Hometown of my Heart: There But For the Grace of God

I had a BFF, Phyllis, in my Linden, New Jersey childhood. I grew to 5’ 6” but she leveled off at five feet, if that.

We went through elementary, Hebrew School, junior high, and into high school together. I often stayed over at her house, where she shared a bedroom with her younger sister. They had an energetic little brother who we considered a pain, just like I felt about my own little brother.

Her dad Mike* was successful in some kind of business I didn’t know anything about. I could tell from their house; the custom draperies with valences and curved sofa in the living room projected 1950s high style and prosperity.

When we played in her parents’ bedroom, trying on her mother’s high heels and jewelry, I hoped some of her mom’s glamour would rub off on me. Even her name, Rhonda,* conjured up Hollywood, just like our favorite movie stars Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor.

Her mom’s mirror stretched the length of her bureau, reflecting the array of hairbrushes, lipsticks, powders, and perfume bottles from Evening in Paris to Chanel No. 5.

I sometimes wondered if Phyllis’ mother dyed her hair, a shiny and wavy reddish-blonde, but either way, it suited her perfectly.

She was the head of our Brownie Troop in second grade—maybe that’s how I first became friends with Phyllis. Selling Girl Scout cookies door-to-door was the major activity of the year. I hated to ring doorbells, wondering if the person would smile kindly and say “yes, please” or look mean and spew out a curt “no thanks.” My take was meager and I didn’t help the troop meet its goals, but I didn’t care. My own mom Rose was leader of my little brother’s Cub Scout pack, but those lucky little boys never had to sell anything.

When Phyllis and I walked over to her house after school, I usually ended up staying for dinner. It amazed me that this gorgeous mother spent so much time in the kitchen. She produced hot and nourishing meals, but with a kick, by frying lots of things, including chicken and French Fries, something my own mom never did.

Our mothers were different in many ways—how they dressed and cooked and decorated their houses, but I knew they both did what mothers do best—they took good care of their little girls. 

Then, something really bad happened. 

When Phyllis turned sixteen, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I saw her less and less until I didn’t see her at all. She had to go into New York City for medical appointments, hospitalizations, and maybe even operations. Whatever the best available treatment in 1960, she was going through it. She missed a lot of school, and then didn’t come to school at all.

I remember taking a book out of the library, Death Be Not Proud, written in 1949 by a famous journalist, John Gunther, whose son had died of a brain tumor at age seventeen. He researched deeply and spared no detail in describing the nasty course of the disease, the glimmers of hope, the overbearing despair, until the untimely but merciful death itself. 

Having no other way to get information, I took it all in and imagined my friend and her family going through the same horrific experience. 

I left for college the next fall, a milestone we always expected to share. I wrote to Phyllis but never received an answer back. And then my mother told me that she was gone. My heart froze in my chest. How could it be that I would never see her again? 

I later heard through the rumor mill that her parents had divorced and her mom left our small town to live in New York. This news (and I don’t know if it’s true) astounded me, as it was the first divorce I heard about in our town. My friend’s parents, like my own, seemed iconic and unchangeable, grownups who had established themselves for the duration. 

And our town was the center of the universe for everyone in it, wasn’t it? Kids left for college, but they could always come back to their house on the same street.

And then, there was the mystery of her mother leaving her dad for the big city. I imagined that her beautiful mom could fit in easily, knowing how to dress and find a social crowd, and maybe even a new husband. But I didn’t really know about the mysterious lives of adults. Or how the death of a child could change you, or drive you mad. 

I grieve the loss of the young and promising life of my friend with the twinkle in her eyes and the ready smile. We innocently enjoyed a safe and carefree childhood, growing into preteens and young teens, giggling under the covers till we fell asleep, starting to talk about boys.

I never did get a chance to say goodbye to her. Nor she to me . . . .

God only knows the hell the family went through dealing with her illness. In those days, people mentioned sickness in hushed tones, reluctant to let information about such matters spread into the community.

That was nearly sixty years ago, sixty years that I had and that Phyllis should have had too. She remains a young vision in my mind, black curly hair inherited through her dad framing her sweet face—my little friend.

What I would give for a picture of us in our Brownie uniforms! I located just one photograph (see below) going through my mother’s albums. We were fourteen and seated together (on the right) at the graduation ceremony for our Hebrew School confirmation class at Suburban Jewish Center (1957). I love her impish expression and the way she tightly clutched her diploma like a little kid.

I don’t remember that event, but I do remember her girly bedroom, her good-looking parents, the tempting smells from the kitchen, her gravelly voice, and the mischievous little brother underfoot.

Wherever they scattered after the catastrophe, I just want to thank all of them for letting me into their family life for a while, until it was taken away from them and they had nothing to share with me anymore.

*names changed to protect privacy