My phone flashes with a text message. “Vivian died early this morning.” I gasp. Although not unexpected, it is, nonetheless, a gut-punch.

Vivian had been one of my mom’s closest friends for nearly 6 decades. Born less than 4 years after women were granted the right to vote, Mom and Vivian went to college, to graduate school, and pursued professional careers, which was uncommon for women of their generation. Early in their professional lives, Mom and Vivian were both working in a Chicago Public School, my mom as a speech pathologist, Vivian as a child psychologist. They met when they were each surreptitiously breaking a school rule; each was taking a child to the cafeteria to buy a carton of milk. They weren’t supposed to buy food for the children, but working with hungry children was heartbreaking and hungry children have difficulty focusing. So, Mom and Vivian did what they believed was necessary so the children could benefit from the therapy they needed and deserved. After that, the two renegades became fast friends.

My mom was an only child; Vivian was the sister she never had. Over the years, Vivian shared her stories with us, one of which became a family favorite. Vivian’s mom had been a caterer and, in the days before air conditioning, it was hard to keep food fresh in the summer heat. One day, when Vivian was helping her mom cater a summer wedding, they placed the wedding cake near an open window to keep the frosting from melting. Just before the cake was to be served, they noticed a thin layer of grey dust had settled on the side of the cake facing the window. Desperate, they proceeded to wash the cake and do their best to re-frost the newly cleaned dessert. When they cut into the cake, they could still see a thin grey line. Luckily for them, no one else seemed to notice. We loved this “washing the cake” story, although after a while I’m not sure how much Vivian loved retelling it.

Some of Vivian’s stories were for more mature listeners. Once, when my mom was in the hospital after a surgery, Vivian came to visit. At the time, I was working on my doctoral degree, which Vivian had encouraged me to pursue.

“How’s your dissertation coming along,” Vivian inquired. I told her some funny stories about my data collection efforts. Then, as a reciprocal gesture, I said, “What were some of your memorable experiences as a grad student?”

“Well,” Vivian said, “when I was at The University of Chicago, researchers from Alfred Kinsey’s Institute for Sex Research came to campus to collect data. I volunteered to be interviewed.” Vivian, a feisty redhead, and never prudish by any stretch of the imagination, was happy to tell researchers about her sexual experiences and preferences. I have to admit, I was taken aback, not shocked exactly, but definitely surprised. Mom and I laughed at this revelation and, even more than we anticipated, Vivian’s visit brightened Mom’s spirits.

As the years passed, whenever I came to Chicago to visit my mom, we found time to share a meal with Vivian. Growing up, I remember Vivian making blintzes for parties she was hosting: she even made blintzes for parties Mom was hosting. Vivian was famous for making hundreds of cheese or meat blintzes at a time; people adored them and Vivian basked in the accolades she received. Yet, my favorite of Vivian’s delicacies was always her miniature matzah and apple kugels. She made these little kugels in mini muffin tins, and to me they were the highlight of every Passover Seder.

In more recent times, when Vivian’s days of reveling in her culinary creations had long passed, we happily met in restaurants. The last time the three of us, my mom, Vivian and I, had lunch together, I could see Vivian was declining. When Vivian was younger, she’d thrown enormous dinner parties, played a mean game of tennis, and traveled the world, all while maintaining a private practice as a clinical psychologist. That day, as she made her way to the lunch table, I could see her gait was unsteady. Yet, she refused to use the walker the doctors recommended. That was Vivian, strong willed and determined. Just like my mom, whose health had also begun to fail.

A few weeks after that lunch, my mom passed away. At Mom’s funeral, Vivian mistook my sister for me.

The following winter, when I returned to Chicago for a Bar Mitzvah, I made a point to visit Vivian. We had a lovely lunch. Coincidentally, we had each worn a black and white striped top; I took a selfie to commemorate the two of us twinning in our matching stripes. Although, that was the last lunch I shared with Vivian, I’d continued to visit her as her health declined.

Vivian moved to assisted living, where there were kind and caring people to help her, but she hated it. When I visited, I’d bring her and the ladies who cared for her Frango Mints©, fresh bakery cookies, or some other treat. With encouragement, Vivian might take a small bite. At each visit, she seemed thinner, more frail, and less and less garrulous. Confined to a wheelchair, she seemed to feel she was at the mercy of her helpers, who often wheeled her to activities they hoped she’d enjoy. One time I visited just after she’d taken a flower arranging class.

“Was it fun?” I asked.

“If you like that sort of thing,” she wryly responded. I found this comforting; it was a glimpse of the Vivian I’d known since childhood. In later visits, when I entered her room, I wasn’t sure if she recognized me. “Hi Vivian! It’s Wendy,” I’d say, in the cheeriest voice I could muster. Still, it was unclear if she knew who I was. One afternoon, I arrived while she was attending a music activity. I was asked if I’d like to join her and I took a seat by her side. Much to my delight, Vivian remembered every word to “God Bless America” and to every Sinatra song they sang. Yet, she never spoke my name.

During one of my last visits, Vivian barely uttered a word. So, I was chatting away in a monologue, as I searched for a topic that might pique her interest. Desperate for conversational fodder, I began talking about a friend’s cat.

“But you’re a dog person,” I said, remembering a poodle she had when I was a child.

“Charlie!” she whispered with a smile.

“Charlie,” I echoed.

That was the last time I saw Vivian. I knew she’d been miserable relying on others to take care of her, which was never her style. Thinking of her struggles over the last few years and the added insult of the pandemic, which mandated masks and limited visitors, was heartrending. So, for Vivian, I felt relief.

Vivian died on a Monday. The next day, we would finally close on the sale of Mom’s condominium. These were the last resonant notes of a grand opus, a time to bid a final farewell to two bold, wise women, trailblazers who had guided me in innumerable ways throughout my life, and who were now gone from this earth. It was time, but it hurt.

I reread the text, “Vivian died early this morning.” I exhale, as tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

Wendy K. Mages, a Professor at Mercy College, is a storyteller and educator who earned a master’s and doctorate in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and a master’s in Theatre at Northwestern University. As a complement to her research on the effect of the arts on learning and development, she performs original stories at storytelling events and festivals in the US and abroad. Her stories appear in literary publications, such as 3cents Magazine, 50-Word Stories, Antithesis Journal Blog, Five Minutes, Funny Pearls, Harpy Hybrid Review, Hearth & Coffin, Howler Daily, Jenny, The Journal of Stories in Science, New Croton Review, Potato Soup Journal, Quibble, Route 7 Review, Sea to Sky Review, Star 82 Review, and Young Ravens Review. A triptych of her poems appears in Scenario. To learn more about her work, please visit https://www.mercy.edu/directory/wendy-mages