Celebration

Deborah

She had been alive for exactly 17,062 days. Each day passed like the one before although the weather often differed and the circumstances varied. All of the days had always seemed to be the same routine and all blurred together in the cosmos. The sun rose and then set just like it always had even before day 1 of her life. Now, as she sat in her wheelchair at 350 5^th Avenue and looked up at the Empire State Building all of life seemed to stand still for just a moment. In that moment, she felt smaller than she ever had before.  She had once stood at 5’6” and now her feet rested on the thin slats of plastic only inches from the ground. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes—focusing on her inhalation and slowly releasing her breath into the grand surroundings. Taxi cabs beeped and people rushed, but she was in another place and another time. Her hearing deceived her for a moment and all she could hear was the beating of her own heart and shallow breaths.

                Her eyes opened at the sound of her friend’s voice low and to her ear. Instantly, she smelled her friend’s perfume and saw the yellow flashes of taxis passing. The voices of pedestrians rose and fell as they approached her and then passed by. Honking horns ricocheted off of the buildings and landed in her ears. A hot dog cart nearby was being pushed by a Vietnamese man and the cart’s wheels didn’t look much different than the ones on her chair. She sat and listened to her surroundings and allowed them to pour over her like a fresh spring shower.  It was March and the promise of spring looked and felt different than the backyard of her Tennessee home.  In place of daisies and daffodils were artificial hyacinths in store displays and floral prints on passing skirts and blouses.  The sweet smell of grass and rain was restricted to the 250 acres of lawns in Central Park.  She was far from it now, separated by blocks of buildings and busy people. 

                “Deborah, are you feeling ok? Do we need to rest for a while?” her friend said into her ear once more. 

                Deborah shook her head no and took notice of a tall beautiful woman walking toward her.  She thought that the whole city could stop for that woman’s beauty.  Her hair was long and blond—a stark contrast to Deborah’s own short brown hair.  The woman walked with poise and confidence.  In that moment, Deborah attempted to lift her right foot and as if it were the first time, realized that she couldn’t. Her chest tightened at the emotion being stirred in her—a sadness for what was and was to come.  The woman passed Deborah in her designer clothes and health. Deborah wished for one more than the other with a childlike determination.  She had worn designer clothes for years; buying them as she desired and later trading the old for the new. The precious designer labels were now either in filled boxes at her friend’s house or the storage area of thrift stores. The clothes had always come with instructions like dry clean only or hand wash cold. She had always followed the instructions carefully and been a good steward of her processions.   The reality was that she couldn’t care for herself the way she had for those clothes. Hand washing cold and washing with like colors had always been easy. Having people push her around, feed her and wipe her were not easy and did not change the inevitable. She was going to die.

Marci

                Her daughter had been dead for 360 days. The day that cancer claimed the life of her baby girl seemed like it was yesterday.  Not even the scene of New York City could shake that day from her.  Marci had looked out of the window of her daughter’s room at the trees and the luscious mountains in the distance. During that moment, her daughter Amy took her last breath and the mountains seemed to grow bigger—bigger swallowing up life itself. Marci didn’t remember how she ended up on the floor screaming, but the sound of her own cries still echoed in her mind.

                Marci had given birth to Amy on a sunny morning in July. The day she left the hospital the humid Tennessee summer wrapped itself around her as tightly as she had wrapped her new baby. She held Amy and cherished her like a newfound treasure.  Amy grew like the flowers in Marci’s garden and made Marci’s life beautiful and fragrant.  Marci kissed boo-boos, wiped away tears, hung crayon drawing on the refrigerator, reprimanded, protected and nurtured Amy through the ups and downs of her young life. All of the experience and love in the world couldn’t have prepared Marci for the terrible day.  That last breath filtered through Amy’s mouth as gently as the breeze sifted through the window screen.  Just like that, the world did not hold her anymore and neither could Marci.

                The spinach and goat’s cheese salad she had for lunch turned in her stomach as she thought about that day.  She looked down at her hands and realized that her acrylic nails had dug too deeply into her palms. She breathed in deeply and unclenched her fists. The Empire State building seemed fragile to her as she looked up at it.  Hadn’t the World Trade Center seemed strong and stable at one point? Hadn’t Amy’s life seemed young and strong—able to take any blows? Both had fallen and become dust.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

                Marci moved her blonde hair off of her shoulders and tied it up in a messy ponytail. She had dead ends that made it impossible to style her hair.  She hadn’t let anyone touch it since Amy died.  Marci had been Amy’s guinea pig throughout cosmetology school and eventually became a faithful customer once Amy opened her salon. Marci had made an appointment two months after Amy’s death, but sat in the parking lot and cried until her mascara ran and she could manage to drive again. 

                How was New York supposed to make things better? Yesterday, she had dropped a lot of cash on a purse that she couldn’t turn away from. Amy would have hated it, which made her hand over her credit card to be swiped. She had gone to see Mama Mia on Broadway and thought about Amy as a little girl and how she would use her hairbrush as a microphone and dance through the house. New York offered all of the things she and Amy had once loved to share: shopping, more shopping, and more shopping on top of that. There were coffee shops on every block. Marci lived on coffee while Amy had loved the smell, but hated the taste. Amy would still have coffee dates with her mom and sit patiently with her cup of tea as Marci drank her third cup of coffee.  New York was nice, but the memory of her daughter could not be forgotten, even in the rush of the city. There was, after all, a salon everywhere she looked.

Tammy

            She twisted her wedding band as she stood behind Deborah and Marci. She had been married for 3,648 days. It was two days away from her 10^th wedding anniversary. Ten years had given her a best friend and confidant, a precious daughter, and two sweet boys.  She looked up at the Empire State Building and thought of how cold it looked. It wasn’t an attractive building nor did it stir up the excitement in her that she had thought it would.  Tammy did have a lot on her mind and even more on her shoulders.  The building did look stable even if it wasn’t glamorous. If Tammy knew about anything—it was about being strong.  She had seen the trip to New York City as a testimony to her strength. The trip was a celebration of the life with her husband, a celebration of Amy’s life, and a celebration of Deborah’s life that would ultimately fade away. Tammy became a fortress to Deborah and Marci; and sheltered them in their times of loss. New York was supposed to be a celebration, but Tammy cowered at the building that towered above her. She had felt so strong until now.

                Nothing had happened or been brought up in conversation to dampen the mood. It was the warmth of sunlight on her face; it was the slight breeze that made Marci’s skirt ripple and Deborah’s hair blow.  Those things made Tammy’s heart sink in her chest because she realized that time was passing. A day would come when Lou Gehrig’s disease would leave Deborah unable to speak or move the hair out of her face. Tammy stood watching a mother and daughter Marci and Amy’s age get out of a cab. She couldn’t imagine losing her daughter and yet she was entrusted to someone’s heart that knew the pain of losing a child. Shane, Tammy’s husband, walked toward her with coffees in tote. He handed them out one by one and something came to life within her.

                She looked up at the building once more and realized that it seemed to touch Heaven from where she was standing. Could it be a mistake that the sun fell upon all of them in that moment?

“Hey, look at this,” Shane said as he handed her the camera.

                Tammy looked at the screen and smiled as tears welled up in her eyes.  It was a photo of all three women together smiling as if death didn’t have power in the world. Deborah’s head was resting on Tammy’s shoulder; her eyes full of life and a smile fit for a princess. Marci’s hand was on top of Tammy’s hand; her shoulders relaxed and head held high.  Tammy’s face wore the expression of delicate sincerity.  New York would always be remembered for what it truly was to her—a celebration of what God had given them—each other.