Twelve hours before Brenda died she called to tell me she was in Heaven.
“You’re there now?” I asked, slightly distracted with scissors in one hand,
tape in the other. I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder thinking I’d
continue to wrap Christmas presents while we bantered about the gorgeous male
nurses who administered chemo in Colorado Springs Medical Center. The young men
were a favorite subject for Brenda and the tales she weaved were hysterical. A weak, throaty laugh echoed through the phone, “I do believe I am.”
The words, although breathless, hung in the air like a solemn, heavy mist. I
dropped the wrapping paraphernalia, held the phone tight against my ear and
walked outside to our deck. For just a moment, I tilted my head and looked into
the cloudless aqua blue sky – a mirrored reflection of the water – expecting to
see my dear friend waving. “Hey…” I began, stumbling over my thoughts,
“everything okay today?”
“Picture this,” she began, “I’m tucked into an over-sized arm chair by a big
picture window watching fat white snowflakes silently fall from the sky. Next
to me is a fire blazing in a huge stone fireplace and I’m holding a steaming
mug of that jasmine tea you sent me and…” she paused, took a short breath, “I’m
surrounded by books and books and books.”
“Oh, it really is heaven, Bren,” I closed my eyes against the wheezy softness
of her voice. Just last week her voice had been robust and full of laughter. The
tropical paradise before me disappeared and I imagined I was right there with
her.
“I’m choosing books for my kids,” she sighed, “well…the proprietor is
choosing books; I’m just describing the children. I can’t seem to find my
strength today. But I called… I called now because I need to ask you to
promise…” The words faded between us.
Brenda’s kids were not actually her kids. Rather, they were her friends’
kids, at last count --18 in all -- including mine, from ages 2 to 17. Each year
at Christmas and on respective birthdays, each child would receive an age
appropriate, award-winning book with Brenda’s personalized inscription. It was
in my kitchen that she’d thought up this tradition. “Books,” she beamed, “are
the doorways to the world!” I could picture her, eight years earlier, her smile
lighting the room. Now, the enormity of her courage - laced with Chemo,
fighting cancer, yet still concerned about her kids - it bruised my soul.
I cleared the sob from my throat, “Brenda, whatever favor you need, consider
it done.”
“Lynn, I can’t tell you what the favor is just now. There are too many
parts, but I’ll have Michael send it to you in an email.”
“Okay…” I could hear the whine in my voice and willed it away, “but how will
I know what….”
“You’ll know,” she interrupted, a slip in comportment so foreign for Brenda
that it stunned me.
A fear of imminent loss closed around me like a dark tunnel blocking the
sun. I wanted to fight with her, chase the seriousness from her voice and
words. Hadn’t we talked endless hours over the last eight months about her
strength, her will to live, her young age of 60 and the importance, or lack
thereof, of breasts? What about the pros and cons of shopping for new breasts
and the fun she’d have interviewing men on the perfect size and shape? Our
weekly phone conversations always included the future, her pending visit to our
home on Sunset Beach in Oahu as soon as she had the strength to travel. I
wanted to scream at her, “Buy the ticket now, Brenda!” but the words stuck in
my throat.
“Hey beach broad… you there?” This was her new tag name for me and hearing
the wheezy voice attempt humor made me laugh.
“I’m here. I’m here… just rolling over to tan the other side,” I choked out,
“So… what are you reading?” This was always the absolute second question of
every conversation.
“Reading?” she sighed audibly, “Everything I possibly can.” A long, silent
pause filled the phone line and seemed to stop the breeze. “I have to go now,”
she continued, breathless, with just a slight laugh that felt like a kiss
against my ear, “I’m on someone else’s phone, and the angels are restless.
Plus,” she coughed, “God invited me to dinner and I have to decide what I’m
going to wear.”
“Funny. Sticking with the theme of the day, I see. I love you, Bren.
Hey…I’ll call you tomorrow morning… see how that dinner date went.”
“Yeah,” she laughed, sweet, full, hearty; the sound of Brenda, “Love you
too.”
I held the phone close to my chest and let the dial tone drone into a
maddening beep. Even then, I was reluctant to disconnect, to give in to the
sense that I would never speak with my lovely friend again. Instead, I sat down
on the steps with my memories.
On the day we met, I was busy corralling and cajoling four young children
and a baby at a fast-food restaurant. Brenda was at the table next to us
reading Ralph Waldo Emerson Essays. The fourth or fifth time I apologized for
the noise level, Brenda got up from her table and sat down with us. She spoke
very quietly until one by one; each child – even the baby – stopped chattering,
and sat captivated as she recited a Hans Christian Anderson story.
Days later our home became her second home and she visited often at odd
hours. We talked books, analyzed the work of the masters, laughed over love
scenes. Her weakness was a good romance novel, but she grew serious when she
talked about the importance of children knowing the magic of sitting still with
a story and letting their imaginations soar. She loved all of our children, but
paid special attention to our foster kids and spent endless hours engaging them
in conversations about books or organizing special reading days where she would
sit with them in a circle and read with all the gusto of a skilled actress.
When those children left our home, Brenda made sure each of them had their very
own book to take on their journeys.
We were unlikely friends, Brenda and I. I was a military wife, a young mother,
a struggling author, full of creative energy and love and not much else. Brenda
was fifteen years my senior, held a PhD in Philosophy and Education and Masters’
Degrees in Computer Technology, Theology and Mathematics. She was also the
mother of a grown son and the widow of a military man who took his own life.
I was fascinated with Brenda, but I often felt inadequate as a friend. In
quiet moments, usually over wine, I would allude to our differences. What did
she see in me? The first time I broached the subject she waved her hand through
the air and referred to her varied degrees as an addictive hobby. She was
philosophical with the sorrow aspect, stating simply that our lives are
preplanned and this was her lot. After that one speech, the subject was off
limits. “Pointless,” she would say, and then she stared at me, straight on,
with serious, thoughtful eyes and asked me what book I was reading.
This was our glue then and now: books, words, and children.
I sat on the porch step until the orange ball of sun set and the ocean
glittered into the night.
When the phone rang at 4:00 AM the next morning, Michael, Brenda’s son,
apologized for the early hour and went on to explain that his mother insisted I
be the first one he called. Through my tears, I told him how sorry I was and
asked if he needed anything, but the conversation was blurry and surreal. Just
before he hung up he said, “Check your email.”
This is what it said:
My dearest friend, the promise I asked
of you has to do with the long document attached to this email. Here it is:
please continue sending books to my kids. I’ve written a little something for
each year, for each child, with all the pertinent birth date information and
addresses, but please find more children to add each year. Everyone at age 18
or upon graduation from high school should receive Dr. Seuss’, “Oh! The Places
You Will Go!” Thank you, forever.
P.S. my dinner date was heavenly. God
says hi. All my love, Bren.
Most of the original kids are grown now, but I continue to keep my promise
and send books to a growing special list of children each year.
In loving memory, pass it forward.
by Lynnette Bukowski
© 2000