Friendship Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (6 page)

Well it’s begun, Lenny.

Monique’s heart began that strange, dizzying pitter-patter, like something soft and small racing in her chest. She’d rushed
all of them to the London Eye for more than one reason. Sometimes, it was best to just
do
something. Like when you vaccinate a young child. Don’t warn them, don’t give them a reason to doubt, just brandish the needle
and then plunge it in. The pain wouldn’t even be noticed until the shot was already done.

Then Monique became aware of Becky standing beside her, settling a warm hand on the middle of her back. Becky wore the amber-tinted
sunglasses that the ophthalmologist had recommended. Standing here limned by hazy English light, Becky looked like a Swedish
rock star trying to go incognito. Though Monique couldn’t fully see her expression, she felt the strength of her concern.

“Hey, guys, Charing Cross Station is right there.” Judy pointed down to the buildings and the trains slithering in and out
on the rails. “Beck, over there you should be able to see Westminster Abbey.”

Becky made a vaguely irritated, noncommittal noise then tilted her head against the glass as the pod crept its way higher.
“This is sort of an odd thing for Lenny to want to do, isn’t it, Monie?”

Monique winced, like she always did, whenever someone said his name out loud. “This is the place that triggered the whole
list.”

He’d still been getting chemo then, even though his oncologist had already been making noise about hospice. At the time Monique
wasn’t ready to hear it. She’d still been in that stubborn, determined phase when she was convinced the doctors she trusted
and knew so well could help her husband beat the disease.

“I mean, of all the things in London we could be seeing today,” Becky said, “the Tower of London, the British Museum, Buckingham
Palace…it’s strange that he’d pick this.”

 “Can you really see Lenny wandering through dusty old museums?”

“I suppose that’s true. But still I remember when he was honorary Team Mom for the girls’ soccer team and we went on that
trip to Six Flags.” Becky tilted her head against the glass, strands of her hair standing upright with static electricity.
“Lenny took the role of minding cameras and backpacks while the rest of us rode on Kingda Ka.”

“We’re not exactly moving at a hundred twenty-eight miles per hour right now.”

“No, but we’re pretty darn high.”

“Honestly, I think this choice was pure coincidence.” Those still-hopeful early weeks hurt to remember. “He’d had to hang
out for hours for IV chemo then. On my breaks, I’d come down and bring him newspapers. Those were long hours. He read every
single word of those papers, leaving newsprint fingerprints all over the arms of the hospital chair.” Monique paused, remembering
the light that had gleamed in Lenny’s eyes when he first got the idea. “One day, he tapped the paper and said we ought to
take a ride on this thing someday. He said we should write it down, make a list.”

Becky didn’t respond right away. She rubbed a little more vigorously against Monique’s back, as if she’d felt a sudden chill
in Monique’s spine.

“Well,” Becky said, “it is one hell of a view.”

“Look, there’s Big Ben,” Judy said, leaning in close as she pointed to the west. “Can you see it, Becky?”

“For goodness sake, Judy, I’m not blind yet.”

Monique mentally winced.  

 “In fact,” Becky continued, “on a day like today, when the light is strong but not glaring, I can pretty much see the whole
wide world. Same as about a month ago, when everyone just believed I was Becky, the lovable neighborhood klutz.”

Judy fumbled the guidebook closed. “You know what? I’m getting vertigo leaning up against this glass. I’m going to go sit
down for a minute.”

Judy left to find space on the bench in the center of the pod. Monique gave Becky a gentle elbow in the side. “That wasn’t
very nice.”

Her pale jaw hardened.

“For what it’s worth,” Monique added, “when Judy said, ‘Can you see it?’ she just meant it as an expression. Judy might as
well have asked me too.”

Becky crossed her arms. “I hate those damn expressions. ‘See you later.’ ‘I’ll keep an eye on it.’ ‘She’s got a great eye.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled.’ ‘Keep your eye on the ball.’” Becky shook her head. “You know what? I am turning into Ms. Bloody
Cranky Pants. I think I’ll sit down too.”

Monique kept her place by the window and took solace in the momentary solitude. She gazed upon the iconic British clock tower
and Westminster Abbey as well. As the pod began its westerly descent, she noted the surprisingly green, wooded areas of central
London, a long chain of parks whose names she probably should remember from her college days, when she was obsessed with British
lit. She wondered which of the green spaces were St. James’s Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens. How wonderful it would have
been if she and Lenny could have walked those green spaces, as they’d once walked in the little manicured park behind the
oncology building.

She bent forward and let her forehead rest against the glass, looking down through the spindly white scaffolding to the silver
ribbon of the Thames. She knew she shouldn’t summon Lenny. This place was too busy, too public, and too full of pattering
children’s feet and the loud chatter of nearby German tourists. She might embarrass herself. She might say something out loud.

She closed her eyes nonetheless, mentally casting about in search of that soft, warm, oh-so-familiar-glow. She ached to sense
him standing just behind her, lingering.

Are you here with me, Lenny?

An image bloomed in her mind of Lenny in that hospital bed, crinkling the newspaper as he lowered it. He gazed at her over
the edge of a pair of reading glasses. Monique suppressed a bubble of amusement. Lenny never did admit he needed those glasses.
But he’d never had any qualms about borrowing hers, perching them on the end of his nose though the frames were studded with
rhinestones.

Sometime later the sensation of a hand on her arm brought Monique back to the present. Judy stood beside her, silently drawing
Monique’s attention to the sinking landscape. The pod had dropped below the level of the rooftops. A crowd waited by the doors
as it slowed to the landing. The doors whooshed opened. The ride was over.

Usually Monique loved checking things off lists. Usually, she loved the sense of accomplishment that followed. Now she ushered
her friends ahead of her down the ramp so they would not glimpse the worry on her face. She skimmed her fingers along the
railing, prepared to grip it should she sense a sudden, deep-bodied chill or should her knees completely fail her. Then she
forced herself to imagine the list as she mentally inked a checkmark by the first item.

She exhaled a long, slow breath and waited. She monitored her vitals, seeking aches, soreness, a sudden drop in blood pressure.
But her breathing remained calm, her pulse strong. Her heart did not grow leaden in her chest. In fact her heart felt oddly
feather-light, and not because some part of it had just cracked and broken away. She felt weightless…unburdened. A breeze
swept off the Thames as she mentally searched for the source of this unexpected buoyancy. The sudden gust swept her braids
off her shoulders and brushed the nape of her neck.

The sensation was not unlike a kiss.

Monique stopped in her tracks. Tourists elbowed by her, forcing her against the rail. She ran her fingers across the back
of her neck.

Across her face crept a soft, slow smile.

W
anderlust.

The word—straight from the German—bubbled up inside Judy. It churned along with hundreds of other foreign words and expressions
that had sputtered in her head since she’d boarded the London-Brussels train amid the business class of Europe.

Becky sat across from her, closing her eyes behind the amber sunglasses as the French country sunshine poured in through the
window. Monique perched in the seat beside Becky, her face buried in an Amsterdam guidebook, making occasional grunting noises
as a line of concentration deepened between her brows. Judy sat still, ignoring the e-book reader open to a Dutch-English
dictionary on her lap. Despite the continuing effects of jet lag and a painfully stiffening knee, she existed right now in
a state of heightened awareness, her blood thrumming and her brain alight, gulping the passing scenery as the Eurostar train
zoomed toward Brussels.

She read the signs at each station as they zipped by. Calais, Lille. The little villages of Nieppes, Bois-Grenier, La Chapelle
d’Armentières. She rolled the names over her tongue, like plump champagne grapes.

The young girl she’d once been—that light-footed fearless creature she’d abandoned long ago—shifted from a long slumber deep
within her, stretching with slowly opening eyes into her roomier, older skin.

Oh, yeah,
Judy thought.
I remember you.

“So, Judy,” Monique said, as she turned another page of the guidebook, “are we going to Amsterdam to see the Anne Frank house?
Or the Van Gogh museum?”

The corners of Judy’s lips twitched. Monique and her itinerary and her pencil and her plans. “Frankly, Monie, I hadn’t thought
that far ahead.”

That had been her favorite way to travel. Just slip on a train with a small rucksack and go wherever the train takes you.
Step out into a city and disorient yourself in the warren of ancient streets.

 “We’re going to arrive around five in the afternoon.” Monique flicked her wrist to glance at her watch. “We should have plans.”

“We could just wander.” Judy remembered the canals at nighttime, the smear of the neon lights on the water, the gentle swish
of small boats sliding under the bridges. “The old city is full of great architecture, exotic boats.”

“We don’t have much time. We’re heading off to Cologne tomorrow night.”

“It’s not a big city.”

“How about a boat ride on the canals? Or there’s the Rembrandt House museum.”

“I’m game for anything.”

“Judy, honey, you picked this city.” Monique closed the guidebook on her lap. “You were
quick
to pick it too. And after perusing this curiously detailed guidebook for the last hour, I’m just hoping we’re not going to
Amsterdam to buy Moroccan hash or Nepal bud.”

Becky snorted, straightening from the window in sudden attention. “What kind of trip are we taking?”

Monique tossed the guidebook onto Becky’s lap. “There’s actually a smart shop listed in there—address and all—that sells Ecuadorian
mushrooms so fierce that one bite can cause a psychotic breakdown.”

“Oh,” Judy said, shaking her head, “I’d stay away from the mushrooms.”

Monique raised a brow. “You think?”

“Yeah.” Judy nodded. “But I might consider going to the Pool Dog coffee shop and rolling up some White Widow.”

That was the first thing she and Thierry did, all those years ago, when they skipped off the train from Strasbourg. He’d taken
her hand and led her down the narrow, cobbled streets to a coffee shop. She’d followed him with a light heart, watching the
way the Dutch sunlight turned the delicate hairs on the nape of his neck a fragile gold. In the smoky café, they’d nervously
perused the menu of weed and hash and prerolled joints, then struck up a conversation with a couple of French university students
giggling at the table beside them. The four of them had pushed together their rickety tables and, with increasing hilarity,
dared to share a fatty over strong Dutch coffee at eleven-thirty in the morning.

The gentle rattle of the swift-moving train seemed suddenly loud, and with a glance at her seat mates, Judy realized she’d
shocked them into silence. She felt vaguely uneasy. They hadn’t seen this girl before. Until the moment she’d stepped off
the plane in London yesterday, she’d made a point to pretend this young woman had never existed.

 “Oh, for goodness sake.” Judy straightened one leg, trying to stretch out a kink in her knee. “Are you two going to look
me in the eye and tell me you never inhaled?”

“I haven’t.” Becky blinked and cast a quick glance Monique’s way. “I
haven’t.
Weed wasn’t so easy to get in my tiny corner of Minnesota. Our poison was blackberry brandy and peppermint schnapps.”

“Well, well,” Judy said, “we’ve found that rare creature. A mom who didn’t lie to her stepdaughter during the drug talk.”

Monique’s lashes flickered. A muscle moved along the edge of her jaw as she raised her hand. “Liar, liar, sitting right here.”

“We’re all liars,” Judy said. “We told them about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.”

Monique murmured, “I believe that still makes me a hypocrite.”

“You’re no hypocrite. You’re a
realist
. Rule number sixty-two: Avoid giving teenagers ammo. You can regale them about the adventures of your misspent youth when
their brains have developed enough to correctly weigh risk and reward.”

“In any case, I didn’t like the stuff,” Monique said. “It made me paranoid.”

“Then avoid the space cakes in Amsterdam.” Judy grimaced. “You can’t gauge the strength of those until after you’ve eaten
one.”

“Please tell me you’re not serious, Judy.”

“About the space cakes? I’m absolutely serious.”

“No, about rolling a joint and smoking it in some Dutch coffee shop.”

Judy paused, remembering what it was like to sit in those rattling chairs with the haze of blue smoke above their heads. She
remembered how she and Thierry laughed every time the bell over the door rang, how once they were done, their group—and there
was always a motley, ever-​changing group—would tumble out into the darkness of a Dutch evening and into the crowd. She remembered how they’d stand in front
of a head shop just to admire the colors of the lights. They’d find a park, throw themselves under a tree, feel the prickle
of grass on their faces as they made stories out of the stars.

Judy shrugged and avoided Monique's eye. “It
is
legal here.”

Monie muttered, “Oh my God.”

“But I have to admit, there’s been so much genetic engineering in the last twenty-seven years that the idea makes me anxious.“

“So
this
is why you chose Amsterdam?”

“No, no. It was never about the drugs. That was just a little…rebellious experimentation. The last time I was here, all I
really wanted to do was roll around in bed with my French lover.”

Thierry had a gentle smile, the kind that made one eye crinkle more than the other. She’d first met him on a city train in
Strasbourg. She’d been dressed for work—neat skirt, sleeveless top, and flat shoes. He was tall and lanky, and the warmth
of his body released a loamy, aromatic fragrance from the wear-softened cotton of his T-shirt. The sway of the train thrust
him against her as they held on to straps through the tunnels. He’d apologized for bumping into her. He told her he was just
back from picking grapes at a vineyard in Champagne. Would she like to go for a coffee?

Judy became aware, again, of the sway of the train, the rhythmic clatter of metal against metal, and her friends’ gaping silence.

“My, my, my.” Monique’s voice was a low rumble, her eyes alight. “You’ve been holding back on us, girl.”

Oh, dear.

“All those Friday afternoon barbecues,” Monique continued, “and never once did you mention a French lover.”

“Did you really expect me to bring up my ex-lovers while the whole neighborhood is sitting on the McCarthys’ deck?”

Monique raised a brow. “Under the influence of pinot grigio, you usually overshare.”

Judy looked away, hesitating. There was a certain kind of man a girl met when she traveled far and wide. They flooded the
continent during the summer months, breezily attractive, easygoing, and adaptable. They knew multiple languages and switched
between them effortlessly. They were charming to a fault and, for the most part, really skilled lovers. Thierry just happened
to be her last.

“Wow.” Becky shifted in her seat, curving one leg under her in a way only a skinny woman can do. “And here I thought you and
Bob had grown up together. You know, like in a big green pod or something.”

“Bob and I didn’t meet until after I came home from Europe.” The thought of Bob gave her an unexpected twinge. “Woodstock
was way before my time,” Judy said. “But I suppose Amsterdam was like my Burning Man.”

Monique gave her an incredulous once-over. “You mean that nudity-filled, crazy-men-in-chicken-suits music festival in the
desert?”

“I was young.” Judy patted her sleek, chin-length cut, newly trimmed for the vacation. “I had hair down to my knees. My thin,
flexible, twenty-one-year-old knees.”

Monique shook her head. “I can’t picture it. I spent too much time watching you march your boys in military formation while
cleaning up the backyard.”

“Voice like a drill sergeant,” Becky added. “You could slice carrots with it.”

“Well,” Judy murmured, “that woman you saw whipping her kids into shape spent six months backpacking solo through Europe.”

Becky paused, a water bottle halfway to her lips. “I thought you got your packing skills from Cub Scout leader training. Or
Girl Scout preparedness badges. Or herding five kids on camping trips to the Adirondacks.”

“When you’re spending three bucks a night at a place like the Flying Pig youth hostel, in a warehouse of bunk beds crawling
with backpackers, you learn to keep what few valuables you have right next to your skin.”

Monique said, “Please tell me you have photos of those years.”

Judy tapped her temple. “It’s all in here.”

Back then she’d wanted to freeze time. They’d all discussed it—she and the young Austrians and Italians, French and Germans
who’d became instant friends. How could they preserve this phase of life that held no plans, no responsibilities, and yet
millions of possibilities? In Amsterdam life just
happened.
They met a Senegalese man who knew all the best coffee shops in the city and the back door into every techno club. He was
like a supernatural wizard who opened the doors to the kingdom. They spent hours lolling in the sun on the grass of Vondelpark,
enjoying one another’s company, learning more in one international conversation than in hours of classes in the university
at Strasbourg. They listened to music at the Paradisio. They slept together on random roofs. They were a tame wolf pack, roaming
territory. After a while they stopped trying to speak each other’s languages, and they all spoke their own. Here’s the strange
thing—they all understood each other.

“And yet all the places you saw,” Monique murmured, “all the cities you visited while you were backpacking, you chose, after
twenty-seven years, to come back to Amsterdam.”

Judy smiled and she felt the young girl within her smile, too, a wistful dreamy little smile that lingered.

“In Amsterdam,” Judy murmured, “I was happy.”

“It’s
Broodje haring.
” Judy held out three sandwiches, bought at Stubbe’s Haring kiosk outside Amsterdam Centraal train station. “It’s a national
delicacy. The Dutch version of a hot dog.”

“I’m so hungry I’d eat a dead horse.” Becky reached for the sandwich, thumbed the bun open, and paused. “Um…what is it?”

“It’s better than a dead horse.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Live a little, Beck. Take a bite.”

Judy sank her teeth into the soft roll, closing her eyes as she felt the give of the flesh, the pickled taste, the burst of
the onions. Stubbe’s Haring kiosk was geared toward tourists coming or going from the international train station, so buying
these sandwiches here was like buying hot pretzels just outside Grand Central Terminal in New York City—they were a bit dry
and wildly overpriced. But she and the girls had just arrived and checked into the hotel, and dusk was already falling. They’d
have a proper dinner later. This nip of street food would tide them over as they wandered the city before daylight faded.

The taste burst in her mouth, fresh clean fish and diced onion and pickles.

Becky choked and held the sandwich away from her, the bite a bulge in her cheek. “Judy—what is this?”

Monique’s chewing slowed as her brow rippled. She gave her sandwich a good, long sniff.

“You can’t guess?” Judy asked. “It’s pickled herring.”

Becky turned toward the railing by the canal. She dislodged the chewed-up wad of sandwich from her cheek and launched it into
the water. Becky tossed the rest of the sandwich in the garbage nearby, missing the opening entirely. Then she unscrewed her
water bottle and took a long, wincing gulp. “Well,” Becky said, “I’ve now publicly vomited in a river. We can check that off
the list.”

 “It’s not that bad,” Monique said, swallowing a tentative second bite. “Vinegary. Kind of squishy. But in a weird-good-sushi
kind of way.”

“We’ll find you something else, Beck.” Judy popped the last of her sandwich in her mouth and hoped they ran into a vendor
who sold cones of greasy frites or spicy
bitterballen
, breaded, deep-fried meatballs. “Come on, ladies, let’s walk.”

She headed out of the main square. She knew exactly where she was going. She remembered the salt-smell of the air, the worn
wobble of the cobblestones, and the clatter of boats bobbing up against the walls of the canal. She remembered the rows and
rows of three-window-wide brick buildings. She made her way to a main canal street, Oudezijds Voorburgwal, glanced at the
old familiar unpronounceable street signs—Bethlehemsteeg, Monnikenstraat. Passing one side street, she glanced longingly down
its shadowed length, knowing that the Flying Pig youth hostel still lay down there. The sky was dimming quickly in this northern
latitude, darkening the silver of the canals.