career that makes you rich is no substitute for a rich life. I’d learned that sometimes love deserves a second chance. And sometimes separating the alluring from the essential takes a second look. When I’d met Andrew, I’d been drawn by his wit and banter, his confidence and success. But in a husband, those weren’t the qualities I ranked first. Instead it had been his kindness and dependability, old-fashioned, undervalued virtues, which had been tested during the anthrax crisis with Sophie, and again during all those nights by Jacqueline’s bedside. The same qualities I found in friends like Ginger. And finally, I’d learned that no matter how much you learn, when it comes to the most important lessons, you almost always need the occasional refresher course.

  Just a few days before, Sophie had told me, “Mom, one of my friends has gone off the turnpike of loving me.”

  “Then, Sophie,” I’d said, instantly scooping her up, “that’s not a real friend. Not like Gin. Or LP. Or any of Mommy’s other friends.”

  She looked at me. “Ryan,” she told me, “Ryan is a real friend. He’s one hundred percent.”

  “Exactly.”

  As I put down the jacket, I thought of Ginger and our improbable friendship. We were from the same town. The same background. She had three great sisters, I had two. We’d both married men with passports and accents. We were both moms later in life. But she lived in the African desert. I lived in New York City. She worked behind a camera. I worked in front of one. She documented animal drama, I covered human sagas. Our lives were totally opposite. But at heart we were so much the same.

  Perhaps that was why we’d learned so much from each other. From her, I’d learned to trust my instincts. She’d learned to trust her intelligence. I’d learned to narrow my focus. She’d learned to widen her circle. And we’d both learned that sometimes you have to blaze your own trail. And sometimes you have to let others help you along.

  I had been blessed with many extraordinary friends. But in some ways, because Ginger was my alter ego, she could also be my truest self. The woman who’d lived big dreams for me when I’d lost faith in my own. The woman who’d celebrated when I’d dared to dream again. She was the woman I’d often wanted to be. Except if I’d been her, she couldn’t have been my friend.

  To think we’d met so many years before, in the same town. But she’d gone left, and I’d gone right. A decision that could have ended our friendship had instead given each of us an eyewitness account of the road not taken. And in the end, while she lived on one continent and I lived on another, we’d wound up in the same place.

  It was time to make a call.

  “Listen to this, Gin!”

  “Ba-ba,” giggled Jacqueline.

  “She said bye-bye! That’s wonderful! And what was that other sound?”

  “She just kissed the phone. She must know her Auntie Gin is coming over and she’s excited.”

  “Well, I am, too. I can’t wait to see those girls, especially since you never send me pictures! The last ones I have are from when you saw Dona and Mom.”

  “I know, I know. I will. But there is one thing you need to see in person. Jacqueline is walking!”

  I could hear the shout of joy all the way from Namibia.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SOME PEOPLE SAY writing a book is a bit like having a baby. If so, this book was an elephant calf, as it had a two-year gestation. That it was born at all is a tribute to the unflinching support of many people, beginning with Nad Brain and Andrew Butcher. Smart, thoughtful, and always amusing, our husbands not only believed in the idea of this book, but were brave enough to allow their lives, as well as ours, to be put into print. Had it not been for Nad’s eternal optimism, Andrew’s savvy edits, and the willingness of them both to fly solo with the kids when we were tethered to our desks, this book might have been an essay. We love you both, madly.

  This book is dedicated to our children, but we would like to acknowledge them here, too, for all they put up with and all they did to pull us through. Thanks to Kimber for spirited games of cricket that drove through the toughest writer’s block and for tossing wildly wonderful title ideas into the air. Thanks to Sophie for cheerfully keeping us company as we labored over the final draft by writing her own book, complete with illustrations. And thanks to Jacqueline for those joyful dance sessions, and for reminding everyone that it is always important to giggle. We hope that when all of you are grown up, this book will be a window into the hearts and minds of your moms, a journal about the journey that took us from the children we were to the mothers of children we adore.

  We owe a big thanks to our agent, Elyse Cheney, who had the vision to imagine an actual book with chapters and a cover when presented with a one-page proposal. Your astute advice was invaluable as we churned through draft after draft until we finally had a finished manuscript.

  We are indebted to our editor, Jennifer Pooley, and the entire team at William Morrow, who shared our conviction that one memoir could be written by two authors. Jen, your patience when life’s emergencies shelved our project for months was a godsend. Furthermore, your gentle guidance and endless enthusiasm liberated us to explore the contours and detours of our story.

  Special thanks must go to our parents, Don and Dale Mauney and Rob and Anne James. We believe our quest to live full, adventurous lives is in part a reflection of your continuing passion to grow, learn, and evolve. Yet you also had the wisdom to know that in order for us to fly, we needed a safe place to land. It is impossible to thank you enough for this grounding and to say how very much we love you.

  And that brings us to our wonderful troop of sisters. You are women to treasure, and we do. We also are inspired by you: by Marsha’s soulful writing and bold reinvention of her life; by Tish’s bravery and tenacity in spinning happiness out of hardship; by Dona’s sense of comfort and her boundless capacity to give, including the gift of her wonderful children, Maggie and Zan; by Elizabeth’s perseverance and faith, whi
ch helped her to recover her lovely voice and to blaze a new career path; by Susan’s deep well of optimism, restorative during days of emotional drought, and by her delight in all children, especially her darling Sebastian. Quite simply, we adore all of you. If we were not family, we would seek you out as friends, for you are both to us in equal measure.

  While this is a book about our friendship, it is also a book about friends and friendship in general. We could not imagine our journey without all of you. While many of our dear friends are mentioned by name, others are not, but you know who you are. We love and thank you all.

  We also would like to thank the men, women, and children who spoke to us, often at times of extreme duress, for their breathtaking eloquence and courage. And we thank, too, those creatures who shared their tales not with words, but by granting us acceptance. All of their stories have inspired us, taught us, and changed us.

  Finally, any memoir is a record of events, which, by definition, is personal. In an attempt to be fair and accurate, we cross-checked our memories both with each other and with others in an attempt to clarify and amplify our individual impressions, as well as to ensure the integrity of this memoir overall. In the end, of course, this is our story. We have told it, to the best of our ability, and as we remember, and have worked hard to be accurate, honest, and true.

  About the Authors

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  Credits

  Jacket design by Ervin Serrano

  Jacket photographs: city by Altrendo Panoramic/Getty Images;

  Africa by Anup Shah/Getty Images

  Copyright

  THE BEST OF FRIENDS. Copyright © 2007 by Sara James and Ginger Mauney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.