Moonstruck

We sipped red wine in crystal glasses as the cool ocean breeze lifted our skirts on the balcony of Kathy’s Laguna Beach townhouse. The full moon cast a bright show upon the distant traffic and high-end condos meandering along the terraced landscapes below. The first sweet swallows complimented our rising spirits. This was Kathy’s night of celebration. The concert hall audience stood twice for encores and her soprano voice delivered resonating solos. I recalled the passages that gripped me during the performance. They, again, gave me chills.

I tapped her glass, “To my dearest friend who is living out her dream of fame and fortune!”

 “And you have been with me every step of the way!” she cheered.

 “You worked hard for this night and you really do deserve whatever this romantic shining moon eye brings you!” I lifted my free hand to salute. As I lowered my fingers I noticed how the magic of moonglow erased the color of my flesh with its spray of silvery milk. I looked at Kathy. It also transformed Kathy’s long blonde tresses into seductive stallion white. I grabbed her hand and twirled her around in a circle. “All is well,” I said.

This act reminded me of how we chortled together by the lockers as teenage guys passed by on their way to class. We chose the ones we would honor with our beauty and charm in order to get their class ring and letter sweater. Sophomore year I dated a friend of hers, the first chair violinist, who not only wanted to play duets with me but also gifted me with his ring and sweater.

Kathy dated a singer from the madrigal group and joined garage bands. She encouraged me to sing in choirs at church and school, and I did. We waved at each other often on the football fields, she as a majorette in the marching band and me as a cheerleader before the stands. We both took the same classes for four years of French. Several years later she taught herself Spanish so she could qualify as a music teacher in the Los Angeles inner city schools. I admit she tested my patience by insisting she stop and speak to ethnic workers in their own language. I rationalized this was but another example of how she shared all her talents with those around her. Everywhere we shopped or ate, she knew the personnel and they gave us above and beyond the standard customer care.

I attended her wedding just months after our moonlit night. I visited her occasionally as she and I tried out various careers but our contact increased when I met my future husband at one of her parties. What a surprise – he was a musician. I learned later that my soon-to-be husband’s older brother was her husband’s roommate in college -- so now the circle of friendship was even now more complete.

Through the following years we gathered on weekends to share board games, alcohol and food. She quit public music performances at the request of her husband. She often told me that the exchange was worth it because she loved him but over the years I saw her self-esteem drop . Sure enough, a divorce occurred a couple years later. She gave everything to her husband, just wanting to be set free. Free from everything.

When I visited her after the divorce, she always had a drink in her hand. Her surroundings diminished as the years scrolled by and so did the character of her roommates and lovers. I listened to the CDs she cut as an Irish Harpist. They were happy and joyful. She used all her language skills in the songs as she plucked the angled neck for her accompaniment. To everyone’s delight, she added snippets of Celtic brogue as evidence of her familial legacy. Sadly though, these gigs were a far cry from that night we celebrated under the moon. I felt embarrassment when these latest social engagements used her as only background music.

It would be a decade until I saw her again. This time her hair was stringy and her voice tinny. Her clothes were thrift shop worn and she walked with rounded shoulders. She wouldn’t sing with me or let me sleep at her double-wide modular home because “it was too mangey,” she said. “I live with fourteen cats and I don’t think you’ll like them as much as I do.”

“I’m not here to see your cats. I’m here to see you.”

“I can’t let you in,” she said looking straight into my eyes as she usually did to make an undeniable point and squelch any argument I might think I have with her statement. Her voice tone deepened, “Just can’t.”

She then turned around in the driveway where I had dropped her off after lunch. She walked into her car port. I watched breathlessly as she held the wooden gate open to the unit’s backyard with an arm while her right foot extended and flipped the lid of a dirt covered cooler that sat adjacently on the ground. She tilted her ballerina-thin frame far enough over to grab the neck of a wine bottle before the lid collapsed shut. She disappeared behind the gate.

In the ensuing silence, I drew a slow breath. She hadn’t looked back over her shoulder to say goodbye.

Gone was my Kathy.

Years later I called her. A robotic voice told me the number was no longer available. I knew she was employed as a music teacher at the local vision center so I called, thinking maybe her finances were so limited she couldn’t afford to pay her cell bill.

Once connected, I could hear instruments strumming in the background. The receptionist spoke in single syllables as though she couldn’t get her tongue to work fast enough, or maybe, I thought, she searched for the right words, or maybe worse yet, she wasn’t sure of what I wanted.

Then I knew. I stopped breathing. Waited longer. She finally said it all in one complete sentence. “She died of cancer two weeks ago.”

I gripped the phone. Swallowed hard. “Could I . . . could I speak with whoever was with her last? I want to ask how she was doing in those last days. We are . . . were . . . dear friends since fifth grade.” I counted the years on my fingers to give an exact count of the number but I gave up due to the emotions crowding my brain. I sputtered, “We knew each other all of our lives.”

“It was Jake. I’ll have him call you back.”

“Thank you.”

I clicked off the call and sobbed. My mind jumped back to that fine moonshine memory of Kathy in her prime and peaked for undeniable success. How could she have let all that momentum and belief in herself go? How could something like that happen? Why didn’t she reclaim it after the divorce?

I couldn’t stop my tears. My chest heaved with regret. Thoughts of her last days invaded me. How miserable she must have been about her ruined life. I clutched the arms of the chair, feeling cheated that I didn’t get a chance to coddle her delicate hands to, in some way, bring back the energy of the feisty moon. I rubbed my eyes hoping it would be that easy to erase the guilt I felt about building my own life instead of standing firm to fix hers.

I shook. I had forsaken her.

When all of a sudden my grief stilled. It were as though Kathy had just sat down in a chair right in front of me. She leaned forward to clasp my hands. Her eyes penetrated straight to my soul and I squirmed.

“How can I ever make it up to you?” I wept.

“Tell me, how does the moon shine on you my friend?”