My neighbour is returning home from the States with her brood later this afternoon… she’s just laid her mother to rest. And this almost nine months to the day after her husband passed away. Four kids left behind. And now her mother, with whom she was especially close, is gone too. My heart is broken for them, and for myself.
We have a closely knit, saintly little neighbourhood that riches and larger home could not drag me from. (At least, I don’t think so.) This is the closest thing I have to family living near by, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s got a Cleaver’s 50′s vibe that is nearly impossible to believe, but it is real. If your household is sick, someone will bring you a pot of soup and some groceries. When new babies arrive, not only does someone on our street throw a welcoming party, complete with gifts, and cake, and wine, but there are often too many offers to accept by the way of help with laundry, or food, or even holding baby while you sleep or eat something… or just take a break. I can procure an amazing amount of borrowed food items at any given time, like a pinch of saffron, or a zucchini, or a bottle of champagne to be returned in the morning. It’s both amazing and totally true.
We water each other’s lawns, and take in mail and newspapers. We look in on our elderly. We are sad when someone moves away… and we grieve when someone has passed. One of our elderly neighbours died at the end of July, but we’re still watering her small garden in the front, as we suspect she’d be watching, and would be very displeased if her flowers were to wilt, even a little. It’s nothing to do these little things for the people we share our lives with on the street. It’s nothing.
Some neighbours lead more visibly active lives, often the ones with children, and so we see each other going to and fro at all times of the day. I’m closer with some neighbours than others, but many of us have lived on this street for a long, long time. This particular neighbour returning today, she and her entire family have been integral in my life, and in the life of my family for over a decade. We’ve been here to welcome the last two of the four children born into their house, as they’ve been with us for the births of our two babies. They were at our wedding before that, and showered us when Martin and I became engaged. I’ve been inside her house, or she in mine nearly every single day for all this time. I know her parents and her extended family very well, as she does mine. This kind of intimacy sometimes goes hand in hand with living in such close proximity. They’ve been good to me, and mine. I’m richer for knowing these people. It is a blessing I count.
She’s returning in a few hours, and I took my kids next door this morning to ready the house for her family’s arrival. Another mench-neighbour bought a boat-load of fresh groceries the other day, so I cleaned out the fridge and unpacked them, cleaned the few dishes in the sink and wiped down the countertops. I gave the bathrooms a quick freshen too, as the bowls just needed it – they’re not filthy people or anything, but they’ve been traveling loads this summer, and in June, the cleaning lady decided she needed to return to Poland to live… stagnant water in toilet bowls just tend to leave a nasty ring. That’s just the way it is. And yet, if I was returning from such a harrowing trip, trying to desperately console broken-hearted kids, heartsick myself and exhausted, the last thing I would want to see is a cruddy toilet bowl and an empty fridge. That would just put me over the fucking top. I’m pretty sure that would break me. If one can relieve a burden for another, then one should. It’s nothing.
It was bad enough that I had to break the news of her mother’s passing to her… after her brother called me to ask if I would please go over to the house to be with her while he relayed this horrible news (he is in the States too), she just wouldn’t answer the phone, though it was ringing, and ringing, and ringing… she just wouldn’t answer. But she was determined to know why I was over at her house at nine in the morning, and where were the kids? Please, just pick up the phone… but she wouldn’t. She demanded that I tell her what was happening, over and over again. I finally saw no other way, and had to tell her myself. Your mother has died, just this morning… I’m so sorry… It was the worst thing I’ve ever had to tell someone. THE worst. I couldn’t stop crying… I got up, pressed the redial button on the phone, and handed her brother’s voice to her. The absolute worst, I tell you.
And all I could think to do after that was wash every dish in her sink, to keep myself busy. To keep myself steadied. It was a bit selfish – I should have left them for her, so she’s have something to do afterward. Something to keep busy with. (Later in the morning, she came to my house, and washed all of my dishes. See? Something to do.)
When she remarked later that this just seemed like a bad dream she couldn’t believe at all, I said, “Good grief, woman! The baby Jesus doesn’t love you at ALL this year, huh? What’d you ever do to him?” She laughed. She laughed a lot. Laughing is good.
The thing is, her mother was JUST here! They’d all spent about four weeks traveling around the States with the kids, visiting family and friends, and her mother stayed on for two weeks afterward. She’d just taken an early retirement. She was a real beauty, inside and out. Very clever and very funny. Vivacious, wonderful, interesting and interested. Lovely woman. She and neighbour’s father visited more than regularly. I mean, they were nearly always here. Especially as neighbour’s husband got sicker and sicker… they came to help their daughter and their grandchildren. They came and stayed. They came and stayed when he actually died. (None of us can believe he’s really gone, still.) Neighbour went to her family over all the holidays. And a few weekends ago when MY family was visiting, neighbour and her mother came to our house often, for drinks and nibbles. And six days after she returned home, she suddenly died, of what I presume to be a heart attack or a stroke. Just like that. And she was just here.
To say I will miss her would be an huge understament. It’s amazing to me that I will never see her face again.
So they’ll be back soon… and we, as friends and neighbours, have handled things. Food is on hand. The windows and have been opened to refresh the stale house air. Trash cans have been emptied. The bathrooms (all four) are clean – nay! Resplendent!! I’ll go back soon to take the towels out of the dryer, and put them away, folded nicely in the right places. These are not hard things to do. It’s nothing.
If I needed her, I know she would do the same for me. Most of my neighbour-friends would do the same. If I were in her shoes, I think I’d be glad to have a tidied place to come back to. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel so glad not to have to go out for eggs, milk and bread for the morning. If I were in her shoes… oh lord, I am so glad not to be in her shoes. Sob.
It’s going to be a long, sad road for he next little while, without her husband, and without her mother… but we’re here. I’m here. She’d do the very same for me. She’d do the same for any of us.
And after I hug her hello, and tell her how sorry I am, and tell her how happy we are to have her home again, I will say, “Hey! Where the hell are your fucking toilet brushes lady? I couldn’t find one in your house ANYWHERE, and I had to send Oliver home to get ours. What the hell, ditch-pig?!”
That’ll make her laugh. Laughing is good.
G.G.
NOTE: Upon asking Oliver to run back home to get the toilet brush, he said, “Um, isn’t that unsanitary?” I said it would be fine – we’ll use bleach. He found that barely acceptable. Me too, come to think of it. Funny, I didn’t even know he knew that word…
