Roberta struggled up the bed while pain contorted her skeletal cheekbones in sync with the motion. “Will you take care of my ashes, Greta?”
Cancer had wizened her beautiful face and thinned her white hair. I remember black strands on my pillow after she’d stay the night. Before she moved on to another Berkeley student.
“Are you sure you want to trust me with your ashes? What about Ruthie?”
“My darling brat of a daughter is unlikely to come all the way back from France for the funeral.”
“I’m sure she—”
“Don’t Greta. I know her a lot better than you do.”
“If you’re absolutely sure that’s what you want, then yes, I’ll look after your ashes.” I gave a small smile, dreading the prospect no longer so far off to seem impossible. It would happen in weeks, if not days.
My hand involuntarily tightened over Roberta’s, her skin so different from the smooth as silk hands that grabbed my hair when we first made love the weekend before Bobby Kennedy’s assassination.
I glanced up at the slow drip of the saline solution making it’s way down the plastic tubing via the permanent fixture of the canula. I felt the lump of it beneath my fingers. Roberta had made it clear there’d be no more treatment, only morphine. She released my grip and scratched the back of her hand.
“Oh, don’t look so earnest. It’s only a bunch of ash and bone. You remember Charlotte’s scattering don’t you? Getting an eye full of gray dust when the wind turned? I should have got rid of them right after she died, but it was too upsetting.”
“What do you want me to do with yours?” I’d been trying to get her to discuss funeral arrangement for months. “We should at least talk about it.”
“Well, I don’t want you to be a sentimental old fool like I was with Charlotte.”
“Oh, come on, you were together for twenty years. How else were you going to feel?”
Roberta looked out of the hospital room window. I followed her gaze to a line of tall palm trees swaying in a breeze too weak to cut through the heat of the East bay. This was partly why I’d stayed in San Francisco all these years, Berkeley and Oakland always far too hot. But recently I’ve stayed at Roberta’s house so I can easily visit her each day. She has other friends, but I’m her best friend, and Durable Power of Attorney. It will all come down to me in the end, abiding by Roberta’s desire to not be resuscitated, not be left in a coma or hooked up to any machine for too long. She’d been forthcoming about her DNR, something that will affect her directly. Despite all the surgery and chemo she’d insisted the final stages not be dragged out.
“Yes, I know I took Charlotte’s death badly but why I couldn’t let go is beyond me. After all, we’d been separated for five years before she died. Ruthie was furious she hadn’t been allowed to dispose of Charlotte’s ashes herself. She was her mother after all.”
“You both were.”
Roberta glared at me. “Losing my ovaries doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles. I’m well aware I gave birth to the ungrateful brat.” She reached for the water jug but her hand was too unsteady to pour. She sighed and put it down. “Charlotte always said we should have had two, but there was no way I was going through that nightmare again.”
“You mean childbirth?”
“Yes, childbirth. Pay attention Greta. What else would I mean?”
I stood up, refilled her water glass, and walked over to the window. People were tiny stick figures from up in this tower, but I could still hear the hum of the freeway a few blocks away. So many freeways over here I thought and longed to get back to my San Francisco North Beach apartment. I rarely feel the need to leave my neighborhood these days except for an art opening. Or to see Roberta. A few years ago, we even discussed living together as friends. But I’m seventy-one and been single so long, I can’t imagine living with anyone now. Not even Roberta.
I turned back to face her. “Why do you feel the need to be so ratty with me? I’m your best friend, not your paid help.”
“Why do you insist on being obtuse and not paying attention to what I’m saying? I am the one who’s dying after all. Doesn’t that entitle me to some extra consideration?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”
“No, you can’t, but then you never did listen to me.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said, sitting back down in the chair. “Besides, people do change.”
“Oh horse-poop. You know damn well we’re both the same as we’ve always been.”
“What about when you found God and became a missionary?”
“I was exploring different options.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I was fundamentally the same person I’d been when I was writing articles for the New Yorker.”
Roberta pushed her morphine button a couple of times and closed her eyes for a moment or two. I looked over at the muted television: the comedy channel and a SNL re-run with Jane Curtain and Chevy Chase. Is the show still running? In the ten years Sarah and I were together, I was hooked on Cagney and Lacey. But I don’t find watching TV on my own a lot of fun. Not even Netflix binging. Maybe watching a film online, but now there’s little time for anything except Roberta. She’s still quite the character, even on her deathbed, and has been the love of my life. No one else ever came close. I’d settled for being her best friend, and let her wipe the floor with me for fifty years. Some would call that a marriage.
Roberta settled and a nurse breezed in, took her pulse and wrote in her chart.
“How are you feeling Roberta?” she asked loudly.
“I’m not feeling deaf, for one thing.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Oh yes, I’ve never felt more comfortable. It’s positively a lesbian vacation resort in here.”
The nurse looked over at me as she put the chart back and gave a taut smile.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” she said and breezed out of the room.
“Do you have to be so rude? She’s only doing her job.”
“Oh, get over yourself Greta. It does people good to be reminded I’m a lesbian. Gertrude Stein shouted it from the rooftops so I don’t see why we have to be hush, hush. It’s hardly the sixties is it?”
“I know, but people don’t like to have sex thrown in their faces. Especially sex with old women.”
“So you don’t think she wants me then?”
We burst out laughing.
“Who wouldn’t want you Roberta?” I leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled and wiped her forehead with the corner of the sheet.
“You’re such a sloppy kisser you know.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Have I?”
“About nine hundred times. I only took offense for the first ten. But then anything hurts when you’re young and in love.”
Roberta looked puzzled. “When have you not been in love with me?”
I knew I’d blushed. This is not something we talk about. I reached into my bag, took out a tin of peppermints and offered her one.
She shook her head, stared at me. “So?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to admit it. To my face. While I’m still here.”
“What’s the point? There’s never been any point. You made that clear decades ago. Why make a fool of myself at this late stage in the game.”
“Because I’m dying. Because we’re best friends. Because I love you.”
I felt my chest burn as if I was short of breath. The body can do that as a reflex. It’s called panic. I moved a wisp of my own grey hair with the back of my hand and blinked several times as I avoided her eyes.
“I’m waiting Greta. Time to ‘fess up.” She struggled further up the bed, leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “We wasted a bunch of years at one point being distant with each other. And arguably being with the wrong people.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “I know there’s been a lot of good years since then, but there were things unspoken that should have been said.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Aren’t I always? But we’re running out of time here. Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you.”
“Yes, but are you in love with me?”
I pulled my hand away. Why was she putting me through this? What good would it do except humiliate me and puff up her ego for the nth time? I felt a prickly heat rising in the back of my neck, and realized if I wasn’t careful I’d spew out a bunch of things I’d regret. Instead, I decided to take a tack that was alien to me: be straightforward.
“Yes, I am in love with you,” I said. “I’ve never stopped being in love with you as you very well know. Are you happy now?”
She smiled and sank back into her pillow. “Yes. That makes me very happy.” She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
I went down to the cafeteria to take a break. I wished I still smoked so I’d have an excuse to leave the building. I settled for some cold green tea in a bottle, a tuna sandwich and sat in the open courtyard. I’d heard they had a labyrinth somewhere and considered walking around it to clear my mind. It didn’t need clearing it needed erasing.
After Roberta came back from her missionary phase in the Congo in 1972, she spent a few years re-finding herself in the artsy New Age community of Taos, New Mexico. What shocked me when I first saw her in her Berkeley apartment after she returned from New Mexico was not the length of her hair flowing down her back, but the bump in her belly.
“My God Roberta, you’re pregnant.”
“Aren’t you the observant one?”
“How did you manage to become pregnant?”
“Christ Greta, how do you think?”
“So are you straight now?”
She sat cross-legged on an afghan-covered sofa and laughed. “Don’t be silly. We sisters know how to take matters into our own hands.”
I had to consciously close my mouth to take it all in. One thing was certain: she looked gorgeous. Her breasts were full, her face had filled out and her skin had the smooth sheen of a lily pad.
“Do you have a lover?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of doing this on my own. She’ll be home soon. You’ll love her. She’s half Navajo and very spiritual, but she’s a feminist too.”
The afternoon wore on and I heard stories of Northern New Mexico and a gentle man who kindly did the deed, no strings attached, so two lesbians could raise a family.
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you ever think of having children?”
“No, I really don’t. And if I did, I would adopt. When I hear all the stories of the Vietnamese orphans—”
“Oh, cry me a river, why don’t you.” She uncrossed her legs and twisted her fingers around strands of black hair.
“I’m serious Roberta. There are already so many unwanted babies, why do you feel a need to bring a new child into in this god-awful world? And without a father too.”
She threw her hair back with one hand. “When the hell did you become so right wing? Are you saying lesbians aren’t allowed to have maternal feelings?”
We glared at each other as the front door slammed.
“Hi,” a voice called from the hallway. “Are you home?”
The door to the sitting room opened and a woman with a round face and soft hips walked in. Her turquoise bracelets jangled as she reached forward, took Roberta’s hand and kissed the top of her head. “Hey babe,” she said as she came around and sat next to her. “How’s the little kicker today?”
“Kicking. This is my good friend Greta,” she said, her other hand extended in my direction.
“Hey, Greta,” said Charlotte. “How cool to finally meet you.”
Her smile was as warm as her amber skin and for the first time in years, I longed to be in her place. The girlish desire I’d suppressed for Roberta rushed back as I saw their loving bond, leaving me stranded behind the glass wall of their mutual affection.
For weeks, I oscillated between calling Roberta constantly and avoiding all contact. I already had a New York gallery representing my paintings by then, with a group show coming up. I struggled to meet the deadline, unable to focus on my work. I tried a couple of empty trysts to distract me, but my desire for Roberta never wavered. Charlotte always appeared whenever I went to their house and I hated myself for finding her so likeable.
One night, a few weeks before Ruthie was born, the three of us were at a party together. Roberta went home early, insisting Charlotte stay and enjoy herself. The two of us ended up alone in the garden, and much to my surprise and horror, she kissed me. That would have been bad enough, but I kissed back with all my feelings for Roberta projected onto her lover. We ended up in the garden cottage on a futon and with no thought for anything but the hurried intensity of the moment, we fucked.
The excuse we were both drunk wore off more quickly than my hangover, and I avoided the pair of them until Ruthie was born.
Charlotte and I only spoke of it once. “Listen,” she said. “It was a drunken mistake. And Roberta must never know. Ever. Okay?”
I know, I felt like screaming, and agreed with a hangdog nod of the head.
I was as overwhelmed by guilt as I was by my renewed love for Roberta. The whole thing made me sick. Literally. I barely ate for weeks. How could I have betrayed her friendship? I despised Charlotte for years afterwards until I eventually forgave myself.
Now, as I sat in the courtyard, my tuna sandwich finished, I felt the urge to come clean. My best friend was dying, she’d asked me if I loved her, and wanted me to take care of her ashes. It was something I should have done decades ago. But to tell her now? I was no Catholic, so the urge to confess shocked me. What good would it do? It would do nothing but hurt Roberta. Wasn’t it bad enough to have betrayed her in the first place?
And yet part of me wanted to hurt her. She’d hurt me all these years, kept me waiting for her, knowing I’d held my pathetic little torch, and she’d taken advantage of it. She was even taking of advantage of it now in asking me to dispose of her ashes. We both knew it should be her daughter Ruthie’s prerogative.
I finished my cold tea and walked towards the elevator. On the way, I passed a chapel. I’d do better with the labyrinth, but I couldn’t face either. I needed to see Roberta. I needed to tell her; I needed her forgiveness. I needed for once to be true to myself.
Roberta came out of the toilet as I walked in, trailing her IV drip behind her on a little trolley, tubes of sickness twisting in and out of her nightgown. As she turned, I glimpsed her bare ass, skin over bone.
“Do you need a hand?” I asked.
“I need more than a hand. I need a new body. This one’s crapped out on me.” Roberta climbed into bed, steadying herself on my arm. She laid back, her head against the pillow, breathing in quick bursts, trying to catch what little breath she had left.
“You know I was wondering about Alcatraz,” she said in a quiet breathy voice.
“What about it?”
“My ashes. What do you think about throwing them off the edge of Alcatraz? Doing my bit to reclaim the rock.”
“It’s a bit of a morbid place to remain isn’t it?”
“But I won’t stay on Alcatraz, I’ll be in the Bay won’t I?”
“I suppose so. But if you want to be in the Bay, why don’t I just take the ferry. You could even go under one of the bridges.”
“And be forever on a commute? No thanks.”
I watched her while she slowed her breathing again and pressed her morphine button, unsure now we were face to face if I should bring up my age-old transgression. “It’s illegal to throw ashes in the Bay you know. Not that it would stop me. But—”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done would it?” She held my gaze with her best attempt at an arched eyebrow until I had to look away.
“I guess not,” I said, mustering a casual tone, convinced Roberta could read my mind. Sweat gathered with my guilt under my sagging breasts and dripped down my back.
Then time slammed on its brakes. Shit, I thought, she’s always known. No, maybe not always. But how many goddamn years has she nursed this kernel of information and not told me? The early years flashed by and it hit me she’d found out at some point when I was with Sarah in the early ‘80s. I’d often wondered what really triggered Roberta’s phase of being so distant with me. She and Sarah never liked one another, which didn’t help, so I’d put it down to the natural fluidity of relationships. Now I knew Charlotte must have told Roberta.
“I tell you what I don’t want, is any kind of religious service.”
“Of course. What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
“That’s my girl,” Roberta replied with a smile. I tried to see if there was a hint of malice there, any self-satisfaction of knowing my dirty little secret. But all I saw was a sense of relief and reassurance for herself and for me. She squeezed my hand and held it until she drifted off to sleep.
So, I sat there, Roberta’s girl, watching her until the palm trees outside became dark silhouettes in the final hour when the exquisite indigo of the sky disappears into the black of night.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Andrew lives in Northern California and finds creativity keeps her sane, especially writing and painting. She graduated with a Certificate in Creative Writing from Sussex University, UK. Her work has appeared in several anthologies, most recently Everyone Likes A Good Fairytale: A Sitting Room Anthology 2018.