HELLO GIRAFFE
This silver-framed picture of my friend, Doreen, is on a shelf next to my
desk. The actual picture is four inches by six inches. Doreen was 5’ 10.”
In 1965, the day before freshman orientation at Western Reserve University,
Doreen and her mother walked into the Howard Johnsons across from campus where
I was eating breakfast with my parents. Other kids, flanked by parents,
looked anxious. Doreen, with a spark in her eyes, stood out. We
smiled. Our outfits were almost identical: navy sleeveless mock turtle neck
shells and madras plaid A-line skirts. Hers was taller.
“That one towering over her mother is pretty,” my father said.
Pretty. Inviting, Warm. Later, as I was moving into my dorm room, I
saw her unpacking in a room down the hall and got excited by an
already-familiar face and possible friend. That night for our floor
meeting, most of the girls appeared in jeans or cut offs. Doreen shuffled
in wearing furry bedroom slippers, a head full of rollers, and pink
man-tailored pajamas, like the kind she bought me for my birthday almost four
decades later. I motioned for her to sit next to me. As the dorm
mother announced the dorm rules, I turned to herand whispered, “You look like a
giraffe.”
Our 41-year giggle-and-gab-fest began.
On Saturday evenings, she shuffled around in her rollers, slippers, and
pajamas, as most of us got ready for dates. Too tall and shy for most
boys, she said she wasn’t even sure how to accept a date. The year before
in high school, a male classmate called and asked if she wanted to go to the
senior prom, she said she did, but no one invited her. “That’s what I’m doing,”
said the boy.
She claimed it didn’t bother her that she stayed in. “That’s the way it is,”
she said.
But in the middle of our sophomore year, she transferred to NYU and lived at
home with her parents in Hewlett, Long Island. When I got accepted to NYU
on a junior year program, her father urged her to room with me in the
dorm. He thought I was perky and sociable so she’d probably meet people.
He didn’t mean people. He meant a guy.
In September 1967, Doreen arrived at our dorm, Rubin Hall; with her mink paw
coat and her fall. We went everywhere together: to class, Chinatown, shopping,
museums, the East Village.
In our room, after or instead of studying, we gabbed and laughed the night
away. Doreen was a math major. She didn’t study much. She got it.
And she got me. No judgments. No rigidity. Doreen was accommodating.
Kind. Each time I quit smoking and went back to it the following day,
she’d go ‘bumming’ cigarettes for me from the girls on our floor so I wouldn’t
be the only pest.
She was Felix. I was Oscar. She put her papers and clothes away.
I acquired clutter. And a law school boyfriend. I suggested we fix Doreen
up. The four of us went for Chinese
food. Doreen wore her fall. She and I yukked it up.
The following week, she and Phil went out without us. Doreen took off
her fall. She and Phil took off. That was that. Talk about smitten. Talk
about head over heels.
Two things about Phil put Doreen off: his sweaters with the reindeer on the
front, and his hair: he forgot it was supposed to be washed. She pinned
notes on the reindeer with a hair-washing schedule, bought him plain crewneck
sweaters, and eventually got rid of those with the antlered creatures.
That was window dressing. Doreen and Phil were the real thing.
Before we graduated from college, I was her maid of honor. She and Phil moved to
Portland Oregon where they raised two great kids. Doreen became a much
sought-after lawyer.
We saw each other several times a year and spoke on Sunday nights. She was
still my spiritual big sister and my unofficial shrink. When my first marriage
ended, Doreen listened and counseled me. “You’re fine alone. You don’t need a
man. Your life is rich and full,” she’d say.
When my demons came out, no matter the hour, I’d call her. The summer before
my daughter left for college and I worried about my emptying nest, Doreen sent
me a plane ticket to Oregon for my first week alone. For my 50th
birthday, she took me to Canyon Ranch in Tuscon. When her daughter got
married, she had a luncheon the day before the wedding for the bridesmaids. I
was Doreen’s only friend there.
In November and early December of 2006, we didn’t speak as often as we
usually did. She was sick. Exhausted. She thought she had a flu.
She didn’t call for several Sundays and when I called her, I’d get her machine or she’d say a few words, but
was too tired to stay on. Then Phil called me one day to say Doreen had a
strange form of pancreatic cancer. It looked grim. I asked to speak to her.
Before I got a word in, Doreen said, “Don’t cry. Shit happens. I’ve had a
wonderful life and you had something to do with it.”
Our final conversation took place a few weeks later from her hospice. Her
son phoned. “Mom wants to say good-bye to you.” He put Doreen on.
“You’ve been an amazing friend,” I told her.
“Thank you, Nancy.” She sounded tired. Weak.
“What can I do for you, Doreen?”
“Look out for Phil. I’m worried about him.”A pause, then, “Take care of
little Nancy.”
That last conversation took place in January almost six years ago.
I check on Phil regularly. We e-mail and we speak. He comes to New
York and we spend time together. He was at both my daughter’s and my
weddings.
But Doreen is with me every day. On Sunday nights between 8 and 9, the time
she used to call, I stand in front of her picture and talk to her as I do each
morning before I sit down at my desk. I look at her laughing face and I
smile. Then I start with “Hello Giraffe.”