Phoenix Friendship

I didn’t know Dorian and I didn’t know his mother. But when the school librarian came to our house to say that Dorian had taken his own life that day, I watched my 13-year-old son pitch himself into a chasm of despair. He howled his agony and disbelief from a primal depth I had never seen in a child. The next day, a counselor from middle school called and said they had “red-flagged” Toby because he was friends with Dorian and, in many ways, they were very similar. The day after that, someone told me that Dorian’s mother was a lesbian. The news hit my stomach like a sack of lead.

This was too much, too close to home. I had not wanted to think about what it would be like for Dorian’s mother. I only wanted to hold tight to my own son and assure myself that nothing like that would ever happen to us. But here she was, a lesbian mother, like myself. And for a year now, our sons had played chess together in the library every morning, maybe never even knowing that they had this piece in common.

I wanted to know if his mother’s lesbianism had anything to do with Dorian’s suicide. I wanted to know if things would have been different had he been able to talk to Toby about it. I wanted to know if he, like Toby, had been teased at school. But more than anything, I wanted to find ways in which our situation was different from Dorian’s.

Surely his family was dysfunctional. Surely he was neglected, unloved, maybe even abused. By the time I went to Dorian’s memorial service, I had filled in all the details for myself. Dorian’s mother would appear at the back of the church, her eyes squinting with unaccustomed sobriety, her black leather jacket reeking of cigarettes and whiskey. The only sign of grief would be a hardened grimace chiseled permanently into her face. When offered condolences, she would shrug in a cynical sort of way, as if nothing more could be expected from life. When I saw her, I would understand why a boy so deplorably young would feel compelled to escape this world.

From the back of the church, I could just barely see the two women in front, shaking hands and talking with people before the service. I didn’t know which was Dorian’s mother and which was her partner, but they couldn’t have been further from my fantasy. When I saw them, my heart skipped with recognition. I didn’t know them, but I should have. I knew immediately that they were people I would like to know. They were warm and expressive, compassionate and full of love. The one I would later know as Anita came down the aisle to greet a friend. A few feet from me, she melted into a long embrace, giving comfort as well as taking it. Her eyes were closed and her face fell slack with sorrow, little tears moistening the crow’s feet at her temples.

All that she was feeling was just too big to hold. It filled every bit of air around her, and my resistance melted as it soaked into me. I couldn’t keep my distance any longer. This woman radiated benevolence, caring, and integrity, and in spite of her obvious strength, her pain reverberated in her, like silent keening. I felt it all, and from my folding chair, without her even seeing or knowing me, my heart reached out to her and encircled her embrace.

Throughout the service, I sat silently as Dorian and his family were revealed to me. His portrait smiled up from the program as his mother, father, Hilary and her children spoke of who he was, things he did. His personality came alive for me, and it’s true, he was very much like Toby, but also like my younger son, in his vitality and enthusiasm, his quest for adventure and eagerness for life. As I learned about Dorian, I began to grieve for him. Even though I hadn’t known him, I wished I had. And as I watched Anita and Hilary’s children, I yearned to know this family and couldn’t stop thinking of how it might have been for all of us to be friends with Dorian alive.

It was a month before I saw Anita and Hilary again. Kate and I were at a choir concert at Roosevelt. Packed into bleachers in a sweltering gym with hundreds of other faithful parents. I spotted them down the row from us, and when I glanced at them, Anita looked directly back at me. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me from the service, but her openness jolted me. In this room full of curious, discerning eyes, I think I would have found the choir program endlessly fascinating.

When the concert was over and parents and students flooded the gym floor in a huge, steaming mass, I kept my eyes on Anita and Hilary and edged my way toward them. Anita saw me coming and watched me impassively as I approached. I reached out and held her hand as I introduced myself. She looked confused for a minute, but when she heard me say “Toby’s mother,” her face lit up with recognition. I stumbled over condolences, and she talked of how she appreciated Toby speaking at the service. By then Kate had caught up with me, probably dumbfounded at my uncharacteristic forwardness.

“This is my partner, Kate,” I said, and I watched the lightbulb click over Anita’s head.

“Toby’s mom and her partner,” Anita clarified for Hilary as she introduced us both, and we all four stood looking at each other, letting it sink in. I hugged her then, and Anita hugged back tightly. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and not knowing what else to say, we backed away, let others step in with greetings and well wishes.

Soon after, Anita called to talk to Toby. She wanted to thank him for what he had said at the memorial service. When he was about to hang up, I grabbed the receiver and spoke with her myself. I don’t remember what we said, but I remember the ease with which we spoke, the sense that I had known her forever, and that spark of excitement when you meet someone who you know will be a special friend. I asked if she’d like to meet for coffee sometime and she quickly said yes. When I hung up, I was filled with an eager anticipation that was incongruous with the circumstances of our meeting.

When we met at Allan Brothers, I wasn’t at all sure what to say. I am not one who deals easily with other people’s emotions. Raised the stoic child of a stoic family, I tend to avoid situations that might become emotional. When friends call in need of support, they know to ask for Kate, and I gratefully hand the phone over with a panicked look, mouthing the words, “She’s crying.” Should I ever have feelings that are too strong to contain, I find a well hidden corner to release them in solitude. But I didn’t have any qualms about being there. I knew that I wanted to get to know Anita, and I was willing to talk about whatever she felt comfortable with.

P-town I let her lead the conversation, not wanting to ask questions that might take her places she didn’t want to go. But she went there anyway, and it wasn’t long before tears were streaming quietly down her face. Normally, tears in public will set me squirming like a child at her first recital. But something different happened for me. Not a rational thing, like realizing that a woman whose son recently killed himself has every right to cry in a café while talking with a friend. It was different than that. More like a bubble that settled over us, blocking out any cognizance of the world outside. I watched those tears, spilling freely from her reddened rims, and my eyes didn’t dart about the room, looking for some other place to land. My body didn’t twist uncomfortably in my seat. My feet didn’t shuffle involuntarily in the direction of the door.

Maybe it was the way she owned her emotions, unabashedly and without shame. She laid her sorrow out before her, pure and genuine, without excuses or hesitation. Yet there was never any sense that her feelings would overtake her. Her strength pooled steadily beneath the surface, like an anchor that permitted her vulnerability to float to the surface. She was self-sufficient and composed. Her eyes gazed softly into mine as she cried, and felt myself trusting her.

This was not a woman who would dole out emotions like precious secrets tagged with obligation. Her pain would not wrap itself around me like soft, tenacious tendrils that would rip when I tried to free myself. I felt myself relax into the nonverbal interchange between us. There was no need to speak, no need to soothe. In a way, her crying released something in me, and I didn’t fight when my own eyes stung with tears. I reached across the table and held her hand, weaving my fingers and hers with ease and familiarity. And I felt with certainty that the tender shoots of this new alliance would grow into a deep, unwavering friendship that would last for all my life.

I wrote this piece in 1996 (before Toby transitioned to Tobi). My friendship with Anita has been one of the most important ones in my life. Anita, Hilary, Kate, and I went on many adventures together over the years, from camping to driving a houseboat down the Canal du Midi. But my bond with Anita was especially deep. She lived a life of integrity, strength, and grace, battling cancer three times before it got the best of her. She died on July 4, 2019.

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