Saturday, January 2, 2010

Call Me


As I said in an earlier post, I have lost my address book. It is gone. I lost it when Lily was in labor. It probably slipped out of my bag where I had it in order to have all the phone numbers of the people I would need to call when the baby came.

It turned out that by the time Owen was born, I was too exhausted to call more than a few people and their numbers were in my cell phone and so I did not realize the loss of the little pink book that had the names and addresses and numbers in it of all the people I know. I went back to check at the hospital the next day to see if anyone had found it but no, there was no trace of it. I feel sure that when the room was cleaned, it was picked up with all the bio-hazard trash and burned in some giant incinerator, it's little picture of the Virgin on the front turning first blue, then black, then disappearing entirely with all that information collected over so many years that meant nothing to anyone in the entire world but me.

And here's the thing- there are a few people in my real life whom I do not e-mail. Seriously. This is true. For whatever reason. And there is one in particular with whom I am fairly desperate to get in touch with. Her name is Mary Lane and we became friends in the sixth grade and she was the one who patiently sat outside the stall of a campground bathroom when we were on a Girl Scout camping trip the night I learned to use a tampon. You know what kind of a friend I am talking about.

The last time I talked to Mary Lane was right before my birthday in July. She was expecting her second grandchild and her father was about to die. And I haven't heard from her since and I haven't been able to call her and it is just now I am panicking because I realize that yes, really and truly, my address book is lost. And worst of all- I tried to google her today and discovered that her daddy died right after we spoke.

If, as my wise counselor of old once told me, we go to relationship school in our parent's house, we can also attend classes occasionally at the houses of our childhood friends. This was certainly true for me. Do you remember going to a friend's house and realizing that things which were done and said at your house were definitely not done or said at your friend's house? That the relationship between parents and children varied wildly? That this friend's parents barely spoke to each other while this other friend's parents seemed to have a secret which they shared sweetly between themselves and no one else? It was like traveling in a foreign country, just to visit someone else's home where the rules and customs were mysterious and curious and where the kitchen smelled completely different and the foods cooked there were not the foods cooked in your own mother's kitchen.

Mary Lane and I were best friends for years. We spent a lot of time in each other's houses although I think we spent a lot more time at her house than we did at mine. There were probably a lot of reasons, the main one being that at my house, everyone was certifiably insane, the vibe was terrible and the food was not as good.

Mary Lane's mother, like mine, was a housewife but she was a different sort of housewife. She dressed better, she didn't try to get away with substituting powdered milk for real milk and she had her own subscription to the Wall Street Journal. She was smart and not afraid to show it. She was a doctor's wife, long-suffering but tolerant, and she definitely had a social life. Their family ate with a tablecloth on the long table and it was at that table I ate boiled shrimp for the first time. I had no idea how to eat it, how to slip the little cellophane jackets off the shrimp along with the legs. But Mary Lane's brother, Jeff, whom I carried the hugest torch for for years and years showed me how to do it. I paid attention. And I have never, ever, in my life, cooked boiled shrimp without adding slices of lime or lemon to the cooking water the way Mary Lane's mother did and I never pull off a shrimp shell without thinking of that night, the tablecloth, Jeff sitting next to me, showing me how to eat the shrimp, the Mother at one end of the table, the Father at the other.

Mary Lane's family and house intimidated me a bit. They lived on a lake, which almost everyone in Winter Haven did (it billed itself as the City of One Hundred Lakes) but they lived right across from Cypress Gardens, right on the lake, not across the road from it, as we lived across the road from our more prosaic lake. They had one whole room that no one ever went into except to practice piano. It had white furniture and a white carpet. But they also had an entire room just for kids to hang out in. They encouraged Jeff's desire to be in a rock band. They bought him a keyboard, and paisley pants on Carnaby Street when they went to London in 1968 or thereabouts. Those pants got him sent home from school and so did the length of his hair but their mama defended him and she had clout. Now look- I'm not saying she was perfect. She was no doubt a Republican. But. She loved her kids. She didn't freak out and go into la-la-land the way my mother did when some teen-aged problem arose. Perhaps the fact that their youngest daughter had had cancer at an early age informed this attitude. She knew what was important. She knew what wasn't.

And Mary Lane's father was certainly a mysterious figure to me. He was never on time for dinner and the family generally waited (and not always patiently) for him to get home to eat. His work was more important than anything, of course! Not only was he a doctor, he was a cardiologist! He and his wife drove Lincoln Continentals, bigger than boats, and I remember going on trips with the family, listening to Three Dog Night and Abby Road on the tape player in the car, sitting near enough to Jeff to get hot and bothered and not knowing one damn thing about what to do about that. I remember on one trip, the doctor telling us how when he'd been in the Navy, they'd worn bell-bottom trousers. Oh yes! I bet he'd been a handsome sailor, Mary Lane's daddy. He scared me a little and he and I probably never had what you'd call a real conversation. Why would we? I was only his daughter's friend, I was at their house a lot, I went to church with them sometimes, I went on trips with them, he knew who I was, there was no need to get to know me. Adults didn't have that need then- to get into their kids' relationships. Not the dads, anyway. Certainly not the dads. They hardly bothered to have relationships with their own kids.

But I observed. And I saw that the doctor and his wife, although they certainly didn't sit around holding hands and I doubt I ever saw them kiss, had a room off to themselves which was regularly redecorated and the few times I ever entered it, I was impressed with the furniture, the thick carpets, the satiny drapes and bedspread, the wealth of well-dressed pillows piled up on that big bed. It all hinted at something that was certainly not going on in my own house.

Mary Lane and I stayed friends all through high school. We got into trouble together and we got out of it together. We fell in love with boys. We discussed boys endlessly on the phone, as well as so many secrets of our hearts. We suffered through Trig together. We went to Cotillion together, wearing our white gloves and our hose, nervously hoping our dance cards would be filled in. I got kissed for the very first time, leaning up against Mary Lane's mama's Lincoln in the parking lot of Cotillion by a bad boy nicknamed Mafia who had the goofiest grin this side of babyhood and who wore sunglasses all the time and Mary Lane was the first to know.

Of course.

And there were things we did not share, Mary Lane and I. We did not share the fact that my stepfather abused me. We did not share the fact that Mary Lane, in the throes of early-seventies worship of thinness starved herself. There were things even we could not talk about but the things we could talk about, we did.

She went to Emory, where her father had gotten his degree in medicine at the age of 21. And there she met her first real boyfriend- a premed student- even though she had sworn to me that she would never, EVER marry a doctor. They got married, she supported him through his residency while he became a neurosurgeon. I couldn't attend the wedding because I was overdue with my first baby, having gotten pregnant and married the guitar player father. She lived in Maryland, I lived in Tallahassee. But we always stayed in touch. Always.

And she came to visit me a few summers when I was renting a tiny cement hovel on St. George Island. I will never forget the night we went down to the ocean on a full moon and stripped naked and floated in the warm, salty Gulf under the stars and we told each other so many of the secrets we'd never shared before, grown women by then, married and mamas ourselves.

You know what kind of friend I'm talking about.

And now her daddy has died and we both have grandsons named Owen and I don't know how she's doing. If she reads my blog, I don't know about it. I think that some people who know me in real life do read the blog and are embarrassed to tell me, as if they are peeking into a window unbidden. But I hope she does. I hope she reads this because I really want to talk to her. I really want to be in touch with her. I want to tell her how sorry I am her daddy died. I want to hear how her mama is doing. I want to hear how the rest of her family is doing. I want to hear how she is doing.

So Mary Lane- if you, by some chance are reading this, please call me. Or e-mail me. Whatever. I miss you so much and we've been through almost an entire lifetime together and I need to still know you're there. I need to tell you that you're right- there is nothing in this entire world like holding your grandchild, like watching your child hold her own baby. I need to compare aches and pains and memory losses. I need to tell you that I learned a lot at your growing-up house. I need to say thank-you for sitting outside of that bathroom stall while I tried to figure out where my vagina was and how to put a tampon in it. I need to thank-you for being my friend when my life was at its hardest.

You didn't know it was, but it was. I didn't know what your secrets were but I know that if you had told them to me, I would have still loved you. I hope you would have still loved me if you had known what mine were. I think you would have.

I want to tell you that I still think of that rum and Jimmy Buffett-fueled night we floated naked under the moonlight and stars on St. George.

So call me, honey, if you get this.

And Happy New Year.

I'm thinking about you and your whole family. I'm thinking about your daddy and Raggedy Anns in velvet dresses and big blue jars full of lemon drops, and I'm thinking of mushrooms and crushes and Jimmy, Jimmy, Jeff, John, Jeff. I'm thinking of you, honey. I am thinking of you.

And I hope you're good. I hope you're handling everything the way you always have- with wisdom and humor and persistence. I remember in the eighth grade when we had to do the flexed arm hang for the fucking Presidential Fitness Test and how you struggled your way up there and held your body, shaking, by your own skinny arms and I thought right then that if I ever needed someone to depend my life on, you would be that person.

Call me baby. I've lost your number. But you're still in my heart.

And I need to know you're there.

Love...Mary

28 comments:

  1. I hope Mary Lane sees this beautiful call to her.

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  2. Whew...that makes me want to pick up the phone and call my best friend right now.

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  3. Elizabeth- I hope so too.

    SJ- Do it!

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  4. Mary... call information, no?

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  5. You could probably guess this. But this is one of my favorite posts ever that you have written. Ten big fat stars!

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  6. That brings me back... I had a best friend like that, and we still talk or email occasionally. I loved spending time at her house and did so every chance I got.

    I HATED the President's physical fitness award bullshit!! MY GOD I'm glad they took that out of the schools.. although I wish they'd left the PE.

    I remember that place on the island. It was awesome! I remember eating coccina zuppa for the first time! (That may be the wrong word, but you know what I mean, right?)

    I hope she calls you. Hey, what if you called the funeral home where her dad was taken care of...? I'll bet there is some kind of connection you could make.
    Good luck,
    xo

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  7. i bet if you sent something to the funeral home that took care of her father's arrangements, they could forward it to her.

    good luck and keep us posted on this.

    xxalainaxx

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  8. Jo- I am assuming she did not lose her address book.

    Glimmer- From the heart. Straight from the heart.

    Ms. Fleur- Yeah. It was weird and ridiculous, that Physical Fitness Award Test. The place where I got the obit was just the local paper where Dr. and the Mrs. lived before they moved to Atlanta. I'll figure it out.

    Miss A- I will. I will keep you posted.

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  9. This is so beautiful. I love your stories and the way you tell them. I love your heart and the way you love people.

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  10. This made me think of so many things. I remember going to a friend's house when I was 9 and hearing them tell each other 'I love you" like a hundred times in one afternoon. I was like WTF? and felt like I was seeing them with their pants down or something. And I remember practically living at my best friend's house all through high school. And how all they did was yell at each other. And again I was like WTF?

    So funny...

    Hope you find your girl

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  11. She will call, if I have one wish I will make it that. She will call.

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  12. Oh Ms. Moon, you got me teary eyed, you do. I pray she reads this and contacts you. And when she does, I pray you will both pick up right where you left off.

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  13. You are so right about childhood friends houses - it was like exploring whole new planets.

    What a beautiful description of friendship.

    If you are super nerdy like me - do you have your old phone bills filed somewhere? (Actually, mine aren't filed, but I know how to access them online.) Maybe you can find your phone bill from July and find her number? Maybe the phone company can send you a copy?

    Good luck!

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  14. With the right poking around online, I'm pretty certain you could find her contact details.

    Good luck.

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  15. ah ms moon...you are the queen of bitter sweetness...i love this post...it so full of pictures..you make us see...thank you...

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  16. That was a great post, like a wonderful short story. It certainly makes me miss my Melissa girl, and she hasn't even been gone four days.

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  17. What a beautiful post about friendship! I know this kind of friend. Going to a friend's house certainly was fascinating, and I think of that now when I take my son to visit other houses. I wonder what he's thinking about all the strange newness. When I was about 10, my friend Kim's dad teased me at dinner once, by giving me a napkin ring and asking me to marry him. I had no idea what to make of that, so I did not utter a word. I came from a teasing household, but it was different from that.

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  18. Jo- I just realized what you meant. I will try that! Yes, of course! Although since her husband is a doctor...

    Bethany- Well, I don't have a lot of friends, but the ones I have are precious to me.

    Michelle- When you think about it, isn't it odd how each family has its own culture in a way?

    Allegra- I will figure this out if she doesn't.

    Angie- We always pick up where we left off. Always. And go from there.

    Grasshopper- I'm not nerdy and don't have the bills. I suppose trying to get them is an avenue.
    Thanks.

    Daddy X- You'd think.

    HoneyLuna- You inspired much of it, talking about Lewis's house.

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  19. oh, of COURSE you've made me cry...something in that last paragraph or two combined with elizabeth's comment did me in.

    and you've made me think about my friend jiffy...her perfect ponytails, the plaque on her wall stating that her ancestors had come here on the mayflower, and how she was the only other 7-year-old i knew who made her own breakfast, though at her house it was because her mom (who smoked!) didn't wake up until late because she'd always had far too many martinis the day before at the country club.

    but my favorite part? this; 'Now look- I'm not saying she was perfect. She was no doubt a Republican. But. She loved her kids.'

    you are too too much, my beloved mary.

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  20. If you can find Mary Jane's father's obit or death notice online, you could try to send a (snail mail) letter to her c/o the funeral home that handled the 'arrangements.'
    All I have is practical advice today...hope it helps you find her.

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  21. You evoked so many memories I have from growing up. I also remember certain smells from houses, big time. Even to this day, certain smells will bring back good and bad memories and feelings. I LOVED this post and that you are such an open-hearted person to share it.

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  22. Thanks, Ms. Moon, for reminding me to call Jeannie! And I'll tell her to watch out for Mary Lane and get her number for you. (Jeannie knows everybody and always has! ;))

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  23. Mama, maybe I can find her for you.

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  24. The relationship between 'best friends' is quite a unique relationship. I was lucky enough to have two best friends. I met one in kindergarten and one in first grade. My best friend since kindergarten died shortly after high school graduation in a car accident on a curvy wet road on her way home from work. My best friend since first grade is my rock and probably the strongest person I know.

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  25. Now she sounds like one hell of a friend. I want a friend like her. I wish I still had one.

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  26. This is so touching. Friends like this make us more like who we deserve to be.

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  27. You will find each other again. Heart friends always find a way. Don't give up.

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Tell me, sweeties. Tell me what you think.