A Night Off

Five years ago, after the Covid shutdown had eased a bit, I sat in Chelsea’s chair and let out an exhale I didn’t realize I was holding in. It wasn’t just the year apart, my gray roots or the emotion of finally being back in person. It was that I found myself literally holding back tears when she put her hand firmly on my shoulder and demanded “what’s going on?” Why was I choosing now to break down, in a room full of people buzzing with blow dryers and chatter, when I’d lived the entirety of my adult life compartmentalizing like a pro?

To this day, every six weeks, like clockwork, I drive the now hour fifteen to see one of my favorite people of all time. Recently a mutual friend has been scheduling her appointments alongside mine so we can all visit like a scene out of a Steel Magnolias, except it means that we filter our conversations to some degree. It’s rare, more than rare, that either of us share much below the surface, so this addition of bubbling enthusiasm to our regular chats means we are missing the opportunity to connect in the way that bonds us.

I first met Chelsea when we moved to DFW going on 20 years ago and I needed a new stylist. She was young and single, a tall, lanky red-head whose personality matched the stereotypes. She moonlit at night as a bartender and had a welcomed and wicked sense of humor. I was masquerading as a stay-at-home, you know, the cardigan wearing, “mom-on-the-go” type, while I helped my middle school daughters settle into their 6th school change in as many years. Technically, behind the scenes, I was a working mom, coming from a demanding job in Big Law, but when we met at her station in a local suburban salon I was enjoying a breather and never leading with that boring legal tidbit.

For the first few years our relationship mirrored many, we’d catch up on the bachelor and vacations, she’d defend my tweens behaviors, being closer to their age than mine, and make fun of my benign complaints about booster clubs and in-laws. I let her give my oldest a neon pink stripe in her naturally platinum hair when she started high school and chop off the youngest locks when she wanted an older, dramatic doo. We built surface level trust and friendship with common interests and humor at the forefront. Over the years, I’ve watched her date and marry her husband, have two beautiful children, including a lanky redhead clone of herself, and followed her when she moved salons a handful of times. We’ve both lost our parents, not that any of them were showing up the way we are choosing to. We’ve lost our favorite companions, although I admit I don’t make out with my four-legged family members quite the way she does. And at times we’ve lost our continuity, but never our steadfastness.

Where I thought my life was clandestinely distinctive was that I spent most evenings during Covid on the phone and internet trying to keep my sister housed. She will not acknowledge that she is homeless, she updates her linkedin profile as she rides the subway or bus all night. Covid posed new challenges and within days she’d abandoned each hotel, airbnb, apartment or hostel I secured. I bought her a van thinking she could camp and stay safe and warm, but then she promptly sold it and frittered the cash away.

Occasionally we had family or friends over during Covid, we’d sit in the backyard with a bottle of cab while playing cards, without fail my phone would vibrate the entire time. Once my sister-in-law asked with slight annoyance “should we let you go?” and I felt a sense of desperation answering “please don’t.” There wasn’t any curiosity in her question, the interruption was simply bothering her.

I blurted out, without my usual filtering, that family members and old friends, people I hadn’t talked to in decades, were calling me to let me know my sister needed my help; she’d been reaching out to everyone we had ever known, since childhood, and others she’d never actually met, asking for a couch to sleep on, a few bucks for necessities and each time suggesting I wouldn’t help her. That was what was pushing me over the edge, not the constant weight of her instability and attempts at shoring, but the extended family, friends of friends, random people from my past, messaging me to let me know my sister was struggling and could use my help. Do they actually think I’m not helping her? It’s true, I won’t let her stay with me. I couldn’t control the narrative and I wasn’t sure how to handle that.

My momentary lapse of reservation served me well. Chelsea, while fluffing my locks and picking up chunks to check for grays, responded with “Mmmhmmm, I gotcha, my sister got picked up yesterday and spent the night in jail, so I had a night off.” I’d met her sister and I knew she could be a bit wild, but for the first time I immediately knew it was more than that. Could we have spent hours together over the years talking about everything under the sun and not realizing something so present in both of our lives? Chelsea was such a great story teller, thinking back most of her stories of her sister’s escapades were surface level and funny. I’d missed it. Just then, she came around the chair and leaned in, grabbed my hands as if she were the elder and spoke quietly with just a touch of the sarcasm I so loved, “I match you and raise you a stolen credit card bill.” We couldn’t help ourselves, we both started laughing. Our laughter was infectious and when those around us asked what was so funny we laughed harder and in unison replied “oh nothing”. But it wasn’t nothing.

I’ll never understand what originally kept me traveling back to Chelsea after we moved our empty nest out to the country and then back into Dallas proper but I know why I do it today. Chelsea and her red-headed mini stay in our guest cottage for cheer competitions and she sends me legal documents from her grandfather’s probate to review. Recently she called from the hospital parking lot where she would visit her uncle for the last time. Again we found ourselves laughing so hard security tapped on her window to make sure she was ok. For what feels like the first time we let the guard down, acknowledge the pain and sadness with the darkest and most inappropriate humor and feel understood. Now, in between the funny memes and appointment reminders, she shares her heartbreak, her burdens, and so do I. Just last week she remarked that doing so makes her feel better. I do not take this responsibility lightly, we have friendship. I am thankful beyond words and luckily, most of the time, no words are really needed.