“Yesterday, June 17th, I gave up refined sugar.” Dana logged the date into her phone.
Here we go again. “And how does that affect me?”
“In college, you wouldn’t let me drive drunk. Now, I won’t let you develop diabetes.” Dana snatched my sprinkle-encrusted double-glazed donut. “And this has more sugar than the donut.” She grabbed my caramel latte. “I won’t even mention the caffeine.”
“Good. Because you gave me that lecture last week.”
Twenty-five years earlier, a leather-clad Dana ran her Suzuki GSX over my Prada tote bag. She apologized by taking me on my first motorcycle ride across campus. The tired cliché that says, opposites attract, formed a lifelong friendship.
“It’s a glorious new day!” Dana jogged in place.
I was blinded by sunlight that reflected off Dana’s snow-white Reeboks. She started speed walking on May 28th and hadn’t stopped.
She pointed to the Ferris wheel in the distance. “We’ll reach Santa Monica Pier by noon.”
“Then can I get a corn dog?”
“No way.” Dana started walking, pumping her arms. “Hot dogs have sodium nitrite.”
I struggled to keep pace. “You mean salt?” A twisted clump of seaweed clung to my heel.
“Fourth of July, 2012, I ate my last dog.” Dana’s voice muffled as the space between us grew.
My sides already ached.
Dana, a recovering drug addict, alcoholic, and chain-smoker, took long vigorous strides like a model for a fitness magazine.
After college, Dana bounced between bad relationships and rehabs. I married a local politician and raised two children. By the time Dana sobered up and settled down, my marriage had crumbled. The kids moved away. I packed on thirty pounds.
Dana rescued a plastic pail for a toddler then bent to tie her shoe. She motioned for me to catch up.
My sagging stomach cast a shadow over my sluggish feet.
With flab-free arms, Dana caught a wayward Frisbee destined for my forehead. “That was close!”
“Another life saved.” I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you log that into your phone?”
For years, Dana documented her every good deed and healthful habit that resulted from crushing evil vices under her rock-hard will.
Dana dug inside her backpack. “A blow to the head can be deadly.” She pulled out a banana and pointed it like a revolver.
“Right. Death by Frisbee is so common.” I sighed. “And I don’t need your fruit!”
“Natural sugar. You get cranky when you’re hungry.” She wiggled the banana.
“Are you my mother?” A kite scraped my calf as a boy dragged it through the sand. “I’m going home.”
“We just got here.” Dana hoisted the kite into the breeze. Her thick hair frolicked in the wind.
My thin strands tangled. “I need to get back in case—”
“In case Slimeball Sam returns? Or your cat needs company?” Dana laughed.
I had the urge to slap her flawless skin. “You’re cruel.”
“Realistic.” Dana stretched her toned hamstrings. “You can’t live in a fantasy world.”
“If my real life was anything like yours these days, I wouldn’t need to fantasize. Last week the gallery showcased your work and next week you marry Mr. Wonderful.” Lately, I resented how many optimistic turns Dana’s life had taken.
“To get here, I traveled a bumpy road.” Dana’s shoulders slumped. “Still plenty of bumps. I didn’t sell a single piece of pottery and Mr. Wonderful is hardly perfect.”
I snorted. “You didn’t raise kids. My road was filled with potholes.”
“Fine. So your life wasn’t a Hallmark movie. The kids are grown. Time for you to move on.”
“That’s all you ever do!” I kicked sand in Dana’s direction. “You’re addicted to moving on: opening chapters, flipping pages, turning over new and shinier leaves. That’s your latest addiction.”
Dana sat down and brushed sand off her shoes. “And you’re obsessed with your past. I’m not the one sleeping with photo albums and bottles of chardonnay.”
My sugar-starved brain envied a seagull that pecked at a discarded Twinkie wrapper. “At least I have a past worth visiting.”
“That’s true. I’d sooner die than relive my past.” Dana threw the banana at my feet. “Except for the day I met you.”
I tried to lighten the mood. “Here’s a date to add to your crazy list—today, June 18th, the day you forced me to eat fruit instead of fried dough.” I grabbed the banana that landed near a startled crab.
Dana adjusted her sunglasses but didn’t look in my direction. “It was your idea to keep track of anniversaries.”
“I didn’t mean you should record everything! Like the date you stopped chewing pencil erasers. Seriously?”
“It was a real problem. I even swallowed a few.”
“Dana the drama queen.” I untied my shoelaces.
“Speaking of drama, remember when you told everyone in our dorm I’d be dead before my twenty-first birthday?” Dana stroked a smooth black oyster shell. “I proved you wrong.”
I gazed at the ocean and drifted back to the day I discovered Dana unconscious on the shower room floor. Since then, how many tears had I shed trying to save Dana from herself? I took off my shoes. Sand fleas swirled around my toes.
Dana showed me her phone. “I did this to satisfy you.”
There was a daily calendar entry for the past three years. The day she graduated from
Overeater’s Anonymous, quit cocaine, started volunteering, and stopped gambling.
“No marijuana?” I joked.
“Never tried it.”
How was that possible?
She scrolled through dozens of endings and even more beginnings: August 16th—quit chewing nails. September 21st—start regular manicures.
I shook my head. “Teach me how to kick the habit of craving my old life.”
Dana took my hand. “Go back to school. Take a cooking class. I’m worried about you.”
That’s a switch. I smiled. “I could join Weight Watchers.”
“Whatever floats your boat. Just stop depending on others for your happiness.” Dana drew a heart in the sand then dragged a ragged line through the center.
Her backpack tipped. An unopened pack of Marlboros fell out.
“What’s that?”
“Are you my mother?” She tossed the cigarettes into her bag. “A keepsake to remind me how far I’ve come on my journey.”
A full bottle of pills rolled onto the sand. I backed away like it was a scorpion. “More souvenirs?”
“I wrestle with demons in my own way.” She grabbed the bottle and zipped her bag.
I pointed at her pack. “That’s not wrestling. That’s babysitting.”
Dana hugged the bag and looked away.
Just then my phone rang. It was my daughter. “Jennifer?” I wandered near the water’s edge. “Me? A grandmother?”
Thirty minutes later I danced back to where I had left my friend, eager to share my news. I scanned the beach. Three cigarette butts formed a triangle in the sand. Dana often disappeared when she got bored. To call her was futile. Recently, she stopped answering her phone; stress relief therapy.
I peeled the banana and shoved half of it into my mouth—a disappointing substitute for a donut. I ground it in to baby food. Dutiful Dana is probably saving a drowning child or administering the Heimlich maneuver. I threw the peel in a fly-infested garbage can.
I sent Dana a text, “Heading home”.
A message from her, sent five minutes before, read, “June 18th. No more saving dates”.
About time. What would she try next? I eased the Volkswagen onto the freeway.
***
Dana’s usual morning call was late. My coffee cup whirled in the microwave as the newspaper thunked against the front door. Venice Beach made the headlines: Woman’s body found in public restroom. Suspected overdose.
Previously published online magazine 2017