Walking like a crippled ghost, I only saw her from behind. I wanted to write crippled “angel,” instead of “ghost,” because it sounds prettier. But this was not pretty.
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Her dyed blond hair was in a short, disheveled pony tail, tied by a colorless twine. Her dress, if you can call it that, I think may have been a hospital gown. And she was wearing slippers meant for walking on carpets. Thank heavens it wasn’t cold outside. I couldn’t see her face, but she behaved lost as she passed the multi-storied buildings. Peeking into entrances — including mine — at each apartment house. It seemed like she was trying to find something she recognized.
I pulled my keys out from my jean’s pocket, turned into my building’s lobby at an automatic pace, as I’ve done for decades now. Once inside I climbed the marble stairs to my one bedroom home on the second floor.
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I don’t think that this walking invalid was my good friend Dorothea. Dee was now confined to a convalescent home on a busy corner two blocks from my house. My broken heart was for a memory awakened by this wandering stranger, seemingly lost and searching the city streets.
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Dorothea has four sons. I am more than casually acquainted with two of them. If I lived in Los Angeles, I’d call them friends, since it seems that anyone you have an actual conversation with is labeled, friend. Maybe it’s just semantics. But here in New York City, unless I’ve shared a few meals with someone, by my definition, they are an acquaintance. One of Dorothea’s sons, her youngest, is a writer and someone I would spend more time with, if our worlds were aligned differently. The second son who knows me, is a “celebrity.” He would hate my using that word. Mostly known as a movie star, he also directs, writes and is a film maker. Being five years younger than I, I’m not sure that my mother would recognize his name, but all of my contemporaries know who he is, whether they’ve seen his work or not.
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Dorothea grew up in Brooklyn, though I don’t remember which section of the borough. She was the daughter to cold, unkind parents, and heir to a family company that made pianos. She married a wealthy and successful man. They raised four sons in an affluent town in New Jersey. Later in time, her husband absconded with the majority of their funds, relocating to the Hamptons on Long Island, in a midlife attempt to find himself. She managed to keep the house by selling real estate, before eventually leaving the suburbs and moving to a small apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, once her children were grown.
Sometime after that, she and I met. She interviewed with the owner of the gallery for whom I was employed. Pretending my opinion had any weight in his decision making, at a Soho restaurant, he introduced Dorothea to me before he hired her. She and I immediately hit it off.
I have never known her age, though I would guess Dorothea is closer in years to my parents than to mine. Though politically and socially conservative, she had an unorthodox style all her own. Including her lipstick and liner, applied to create a pronounced upper lip. She was elegant to the point of being arrogant, yet nurturing and hilarious. And she loved me.
Though I wouldn’t say she was the most talented art sales person I’ve ever worked with, Dorothea was almost always at the top of the numbers board each month. I have many theories but one I stand by was her stage in life. She’d be angry at that but I defiantly believe it to be true. Most of us who worked at the gallery were in our 20s and 30s. Being older — or let’s say more mature — gave her an ambiance of trust. Especially to younger, professional men whom I think may have unconsciously seen a mother figure in her. My boss at the New York space (a woman, by the way) couldn’t understand her method of presenting art and I believe didn’t like her very much. And though I didn’t necessarily understand her sales style either, I didn’t really care as long as Dee brought in the bucks each month. Utterly adoring her, I asked that she be scheduled on my shifts. Until I left the company, she and I worked together five days a week.
In disagreements, Dorothea displayed a great deal of stubbornness. I think it may be how she survived so well, from her affectionless childhood to her success in real estate, art sales and the unwavering parental armor she wore as a struggling single mother.
After I left the art business, Dorothea and I saw each other about twice a year, usually sharing a meal and catching up. Eventually, even that ritual faded. She moved to a small studio apartment near the United Nations. She had a grand piano in her limited space, taking up what seemed to be half the room. I don’t remember if it was a family named instrument or not. I don’t believe so. One time while visiting her, she cooked dinner for me in her tiny kitchen. Salmon and rice. As always, our conversation was easy and affectionate. I sincerely intended to stay in her life. But like many things affected by time and excuses, we no longer stayed in touch.
Her youngest son contacts me every once in a while. Odd as this may sound, he feels like family to me, though we know very little about each other.
He recently texted to let me know that his mom was in a retirement home, close to where I live. He would walk by my apartment when he would visit Dorothea. If I wanted, he could pick me up one day and we could see her together. I told him I’d love that, but I never arranged for it to happen. I wanted to see her, but I was unforgivingly frightened, particularly after learning that she may not have her memories in tact. Without specific explanations, her son told me that Dee’s mind was shaky. I didn’t know if that meant she was suffering from severe dementia or predictably facing the loss of pieces from her past, due to the aging process.
I’d like to paint this as romantic and say it’s because I want to remember Dorothea as she was, in her full capacity. And that may be part of the reason. I spent over a decade visiting my aging and infirm parents once a week in West Orange, New Jersey, until their respective deaths. It’s more multifaceted than having to witness Dee’s fragility and impending passing. I defensively compare my reaction to PTSD. It’s the uncomfortable event of revisiting the medicinal smells and fluorescent ceilings and rooms filled with humans who once had lives filled with hopes and expectations. It is a glaring reminder that in the not too distant future, this could be me.