Lunches with Sue

Every Tuesday morning for the past ten years I’d get a call from my friend, Sue.

“Hello?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Got time for lunch?”
“Sure. Where do you wanna go?”
“What’s open?”
“I dunno.”
“The Brew Pub’s always open. Let’s go there.”
"All right. Say about 11:45?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”

Meeting in the middle of the day in the middle of the week was a ritual for us, a habit we’d formed long ago and found hard to break. Going to lunch together was so much a part of our lives that if we missed a Tuesday it would throw off the rest of our week and inevitably one of us would call the other to try to arrange another day.

“How about Wednesday?”
“No, that’s when I have lunch with Joyce.”
“Well, Thursday is Rotary, so that’s out.”
“What are you doing Friday?”
“Friday works. Is The Grand open?”
“We'll find out.”

Once we opted for breakfast instead right after Sue had pulled a twelve hour shift at the hospital but it was no good. Twenty minutes after we sat down her eyes drooped shut and I made her go home before she fell asleep in her diet coke.

We ate in every restaurant in town, although after a few years we couldn’t always remember where we’d eaten last.

“We ate there last week.”
“Did we? I forgot.”
Pause.
“Well, we could eat there again.”
“Okay. This time I’ll sit facing the door.”

It wasn’t the place or the food that mattered, although what we ordered was ritualized, too, at least for Sue. Chicken salad croissant at Scotty’s and quiche with a muffin at Chef John’s and ice tea no lemon everywhere. Now and again she’d go crazy and order a hamburger and I’d tease her about how daring she was.

At lunch we talked about the people closest to us. We talked about our kids, our parents and our friends, laying out their lives like place settings on the table. She asked me about my Dad and I listened to her worries about her mother. We bragged about our children’s triumphs and commiserated over our friends' incomprehensible desires to do things we’d never do in a million years.

And we laughed. Sue had a great, deep throated laugh that came straight up from her diaphragm. I was addicted to the sound of it. I saved up things to tell her over lunch that might make her laugh. I fattened my phrases and practiced stories in my head. And she always rewarded my efforts with her laughter.

She never questioned my facts or doubted my accounts of how a thing occurred, either. If I exaggerated here or there in the interest of making a point she accepted it. Sue was a loyal listener.

She was forgiving, too. I was late for lunch nine times out of ten, yet she never scolded me for it. She’d bring a book instead. When I’d finally arrive I’d find her patiently reading. Once, when a friend planned to join us, Sue called her ahead of time and advised her to bring a book, too.

I took lunches with Sue for granted until a couple of years ago when one of her daughters thanked me for being such a good friend to her Mom.

“Me?” I thought. “But I just have lunch with her. Every week. Rain, shine, sleet or off season.”

When I knew I was moving away the tenor of our lunch conversations changed a little. Each meal became a bit like the Last Supper in its significance.

“What’ll I do when you’re gone?” Sue asked and I tried to put it in perspective for her, patting her hand and telling her it wasn’t like I was leaving the country for heaven's sake and I’d be back. I was not yet aware of how much our hour and a half a week meant to her or to me. I was still backing away from Sue's gift, her friendship, her love.

The week before I moved, after ten years of sharing everything about ourselves -- our hopes, fears, dreams -- I told her I loved her. You’d think it’d be easier to say.

I figured we’d stay in touch via email or snail mail or by phone. I planned to see Sue once or twice a year when I traveled north or she traveled south. I was already cataloging new places to take Sue to lunch when she finally got down to see me. I thought we’d have our lunches, and each other, for a long time to come.

In the end, it wasn’t me who left, but Sue. Sue who stopped writing when she became too frail to sit at her computer, too weak to move a pen across the paper. Then, last week, she couldn’t form the words she needed to say over the phone. I said them for her.

“I’m coming."
"I love you."
"Goodbye.”

Sue died three days later, after a long battle with breast cancer. I didn't make it in time to see her before she died. But I know she's waiting for me somewhere, a book in her hand.