THE LAST GOODBYE

When I visited Jacques yesterday, I parked behind a small white car ( I’m not good with car names) parked in front of his house. Couldn’t be the doctor I reasoned. Must be the nurse or a visiting family member.

Much to my surprise, Jacques’ backyard was empty when I let myself in. The silence was ominous.

I said a short prayer and then picked a few raspberries. They’re just starting to ripen.

A few minutes later, Fran, Roger and Marcia came outside along with an old woman who I assumed must be Margaret, Jacques’ ninety two year old friend.

Jacques has often talked affectionately about Margaret. They met years ago when he was teaching night school. Margaret, an Austrian born woman with a strong Germanic accent, was his most dedicated student and Jacques was taken by her passion for learning despite her advanced years. When Jacques’ time at Seneca ended, Margaret insisted that he take her on as a private student.

“I understand that although you enjoy reading French novels, you still don’t like speaking French,” I ventured.

“Unless one begins speaking French on one’s mother’s lap, the accent will never be quite right,” she replied as though reading from a textbook.

“Margaret has just said her goodbye to Jacques,” Fran interjected.

I had assumed Jacques had said all his goodbyes a few days ago but now realized that he had left the hardest one to the end.

“I don’t want to upset her with my condition,” Jacques had shared with me weeks earlier. “It will be so hard for her to take.”

She did appear distraught yet apparently didn’t need the Bounty dispenser like I did the day before.

To distract her from her grief, I asked her about her time growing up in Vienna. She talked about her family, her time right after the war when she lived in England and about her frequent trips to Paris.

I began to realize that Jacques’connection with Margaret was more than a simple friendship. It was Jacques’ connection with a kindred spirit, a lady who had seen the world and who had a special passion for all things French, from French literature to French churches, from French food to French wine.

Spending time with Margaret was Jacques’ weekly European visit, his communion with the birthplace of the French language and culture.

As Margaret left to drive home (apparently she doesn’t do reverse anymore…I guess nonagenarians only drive forward), she gave everyone a double kiss and was on her way.

Jacques didn’t wake for me. He is now taking morphine injections every hour. He does surface sporadically and is disheartened to still be trapped in his decaying body. Although a nurse visits daily, his family insists that they will manage things right up to the end. They are amazing people.

“ I won’t be visiting on Sunday,” I offered apologetically to the family as I prepared to leave. “ It’s Terry’s birthday and we are having our kids home for a party. I even baked a chocolate cake this morning.”

I felt embarrassed to own up to the fact that I would be celebrating this weekend.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Jacques wouldn’t want it any other way,” reassured Marcia.

I know she's right.