In almost every romantic comedy I’ve seen, the protagonist is a girly, hopeless romantic with a somewhat less-feminine best friend. The best friend is usually a neighbor that symbolizes the main character’s tougher side. Luckily, I and my childhood idol, Faith, fit these roles. Growing up across the street from each other, Faith, her brother Will, and I were inseparable. We played every day after school, even though I went to a public school and they went to a Catholic school. Naturally, my mother and their mother, Teresa, were close as well. Their family was large and not typical. Inside the small house across the street lived Teresa, Elizabeth, Jackie, Laura, Faith, and Will, age descending respectively. The father figure was not much of a father figure to the kids. He was completely out of the picture and, from what I’ve been allowed to hear, he was and/or is an alcoholic. Their house was infamous on the block; it was the house of loud music at late hours, and screaming matches that could be heard from miles away. As the children grew up, police cars were often parked outside their house, too.
Still, I knew who my best friends were and I didn’t care what the neighbors said about them. But when I was too young to understand, or to even be informed of the situation, when Faith was 4 and Will was 3, Teresa was diagnosed with cancer. If I knew more about the situation, I would say so, but I knew very little at the time and I know very little even today. I have memories of my parents conversing about it behind closed doors. I remember the words “bone marrow,” “transplant,” and “blood transfusion.” I know what they mean now, but it never made sense to me at the time. I also have brief memories of seeing Teresa without hair, or with a neck brace. I know this didn’t last long, because as I grow up I often forget it ever happened. But whenever I say something like “Didn’t it go away at one point?” Adults are always quick to correct that. “No; it never went into remission.” I hear that a lot, I guess.
I always knew Faith’s home life was bad and, as we grew up, we grew apart. I became smarter and I found myself. I was the geeky, childish girl with equally childish friends. I studied and read a lot. On the weekends I watched old movies. At night I watched cult-following TV shows. But Faith lost interest in a lot of things about which she used to be passionate. Really, she lost interest in life, or at least it looked as such from my perspective. I could only watch from afar as she deteriorated, as she belittled the potential she had by befriending older and dumber kids. She was such a bright little girl; she was mischievous, too. I was warned not to follow the path she was destined to take. I didn’t understand at first, but now I do. Adults would always say, “Of course she turned out like this, just look at the family.” But I refused to believe it was more than a phase. The phase turned out to be more of a lifestyle. By now the adults’ words had become so hurtful that I stopped listening.
All this was over a course of 13 years. I’m 14 now, and about 9 months ago everything changed. Suddenly, Teresa was weaker than she had been in a very long time. My mom and Teresa were sitting on the lawn chairs in my front yard; I decided to join them. From what I heard, Teresa had been advised to move in with her sister and sell the house, just to ensure that the two youngest kids had a place to live in the long run. I only remember one quote from the conversation, “I don’t want to sell the house and move, because I feel like that’s giving up.” Teresa’s hair was thin and grey, she needed a cane to move around, she could no longer do yard work, and she didn’t feel like giving up.
I couldn’t go a day without talking about it. I got as much information as I could from my mom. I started sitting with them whenever they got together to talk or have tea, but it seemed as if nothing was happening.
I thought so until I saw the “For Sale” sign.
It had finally happened. The infamous house was destined to be emptied and sold. The entire family was gone in less than a month, even though no final sale had gone through and the house wasn’t clear of furniture. I never even got a goodbye from the girl I grew up with. I guess I didn’t deserve one, with me not trying to save her all those years. I carry this burden with me always. I was always complimented for my maturity and questioned for my choice of remaining her friend. I, of course, grew to believe that I could have somehow showed her the way when she needed it most. I think I still believe that. Why did I back away from her when she began to go astray? Were the words of the grownups too scary for me to ignore? Did I really believe that speaking to my childhood sister would somehow infect me with a false disease that was no more than a cry for help and attention? I think about this quite often. What could I have done?
My mother, the woman with the biggest heart for everyone but herself, went into the house daily to help clean it up – removing bags of garbage at a time. I was helping her one night when Spike, the family cat, sauntered out of a vacant bedroom. His angry yellow eyes were large and gleamed in the moonlight that streamed in from an open window. His glossy black fur shined, and I remembered the day he was brought to the neighborhood almost 10 years ago. He cried faintly, desperately even. We later discovered that Spike was supposedly left on his own, seeming capable of forging for food for himself. I refused to let that happen. I scooped the small thing into my arms and determinedly carried him into my house, leaving my mom to continue cleaning. There was no arguing; we were going to keep him.
Teresa and the two youngest kids had arranged to stay at their aunt’s house. My mom visited almost every night, and I didn’t. But I tried to pretend like I was helping by asking my mom how her visits went.
Teresa was getting worse and the kids were miserable; it was the same update every week. We invited the kids over as often as we could and, when they did come over, we tried to act like how we did in the old days.
It was another one of those nights. Faith, Will, my dad, and I were around the table playing a board game. My mother quickly paced into the room with a phone pressed to her ear. As she chattered to whoever was on the other side of the call, she motioned for us to get up and get our jackets. We all knew what was happening.
It happened quickly; it seemed that in under a minute we were all in my mom’s car discussing what was going on. She didn’t know much except that Teresa was in hospice, something I didn’t know, and that things were “getting bad” according to her nurse.
*****
The drive to the hospital was a solemn one.
Nobody said much, we just listened to the rain pound against the windows. It was a low, muffled sound from the inside. I liked the sound, so I concentrated on that instead of the impending tragedy. My mom haphazardly parked the car, and silently we trotted to the hospital doors. Faith and Will knew the way to their mother’s room, so my mom and I followed in haste.
I had never been more shocked in my life. I had only seen her twice in the past month, but within 2 weeks Teresa had deteriorated incredibly. Pale, thin, fragile, wrinkled, worn. This was not the strongest mother of 5 who battled cancer and still managed to do manual labor around the house. This was just another victim of cancer, which, from my perspective, took away everything Teresa was but her illness-stricken body. The tears appeared at the corners of my eyes, but refused to fall. Faith and Will took their respective seats around her bed, and I found one on my own. Faith put her arm around me for the first time in years.
“You okay?” She whispered with a smile.
I blinked, stunned, and the tears vanished. It took me a second to realize the irony of who was asking whom that question.
“Fine, but what about you?” I said it softly, and I couldn’t smile. My mouth was still hanging open from the shock of seeing what was left of her mother and hearing Faith’s cool tone.
She giggled softly and turned back to the bed. Then I cried.
*****
From 6:30 to 9:00 we sat silently. Occasionally new people joined our party and occasionally people left. Nobody really knew what we were waiting for, or whether we were waiting for anything at all. Faith and Will had left the room for a little with Jackie. I was alone with Teresa, Laura, who was holding Teresa’s hand, and one of Teresa’s nephews.
I started counting her breaths. I watched Teresa’s pale chest rise and fall, far slower than my own. I tried to match my breathing to hers, but I couldn’t do it. It was just too slow to be comfortable; I felt like I was choking then saving myself over and over. I counted about 30 and realized it was pointless; I was just entertaining myself. Then her chest heaved, and I snapped to attention. It heaved again; I stood slowly, watching.
Then blood. It was just blood. Her neck seized forward and her stomach convulsed quickly, forcing a long, thick stream of dark blood to gush from her mouth. Her nephew remained calm and rushed to her attention; Laura and I looked at each other and ran from the room searching for help. I dashed through the hall looking for a nurse. If I didn’t find one, I knew Teresa would die.
“Excuse me!” I shouted the second I saw one at a desk. She jumped, startled from me shouting at her. I hurriedly explained the situation, hysterically motioning towards the direction of Teresa’s room.
The nurse slowly removed her glasses and put a hand up. “Calm down. I’ll come.”
I watched in horror as she took her time. I was sure Teresa was dead now and that it was my fault. My head whipped around; I didn’t have time for this. I sprinted back to Teresa’s room, the tears stinging in my eyes. I just remember feeling frustration and pure adrenalin. At that time, I was positive that I hated nurses. I hated hospitals. I hated doctors. I was convinced that they view everyone as the same. Death is common. They don’t care who lives and who dies. They didn’t know Teresa, or her family, or her story, or her legacy, or me.
*****
I wasn’t allowed in Teresa’s room; a nurse had gotten there already and was attending to her. I was relieved, but a bit disappointed. I wanted to see her; I wanted Faith and Will to see her. But we were rushed out and urged to go home.
We reluctantly left. I had nightmares of throwing up blood and dying that night, and I woke up tired and scared the next day.
It was 5th period. I had a class called Studio Art. I had been checking my phone compulsively throughout the day.
The text message read “erica its will she passed.”
I darted from the classroom and down the stairs, pausing on the stairwell between the second and third floors to cry.
The funeral was the following Saturday at which I made this speech:
“The greatest thing about Teresa was how she made you feel. You could walk into her house at any time and feel like a welcomed guest. She’d invite you to sit down and talk, but she’d never talk about herself. She was always interested in how you were doing. Even when she was sick and weak, you could ask her how she was and the worst you would ever get was ‘a little under the weather.’ Teresa made you feel like you mattered because you were able to make her day.”