She was a soul mate friend, the type you find far too seldom, the kind that can finish your sentence or hear the thought behind the words that don't match. It didn't matter that I was twelve years older. We each believed the other was wonderful and could do anything. We published a newsletter for tutors together, learning to use a computer for the first time. She supported me when I decided to have Claire, going with me to doctors' appointments. She was our first visitor in the hospital, and Claire bears her middle name. I encouraged her when she wanted to open her own restaurant. She took my side when her brother and I broke up. I approved when she spent her whole paycheck on an expensive piece of art. She could fix anything, cook anything, wear anything. She and I and our friend Liz would meet at Breadmen's over French toast and tea, talking for hours. The three of us were in a book group together, one that focused on books written by women and which always included chocolate and wine. She insisted on choosing the wine because she knew I'd drink anything. When I was overwhelmed with housework, I'd channel Caroline and somehow knew where to begin, something I still do to this day.
She married, and she and her husband moved to San Antonio so he could go to dental school. I took the girls on a road trip to visit, a plan everyone thought was crazy except her. She took us to eat real Mexican food and taught five-year-old Claire how to make cream cheese icing. When A. finished school, they moved to Asheville. I was thrilled; Asheville was close.
They hadn't been there long when I got a late-night phone call. "A. doesn't know I'm calling," she whispered. "I don't want to worry him. But something's wrong with me." She was scheduled to see a specialist that week, based on some tests that weren't quite right. "And you're worried about your poor motherless children, aren't you?" I said. "Yes!" she said. "I'm more worried about them than I am for myself."
She called me after the visit with the specialist. "His face was gray," she said. "He had trouble telling me. And A. Oh, Linda, I could hardly bear it for him."
I started going up once or twice a month. The treatment was brutal. I arranged a mail rota with mutual friends, hoping she'd get something fun every day. One friend sent drawings from his child. Another sent yarn so she could knit. I sent favorite mysteries and postcards of Paris. We'd talked about going again as old ladies, and I was going to hold her to it.
She vacillated between stoic realism and passionate hope. I saw my role as supporting her in whichever mood she was in. "Of course you're going to beat this," I'd say on Monday. By Wednesday we were talking about wills or funeral plans. It was on a hopeful day that I thought up the pottery hook. "Every time I visit, I'm going to buy a piece of pottery. First bowls, then plates, then mugs. You have to stick around long enough for me to feed twelve." The rules were that they didn't have to match, just be local and blue.
There is no shortage of potters in western North Carolina, and on every visit I found one on my way home and added to my collection of bowls. The girls and I began referring to them as the Caroline bowls. Two bowls, then four . . . soup and cereal and salad and mac and cheese, always in the Caroline bowls, beautiful blue, unique works of art. So much of our time together was centered around food, and it seemed right to hold her close in this way.
The next visit was in the hospital. I held her hand and listened to her shallow, pain-filled breaths, staying by her side so her mother and husband could run errands, fill prescriptions, and arrange to take her home. I watched the IV dripping into her skeletal arm, now the only way she could eat.
After I left, I stopped in Black Mountain for dinner and a bowl. I found a side-street pottery shop, and although it was pouring rain, I WAS going to buy my damn bowl. I picked up one that seemed to match the weather, and as the woman wrapped it to take home, she casually asked if it were a gift. "No," I said. She must have heard something in my voice because she stopped and looked at me with concern. The kindness was more than I could bear and I broke down sobbing. She came around the counter and hugged me, both of us crying, as I poured out my story and my pain. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed and rain beat against the window, until finally the pain was diluted and I was able to speak again. I took my package and drove home, stopping at McDonalds on the way.
She died the day after her fortieth birthday, as I was sitting with two good friends, drinking wine and reminiscing. When I got home that night, my answering machine light was blinking. I put the girls to bed before I checked it because I knew what it would say. I listened to her sister-in-law's voice, and although I wasn't really hungry, I got the last Caroline bowl out and sat down to eat some soup.
