There will be no last Goodbye.

I met with a friend this week. I haven't seen her for way too long because, well because you know how life is.

I was anxious about seeing her as we haven’t talked in a while. Silly really. Ours has always been one of those friendships where you don’t talk in ages and then pick up almost exactly where you left off.

Normally we’d meet in a restaurant at happy hour. Mexican usually, for tacos and a margarita or ten. We’d often go to this one place on Burbank. She was on first-name terms with the waiter, and we’d always end up making friends with the diners on the next table. But there’s no Mexican restaurant on the cards for this meeting. My friend has put her margarita days behind her, and is keeping clear of food.

For the occasion, I wore yellow. I look terrible in yellow. Especially lemon yellow. Like I have jaundice or a dodgy liver. But yellow was required, so I didn’t disagree. And gloves. I also had to wear gloves.

She didn’t recognize me at first when I walked through the door, but then I’d expected that. We’ve both changed a bit over the past couple of years. I almost didn’t recognize her either.

The room was clean. Very clean. Sterile. A long long way away from the casual bar atmosphere of the Mexican restaurant on Burbank.

The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills was blaring on the TV. I laughed looking at the screen, pointing out that considering the crazy outfits they had on, I didn’t feel like the most ridiculously dressed person in the room.

She looked at me. Studying my face.

“Hey you,” I said. “ Yes, it is me. That’s right. Lynn. I’ve come to see you. And let me tell you this, you’re the only fucking human I’d wear a lemon yellow paper gown for.”

Propped up in her hospital bed, she blinked. Then, there it was. Unmistakable. The note of recognition in her eyes.

I sat on the chair beside the bed.

“I have to say,” I continued, “You and I have hung out in some weird places, but this sure as Hell has to be the weirdest yet.”

The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills raised a laugh and a cheer and I lost her to the television for a moment. Bright stick thin clowns paraded across the screen, in designer clothes and taut rubberized skin. Their eyelashes so big it looked like giant caterpillars had taken up home on their eyelids. These women live less than 20 miles from us but really exist on a totally different planet.

I laugh. “Just like you and me used to look, eh? When we were out on the town.”

She turns to look at me. Saying nothing. She watches me, trying to comprehend. Like I’d just woken her from a dream.

“I was just telling your son outside about the Elvis party you'd helped organize for my 50th,” I said. “Remember how everything was gold and black and there was that Elvis impersonator who kept trying to get off with Francesca?”

She blinked, her mouth looking like it might smile.

“And then the karaoke after, and all the Scottish people at the party went mental when the Proclaimers came on.”

And then. There it is. The smile. Saying nothing, she reaches to take my hand. I hate that I am wearing gloves. I shouldn't be wearing gloves. If we were having tapas at Happy hour I would not be wearing gloves.

I will not cry. Not here. Not now. I will not fucking cry.

“Hey, do you remember that Mexican we used to go to on Fridays?”

She blinks. She does. I know she does.

“I cannot remember the name of it for the life of me.”

Her mouth moves as she tries to speak. Sound comes out but nothing makes sense. Struggling to talk makes her cough heavily. She closes her eyes. The effort having exhausted her.

I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant but for some reason I can’t. It seems ridiculous to me, that the one of us who doesn’t have dementia is the one who can’t remember the name of the restaurant, and the other who is being ravaged by it can. I feel panicked. Scared. I want to laugh about it, but I don't want to laugh about it. And my heart aches so badly in my chest, I want to rip it out and stamp on the fucker to put it out of its misery.

But this is not the time nor place. So instead, I try to look up the name of the restaurant I can’t remember on my phone.

On the TV screen the Real Housewives are visiting a spiritual retreat. One blonde woman with big lips is telling another blonde woman with big lips how she felt she was disrespected. The other blonde woman says she was just ‘saying it like it is’.

I am here but not here. But then, neither is my friend. This is not where we should be. We should be laughing, and talking about Thanksgiving plans and discussing all the shit that happened last week.

Finally, I find the restaurant on my phone. It is called Mucho Mas.

My friend is lying on the bed, her eyes closed, breathing softly.

I am full of the shoulda woulda coulda, but the truth is I make no difference. What will be will be, and I have no say in it. And I will not fucking cry.

On the TV, Kim has just told Kathy that Lisa called her a bitch and now Lisa is walking off set.

My friend nudges my arm, and I turn to see her awake now. She is holding out her hand. I take her hand and I smile.

“Mucho Mas.” I say victoriously, “The name of the restaurant is Mucho Mas.” She looks at me as if to say, “No shit, Sherlock.” And I laugh. Then she coughs again. It is painful. I nod towards the TV.

“Lisa has just walked off set because Kim told Kathy about her saying she was a bitch.” I tell her, “Or it could have been Melanie, or Kimberly, or Madison, or whoever. Because they all seem to have the same face, and I’m not sure I can tell one from the other.”

And we sit for a while, holding hands. Saying nothing. Friends.

Then I talk about her sons and how wonderful they are. She drops her eyelids in acknowledgment. “You did good,” I say. She knows. She couldn’t not know. Watching each one of them attend to her with such thought, and such tenderness. They take turns to be in her hospital room. She is never left alone to be frightened. She is never allowed to forget how so very much she is loved.

I tell her about Lachlan and how he’s six foot tall now. And she looks at me trying to comprehend.

“I know. I don’t understand it either. When did we get old?” I say. “What happened? We were young just five minutes ago, and now look at us.”

On the TV, Kim is crying, and Kathy is crying too. And there's another blonde woman who could be crying, but it's difficult to tell because of the giant caterpillars on her eyelids and because her face has so much filler, it doesn't move.

“Still, I'd rather be us than them, eh?”

She smiles.

And for a moment we are in a Mexican restaurant in Burbank and it is Friday afternoon. Mucho Mas. It means more. But sometimes there is no more.

I tell her I’m off to Scotland for a while and she rubs her hand on her plaid blanket. I laugh. “A little bit of Scotland here in LA, huh?” I say.

She blinks.

“I’ll be gone for a little while,” I say, trying not to falter.

She watches me. Understanding.

She coughs. It rattles her tiny frame. She was always strong. A fighter. But there is a time when the fight must come to an end.

“Best friends forever,” I say, holding her gaze. She blinks her eyes in agreement, then she tries to speak.

“BFFs,” I say. She smiles. Pleased I understand.

It is hard for her to stay awake. Too hard.

“I'll meet you there. Wherever it is, that it needs to be. I'll meet you.”

She says nothing. Nothing at all. Then she squeezes my hand.

I met with a friend this week. I haven't seen her for too long because, well because you know how life is. I was tearful when I left her. Stupidly tearful. Which is silly really. Because it’s always been one of those friendships where even though you don’t talk in ages you always pick up almost exactly where you left off.

xo

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