editorials

A Friend’s Secret

We had worked together for three years, and I thought I knew her pretty well. I was wrong. I had missed the dark passenger my coworker carried on her shoulders every hour of every day. How could I have not seen it? Months after her death, I still scratch my head. I still beat myself up for not noticing what was right in front of me.

She was a morning person and always beat me to work. As I flipped on the light switch to my office, she’d greet me with a cheery “Good Morning, Amber,” from her adjacent work space.

“Hey, Jean!” I’d reply before settling into the business of the day.

She was my assistant, and we worked closely together. We became good friends. I loved her. I trusted her. I confided in her. I thought she confided in me.

But looking back, I see things differently.

I snack all day long. It’s how I keep my energy level consistent. I almost never saw Jean eat a morsel of food, yet, she kept weight on — especially around her midsection. I assumed she had a slow metabolism.

Her face was often red, even in the winter months, and when I stood very close to her, I saw a network of broken blood vessels on her nose and cheeks. I assumed she had rosacea.

Her hands shook a little, but she was in her sixties. I explained the shakiness away, too.

She was vague about why she had left her previous jobs. She talked about one of her previous managers as if the woman was a blood-thirsty monster, but I knew the woman. She was a nice person. The stories were outrageously hard for me to believe. Still, I assumed the two women just didn’t click.

We often had to travel across town to attend meetings together.

“I’ll drive us,” I’d say grabbing my keys.

“Oh, that’s okay. I need to take my own car. I have a quick errand to run afterwards, so best I drive myself,” she’d reply.

Indeed, she ran a lot of errands. In and out, she’d run — a ball of energy. I never questioned her time out of the office, and I never found it weird that she never invited me to ride with her. continued from page

On a few occasions, I had to call her after hours. She slurred her words and laughed a lot during those conversations. So what? A lot of folks wind down in the evening with a glass of wine or two. On the last day we worked together, she had an argument with Suzy, one of our coworkers. Jean left the office to “run a quick errand.” When she returned, her face was beet red, she slurred her words, and she steadied herself against a wall. She flopped into a chair in my office, balled up her fists, and said, “If I hear Suzy’s voice one more time today, I’m going to beat the hell out of her.”

I rose from my chair and studied her, then asked, “Are you …?”

I couldn’t say it. It seemed impossible to me. I helped her stand up, and I looked in her eyes and said, “You’ve got to get yourself together. Maybe you should go home.”

After she exited my office, I rushed into my boss’ office and said, “I think Jean is …” I hesitated.

“Drunk?” my boss finished the thought for me. “Yeah, I kind of thought that a little while ago.”

We both just stared at each other in disbelief. Then, we heard her leave and close the door. Five minutes later, we both received a text message from Jean saying she had resigned.

I boxed up the personal items she left behind and met her the following week. She told me she was sorry for everything, then confessed she had a drinking problem. “I’ve tried to quit for years. I’ve tried everything. Nothing works,” she said.

I have a family member who is also an alcoholic, and I have talked openly about that situation in front of my friends and coworkers — my pain, my fear, my frustration, my hope, my desperation, my anger. In retrospect, Jean never remarked on my commentaries about alcoholism and how it affects families. She stayed silent. “If I ever said anything that hurt you, I’m so sorry,” I told her that day. “It’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t know I was struggling. I almost told you my secret a couple of times, but I just couldn’t.” My friend died of liver failure at the end of last year. I’ve dreamed of her twice this week. The first time, I dreamed I found her living under a bookshelf at the library. She told me she had faked her death and that it was good to see me. It was a crazy dream. In the second dream, I saw her somewhere out in public. I grabbed both of her arms and asked how she’s been. She smiled and answered, “I’m doing great now, Amber. Clean and sober.”

And I woke up happy and relieved.