Visitation

Sculpture in art gallery in Cortona, Italy

Rose's mumbling and moaning finally woke up her husband. It was 3:30 a.m. Andrew rolled over and tried to shake his wife awake: "What is it, honey? What's wrong?"

Mostly asleep, she was still tossing and muttering: "I saw her, I talked to her! She had lost all her hair." 

"Who did? Wake up, honey! Tell me, who was it?" Andrew continued, leaning on his right elbow and gently stroking her face.

Coming to abruptly, Rose sat up and folded both arms across her chest.  She was in a warm bed in a warm room, and yet she felt cold. "She was so real! She was really here with me. I talked to her, but she never answered," she pressed on, shivering. After a pause, she added softly: "That must have been the way she looked when she died ..."

"Who, honey? Who did you talk to?", her husband repeated with more urgency. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his chest.

"Pauline! She just sat there, looking at me. I was so happy to see her, and I sensed she could hear me and was happy to see me too. But she never said a word. She just looked at me."

"It's OK, love. Everything will be alright. " Andrew held his wife quietly until she calmed down. After a deep sigh, she said pensively: "It's the first dream of her I've had in a long time. I've always dreamt of her periodically, but I've never before seen her so vividly. I felt I could touch her and hold her. God, it was really weird. It felt real enough to be scary!"

After a few moments of his quietly stroking her face, they faded back into the oblivion of sleep.

Five hours later and dressed in their sweats -- their "Sunday best" --, they headed hand in hand to the kitchen for breakfast. Rose popped slices of sourdough bread in the toaster and poured two glasses of orange juice while Andrew filled the filter with ground coffee. Sitting down at the table and buttering the warm toast, she reflected, mostly to herself: "I wonder why today's dream was so vivid''. I can't shake it off."

After clearing up the table, they indulged in their Sunday morning ritual of listening to a live classical music program on public radio while reading the Sunday paper. Cocooned on the couch, she was engrossed in the "Taste" section when the announcer came on: "Good morning, this is Sunday Morning, broadcast by Minnesota Public Radio from the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul. I am your host, Bill McLaughlin. This is Sunday, August 20th,  2000.

Rose's head snapped up from the paper and her heart skipped a beat. What did he say? Staring at the lake through the front bay window, she stood motionless. Oh my God, August 20th! Dropping the paper, she buried her face in her hands and tears slipped through her fingers. Last night's dream swept over her like a tidal wave, bringing Pauline back with the same intensity and clarity.

Her husband looked up from the financial section of the paper, and asked gently: "Are you still thinking of your dream?"

"It's not only the dream. It's just that today is August 20th!" After a pause, she added, in answer to his questioning glance: "That's the day she died."

A rush of memories and emotions harking back to various stages of their lives came tumbling onto the stage of her mental theater: Pauline and she in the 5th grade in Paris, sharing their most intimate secrets. How could the tall, blonde, elegant, conforming Pauline ever have wanted to be best friend with a short, chubby, boisterous and rebellious brunette, Rose would never know. Laurel and Hardy, they used to call us, Rose remembered with the shadow of a smile on her wet face. Yet, that's the way it'd been since they were both 11. Only I knew how she detested being the oldest of seven, having to be a grown-up before her time, and only she knew how I suffered from my father's inability to show affection in a way that was meaningful to her and her sister.

Shortly after high school, Pauline married a handsome and dashing military man-- to the greatest joy of her father, the Colonel -- and they moved away to various European and African countries. She and Pauline did their darnedest to stay connected, writing endlessly to each other since long-distance telephone calls were expensive in the 60s.

A couple of years later, she herself moved to the United States in search of a new life of her own, and their separation seemed even more threatening. Their respective life itineraries and experiences were inexorably pulling them in very different directions, not only physically but existentially. They both felt their friendship irresistibly engulfed in the gaping void that stretched between them.

Pauline had always followed the traditional path, marrying young, having first two sons then a daughter, the dutiful wife and mother, doing everything that was expected of her. Whereas, always rebelling against the "supposed-to's", Rose wound up crossing the Atlantic to find a space where she could breathe freely and be herself. Her subsequent marriage to an American further impacted her relationship with Pauline.

For about 15 years, they almost lost touch, except for Christmas cards. She experienced two miscarriages, several career upheavals and a divorce without the benefit of Pauline's support and understanding. At the same time, it seemed that Pauline was always moving from one military base to another because of her husband's various assignments. She was so busy with her three children, and adjusting to and settling in each new location, that she had no time to write letters to Rose. Despite their best intentions, they had been spiraled out of each other's lives.

It was only during an extended summer trip to France, following her divorce, that Rose reconnected with Pauline. They met in Pauline's house in Provence, where she and her family had recently settled. Pauline's cancer had just been diagnosed. She had already had surgery, and was undergoing chemotherapy. At least, for the first time ever since they had reached adulthood, the two best friends of all times were together to share a crisis, which they both found immensely gratifying. They spent long moments together, desperately attempting to breach the multi-faceted gap which had separated them for so many years.

"I always envied you, you know..." said Pauline pensively, sitting on a chair while Rose, standing, was braiding her long, and now sparse, hair.

"You what?" Rose exclaimed, dropping the braid which promptly unraveled, and bent over to face her friend. "Envy me? The black sheep of the family? The ugly duckling, the one who never fitted the mold? Are you crazy, woman?"

"Of course, you stupid!" answered Pauline, laughing. "You mean you couldn't tell? I was Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes, always responsible and serious and obedient and boring and passive, and determined to always be a good girl. Whereas you were all I ever dreamt to be: a free spirit, assertive, independent, not afraid to speak up or take a stand, doing things your way."

"Yeah, but you were thin, and graceful, and 'feminine', and your parents were proud of you!," retorted Rose with a touch of bitterness.

"Yeah, but you were funny, and creative, and athletic, and you never let anybody push you around!," replied Pauline with obvious envy.

They crumbled in a heap on the floor, holding each other, rocking with laughter. There they were, two 39-year-old women, laughing hysterically over the misconceptions they had entertained about each other for so many years. The gap caused by 11,000 miles and 15 years had vanished. They were as close as in 5th grade.

Tears sneaked back up and slowly trickled down Rose's cheeks. More vivid than all of that were the sadness, regret and despair she had experienced for not being able to be at Pauline's side at the end, exactly one year after that last encounter. She had never gotten over it. She never would.

All of a sudden, the sunny summer Sunday morning no longer seemed cheerful, and the bouillabaisse recipe which had caught her attention earlier seemed trivial. Emerging from the dark corners of her mental attic, there it all was in front of her: receiving Pauline's last letter telling her the cancer had reached its final stage; her own frantic attempts at calling overseas; hearing with desperation Pauline's husband say that, yes, Pauline had asked for her, but, no, he was so very sorry but she could no longer talk or hear or recognize anyone because she had already slipped into a coma. And there it had been and always would be: She had been too late and missed her best friend's last hour.

Her thoughts turned again to the radio announcement, and a second jolt of awareness triggered another stab at her heart. This was the year 2000!  Her tears turned into sobs.   Her husband got up to sit by her on the sofa, and stroked her face in silence. Between sniffles, she finally whispered: "This is the year 2000!"

Puzzled, he replies soothingly: "Well, yes it is, honey…"       

"She died in 1980! " she interrupted. "Don't you see?"

Getting up and lifting his wife to her feet, he took her in his arms: " Was it really 20 years ago yesterday? Wow, what a coincidence!"

"No!  Don’t you see? It wasn't a coincidence! It was a visitation for the 20th anniversary of her death…"

Rose freed herself from her husband's arms and rushed to the study while wiping her eyes. She stood leaning against the wall, looking at the frame which had decorated the bookcase for 21 years: Pauline smiling at her from the photograph of the two of them taken by Pauline's husband the day she and Pauline had howled on the floor like school girls. Mirabeau, July 1979. The last time they had seen each other.

She smiled back at the photo and whispered: "I miss you, too!"