Julie’s Hand

My friend’s hand is so soft. When I lifted it yesterday, it felt light and absent the years it had earned. All the babies it had ever touched, the pencils it had held to write math problems and reports, the dustrags, the dough, the faces; the ghosts of those things seemed to have melted off the surface and nestled down inside. I held it, my thumb rubbing the diaphanous skin, and remembered that she had been standing in my kitchen not too long ago telling me about the vacation she had taken with her husband, a lavish trip on which she did not have to lift a finger.

She had come over that day with new hair. I had gotten used to her in wraps and berets and when I saw her with her new wig I stared for a moment before smiling and hugging her. Aside from pictures, I had never seen her with such hair, only the beginnings of growth, then remnants. I knew it must have felt good for her to be under that hair, but it didn’t matter at all to me. She is the same, behatted, bewigged, bald. I love her just the same.

My strong hand enveloped her limp one, the vestiges of my summer tan glaring in opposition to its pall; hers had faded to frost. I'd found her hand beneath the covers, took it, felt its warmth. She slept deeply, mouth open, tubing, clear and snakelike, drawing a broken oval around her face. I had awakened her, had leaned down so as not to startle, and said Julie. Still, she started as though my presence was thoroughly unexpected. One eye closed, then the other, but our hands stayed connected, the skin on mine revealing my latest efforts – soap and water, a paper cut - hers bound by her body’s betrayal, the month she lay prone, dying. She was dying.

I met her one evening four years ago; she was perched on the brick ledge of a fireplace. She wore a black hat and I could see that no stray strands had wriggled out from underneath, that dark circles edged her eyes, noticeable even in the dim light of lamps and fire. I knew even before she told me. It had been two years, she said, since her life had changed, the lives of those around her. The enemy, insidious and cunning, had worked its way past the gates, its cells intertwining with hers, embracing them as though welcome. She fought them, wore herself out fighting them. They came and went, came and went, and finally, finally, like a nightmarish guest, set up house where they were not welcome at all.

Julie’s hand against mine. Warm, tender, ashen. I let it go, I had no choice.