The Lessons of Love and Friendship

Real love speaks the truth. This belief guided me until my friend Danza challenged it just a month before her passing. It was a warm Friday in March, and cherry blossoms filled the air with their sweetness. I sat on the back deck, anticipating Elsie’s arrival. The three of us, Danza, Elsie, and I, were set to relive a moment from our high school days. Time was slipping by. Elsie appeared in cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless top, reminiscent of 1969. She bent down, hugging me warmly. Even in wedge sandals, she was much taller than me.

“How do I prepare myself?” she asked, touching a corner of her eye.

“She’s still Danza,” I reassured. “Just without hair.”

“Will I recognize her?”

“Without a doubt.” My knees felt weak. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I led Elsie to the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and gave them some privacy. Later, I found them both in tears. Elsie sat at the bed’s edge, fidgeting with the duvet. “Okay chickadee!” she announced. “It’s makeover time!” From her purse, she pulled a small paper bag, setting out its contents: eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick, lip liner, face powder, and rouge. I had brought scented massage cream and a lavender silk scarf.

During high school, makeup was rare, reserved for stage performances that later resulted in embarrassing breakouts. We were Carole King’s natural women—barefaced and sincere. We had slowly adopted lip color and eyeliner over the years, but we never put on a show for each other. Today’s makeover sought normalcy, an attempt to alter reality like teenagers again. If we added color to Danza’s face, maybe we could ignore the draining hourglass beside us. Our friendship stood for truth, never pretending, yet I soon learned my understanding was flawed.

Elesie and I adjusted Danza’s hospital bed until she sat upright, her head resting against a pillow and eyes closed. Elsie moved like an artist: applying powder, carefully adding rouge, layering pale shadow, then lilac. When she stepped back, I picked up the eyeliner. Danza had taught me its use in high school, so it felt right to apply it now. I lined her upper lid, humming “You make me feel…”

Softly, Danza joined in, “…like a natural woman.”

As she continued humming, I smudged the eyeliner as she had shown me. “Casual, not calculated, right?”

“Why did you ever take fashion advice from a dork like me?” she mused.

“You were a genius with smudging.”

“A smudging genius. Ha. Ha.”

While Elsie massaged her hands with fragrant cream, adorned with chiming silver bangles, I filled in her sparse eyebrows, gone from chemotherapy. Lastly, I outlined her lips in a gentle mulberry shade. We wrapped her head in the lavender scarf. Her smile widened, cheekbones became prominent, her mouth shaped perfectly, and her nose turned up adorably. As Danza looked in a hand-held mirror, the yellow sheets and blue duvet illuminated her features. “Doe-shaped eyes accented by a bald head. Solid fox,” she declared, playfully posing for a photo.

We laughed together, remembering our time in Candy Striper pinafores. While classmates delved into wild adventures, Danza and I took care of hospital patients. She recently mentioned visiting that same hospital, now a cancer center. “Remember the pinafores?” I asked.

“Ugh. My legs felt like sausages in those stockings.”

“And the pink ribbons in our ponytails. Weren’t we adorable?”

Danza’s smile faded. “You keep asking these questions. Why don’t you ask the real question?”

Confused, I hesitated. “Danza, do you want to talk?”

“Yes,” she replied firmly.

Elsie gently kissed Danza’s cheek, gave me a knowing look, and left us alone. Danza turned to me, “You’re going to hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?”

I had arrived after her diagnosis and treatments, in the last act. I convinced her I couldn’t hate her.

She finally confessed, “I lied.”

“About what?” Perhaps it was another theatrical fib.

“Remember your birthday party? I never planned it.”

I recalled her call on my 16th birthday, home sick with the flu. She had claimed to cancel a surprise party, yet no mention followed afterward. Two decades passed, and I understood then: the party had never been real.

“I wanted to give you a party,” she explained, “but we couldn’t afford it.”

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows. I’d romanticized her bohemian lifestyle, not recognizing the necessity behind it. Now, married to a jazz musician and managing tight finances, I comprehended her struggles—and the measures taken to protect loved ones from harsh realities.

I moved closer, insisting, “Danza, your lack of a party wasn’t your fault.” I looked into her eyes. “How could I be angry?” I paced the room, comforting her repeatedly. I expressed my love, advised against leaving with regrets, and cried until our makeup mixed together on our cheeks.

Elsie sat on the back deck, reading a magazine she seemed to ignore. I joined her, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

“Boy,” she said, setting down the magazine, “that was rough.”

I summarized my time with Danza. Through tears, I understood her lie was never a fracture in our friendship. It showcased the depth of care she took toward it. Soon, the hospice nurse arrived, checking Danza’s condition. I shared Danza’s confession with her.

The nurse replied, “It’s common for those nearing the end to clear past emotional debts. Now she rests peacefully.”

Indeed, Danza found peace, and so did I. For 25 years I measured our friendship by its surviving truth. I now realized love’s true measure is the burdens one silently bears to shield those she loves. Danza’s silence about my birthday wasn’t a failure. It was proof of our friendship’s depth.

Megan Vered is a Berkeley native, sharing her personal essays in various publications. Her viewpoint expressed is her own.

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