Part I
She often said it with a hearty laugh but it was a sad thing to say. “Not bad for the little girl nobody wanted.” All these years later I can remember every detail of the moment we met. It was my first day in a new job. I was nervous and wanting to make a good impression. Retirement communities go by many names. This one preferred to be called “Active Living Community,” and many of the residents were just as active as me. There were some who were experiencing all stages of memory loss and I was asked many questions during my interview about my feelings about older people and how comfortable I was with them. I was told that soon after starting I would receive training on how to deal with people when they were confused or needing assistance. So here I was in my nicest suit, long blond hair deeply parted, held out of my face with a thin black headband, light make-up, tiny pearl earrings and clear polished nails on trembling hands. My new supervisor was giving me some direction on the program we’d be working on and excused herself to refill her coffee cup down the hall. I could hear the second hand clicking inside the clock on the wall, smell that office smell, scotch tape, manilla folders, and coffee. I smoothed my hair and pressed the back of my hand to each cheek hoping my face wasn’t too red. I folded my trembling hands in my lap and crossed my feet under my chair. I was trying to look professional instead of what I was, anxious to get home and away from all possibility of social interaction. I realized someone was looking at me from the doorway of my new shared office. She was old, older than the other residents I’d met that day. Her face was slack except for her eyes which looked frightened and confused. “What are you doing here?” she asked. I hopped up from my chair and said, “Hello. Are you looking for Patty? She’ll be back in just a minute,” trying to sound reassuring but not too sugary. She didn’t lift her head but her eyes surveyed her surroundings. “Where is this place? This isn’t my home. I want to go home. Where’s my home? Why are you here?” I felt heartbroken. Poor thing. She was scared. “Ummm…uhhh, what uh, is your building? Do you know your room number? Um, no, okay, uh, your name?” I was useless. I didn’t even know what to ask her to help her get where she needed to go. Every question I asked seemed to make her face more frightened and fretful, confused. “I’m Mary Lois. My friend Patty should be back anytime now and she’ll be able to help us.” “Who’s Patty? Who are you? This isn’t my home. I just want to go home.” She was really starting to get upset now. Her voice changed every time she said the word home: it deepened with desperation. I reassured her we would get her back home, to be patient, I was new, that I would help her. Patty appeared with her coffee cup in the doorway behind our visitor. I thought I saw a smile start to flash across her face before a look of confused listening and then exasperation. I didn’t understand the look but I was just so relieved to see her, “Oh, thank goodness. This lady is looking for...” “Molly! Stop that. I told you not to harass her on her first day. She’s nervous enough,” Patty said. The older lady now looked truly befuddled. What was going on? Why would Patty talk to her like that? This woman needed help. Suddenly, this thespian between us smiled a huge open mouthed, mischievous grin. She pointed her finger at me, straightened her back and through peels of laughter said, “I got you! Ha, ha, ha! I got you.” She slapped her leg, then kicked it as high as a Rockette, throwing both hands high above her head and slapped her leg again. She whipped her head towards Patty but pointed at me, “Look at her face! Look at her face! I got her.” I was gobsmacked. Patty shook her head and tried her best not to spill her coffee while scooting around a deranged geriatric cheerleader doing high kicks in a tiny space. Patty was slightly amused but ready to get down to business. “Molly, M’Lois. M’Lois, Molly.” “Well, hello! You really got me.” I laughed. “I really did, honey. Don’t be scared.” Her smile was less victorious now. It was as warm and welcoming as a grandmother’s hug. She leaned close and whispered, “You’re gonna do fine.” “Out,” Patty said. “She can visit with you later. Out.” She smiled and waved goodbye, skipping away in her jeans and Keds. She danced as she walked, snapping her fingers and poking her elbows out in her own joyful rhythm. I honestly couldn’t wait to see her again. She was 90 years old when we met. What a perfectly wonderful way to begin a friendship.
Part II
Molly, 4 years old, New Mexico She’d never seen Mama in this dress. She’d never seen her face like that. She was smiling. She had brown stuff around her eyes and red lips. Her hair was shorter now and hung in big curls across her shoulders. Her voice was high and light. She even laughed. It felt funny being held up in her lap like this. Molly wanted so badly to settle her tiny body into Mama’s softness, put her head on her chest and close her eyes like she’d seen little girls do with their mamas in the picture books. But those little girls lived with their mamas and saw them all the time. Mama smelled different today, her breath was sweet. She hasn’t been drinking “Mama’s Medicine.” Maybe she’s all better. Maybe she doesn’t need the medicine anymore. “Maybe she’s come to bring me home,” she thought. “Maybe that’s why she’s so happy. We’re finally going to get to live in the same house. I’ll sit in her lap on a chair in the kitchen next to a table with a pie crust and rolling pin on it. There will be a shelf with dishes and a window above the sink with ruffled curtains, a kitten at Mama’s feet and a clock on the wall shaped like a teapot.” She would have Mama every day, not just on holidays. “When I come back I’ll bring Jimmy,” she said excitedly. “I haven’t told him about you yet but he likes kids.” No going home with Mama today. Her hope slipped from her mind back into the darkness.
It would be a long time before she saw Mama again. Christmas came and went. Easter passed and no Mama. Finally, one day she saw her from the playground getting out of a strange car holding a baby. An old man who looked bored was driving. Mama walked into the front door and out again, no baby, almost running. Her hair was straight and she looked sick and tired. She was wearing a shabby old dress and held a hankie to her mouth. She got back in the car and it slowly drove away. It would be decades before Molly saw her again. Part III
The next day my new friend walked by my office, peaked into the open door, saw Patty and kept moving. She was quick as a flash. Later in the day I saw her walking by again, all smiles until she saw Patty, and she was gone. She appeared in the doorway once more placing her hands high on the door frame, looked at Patty working away at her desk, drummed her fingers just once with a huff, and danced off. Patty left for the day at 4:30 looking uptight and frustrated, muttering something about trying again tomorrow. Molly flitted into the office at 4:31 looking triumphant and brought a profusion of exuberance with her. She stirred a curiosity in me. I was 60 years younger than her and she had more energy than I did. But it was more than that. She was full of joy and peace. I wanted that. I usually shy away from questions, asking or answering. But I felt excited in her presence and instantly safe from judgement. My words flowed out unmeasured. She seemed to be just as curious about me as I was about her. She mentioned being a widow that first meeting. I asked her, “How long were you married?” She replied, “I am married, dear. He’s just run a bit ahead. But, I am still married.” She talked about marriage in a way that inspired me. Jack brought out the best in her. “Everything everyone else wanted me to change about myself, he loved. He loved me for me. He never made me feel anything but loved.” Their faith bound them together when it seemed everything else was trying to tear them apart. They’d been through poverty, a war, 8 kids, losing children at different stages of life, too many moves to count, and helped each other as they’d gotten older and their bodies declined. But, overall they’d had a very good life. She told me about all their grandkids and great-grandkids...how much love she’s experienced in her life. “When you get married again, marry the nicest man you’ve ever met. I didn’t know what I was doing at the time but I realized later, I married the nicest man I ever met. And you can’t hold babies too much, that’s nonsense. You can’t spoil babies with love. I still can’t get enough, but my life has been full of love. Not bad for the little girl nobody wanted,” she said. “What? What does that mean?” I asked. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime.” She was still smiling but she looked a little sad, like although she’d won a hard fought battle, the casualties still plagued her. She looked up at the clock and realized it was time for me to go. “Go home,” she said. Her face brightened, and right there she told me for the first time, “You know what, honey? I love you!” She took my hand and squeezed it with one hand and patted it with the other. I didn’t hesitate, I said, “I love you, too.” Molly never felt like a mother or a grandmother. She felt like a girlfriend, a buddy. We’d get so excited making plans to see each other, even if it was just to grab a snack and sit on a bench. We talked about everything. She was just as curious about me as I was about her. I could tell her anything, good or bad. She was easy to make laugh. She teared up when I told her about my first marriage, how he had abused me on our honeymoon, the counseling, how frightened and defeated it made me feel. We held hands and prayed together. Any time I told her of my flaws or mistakes, she listened. She would offer words of wisdom and understanding. She would remind me about God’s grace and how much He adored me. “I’ve seen your heart. How could He not?” she’d say. We’d talk about my future. She really believed in setting good goals and then working toward them in small ways everyday. She really believed in working to forgive yourself quickly and to put mistakes behind you so you can move forward. She never said bad things about other people, never gossiped. She never allowed me to put myself down. “Don’t talk about my friend that way,” she’d say. She never put herself down. She believed we were never behind, that every day we got a fresh start. She was full of grace. She’d always say, “I love being your friend.” I wasn’t the only one she said it to. She had a large group of friends at our community. Whenever I saw her she was laughing with someone or listening intently, always touching, holding a hand, rubbing an arm, gently patting a shoulder while she talked. She was an encourager. She was patient with those people who complained. She would say, “That’s tough stuff. I admire your courage. You’re very brave.” With people who were upbeat and encouraging, she’d say, “Well, you’re doing it right, staying positive like this. You and I know the secret, don’t we? Just because you’re in pain doesn’t mean you have to be one.” Whoever it was, she’d flash her big smile, gently elbow their side and say, “I love being your friend.” I remarked once that I liked how affectionate she was. She was gentle and subtle about it, but she touched often. She gave me a perspective I hadn’t thought of. “Old people don’t get touched. What if the only time you were touched by another person was when you were being changed, rolled over, given a medical procedure, or being helped out of a chair? Spouses die, kids are busy, grandkids are grown and gone, but we still need kind touch. It’s a need. When I was growing up I was surrounded by kids who were never touched or held. So it was up to me to do the touching, the holding, the tickling, the comforting. It was on me.” One chilly, overcast day Molly finally told me about the orphanage in the desert, the nuns, the troubled mother coming to visit from the nearby reservation, the funny medicine smell on her breath. We talked about the interviews with potential parents and how hurtful they were about her dark skin, her chestnut hair, her high cheekbones. The large almond shaped brown eyes that I thought were a thing of beauty were looked into with disappointment and rejection by the tisking blue-eyed woman holding her chin. She described desperate longing for a family and the rejection that was her constant companion. She was the big sister to so many who left excitedly with new parents. She was surrounded by children who were desperate for attention, affection, and encouragement. She tried her best to help keep their hope alive until they were placed with a family. When she turned 18, the orphanage bought her a bus ticket to town. The nuns chipped in and bought her a new dress. One of the nuns gave her an old suitcase to put her few things in. They waved goodbye and that was that. She’d only ever been to the city once when the children from the orphanage were invited to tour a bottling plant and had a photo op with the owner for the local press. She spent the first night at the YMCA, terrified because she had no idea what the future would bring. She told herself that night to toughen up, that she had to harden herself once again if she was going to make it, that she needed to accept once and for all that she was and would always be the little girl nobody wanted. The YMCA had a job program. A kind Christian lady taught her how to type and how to pray. Within weeks she was working. She met Jack and got married. She set out to make the family she’d yearned for, and to be to others everything she had needed someone to be for her. Molly went almost every day to her great-granddaughter’s house to help her with her small children. She folded laundry and made snacks and held the baby while her great-granddaughter got a nap. She put casseroles in the fridge and ran to the store for bananas and milk. She loved it. She never understood why so many older people watch so much TV when they could be helping somebody. She also loved to learn. If there was a lecture or a class, she was there. She always had a book tucked under her arm because an interview she’d heard on NPR made her curious about some place she hadn’t been or she wanted to learn more about the culture of a new friend. She’d say, “The older I get the more I realize, I have a lot to learn.” She introduced me to Smithsonian magazine and I was instantly addicted. I still get excited every month when my issue comes. Learning was her hobby. But Molly’s full time job was her correspondence. She had quite a system. She wrote long letters to all of her “pen pals.” She was constantly buying and sending birthday cards and letters to childhood friends, fellow military wives, the many orphaned siblings she had taken years to locate, and their children, and grandchildren, all the friends she’d made throughout all the moves, friends and former teachers of her children and, of course, her many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren all over the country. They sent her letters that looked like booklets (they could tell her anything, too) and complained that she needed to learn how to IM them. On her birthday she received close to 1,000 birthday cards. She was right, not bad for the little girl nobody wanted.
Part IV
One thing about Molly, not everyone liked her the way I did. In fact, some of her peers downright didn’t like her. She’d say something funny or clever and I’d laugh and they’d look annoyed. She would tell a story to a few people listening intently and someone nearby would say, “Yeah, she just loves all that attention.” Over the years I met several of her children. Most of them had big smiles and hugged me when we met and told me they’d heard all about me. One daughter was very cold. Molly had already warned me about her. She was professionally successful like the rest of her children but this one was a cold prickly, not a warm fuzzy. Molly didn’t seem to notice when the daughter made passive aggressive remarks or criticized her. She kept talking sweetly when the daughter kept trying to interrupt her. The daughter rolled her eyes and told me I had no idea what it was like to have a mother that never stopped talking. I followed Molly‘s lead and smiled, pretended it was a joke. Molly bragged on her daughter’s achievements but received eye-rolls in return. Watching them interact was like watching someone try to give another person a gift, but the recipient folds their arms and refuses to take it. I remarked to someone once about how many birthday cards she got and the person said, “Oh she loves to make sure everybody knows it’s her birthday. She practically asks for those cards.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I tried not to sound too annoyed, “She certainly never asked for one from me.” I knew why she got so many cards. It was because she made everyone feel special if they would let her. She was as kind and loving to a new housekeeper as she was to the CEO who came to visit. She loved people. She loved me. On my birthday I’d walk into my office and Patty would say, “Molly was here.” There on my desk would be a mason jar full of wildflowers with a little ribbon and bow, a jar of my favorite pepper jelly, or jezebel sauce she’d made. One year there was a perfect chocolate cupcake with a note that said, “I love being your friend. I will always love you, Molly.” Sitting on her sofa in her apartment, Molly told me she was going to die soon. She was prepared to tell me. She had made my tea the way I like it, put out a little bowl of chocolates and a box of tissues. She squeezed my hand and said, “I’m dying.” She was 96. I shouldn’t have been shocked but I was. She explained about the headaches, the doctors, the aneurysm. “One day it will just blow. I’m ready, honey. I know where I’m going. I’ve got work to do there.” Molly had often talked about her vision of Heaven, what she would do there, being with Jesus, seeing His face. She couldn’t wait. She was excited. She wanted me to be happy for her. I cried and so did she. She told me something I will never forget. “You need to get better at making friends if you’re going to live as long as I have. What are you gonna do if you don’t let more people love you? If you live to 96 (and you better) you’ll need to get really good at making friends. Parents die, husbands die, friends die. My children that are still living are in their 70’s. I know you enjoy being alone. I know you don’t want to feel rejected and get hurt again but I don’t want you to be alone. Promise me you’ll get better at making friends. Promise me you’ll let more people love you. I know you enjoy your books and your hikes and your baking and your music but those things are not love. In the whole wide world, whatever it is, it isn’t as important as love.” I promised I would try. She told me that day how much I meant to her, that she had learned so much from me, how much she truly enjoyed just being around me. She told me she just knew my new husband and I would have a wonderful life and have beautiful babies. She told me again as she had many times before, that one of her favorite things about her life was getting to be my friend.
She’s been gone a long time, now. She was right about so many things. She was right about my marriage and my beautiful babies. She was right about grace and she was right about hope. She was right about the scriptures that would change my life. She was right about making friends and letting people love me. She was right about everything. She was right about love. When I put my boys to bed at night the last words I whisper are, “I love being your mama.” I carry her with me. I carry her love in my heart.
