“No, seriously, she had these sturdy black high heels, and when Grandma got mad, they always sided with her. She could take them off and throw them against the wall, and usually they loved it, but one time they landed on the floor quite hard and you know what they said to her?”
“What?”
“These shoes are made for talking, and talking is what they’ll do.”
The women laughed and wiped their tears away and nearby tables gawked, not at them, but at the two pieces of French silk pie passing by. The waiter apologized for having to set the dessert plates right over the women’s scribbled lists. “No problem,” they assured him, and drew arrows to continue the lists along the round edges of the table.
“Another tall, low-fat this time, decaf caffè mocha, please,” said Rebecca.
“And a short, nonfat, decaf latté for me, please,” said Vicki.
“Vicki, if you could only speak Spanish as well as you speak coffee language, you’ll do fine in Spain.”
“What are you saying? My Spanish isn’t that good?”
Rebecca laughed. “Your Dutch accent gets stronger when you speak Spanish. I’ve never heard anything like it!”
“But I’m not Dutch.” Secretly, Vicki felt thrilled, honored that after all these years she naturally sounded like the majority of the city, the city she had grown to love, the city she made her home.
“I know. I’m one hundred percent Dutch, yet you’ve got a stronger accent than I have. You say things like ‘goooood’ and ‘youuuuu’, and you sound friendly when you’re mad. Then again, you did grow up here. What do you expect?”
“Well, I can’t survive in Spain without you. I’m counting on you to be my personal walking, talking Spanish dictionary.”
“You might not need me. Don’t you own a sexy Spanish speaking pair of shoes? Hola, Vicki!” She twirled and gestured with open arms embracing her audience. “I’d like red wine, por favor. Si! Why don’t you walk me over there, to that park bench where you could sit down and together, with me, a sexy pair of shoes and you, a sexy blond from America, we could …”
“You’ve lost it. Now let’s get on with our list,” said Vicki. Rebecca wrote next. “Land a job as a Spanish professor.”
“Never allow a man to get in the way of my dreams,” scribbled Vicki.
“What if he’s the man of your dreams?”
“No. There are dreams, and there are men. No relation between the two.”
“Are you telling me that, if you fall madly in love before you accomplish your goals, you’ll toss him aside?”
Vicki closed her eyes and saw the blurred heads of ex-boyfriends bobbing up and down in dark waves. “Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll toss him overboard into the Sea of Forgetfulness. I’ve done it a dozen times. No big deal. I’m not going to mention names. They’re forgotten.”
“You’re harsh.”
“No, determined. Your turn.”
“Wake early,” wrote Rebecca. And “do more with each day.” “Practice psychology,” Vicki scribbled.
Rebecca picked up the red crayon and added one more thing. “Enjoy the present.” She pressed so hard and passionately that the crayon broke in half.
“You certainly set that one in stone,” laughed Vicki.
“It’s the best goal of all, and easy to accomplish. All I have to do is sip my wonderful mocha, listen to your beautiful words, my dearest friend, and try not to glance at that decapitated tulip stem behind you. Yes, enjoy the present.” She spoke passionately and her voice sounded nice, easygoing.
Once they had licked every last morsel of chocolate from their plates, they left their scribbles behind, said a few hellos to class acquaintances dining at the other small outdoor tables, and started on the half-mile journey back to their campus apartment.
“Would you slow down?” Rebecca asked. “Why do you always walk fast?”
“It’s my nature,” said Vicki as they passed the park. “I’m always in a hurry.” And it was true. It was as if somehow she had read the word “allegro” on the way out of her mother’s womb, a labor and delivery lasting only two hours.
“Do you ever slow down?”
“No,” said Vicki. “It’s why I get so much done.”
“A person like you,” said Rebecca, out of breath. “I know all of your dreams will come true.”
Rebecca’s encouragement meant a lot. There was a kind of validity in it, maybe because Rebecca listened when people spoke. Like a journal, she was always ready to listen, and she always remained locked. No one could ever steal a secret from her, yet sometimes, when Vicki would throw an idea at her, Rebecca would listen and then toss it back with a refreshing perspective, just as a journal entry looks foreign yet familiar when a woman reads it over again at a later date. Vicki was about to tell Rebecca that her dreams would come true as well, but the chang chang of the city clock in the distance interrupted her. It was midnight.
“Well, now that we’ve written down our futures, you might not like what I’m going to say,” declared Rebecca, stopping to take a seat on an antique rocking chair for sale outside a boutique. “We’ve got to stop counting down for everything.”
“Oh, stop with the wisdom, will ya?” Vicki rolled her eyes. “Why can’t we count down?”
“Well, before we know it,” said Rebecca, out of breath, “even Spain will be a memory. And someday our tight skin will be wrinkled. Our colorful hair white. We’ll be rocking in our chairs looking through photo albums and soaking dainty white handkerchiefs. Soon our tears will stop, not because we stop reminiscing but because at that age our tear ducts will have dried up for having spent our lives crying about every not-so-rosy incident that came our way …”
“Enough! Time for you to get out of that rocking chair.” Vicki took her friend’s hands and pulled her up. “Don’t you think for a single moment I’m going to allow my hair to turn gray when I age. I’ll turn it purple like my grandma did before I go gray.”
“Purple? Your grandmother had purple hair?”
“Yeah. She used the same coloring kit every month and claimed she could never read the small-print instructions properly. But I know her eyes worked fine. She spent nights reading romance novels. If she could do this, she could read the instructions on a box of hair coloring. Oh well. We all accepted her with purple hair.”
“There was no warning before she died?”
Vicki shook her head. “Nope. A heart attack in her sleep. Can you imagine?”
As ducks flew south for the winter, so did Grandma, and as they returned to Lake Michigan in the spring, so did Grandma. She would nest in her tiny apartment behind the family business, and the seventy- something-year-old and the young woman spent summer nights together, visiting. They’d burn sandlewood incense, dance to Elvis Presley tapes, and reminisce about Grandma’s past. To Vicki, the world without her grandmother would never look as beautiful again. The seasons would come and go, the ducks would be here and gone, but their arrival would no longer mark the coming of her grandmother.
“Not to change the subject, but do you have any antacid tablets? This heartburn of mine feels like someone is dumping hot lava down my throat.” Rebecca pushed her chest muscles with her fingertips.
“I think so, but only two this time. You’re overdosing yourself with these, Rebecca. You’re becoming a real antacid addict, and I’m worried.”
Vicki laughed, rummaging through her purse. “Did you see the campus doctor about the severity and recurrence of your heartburn?”
“No, not yet,” said Rebecca. “She’d probably tell me no more cartwheels after coffee, or worse, no more coffee at night.”
“Or no more chocolate pie,” added Vicki.
“No more this, no more that. No more, no more, no more,” said Rebecca. “Why is it that the words ‘no more’ only make us want that much more?”
“We’re women.”
Back in their apartment, Vicki felt a wicked breeze entering the window and tickling the nerves in her stomach
. “It’s May. How could it be so cold?”
“El Niño.”
“No, he came and went.”
“Where did he go?”
“Back to Mexico, I think.”
“Then where is that breeze coming from?”
“La Niña.”
“Oh. Is she his wife or sister?”
“Wife, I think.”
“I thought she left, too.”
“Yeah, but I think she’s back.”
“Don’t they ever travel together?”
“No, he snores too loudly, and she cries too much.”
“Oh, well, it’s cold in here, and my heart is pounding,” said Rebecca. “I’ll never be able to fall asleep.”
“Then don’t. It’s our last night together.”
“I’ve got to get sleep. What time do I need to get you to the airport?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I should check my list of things to do. I feel bad you have to drive me all the way to Chicago, but you know I appreciate it. My flight was much cheaper leaving from there.”
“My pleasure.”
Rebecca walked over to the stereo, one of the few items not yet packed in the small one-room apartment. Gloria Gaynor’s CD always occupied holder number four, and Rebecca knew just how to click it in the dark to their favorite song, “I Will Survive.”
Rebecca sang and danced, utilizing all the space in the bedroom. “I’ve spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for myself.”
Vicki tossed her to-do list aside when she heard the music. “I’ve got all my life to live! I’ve got all my love to give,” she sang, jumping up to join her friend. This song had moved the women many times. It eased stress the night before exams. It cured insomnia. It made them laugh. It made them cry the night of the Valentine’s Day dance when Rebecca’s date stood her up, and Vicki’s blind date stood a good two feet shorter than her. Neither woman had danced at the disastrous event. Well, they danced to “I Will Survive” back in their apartment at midnight.
“Why do we love this song so much? It’s old, and way before our times,” shouted Rebecca over the music.
“Don’t ask me. You’re the one always playing it.”
“Listen to the words. It’s not like we can relate. I mean, neither of us have been dumped.”
“It’s got attitude. And who knows, maybe someday we will be dumped, and we’ll know what to say to the men who dump us.” Vicki stared a moment into the tiny flame of Rebecca’s candle, which had vibrantly danced along, then blew it out.
“Well, I’m glad we did that. I can sleep now,” said Rebecca, out of breath and climbing into her bed. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“You’re the one taking off to Florida this summer,” Rebecca’s voice said from across the room. “So I’ve said a prayer for you.”
“For me? You did?”
“Yeah,” said Rebecca. “I asked God to lend you my guardian angel for the summer.”
“Oh come on,” said Vicki. “Can you do that? Can you lend out angels like that?”
“It’s not our job to employ angels. They work for God, so God willing, they’re yours, but only for the summer.”
“You are generous,” said Vicki.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just promise me you’ll slow down a bit so my flock can keep up with you.”
“What kind of shoes do they wear?”
“Angels don’t wear shoes, Vicki. I think they go barefoot.”
“If they want to keep up, they’ll need shoes.”
“They’ve got wings.”
“True.”
“Look, I don’t care whether they wear flip-flops or high heels. Just bring my angels with you when we meet on September ninth! That’s all I ask.”
“LaGuardia Airport, New York, September ninth! We will depart for Spain together.”
“Yes, meet me at the terminal that day, and don’t board that plane without me! I know how you’re always early,” Rebecca said, reaching out of bed to turn the light off.
“Then don’t you dare be late.”
“I won’t.”
“Hey, did you know it’s only fourteen weeks away?” asked Vicki. “I can’t wait.”
“There you go again, counting down. Enjoy your summer in Florida first. Enjoy the present.”
“I don’t want to go to Florida. It’s going to feel weird going there without seeing my grandmother. The state means nothing to me anymore,” said Vicki, entering her typical bedtime monologue. “I really want to stay here, but here isn’t the same now that my parents sold the house and the businesses. Gosh, I still can’t believe they moved. I guess here is still better than there because you’re here, and well, at least there are the tulips and, soon, the festival.”
Rebecca sighed. “The present may be cloudy, but clouds don’t last forever. Live the present.”
“Why are you always so profound?”
“Why don’t you ever stop talking?”
“Okay, buenas noches. I’ll get to sleep now. But hey, let’s make our tablecloth scribbles come true. Let’s do it.”
Normally, Vicki felt cozy with her stuffed tiger, the male that had shared her bed for years, next to her and her friend in the bed across from her. Tonight she felt a strange coldness enter through the window. She didn’t try shutting it. Rebecca liked it open. She liked to listen to the crickets and said they were performing like an orchestra for all insomniacs. Vicki listened and could only hear their noise. This was how she and her friend often differed. Rebecca would hear and see something more beautiful than she did. Maybe her eyes and ears had some kind of audio- visual devices that made everything look and sound crispier, happier, and better. The crickets paused at the honk of a car. Rebecca would hear it as part of the performance, the drums or something.
Good. She could hear Rebecca breathing slowly and loudly in the bed across the room. Something about the sound of it, like waves coming in and out with the Lake Michigan tide, always told Vicki that she too could fall asleep, and tonight she felt ready, exhausted from the busy semester. She closed her eyes and tried to match her own breaths with Rebecca’s. This synchronized breathing took no practice. It happened naturally. Joining the chorus of a sleeping person’s breathing might prove to be more relaxing than yoga. Neither taught nor contemplated, a sleeping person knew how to inhale and exhale perfectly. Vicki held her own breath to listen more closely, to listen to her friend’s breath that suddenly sounded different, choppy, like a vessel struggling through rough waters.
“Rebecca. Rebecca! Are you okay?”
She listened more, then sat up. “You’re sleeping, aren’t you?”
No answer. Then again, no one answers that question when they’re sleeping. “Our friendship means the world to me. I’ve wanted to tell you that,” she said, self-conscious that her friend would wake, upset by her bedtime chatter.
She stopped talking. She listened. She no longer heard the crickets, nor cars, nor thoughts in her head. She only heard Rebecca’s breathing and felt the hair on her arms stand up in response to the cold wind. She knew well the sound that Lake Michigan waves made as they arrived on shore in the month of May, but suddenly it sounded as if those waves had taken a couple of steps back to winter when they arrived out of sync, and some, frozen, never arrived at all. She felt dizzy, as if her mattress were in the middle of an ocean of rough water, and she couldn’t see. She didn’t want to get out of bed, to step on the icy tile floor, but the sounds coming from her friend didn’t sound familiar.
“Rebecca. Wake up, Rebecca!”
Her friend began wheezing horribly, each heave for air desperately snagging on something stuck in her throat and ending in a pitiful gurgle. Vicki’s body took over as she ran across the frozen ice to the light, sliding and stubbing her baby toe en route. It took a couple of seconds to focus on her friend, struggling in bed, eyes closed but gasping for air that she couldn’t take in. Vicki placed her hands on her friend’s shoulde
rs, tense and jerking. She placed her hands on her face, but Rebecca did not respond. Her eyes stayed shut.
“Oh please, Rebecca. Don’t scare me. It’s not funny. Rebecca!”
Vicki nearly tore the door off the hinges as she opened it and screamed down the apartment hallway, “Someone, anyone! Help, help! She can’t breathe! Rebecca can’t breathe!”
A moment of sanity returned. Help. I have to get help! She grabbed the phone and dialed 911, then followed orders and performed CPR on her friend. She panicked, but the voice on the phone directed her. She started to count. Others entered their room now. Someone took over the CPR. She felt an arm around her, a life jacket that held her up. The cold breeze hit her in the face like an iceberg, and someone was shutting the window after Rebecca’s plant tipped over, crashing to the floor. Rebecca loved that plant. Aphrodisiac, she had named it. It grew faster than the others. Rebecca talked to it all the time.
Blue and white lights were flickering outside the window. Men in blue were working on her friend, for what felt like an eternity. One asked her what her friend’s name was.
“Rebecca,” Vicki said numbly. “Her name is Rebecca.”
“Come on, come on, Rebecca. You can do it,” chanted one of the men as he leaned over her, watching and listening for signs of breath. “I know you can do it. Come on back, come on back to us, Rebecca.”
Next, after what felt like a frozen moment of time in which everything stopped and nothing could be heard, another man lifted Rebecca onto a stretcher. Good, thought Vicki. They’re going to rush her to the hospital where they can take better care of her.
“Can, can, can I go with her? She’d want, she’d want me with her,” Vicki asked a man in blue through lips that suddenly felt anesthetized, making the words almost impossible to form.
“I’m sorry. We did all we could.”
Her legs shook from hypothermia setting in. “Well, I’ll go with her. I’ve got to be by her side. She’d want me to.”
The man in blue held her arm tightly as the stretcher left the room. “Look me in the eyes, please.”
He slowly waved his forefinger in the air, catching her attention. “I’m so sorry to tell you this. Your friend suffered a heart attack. She did not make it.”
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