Risa's Secret

Risa and I were close. That’s the only explanation I have for how I knew what I knew about her, without anyone saying a word to me. She and I were best friends in seventh grade, always at each other’s homes. I knew all the members of Risa’s immediate family well, and a little more distantly, her aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandmother. My mother taught Risa to crochet. Mrs. F. taught me about feeding birds and other activities, but mostly she taught me to see the world through the eyes of a woman 14 years younger than my own mother.  

The summer after 7^th grade, when my grandfather was quite ill, and my mother’s attention was needed, I was “adopted” by Risa’s family. Mrs. F. took us all to a nearby pool club: Risa, her sister Julia, her brother Jonathan, and me. As we marched in as a family, Mrs. F laughed about the odd combination of the exceptionally pale oldest “daughter” (me) and the rest of the brood who were lushly bronze-toned. She used to nod to me and say, “If anyone asks, just say, ‘From the first marriage.’” My mother was extremely grateful about the arrangement, but Mrs. F said, it was selfish on her part.

Risa had a friend to be busy with that summer, and so it was easier to keep an eye on the younger siblings. When my grandfather died that following winter, I was extraordinarily upset. It was the first significant death in the family for me. My mother arranged for me to stay at Risa’s during the time of the funeral. It was always a safe, welcoming place for me.

Like most young teens, we played games, giggled about boys, gossiped (only nicely) about other girls, compared notes about school, and took long, quiet walks while we discussed God and grown-ups. I could always count on Risa to provide mature advice or empathetic comments. If some boys were bothering us in the schoolyard, she’d say in a maternal way, “oh, just ignore them.” Or, “God, I’d be sooo embarrassed if Mr. O ever played a joke on me, like that John-Marsha thing he does when he calls on you and then John and then you.”

“Do you know what that even is?” I asked in disgust.

Eyebrows and shoulders lifted, she replied with a definite “who knows?” What a relief it was to find out that my ignorance was shared by someone whose opinion mattered to me. We laughed at Mr. O’s peculiar (and outdated) sense of humor. We giggled a lot about a lot. Years later, one of my male friends met Risa, and said, “My God, you guys even laugh the same.”

Well, I guess we rubbed off on each other. We completed junior high school together, but attended different high schools. One day toward the end of our last semester, Risa turned to me and solemnly demanded, “Promise me we’ll remain friends forever.” It was a pledge we kept.

Of course, I attended Risa’s wedding in 1972. Her honeymoon was delayed until her groom, Jay would finish med school a few months later. A day or so after the wedding, I received an unexpected call. Jay had to work 24 on/24 off. (Doctors-in -training did that in the ‘70’s.) Until they moved to Florida for his internship, Jay and Risa were staying at a residence hotel in Manhattan called “The Seville.” There were some transients who stayed there also, which made Risa was very uncomfortable being there alone.  “Would you sleep over tomorrow night?” she asked unsurely.

“Sure,” I said without thinking too much about how I could protect a damsel in distress or damsels for that matter, if I included myself. I became more doubtful of my decision when I walked into the room and was faced with a skimpy full-size bed we would have to share.  Too late to cancel. Next morning, she went off to a substitute teacher assignment. I went off to work. One could say Risa and I literally shared a night together in the honeymoon bed.

Afterward, Risa moved to Florida with Jay for his internship and residency. Over those years, we remained in contact, mostly via letters, because long distance phoning at that time was still very expensive. (It was a time when people would get off the phone if they were even suspected a long-distance phone call might come in.)

One day, I received a letter from Risa, bringing me up to date on things, asking me how work was, how my family was. The usual. When I finished reading the letter a sentence popped into my head: “Risa’s pregnant.” I reread the letter to see if there was anything about growth, changes, children, even plant propagation. I got to the end and the sentence echoed again: “Risa’s pregnant.”  Third reading a few days later, Risa’s pregnant.”

Risa had been married for four years, and we never discussed her plans about having children. It might be a delicate subject. How was I to ask her? Finally, I just wrote a straightforward letter back.  Those who know me, know I am pretty direct, almost blunt if I am not careful.

Dear Risa—

I know you might be very upset with what I am writing, but I’m going to write it anyway. Every time I read your last letter, I got the overwhelming feeling that you were pregnant. If you are not, I am sorry I brought it up. It’s just that the feeling was so strong, I couldn’t help myself.

Two days later, the phone rang. It was Risa’s mother. “Marsha, how did you know?? Risa just told me three weeks ago.”

How did I know? It’s a mystery to me.

I no longer get messages like this in my head, not about people I’ve stayed in touch with for 59 years like Risa, not about mere acquaintances or strangers. Maybe too many years of cynicism; maybe the magical synapses are not snapping the way they used to. So, don’t ask me if you are pregnant or anything about the future or the past. I really won’t know.

Marsha H.

June 2020