Laura and I first met in ballet class when we were eight. She was small with sturdy, little legs and a mass of thick, curly hair, the colour of dark honey.
She wasn’t the most graceful dancer, but she was the most committed. From the front row, she performed jetés, pas de chat, and ronds de jambe with abandon. I hid in the back row, self-conscious of my little girl’s belly protruding from my pink leotard.
Near the end of class, our teacher placed a tiara glittering with rhinestones on the head of the student who had excelled. That lucky girl wore it for the final minutes of class. I can’t remember ever wearing the tiara. But I can still see Laura pirouetting, the rhinestones twinkling like a thousand tiny stars in her mane of golden hair.
We met again in high school, where we became unlikely friends. Laura convinced me to join the junior gymnastics team; we were no better at gymnastics than we had been at ballet.
We wobbled on the balance beam. We flew awkwardly over the vaulting table. But what we lacked in skill, we made up for in spirit. Laura would grin and shout, “We’re going to the Olympics, baby!” “YEAH, we are!” I’d shout back, surprising myself. I was her wing girl, the Robin to her Batwoman.
After nursing school, Laura married and moved to the US. We kept in touch and visited for over four decades.
“I’m afraid to find my son dead one day,” she confided two years ago.
Matt was a lawyer – smart, handsome, and a 44-year-old, divorced father of one. He was also tortured by addiction. Her words haunted me when Laura sent me a message a few months later that read:
My dear friend,
My son was found dead in his apartment this morning. While this comes as a shock, the possibility of this happening, given his history, was always in the back of my mind. Such a tragic loss of life. Still processing …
Grief took a backseat; there was a funeral to plan and decisions to make. Later, it was out of character when my strong, beautiful friend consulted a psychic for reassurance that Matt was in a good place. Then, she posted a photo on social media of a vibrant, healthy, young Matt in his university football uniform.
I called; she said she was fine.
Three months after Matt’s death, Laura came to our high school reunion. While someone tried unsuccessfully to herd the crowd for a group photo, a shrill sound pierced the ballroom. Everyone turned to see Laura, fingers in her mouth, poised to whistle again.
“OK, let’s get this photo done,” she yelled.
There she was, the Laura I knew and loved. She was thin, and her face bore traces of grief, but her warrior spirit was firmly in place.
A snippy voice behind me said, “Well, she hasn’t changed much!”
No, she hasn’t, I thought. And I hope she never does.