I believed love always told the truth. My friend Danza taught me differently shortly before her passing. It was a warm Friday in March. The air was sweetened by cherry blossoms. I sat on the back deck, waiting for our friend Elsie to arrive. The three of us, Danza, Elsie, and I, wanted to briefly revisit the joy of our high school days. Time was slipping away.
Elsie came up the back steps in her shorts and sleeveless top, as if stepping out of 1969. She embraced me. Even in wedges, I barely reached her shoulder.
“How do I prepare myself?” she asked, touching her eye.
“She’s still Danza,” I said. “Just without hair.”
“Will I recognize her?”
“Without a doubt.” My voice wavered. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I led Elsie to the bedroom and left them in privacy. When I returned, tears had been shed. Elsie sat on the bed, fiddling with the duvet corner.
“Okay, chickadee!”
she said, tongue clicking. “It’s makeover time!”
She pulled makeup items from her purse: eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick, powder, and rouge. I brought scented massage cream and a lavender scarf.
In high school, makeup was only for the stage, where it aggravated our skin. We were Carole King’s natural women, barefaced and genuine. Our unspoken rule never changed: we didn’t perform for each other. This makeover was an effort to reclaim normalcy, to mask the harsh reality we faced.
We lifted the hospital bed so Danza could sit upright. Elsie worked like an artist: powder, blush, eye shadow. I took the sable eyeliner. Danza had taught me its use in high school, so I traced her upper lid while singing.
“You make me feel…”
Danza joined softly: “…like a natural woman.”
She hummed as I smudged the liner. “Just like you taught me,” I said. “It should look casual, not calculated.”
“Why did you ever take fashion advice from a dork like me?”
“You were a genius at smudging.”
“A smudging genius. Ha. Ha.”
Elsie massaged Danza’s hands, bangles chiming. I filled in eyebrows erased by chemotherapy and applied mulberry lipstick. We wrapped her head in a lavender scarf. Her features came alive, a testament to her enduring spirit. Danza admired her reflection, posed as if for a portrait.
For a moment, we were back in our Candy Striper days. While peers explored wild liberation, Danza and I volunteered at the local hospital. She mentioned earlier visits to the same hospital, now a cancer center.
We reminisced about our days in pinstriped uniforms, prompting Danza’s smile to fade.
“You keep asking questions. Why don’t you just ask the question?”
she said.
“What are you talking about, Danza?”
“It’s not what you’re saying; it’s what you’re not saying.”
I struggled to find my voice.
“Danza, do you want to talk?”
“Yes,” she replied, her demeanor stern.
“You’re going to hate me.”
Confusion hit me as I realized I was too late for most milestones. Only the final act remained. It took time to assure her I couldn’t hate her.
Her confession finally came.
“I lied to you.”
“About what?”
Recalling my 16th birthday, she admitted to fabricating a party she never planned. The realization came 25 years later: no party had ever existed.
“I wanted to throw a party,” she said, “but we didn’t have the money.”
Sunlight shifted through the blinds. My romanticized view of her life was reshaped by reality. What seemed bohemian was necessity. Marrying a jazz musician and juggling finances had taught me the lengths people go to hide struggles from those they love.
“Danza, it wasn’t your fault,” I reassured. “How could I be mad at you?”
I paced the room, reiterating my love, apologizing for ignorance. I didn’t want her to carry regret. Tears blurred our makeup.
Elsie waited outside. “I’m sorry,” I said, sitting beside her.
“Boy,” she said, closing the magazine, “that was rough.”
I summarized my talk with Danza, realizing her lie hadn’t damaged our friendship. Instead, it showed how carefully she’d preserved it.
Later, a hospice nurse checked Danza’s vitals. I shared the confession.
“It’s common,” she explained, “for those nearing death to clear past emotional debts. She can be at peace now.”
Yes, Danza would rest easier. And so would I. For years, I measured our friendship by the truths we endured together. Now, I saw it was measured by the burdens we carried alone. Danza’s silence about my birthday exemplified the depth of our bond.
Megan Vered is a native of Berkeley, California. Her personal essays have appeared in various publications. All views are her own.
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