Death and Friendship

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

I will call my friend J., because that is the letter her first name starts with, and because I would hate for her to one day Google herself and discover this post, as it would no doubt cause her to grieve all over again. J. comes from a Lebanese family, and prior to coming to America, she lived in Venezuela for most of her childhood. She arrived in this country when we were both in the fifth grade. At the time she spoke no English, only Arabic and Spanish. We were classmates from fifth grade all the way through college.

Last week, J’s mother and aunt died in a car accident. J’s mother was driving. Her sister, J’s aunt, was in the passenger seat. Their car was struck by a dump truck at an intersection on a very bright and sunny morning, the kind of sun that shines so bright it turns your windshield into a golden blur. They both died of their injuries at a local hospital not much later.

I haven’t seen J. since her wedding about 12 years ago. She moved to California soon afterwards and has since divorced. It would have been nice to see her under less horrible circumstances, as we were always good friends. We live very separate lives and—like many friends separated by years and distance—we drifted apart. Aside from some occasional thoughts and good memories, I doubt either one of us crossed the other’s mind very often. I didn’t even have her phone number.

J., her brother and younger sister all now live in Los Angeles, so they had to fly to the East Coast to make arrangements for their mother’s (and aunt’s) burial. I went to the wake on Sunday night. Predictably, J. was an emotional wreck. So was her younger sister. Her brother, the middle child, was doing a pretty good job of holding everything together, although he also was obviously grieving. J’s father, a man I only remember meeting twice, looked the same as he did on both occasions—very distant and not really part of anything.

While standing in the line that filed past the open casket, I realized I didn’t know my friend’s mother very well. I would certainly have recognized her if I had seen her alive and well somewhere, and she would have known who I was. We would have passed kind words together. I would have said hello, and asked after J. and her other children. She would have smiled and asked about me and about my mother. But I didn’t know her. Not really. And as I knelt before her casket, pretending to pray but really only giving a respectful silence, I wondered about this woman who I knew only through her children. What sacrifices did she make in life? What stories would she never tell? What dreams did she have that ever came true? What made her happy? What made her who she was?

I stood up and turned to the family. J’s father was first. I shook his hand and muttered the usual “Very sorry for your loss.” He shook my hand woodenly. I have no doubt he had no idea who I was. And then I was standing before J.

I think if I live a very long time indeed, I will never forget the look on her face when she saw me standing there.

Right before she collapsed into my arms, J. looked grateful. There really is no better word to describe it. She tried to say something but couldn’t. She was so overwhelmed and so touched that I was there. Not because I'm such a great guy. But because I think that after 12 years away, she never expected to see anyone who was there only for her. And as she held onto me, shaking and sobbing while her family looked on, I could only pat her back and whisper how sorry I was, over and over again—the first words I spoke to my friend in a dozen years. I felt utterly useless. I felt that “I’m sorry” has to be the emptiest sentence ever invented, because it didn’t begin to describe how I felt. In that moment, I would have done anything in the world for her. Anything at all, if it would only ease her pain and stop her tears.

But I couldn’t do anything. No one could.

I went and sat amid the mourners. I listened to whispered inanities about the details of the accident, the sad tragedy of it all, the injustice of a family left without a mother. And I watched my friend grieve from across the room.

I only saw one other person there that I knew, and that happened to be my oldest friend in the world, H. I say oldest, not best; although H and I went to nursery school together, we aren’t close and rarely see each other, and when we do it’s never by design. Unlike me, H. had stayed in touch with J. over the years. While I sat in the viewing room with H, I realized I had nothing to say to her. Not because of our surroundings, and not because we didn’t try. Because years and moments are wedges between souls. I simply no longer knew H, and on some level, I no longer cared about her the way I used to. Seeing her in different circumstances would have been nice. But it wouldn’t have made the awkwardness any easier.

Would it have been the same if it was another funeral, and it was J. sitting next to me? Would I have felt uncomfortable because J. would have been another friend from the past who I no longer knew? I don't know.

J. came over and sat for a while with us. She held our hands and begged me to stay in touch, and I told her I left my address in the sympathy book. I'm not sure if or when I will hear from her again, but I hope I do.