The Westlake Villas is a pretty fair-sized condominium development in Peoria, Arizona. I've come here to visit my friend, Gail for a long weekend. Adobe colored, almost identical stucco residences, block after block. Rock gardens punctuated with cactus and citrus trees. Graceful streets, immaculate driveways... some people actually paint em and wax em.
This place is where the Cadillacs go when they leave the dealer lots. There is one in every other driveway, I think.
The Arizona sun in late January is brilliant but benign and softly warm. It's on my face as I glide through the water in the clubhouse pool, what passes as a backstroke. Ever so slowly, I am really enjoying this cool tourmaline water, convected air, bright light. It's delightful, stimulating, kinda sexy, even... but oh so soothing. No, I'm in no hurry at all.
I notice two old Jewish men checking me out. I am 54 years old, but still a Shiksa. The unapproved and disallowed and interesting. I smile.
Gail is dog paddling near me and talking non-stop. Talking non-stop is what Gail does. I think she has no inner dialogue. But I can't hear her with the waterline above my ears. And it doesn't seem to matter.
We are the same age. She is way better looking than I am, and she works very hard at it. Scandinavian for sure, she is blonde with blue eyes, slender and beautifully proportioned. She dresses in white and jewel tones, very classic. You cannot tell by looking at her that she is dying.
Gail gets up early. She runs a mile with Bella, the dog, then makes me breakfast. I cannot make my own breakfast. "No, you can't use that bowl because it doesn't fit in the dishwasher. Use this one. And here is the spoon we use for the yogurt. These Asian pears are ready to cut, but these are not. That coffee is too expensive. We only use that one for the first pot, then we use this cheaper stuff later in the morning. You take your shower now and I'll have your breakfast ready when you get out."
We sit on the patio and get caught up on each other's lives. She offers me a cigarette. "These aren't going to get me," she says, "The Hep C is way ahead of them." If she's smoking, I'm smoking. She does not allow a choice, but I'm willing.
I ask her, "How are you, Gail?"
She tells me if she weren't a type A personality she would already be in the ground. "I have to keep moving, and the way I am I like to keep moving," she tells me. "If I don't move, I stiffen up. Something hurts all of the time. I can't think about it. I stay very busy. But sometimes I feel like I have the flu and I have no choice but to be still and keep warm. I hate that most of all."
Gail got the disease through a blood transfusion in 1986. She did not know she was sick for at least fifteen years after that, when the symptoms were practically screaming at her physician. No one knows if earlier treatments would have made her more comfortable now. She does know that she has a highly resistant strain and the chemotherapy she went under for a period of time did not put a dent in it. She relies on some convential medicine, but mostly alternative medicine. The alternative medicine is busy stuff ("I put this on my skin here, then one of these patches, and this goes on my cereal... I drink some of this at noon, and take some of these at bedtime.") But if it makes her feel like she's wielding some kind of weapon at the demon, who would question her practices?
She and her husband have their rituals. An early morning walk, Bible study, an early evening walk before dinner. Clark is out on a golf course for half of each day. That is when Gail should be resting or hobbying. But today we are at the pool soaking up sun and splashing around a bit.
Gail directs Clark with the zeal of George Patton. He follows orders like the best of the general's soldiers. But his eyes shine with deep love for her. Clark is tall and good-looking, he looks very much like the retired executive he is.
Clark is a master at getting a word in edgewise. Gail interrupts him constantly, but he continues speaking in a low but undistracted tone if he wants to get a point across. The listener, if agile of ear, can follow both of them.
"I am so glad we came to Peoria," she says, "I feel so much better here in this weather. The cold and damp of Washington kill me. And all the relatives are still up there. We didn't even come home for Christmas... Clark and I just don't care. No craziness, no dramas... it's just so nice here."
At the end of this day, I pack my suitcase for my evening flight home. Clark will take me to the airport. Gail is on the sofa covered in a blanket. "I can't go with you," she apologizes. I can see pain in her eyes and she is very still. "It's like the flu, like I told you. I'll feel better tomorrow."
"I love you," I say to her. She says, "God bless you."
Clark opens the door for me, and the little dog, Bella, goes to Gail and curls up next to her.
