Marcella & Me

Marcella quickly looked at the menu, and then we decided to order our usual tiramisu, which we shared and two glasses of red wine.

I first met Marcella while interviewing for a job she posted with NYU career services looking for assistance with typing her books for publication.  It was the summer of 2000 and I just graduated from NYU, a confused 22 year old with a degree in my hand.  We met at her Washington Square Village apartment and, after a few minutes, she hired me on the spot.  Over the next 2 years, we worked together on her publications and over the next 10 years we became close friends.

Through the years, our typical get together would be me going to her Washington Square Village apartment at 6pm. She’d have some nuts and chocolates out and we’d have a glass of red. She would take her time opening that bottle.  We talked about everything and anything.  She had so much to say and I loved hearing about all the places she’d visited as a professor and everything else about her 62 years of life senior to mine.  Her apartment was filled with beautiful artwork from all around the world.  As always, her NY Times was on her coffee table every day. After an hour of catching up, we’d head to her favorite Italian restaurant, Portobello in the West Village. We continued talking the whole way while stopping to look at the shops along Thompson Street.  There was always that guy rolling cigars by the window of this restaurant, as well as the chess shops and some vintage boutiques.  Marcella pointed out a dress that caught her attention. After 25 years, Portobello’s owners got to know her quite well, and she would always be sure to introduce me to everyone there - “This is my friend Khat, isn’t she pretty?” she would say.

I learned so much about her life during those many dinners of ours, and I wanted to be like her in so many ways.  “This too shalt pass”…. Marcella said in reply to some of life’s trying moments, both hers and mine.  I didn’t grow up with grandparents and she had no children, so sometimes I imagined we just adopted each other. 

Earlier this year I met Marcella for another one of our dinners.  I noticed she lost a lot of weight. She had told me that because her health was not so good and old age was catching up with her, she would soon be moving to Hallmark Battery Gardens Senior.  As I sat there listening to her and munching on the little plate of nuts and chocolates, she offered me a glass of Chardonnay; so I helped myself to the bottle.  “I think it was me who showed you how to open a bottle the right way, remember?” she said smiling.  However, this time, she did not join me, and it just wasn’t the same.  When I suggested we order in this time, she insisted on going out.  “I need to get out,” she said, as I helped her on with her scarf & jacket.  This time, it took us a little longer getting to Portobello, but we walked that same walk we walked for years, with her hand on my right elbow for support.  Once we reached the restaurant, I helped her out of her jacket.  Our dinner that night was a little quieter than most.  When we finished dinner, we shared a tiramisu and Marcella, as usual, had her leftovers wrapped to have for lunch the next day.  We slowly walked backed and when I dropped her off, I gave her a big hug and promised to visit her at her new place soon. 

I saw her NY Times paper on her coffee table for the last time, in her room at the Hallmark Battery Gardens.  She had just moved in a couple months ago.  I visited her that Friday, after numerous attempts at contacting her.  I knew she hadn’t been well and she had been in and out of the hospital and also visiting with her family.  After finally getting a hold of her nurse, Eva, I was told she returned from the hospice a few days ago, and had, at most, 2 weeks left and it was well over 2 weeks then.  That Friday, I paid my friend a visit, with some white hydrangeas in hand and a sad heart.  Eva greeted my tears at the door.

Marcella’s room was just as she had it back in Washington Square Village – beautiful artwork on the walls and many books on her shelf and various dishes and artifacts.  

She though, was not my same Marcella, who was always dressed up and ready to go out for our dinners, with her pretty red lipstick on and so much to chat about.  There were no nuts and chocolates out or a bottle of wine to be opened.  

She could not talk or open her eyes, but I could see she tried so hard that day to say something to me and that just broke my heart.  I sat there for the next few hours talking to her, telling her stories and updating her with all my happenings.  I continued talking and laughing to her.  In between I excused myself to the bathroom; I didn’t want her to see my tears. I asked her to squeeze my hand if she knew it was me, and she gently did so - and that too broke my heart.  When leaving that evening I assured her saying, “you’re okay, you’ll be fine,” and I told her I’d be back on Sunday.  

My walk up on Broadway, back to my apartment on 2nd & 2nd felt so heavy and long.  Broadway felt more congested, and noisy than ever and I felt like I was dragging myself over.  I was laughing and crying thinking of that one time Marcella was upset with me, because I didn’t invite her to one of my many big birthday parties I had every year.  She was 95 years old and I didn’t think she’d be up to partying with my friends and I that late into the night, in the East Village.  But, I was wrong.

A few hours after my visit, my phone rang with Marcella’s name in caller ID, and I just knew – it was Eva, calling to let me know Marcella had just passed. I knew she waited for me to come say goodbye.  

A few nights later I went to our Italian restaurant in the Village.  I was alone at our table that night.  It was one of those New York summer nights that we had many times, but this time it felt chilly.  I ordered our favorite dessert, Tiramisu, and a glass of red for me, and one for Marcella.