I rush out the door and start walking down the steep path that leads towards the train station. We have 7 minutes to catch our train, and I've still gotta get a ticket. It's raining, and Michael told me to dress warmly, even though we won't be outside. All I know is that we are going to see a show, and it will be cold. It's my surprise birthday gift, planned for weeks. I'm wearing three layers underneath my jacket, a pair of leggings under my pants, winter boots, a scarf, a hat, gloves. I'm getting hot.
I walk fast, while being careful with my knee, which has been hurting. Michael ran ahead to get my ticket. Suddenly, I hear the familiar "ding!" of my phone in my pocket. It's a Facebook message.
I quickly glance to see who it is. Dana, my neighbor from LA. I manage to catch the first few words:
"Good evening Alexine, some sad news: Helen Walker...". I don't need to read any further. I know. Helen's gone...
For the first few seconds, I feel nothing. I keep walking fast, to not miss my train. The first thoughts are that she is now in peace, that she is better where she is. But then, I start thinking of Helen. I remember her. The memories come flooding, and with them, the tears. Helen, my sweet Helen. You're gone! You probably didn't even remember I existed. Dementia had long taken over. But you are so unforgettable!
The first time I met you, you were walking around my driveway with your white little dog, as if you were looking for something. You seemed kind of strange, I wondered who you were and what you were doing there. You were sort of lingering, ignorant to the fact that you were on MY driveway.
I said Hello, you looked at me with a smile and didn't seem phased that I was kind of surprised to see you there. We had just moved, and all I knew was that the neighborhood was a bit sketchy, over on the other side of the avenue. I asked if I could help you, and you mumbled something I couldn't understand. I introduced myself and told you we had just moved here. You then told me your name was Helen and you were just collecting empty bottles from the trash, for recycling. Did I have any? You seemed a little odd and I realized that you probably weren't all together, but you seemed nice and your big eyes were full of spark.
Little did I know that I was going to cross your path much closer than this one encounter.
We got used to Helen. In the end, we would set aside our recyclables and bring them directly to her house. She lived at the end of the street, close to the main avenue, in a very old beat up house, with Bill, her 90 something year old father-in-law, whom she was taking care of. She would always complain about him cussing and being rude, but to me, he seemed like a nice and sweet old man, always sweeping outside, even if he could barely stand on his two feet.
She loved the kids and tried to teach them manners. She would insist on a hello and a kiss, and would tell them stories from when she was a nurse. Her house was a mess. She was a hoarder and would collect piles and piles of stuff, inside and outside her house, that she would sometimes give away to the kids. When we would go on walks around the block, we would always stop by Helen's house. The kids would go and ring the bell on her door where a little sign would say: "an apple a day...", and she would come out with her big smile and her spunk, always with a story, a little candy or a toy. She'd put Teddy on a leash and come join us for the walk, which would considerably slow us down, but would triple the enjoyment.
She was in pain and would tell me about the doctor not giving her medication. Sometimes she would come to my house and ask me for a tylenol for her back. I later found out from her daughter that she was doing that with everyone. She also had a car, which she didn't drive. She was paranoid about some people coming and taking her car. I didn't know which of her stories were true, and which were fabrications of her own mind. But some of them I knew probably weren't fake. Like the fact that she fled Ohio or Iowa, from a husband that tried to kill her. It would always come back, and it was always the same story. I knew Helen had known suffering, and fear, but she would always say, in her melodious accent, "the Lord has been so good to me!".
Helen was skinny. Super skinny. Like skin on bones skinny. She would tell me that she wasn't hungry much, but she sure did like her coke, and almost always had a can of coke in her hand. One day I asked her what she was eating for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not much, she said. I asked her what she liked, and she said she liked grits and oats, bacon, eggs and chinese food, but didn't have much money to buy what she needed. And yet she would cook meals for her dog!!! So I went to the store and brought her oat meal, crackers, bananas, eggs, some basics. That was the first time I walked into her house. That's when I realized the conditions she lived in. The carpet smelled like dog pee, and the whole house was cluttered with old knick knacks. The kitchen closets and the fridge were pretty much empty.
And yet, this frail little lady would keep her garden impeccable. She had a green thumb and would take such care to make everything look good. The boys used to love looking at the animal statues in her yard, and we'd visit a turtle she had rescued, which had escaped from a neighbor's house.
After the grocery episode, I would sometimes bring her a bowl of soup or some muffins and insist on her eating them. At Thanksgiving, we would bring her and Bill a plate of food, or whenever we had a party, we'd bring leftovers. They were always so thankful and touched, it was a joy to give to them. Bill, who was old and sick, and very slow and weak physically, had all his head. Through my visits to Helen, I got to know him a little bit too. He would always say the same thing about the boys: "My my my, they are growing like weeds!". He told me a little bit about his life too, a life of adventures and traveling, but a life of grief and loss, a wife that left him for another man and took the kids. When we left LA, I told him we would see him in a year. He said: "oh, I probably won't make it that long." I told him he was a tough cookie, but inside I knew it was the last time I would see him. I remember praying for him, holding his black hand and crying, knowing this was our good bye. He died 8 months or so later.
Helen would always tell me about these bills she didn't understand anything about, and which caused her stress. So I told her to show me the paper work. She had piles and piles of unopened mail, and papers about health insurance that she was stressed about and wanted me to read. From then on, I gave her my number, and told her she could call me when she needed help. But I realized she barely knew how to use her cell phone. She did call me one day and left me a very disoriented message, saying that she had lost her dog. Most of the time, when she needed help, she would come straight to my house and knock on the door with her letters from the insurance. If I wasn't there, she would grab a broom and sweep the driveway, or leave some flowers in front of the door. When Michael was home, he'd sing "Hello young lady!" and she would beam with pride and tell me, with her sparkly cheeky eyes: "He's a good looking fellow, you done good!". She knew how to spot a hot guy and would tell me about it when she had encountered one in her whereabouts. That would crack me up.
She liked to make herself pretty. Even though she often dressed in the most original, strange clothes, she always, always wore her perfume, some jewelry, and sometimes a little something in her hair. And of course, her long, painted fake nails, which would always fascinate my mom when she was visiting from Switzerland.
Helen loved people and she would tell me: "everybody is so nice to me. See, I like people, and I'm nice to them, and they're all so nice to me". I would answer her that she was easy to be nice to.
One day, I walked by Helen's house, and Bill was standing outside, leaning on his rack, looking a bit lost. I asked how he was and whether Helen was here. He said she wasn't well and had fainted and fallen several times. He had been waiting outside in the sun for someone to come by and help. So I went into her house and found her sitting on her couch, unable to get up she was so week, her eyes all yellow from dehydration, and unable to recognize me or make any sense. She had refused to eat and drink after an argument she had with Bill, and was in bad shape. I tried to reason with her, make her drink some water, and get some info about her family and who we could call. She seemed very worried about me talking to her family, but I finally managed to call one of her children. I can't remember if I called 911 or if her son came by and did it, but I remember the paramedics getting there and taking her vitals and asking me questions. She ended up spending two weeks in the hospital. We visited her a couple times, and her daughter came to stay at her house and started cleaning it. When Helen got out, she was very unhappy about having family staying with her and telling her what to do, controlling her whereabouts. She started complaining about feeling like she was in jail. She sure was an independent, strong-willed little lady! Meanwhile, I was finding out stuff from her daughter that I hadn't realized (like the tylenol issue) and ways in which Helen had been street smart without me even noticing. But that didn't change anything about my love for her. I continued to visit her, bring her food and go on walks around the block with her.
When we told her we were moving to Switzerland for a year, she said: "Why?", and then, "Make sure you come back! I want a postcard every week!". During that first year we were here, I cried so much for LA, for the things I missed, for the feeling torn inside. But I have to say that one of the things that would make me cry the most was to think of Helen. Somehow, I would feel guilty about not being there for her, not being able to visit her, check in on her, bring her food. Here in Switzerland, I had no one to care for in that way. And I realized that by letting me care for her, she had given me much. She had allowed me to develop a side of me that brings me much joy, and that I miss sorely.
When we came back to LA 18 months later, to pack up shop, Helen didn't recognize or remember us. However, she smiled at us and started talking to us anyways, answering our questions and being playful. When Michael joined us, and said "Hello young lady", she giggled and something clicked, and she said, "yes, yes, I think I recognize you". We had a short chat and then had to leave again, say good bye for good this time, and I knew this was probably the last time.
I wish I could have said good bye one more time. I wish I could have gone to her funeral and let her family know how much she had meant to me and what a bright sunshine she had been on Kent St. I wish I could kiss her cold forehead and say one last prayer for her. But I'm thankful to be able to write this and recall these sweet memories about her, and share them with you. Those who knew her were blessed by her smile and loving presence. She filled many of my lonely "mom of small children" days with a spark, a smile, a good laugh. Some days, walking to Helen's house was the highlight. Watching her light up when my little ones would say "Hi Helen!" was a gift. Walking to Helen's house was sometimes a destination, a field trip in itself, a reason to go outside.
Heaven is dancing because they've got one spunky black mama with them to light up the party. Lucky them!
