You took the night train from Wickford. I knew you would. We had discussed it without saying anything out loud. I knew you were going when your eyes moved under closed lids as I told you I was there and everything was okay, you could go if you wanted to. We had done everything you asked of us. There was really nothing left to do.
They were saying that sometimes people in your situation waited for permission to leave, others waited for loved ones to arrive, or loved ones to leave, or just for everyone to shut the hell up so you could get on with it. I think you wanted us to shut the hell up because it was time and your train was arriving soon.
You were always so ready for the next best thing coming down the pike. That is, after you shrugged off the small town girl aura and went with “I am woman, hear me roar,” and all those other mantras that a changing social scene allowed us. It was the 1970s and we would be heard.
You were that ingénue, that woman of her time, changing times and you’d be the best you could be. And if you failed, so what? There was the next thing and the next thing and the next until something stuck for sure. I mean, after all, there was time on your side.
You were so beautiful. Maybe you knew you were beautiful, but you never flaunted it. You always took the time to tell others they were “looking good.” You could have been a model, pilot, interior designer, photographer, chef, or fashion maven of haute couture. What you were was a very good friend.
You liked people and conversation, art in any form, boots and heels, silk and cotton.
In the ‘70s, you wore the mini-dress and pixie hair cut. In the ‘80s, there were the perm and shoulder pads. In the early ‘90s, trousers with pleats and tailored camp shirts and then in the 2000s, knit separates in monochrome colors with chucky accessories and scarves screaming with color. You were always in style.
For decades, you loved in a non-committable way. You weren’t sure about marriage and all that meant in terms of one’s investment, body and soul. And if you couldn’t give it, you wouldn’t expect it either. You were honest nearly to a fault. You’d take care of yourself. You’d be all right.
You bought the house of your dreams. You knew you’d live there happily ever after. When the bottom fell out and you were in a freefall, you did so without casting dispersion on others. When you landed, a hard landing, you began immediately to build a ladder back to the top. You were so brave.
We talked about everything and planned for when things would look up again, and if they didn’t, well then, you’d still be okay. You hid the pain, most of the time. You wanted to talk of current events, the latest fashion trends, the book you were reading, the recipe you tried, and what was new in my life. No one epitomized ‘grace under fire’ more than you did.
Then the cancer came. As if you hadn’t already proven your mettle.
You wouldn’t be defined by it. You were absolutely devastated, but you would not let the same thing that had torn your beloved sister from you tell you now who you would be.
They gave you a year, maybe. You didn’t hear that. Instead, you elected to be deaf to the drumbeat that was already counting down the days.
A few weeks ago, you told me you thought you’d be able to beat it. I never understood the depths of your denial, the unadulterated innocence. You were that “it” girl with the world before you, not behind. I never loved you more than I did in that moment.
I visited you with your brother the day you decided to leave once and for all, ticket in hand. True to yourself to the end, you left when we weren’t looking.
Today, I heard a train in the distance. I knew you were leaving another station, somewhere on the planet or elsewhere. From now on, every time I hear a train I’ll think of you and hear that Beatles song “She’s got a ticket to ride…” I’ll wave in acknowledgement and accept the gift you left for me at the train station.
By Marilou Newell
