Marianne, Who Is My Neighbor: We Are Alone (Part 2)

“If you’re ready, the second story I’d like to hear is the story of life in your house in 2020.”Marianne looks surprised. “It’s not much.” I assure her, “I’m sure there’s something. I’m listening.”The quiet extends into a long pause. Then Marianne says, “I have good time. Taking care of my mom. Cooking. Baking. We can’t go no where because of Covid-19.” Another pause. “My sister is not with us because she have operation and she moved to the daughter’s.”I’m confused. I don’t remember Marianne’s sister living at the house on our street. “Who moved?” I ask. “My sister was here. She was very sick.” I’m still lost. “Oh, I didn’t know. Last year she was sick?” I ask. “No. About four years ago. She have a big operation. Colon. She almost passed away.” I open my eyes wide, “That’s frightening!” 

We are alone

Marianne nods. “So in the 20’s we are alone. With my mom. Yeah.”Pandemic stories—how many of us will frame our lived experiences as “not much” in one breath, and in the next collapse past griefs and tragedies into our retelling of this very long year. Have we missed the losses we suffered before 2020—social patterns and family routines—more keenly during this time? I review aloud what I’m hearing. “In 2020. Alone. Um-hm. Right. Because you’re brother’s still in Hungary.” Marianne says, “No. He passed away maybe fifteen years ago, my brother.”“Where does your sister live now?” I wonder aloud. “Corona,” is the one word reply. Corona is adjacent to Riverside; Marianne’s sister and two nieces all live within easy driving distance.I check in with Marianne. Her body language is relaxed. She’s comfortable with me and engaged in the conversation. But later as I listen to the recording of our exchange, long pauses offset her short answers. I also realize that I’m usually the one to break stretches of silence, asking more questions of her than of previous storytellers.

Ask for an opinion

I say, “For most of 2020, you and your mom, Helen, were home by yourselves. How did that feel?” “Well, it’s okay. We all right that time,” Marianne answers. Long pause. Feelings may be too intimate to discuss, so I ask for an opinion. “What did you think of the whole Covid experience and shutdown?” Marianne pauses, thinking. “I don’t know,” she answers. Another silence stretches between us. I nudge a little and say, “Anything. I’m just curious.”.Marianne says, “I think so it’s dangerous. Lots of people died, you know. More people dying. I think so. Because my country is…” Long pause. “They have shut down again so they can’t go out, and it can happen here too. They can’t go out at night, and stores close earlier.”Realization comes to me. “Oh, this is in Hungary,” I say. Marianne nods, “Is back in Hungary, yeah. This is, I think, for the second time.”  Not abreast with current events in Hungary, I say, “Wow! For the whole country?” “The whole country,” comes her answer. “Eight o’clock and they find you outside they put you in penalty. You have to pay.” “You’re paying close attention to the news,” I say. “Um-hm. I listen to Hungarian news.” It turns out Marianne listens to Hungarian radio, watches Hungarian television, and reads Hungarian publications. To keep things going I ask another Covid-related question. “Would you ever get the shot?” Marianne is quick with her reply. “No. Not yet. I don’t think so. I don’t go no where, so I don’t think so. Just walking the dogs.”

Just walking the dogs

“Just walking the dogs!” I repeat with exaggerated drama. Yes! The dogs. Here is where the story pivots to the joy of dog walking shared in Susan’s story of 2020, right? Wrong. Because what prompted Marianne and Susan’s morning ritual must be named and noted.“I know you lost your mom on New Year’s Eve because Susan sent me a text,” I tell Marianne. “Yes,” she says. I ask, “Had your mom been ill? What happened?” Patiently, Marianne spells things out for me. “She is old, but she was all right. She just, you know, stopped breathing. She was sitting up. It just happened one minute to the other.”“You’ve been taking care of your mom for a long time,” I observe. Marianne echoes me, “Long time.” But then she contradicts me, “Not that long time. My sister is do more than me. Maybe I have five years.”Surprised, I ask, “Really? Didn’t your mom always live in this house with you?” “Yes! Yes, yes. But my sister take care of her, but I take it over because she [my sister] get sick. And I take it over, the in-home support.” The rush of realization comes to me. In her story of moving into the house that makes her my neighbor, Marianne gave me a sketch of her work history. After high school she worked with her mother cleaning houses, then with her father cleaning and painting VA and FHA houses. But most of her working life involved installing fine woodwork and cabinetry in banks, casinos, and a most memorable contract: the Staples Center. “So while you were still working, your sister…” Marianne interrupts, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. My sister was taking care of my mother and my father.”

Past and present selves

Who we are now includes all of who we’ve been and what we’ve done. Weaving one’s past selves and past experiences into a neat, linear narrative is oh-so-attractive. But the raw, convoluted reality of real life eschews a tidy through line. Marianne’s storytelling stalls or goes sideways just as often as it moves forward. This is the way of things when life holds trauma, grief, loneliness. Next I’m the one tangling the plot, dropping stitches of the long ago to pick up the thread of the recent past. “What did it feel like when Susan came over with the dogs?” I ask. There is a pause as Marianne catches up with me. “I was happy.” Marianne laughs. But it is still too soon for the joyful plot twist. “She was the first who come, you know. Even when my mother passed away, she was there.” 

Susan came over

“Oh! She was with you?” I ask in surprise. Marianne nods, “She come over.” To myself I think, How did that happen? Out loud I ask, “Did you text her?” As I speak I know this didn’t happen. Marianne says, “No, no. She just came. Susan came over. Before my niece and her husband came.” For a moment I think, Susan is clairvoyant. “Wow. How did she know?” I wonder aloud. Marianne is matter of fact, “Probably she saw the ambulance. And the police was there. I call 911 and they came.” The practical me nods, “And so Susan came over. That makes sense.” Marianne nods, “She was the first.”

It changed her year

I consider what I’m about to tell Marianne. I say, “I wrote about Susan.” Marianne, listening, murmurs, “Um-hm.” I go on. “When we talked about the year 2020, she said, ‘I don’t want to sound strange, but the most important thing that happened for me in 2020 was knowing Marianne was now alone.’ Susan told me that when your mom passed away, she said to herself, ‘Now I have someone to talk to every day. I know even if it’s bad weather, I have to get up and walk the dogs because Marianne is waiting.’” Marianne gives a small gasp! “It changed her year," I tell Marianne.Marianne’s eyes are watering. “Yeah,” she laughs through the forming tears. “Me too.”I repeat myself. “It changed her year.” I pause a moment. “It was probably the worst thing that happened for you; you lost your mom. But for Susan, she looks forward to seeing you every day!”Marianne blinks back tears, “Me too! So we go early,” tears in her voice interrupt her story and she says, “I cry.” Blinking quickly she goes on, telling me about the morning walks. “And it will be earlier and earlier. Yeah.” She gulps and smiles, “Is happy tears.”

Jett

I say, “Watching you with Jett…” Marianne giggles as she wipes her tears. I continue, “Susan told me you come over and sit on the grass and Jett knocks you down!” “Yeah,” Marianne manages through her laughter. I go on, “And she said, ‘Rebecca I’m laughing so hard, I almost pee my pants!’”This triggers the music of Marianne's full-throated laughter. Then a small catch of breath as she says, “I remember!” “And that you’re laughing!” “I remember,” Marianne smiles and sniffles. “Somebody came with the dog, you know. And Jett come in front of me, and Pfuuf! Like a Superman!”I’m laughing too. “Like a Superman Jett flew at you!” I don't have a picture of that moment, but Susan shared the image below. You get the idea. Reliving the memory, Marianne says, “Oh! Jett. Jett. Stop! He lose the leash. Jett! Wait! Wait!” We are both laughing. Marianne pauses to catch her breath. “We have good time,” she grins at me.“Yeah,” I smile. Yeah. Marianne’s story of 2020, like many of our own, co-mingles a wide range of emotions: loneliness, grief, delight, surprise. And with every story I hear in my quest to answer the question Who Is My Neighbor, I find more to respect and treasure.

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In their own way, each of my neighbors proves that Brené Brown was right on at least two counts. One I mentioned in the Introduction to the project, one Brown states so bluntly we may cringe:

1. Everyone is doing the best they can.  
2. People are hard to hate close up. Move in.

 Hate is a strong word. Who admits to it? Instead of hate, what if we said:

People are hard to—dismiss, overlook, discredit, cancel, minimize—close up."

Move in. Look closely. Listen deeply.It takes time and it can be really uncomfortable; but we can do this, neighbor.