A Story About Georgette

Georgette. I last saw her in 1972, early summer after sixth grade. We sang silly songs in the common playground area on base housing. It was our spot. Our sanctuary within Camp Pendleton, us two military offspring.

I can go there, that swingset spot in 1972. I can close my eyes and hear her voice, her little girl squeakiness not yet fitting into her twelve-year-old body. I can feel the air, hot dry Southern California air warming my face. I can see Camp Pendleton’s sparse landscape with its mountains and dry grassless land. And I can see Georgette’s face, big brown eyes, curly brown hair, chubby cheeks and tanned skin. And always smiling. My best friend. My smiling friend. I made her laugh, she filled my lonely days with girly companionship.

I was thinking about her today, 33 years later.

Back in 1972 again, after almost two months of summer break, and after a little girl tiff that caused our separation, I decided to forget our argument and I skipped to Georgette’s house only a few short military blocks away. It was the end of summer before our seventh grade school year. The newness of junior high styles, teachers, lockers and cute boys were just making their way into our vocabulary.

“Can Georgette come out and play?” I asked, looking at the individual who answered the door.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, those people moved away a few weeks ago. You know the little girl who lived here died,” related the stranger. I didn’t believe what this woman was telling me. It seemed unreal or just wrong. So I ran back home, and asked my mother.

“Yes, honey, Georgette died of Leukemia,” she told me. I sat in my room, and pretended there had been some sort of mistake. It was a different Georgette they were talking about and my friend Georgette was still alive, she had just moved away, like all military families do.

Years later, I cried. My best friend had died in 1972. She didn’t have a 1973 or 74 or wear big hair in the 80s or anything. She didn’t get to experience email or Im-ing or the momentous leap into a new century. She didn’t ever date, or kiss a boy, or marry or have children or grandchildren. She only hung around for twelve years, she mostly just played and grew.

When I was twelve, my best friend was gone. I should’ve almost been used to that feeling of loss, but instead, it crept inside of me, a hole, a damned hole. I had questions, I had no one to ask. So here, I’ll ask now, and I know there’ll be no answers, but maybe Georgette will find this in electronic space:

Do you remember eating bags and bags of M&Ms? Was that a good memory for you, too?

We didn’t get to start seventh grade together, you left too soon, but I held your spot on the bus, just in case. Did you know that?

Do you remember Becky? Her chest was the talk of Wire Mountain One! Did you know James felt her up?

In seventh grade I learned Pig Latin, did you know that? An-ca ou-ya alk-ta ig-pa atin-latn? I’ve been wanting to do that with you. I thought it would be a good way to convey secrets.

For my birthday I received a hot curling rollers set. I wanted to share them with you. We were going to have a sleepover that last summer. Would you have helped me curl my hair at the sleepover?

That last day I saw you, you looked fine. Healthy. You and I had gotten in a fight at the swingset. We twirled each other on the swings, my younger brother was with us. Then the accident, you let go of me, my body was swinging wildly, my legs banged against the swingset pole. Wow, it really hurt. I cried, my brother over-reacted, you bolted. I never saw you again. It was the wrong way to end. I looked for you a lot later, but you were gone. Is it too late to say I’m sorry?

What is leukemia? How did you get it? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Why did you leave so quickly? Where did you go? Why didn’t anyone tell me you were going to die?

How is anyone to learn and grow from this? This made no sense to me, as a twelve-year-old me, and it makes no sense to me, now, a mother of girls.

Here is another day, another day of thinking of you, 33 years after your child-death, because this kind of pain is a reminder, that we are connected to each other. It is past and present and we are all part of the hub of love and life. We do so much with each other and for each other. I have much to be thankful for, including old memories, old pains—reminders of humanness and of the goodness that preceded it and will succeed as well.

Do you know I still think of you? Often.

(originally written Sept 6, 2005)