Friends Until We Are Old And Senile
At 85, Ellen O’Neill is in for a surprise when she reunites with a dear old friend over lunch.
Sitting in my comfortable overstuffed living room chair, I held an Edward Hopper replica that reminded me so much of what used to be.
”Oh, my!” I said aloud, thinking back to 1956.
***
We are at The Messenger Bird Chop Suey House. We are 18. All the Chinese restaurants are upstairs and always on a major avenue. This one sits on the corner of 224th Street and White Plains Road in the Bronx.
The peaceful, tinkling, Asian music playing on a scratchy Victrola is drowned out every time the El train blasts by the 241st station. We are so close to train tracks hanging in midair, we can almost touch them. Closer still is a huge, I say huge, neon sign blinking the restaurant's name. Its “M” and “C” are dark. We don’t mind. The broken lights only add to the charm of our tiny, soy- and ginger-soaked, delicious-smelling, and, best of all, inexpensive go-to lunch spot.
Who is that sitting across from me? She’s blonde and beautiful, hiding most of her natural reddish-gold blonde hair under a chic cloche hat. Her green dress is way too tight, emphasizing her ample bust, revealing every curve. She doesn’t care. She never cares what anyone has to say. She is a free spirit.
That’s me sitting opposite her. Me, in black and brown, hiding under some loose schmatte, so no one can figure out how much I weigh. I’m ordinary in every way—a quiet girl who does not want to be noticed. We are waiting for a menu.
“Who needs a menu?” I say. “This is a chow mein house. It’s going to be chow mein.”
Camille smirks, giggles.
“I’m going to order moo goo gai pan,” she says. “I hear it’s the rage.”
I shush her, commanding, “Don’t talk so loud. The people over in that corner will hear.”
“Who cares?” she asks. “What’s more, I’m going to order a whiskey sour.”
Alcohol was legal for us kids in those days, the drinking age in New York just 18. Hmm, I had forgotten that. And if moo goo gai pan was the rage, a whiskey sour was ahead of its time. So was she.
***
I looked at my watch: 5 p.m. October 3, 2023. I put the picture down. “I must call her,” I said. I dialed. When she picked up, I blurted out, “I love you; I miss you. The pandemic was a curse. It’s been too long since we last saw each other. Let’s get together soon.”
She was brief, like she wanted to hang up.
“Where shall we meet?” I asked.
“All the restaurants I can think of have closed,” she answered. “I dare you to come up with a decent place between Millbrook, New York, and Middlebury, Connecticut.”
She was quiet, then abruptly said she had to go.
I promised I’d come up with something and I did: Peach Lake, New York, is the midpoint between us, and they have a Chinese restaurant called Bob La, which means Messenger Bird. Isn’t that funny? I think. Our meeting must be destiny.
The summer prior, Camille’s son had called me and asked for help convincing her she belongs in assisted living. I told him that I hadn’t noticed any great change in her, that she was fine, and that she could make that decision when she needed and wanted to.
Camille and her boyfriend are anti-GPS, so I emailed a map with written directions. We were to meet on the 23rd at 3 p.m. We had not seen each other since 2019. Yes, we often talked on the phone about everyday things—our memories, our kids and grandchildren, our aches, pains, and operations. Camille is not a complainer. Nor am I. Politics are off-limits. We are miles apart there. Neither of us will change the other’s mind, so we know not to bother arguing.
***
The summer prior, Camille’s son had called me and asked for help convincing her she belongs in assisted living. I told him that I hadn’t noticed any great change in her, that she was fine, and that she could make that decision when she needed and wanted to.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
Teed off, I snapped back at him.
“Hey, I took care of my mother through dementia,” I said. “I do understand from both sides—caretaker and old person.”
He definitely was not happy with me.
***
On October 23, I get to Bob La first, sit and wait for Camille. I wonder what our get-together will be like. Will we talk, laugh, and commiserate like we always have in the past, making fun of life and our place in it? I wonder. Will we talk about the dreams and failures we shared?
She is not wearing a tight sweater, her figure no longer robust. She is thin and frail. Her sight is going, so she no longer drives. A few months ago, she broke her hip and now walks with a cane. Her present boyfriend provided transportation to lunch via his Mercedes. Not bad, right? Not so easy for an octogenarian to snag a boyfriend at all, let alone one who still drives.
Camille is still a beauty inside and out. She also forgets a lot, but then so do I. So what? Before reaching me, she stops a waiter and orders a whiskey sour.
We hug, kiss. I smile at her, happy tears in my eyes. We sit and bandy about a little chitchat.
Then I exclaim, “Surprise! Look what I have.” I hand her a photo, adding, “I’ve been cleaning closets.”
She holds the picture and raises an eyebrow at me as though I were crazy.
“It’s time for cleaning up and getting out of my big old, cluttered log cabin,” I reply. “Anyway, what I started to say was that I found this in an old unopened card you sent ages ago.”
She shrugs, her face registering no expression. A bit strange, I think, but I dismiss it.
Camille is still a beauty inside and out. She also forgets a lot, but then so do I. So what? Before reaching me, she stops a waiter and orders a whiskey sour…We hug, kiss. I smile at her, happy tears in my eyes. We sit and bandy about a little chitchat.
Today we are 85 years old. We are in a restaurant very unlike the one that Hopper’s painting had brought to mind. This one is fancy, large, and expensive. Chinese restaurants are no longer commonly upstairs. The only way the two restaurants, past and present, are alike is the wonderful, pungent aroma they share. It’s 2023 and a whole new world has come into existence, one in which Camille and I both feel like aliens.
I look at the menu. She picks up hers.
“What am I going to order?” she asks.
“Oh, I don’t know, something you don’t always get,” I reply. “I hear they have Japanese here, too. I’m going to have sushi with seaweed salad, no soup. What do you think you might like?”
“I don’t care.” She is panicking, very confused. “Who are you anyway?!” she bellows. “Is it time to go home? Is someone going to pick me up?”
“Tom will pick you up at five.”
“Which Tom?” she begs. “There are three Toms. I live with all three of them. I know that’s crazy, really weird.” She looks at me and pleads, “Who are you?!”
I take a deep breath and won't allow the sob crying inside me to escape. Her son’s call for help pounds in my head and heart.
Finally, she whispers, “Ellen?” Then she screams with delight-filled recognition, “Ellen!”
I just sit there, thinking of the words she wrote on the back of the photo she sent me all those years ago:
I vow we will be friends until we are old and senile. Then we will be new friends and when we leave this world, let’s remain ghost friends for all eternity. Love you forever, Camille
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Oh, this is so heartbreaking but beautiful. Thank you so much. This makes me think of my two dearest old girlfriends — since we were 11-12 years old. Pre-pandemic, we used to meet for dinner every couple of months at a place that was approximately midway in-between where each of us lived (we each lived about an hour away from each other). The establishment is known for its happy hour cocktails and duck fat fries, and we would just group text each other 🦆 🍟 🍸 whenever we wanted to set up a date.
One time we saw three older ladies dining and laughing near us and said, “That’ll be us in 30 years.”
One of our trio, Kristin, passed away in February 2020. She was only 54. Her memorial was the last social thing I attended before the pandemic shut everything down. The remaining two of us are still as close as ever, but the sense of love and loss are now intertwined. Next month we will attend Kristin’s mother’s 80th birthday celebration, the last of our surviving parents. We all called each other’s parents “mom” and “dad.” We treasure the time we have.
Ouch. Oh, this was heartbreaking. I've experienced this with my mother, but not yet with a peer. Thank you for sharing this. I'm the oldest of my close friends, but not of my wider friend group. Within that wider group there is one woman in her 70s who is midstage Alzheimers and has been retreating more and more out of embarrassment. That was the hardest stage to watch in Mom, when she knew something was wrong, knew she was slipping away. Love to all of us, let's just be kind to each other and to ourselves.🩵