One week after Erin was rushed to MGH for emergency surgery, and one day after she woke up, Boston shut down for Marathon Monday and an onslaught of runners from all over the world took over the city. In 2001, Erin and I had been part of that onslaught. When rowing season ended the previous fall, Erin wanted a running partner and I wanted to get to know her better. At first I volunteered to train with her, which turned into us running the whole thing together. We spent hours that winter, usually in the early mornings, winding our ways through the streets of Somerville, Cambridge, Arlington and Medford.
I started to see my life through the prism of stories Erin and I shared with each other, stories that made the miles tick past and made both of us more of who we were. As we covered more ground and fleshed out our lives for each other, we discovered that certain stories worked better on certain terrains. Rambling sagas with large casts and numerous explanations got us across the endless flats. Stories with conflict, strong emotion, and unexpected twists got us over hills. Our stories kept us going and cemented our friendship. By the time Marathon day arrived and we lined up among the bandits in the small city of marathoners, being around Erin had become one of my most comfortable places. A friendship like I hadn’t had since high school. Around Erin, I couldn’t stop talking.
Eight years later, I pictured the runners in the morning pulling on layers of clothes, eating careful breakfasts. I remembered my mix of fear and anticipation as I sat next to Erin on the bus out to Hopkinton, two people on a bus within a caravan of busses, escorted by a squad of police. Throughout the day, I imagined runners covering the route. Not the graceful sprinters at the front. I pictured people like us, trekking along at a workable pace, taking in the crowds along the sidelines, getting buoyed by the women of Wellesley College, a tunnel of fresh faces and concentrated cheers at mile 13; chugging up Heartbreak Hill and finding it significantly harder than when we'd trained on it; descending to the gates of Boston College and thinking, enough already, then seeing the Boston skyline ahead; the crowds — still there, still cheering after so many hours — crowds so loud I had to shout the story I’d saved up for the final miles; and Chris meeting us with three miles to go, so jazzed up by the cheers, he kept sprinting ahead. I pictured friends like us, helping each other across the finish line, holding each other’s hands, putting arms across each other’s shoulders when it was finally over and worn-out volunteers passed out silver mylar blankets to keep the heat in.
Did any of the runners today look up at MGH and think that one of their own was in one of those rooms? A runner who on that day could not take a single step on her own? I knew better. Each runner had stories, many had their own person whose illness or misfortune called out their great luck to simply be outside, running. To have bodies that could run, even when those bodies wept with fatigue. For me now, Erin was this person. I thought about her and thought about her. When I walked down the street, when I climbed stairs, when I went home to my familiar house, my husband, my garden and cats, she was with me and I with her. Everyone in my life got extra affection during this time. I wanted to lap up every minute and aspect of life. My emails became more loving, to the point that I had to double check the recipient before sending. A few times I nearly told a client I loved them.
I returned to visit Erin the day after marathon day, two days after she woke up. Over the phone, Rob made me promise not to stay too long. “Erin will just keep talking and tire herself out,” he told me. Okay, 30 minutes, I promised, and then I would go. When I got to her room, the enormous bed where she lay marooned as recently as Sunday was pushed to the side and Erin was sitting in a large vinyl armchair. Her feet and lower legs were wrapped in inflatable splints and propped up in front of her. Behind her, a stand with a mere four bags of clear fluid dripped into her veins. Her father sat in a plastic chair beside her. She looked up at me and smiled.
“Hi,” she said through dopey eyes. She looked tired, but there it was, Erin's voice. The voice that had spoken to me over miles and miles of effort. Erin’s voice is deep and resonant, somewhere between tenor and bass, both soothing and commanding. A week before I feared I might never hear this voice again. This morning, it was half there, breathy and whispery, on its way back.
“Hi,” I said, matching the softness, the quietness of her voice. “I’m so happy to see you.” I felt the need to reintroduce myself, weirdly shy, not sure how much Erin knew or remembered. But she did remember, and was proud of it. When I said I’d been there when she woke up, she said, “Yep. I remember that,” nodding her head, a kid with the right answer.
And then she started to talk. As if making up for six days of silence, she veered from one topic to another. She talked about Joni Mitchell and public radio, “I love NPR… Morning Edition… Terry Gross… Talk of the Nation…” Then the next minute berated her father, “I hope you’re not stressing Rob out. You need to be a good guest while I’m in here.” He tried to assure her but she plowed ahead, telling me about her father’s embarrassing habits until finally he said, “Erin, I don’t think Joanne wants to know all this stuff.”
Thirty minutes passed in the blink of an eye. I tried to leave, saying I’d promised Rob I wouldn’t stay too long. Erin couldn’t care less. She asked me about Chris then turned to her father. “Chris is Armenian and he’s very tall.” Yes, I agreed, very tall. Especially for an Armenian. And then she was off again, talking about how we’d both started dating our boyfriends around the same time and here we both were, married. “But Chris took longer to propose.”
“Years,” I said.
“What was wrong with him?”
“He wanted to be sure.”
Erin shook her head in disbelief.
“Okay, I should go.”
“How are Sally and Silas?”
“They’re great.”
Again to her father, “Joanne has these two light yellow cats. Such an unusual color, they're almost pink. Are they related?”
“Probably not. They were both strays.”
“Sally and Silas. Such good names.” Erin leaned her head back, closed her eyes, sighed. “And you took them.”
I got out of my chair and leaned in to kiss Erin. “I’m going but I’ll be back soon.” Her eyes shot open. “I promise I’ll be back.”
“Okay my love.” Her eyes started to sag again. “Come back soon.”
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