Exit Laughing by Victoria Zackheim

congregation, continued crying and laughing, and Nancy was getting tipsy and loose and free without even tasting the stuff. Her clear eyes and wide smile, the rasping sounds of glee (and Goose) coming from hernose, throat, and mouth, and our free-flowing tears affirmed once again that we were inextricably connected to each other … and something much greater.
    A few weeks later, Nancy was in the hospital and near death, and I was no closer to convincing her that she was headed to heaven. When we were alone in the room, which was most of the time, her ice blue eyes communicated frozen dread. If anything, Nancy seemed
more
afraid of dying than when we started our odyssey toward the light.
    Days passed while I carried her impending death in my bones. I could see it, smell it, and hear it in her shallow breathing. I needed backup, so I put the photo of my dad on her bedside table. By then, her eyes had partially closed, leaving mucus-filled cloudy slits, but I believed she knew it was there.
    Wedging myself next to her on the hospital bed and stroking her hair, I promised, “You are not alone; you are loved beyond measure.” She groaned. “There’s nothing to fear, Nancy.” She squeezed my hand and didn’t let go. “You’re moving toward the light, Nancy. Angels, like Sister Alicia, will guide you. Once you’re there, my dad’s going to take your hand and ask for the first dance.”
    Nancy slowly tipped her head in the direction of the photo and smiled. A few days later, she died.
    Not long after Nancy passed away, my ninety-four-year-old friend Marcy—the woman who had done our cooking, laundry, and babysitting from the time I was two until I got married—began her own journey toward the light. I told myselfthat another dying loved one provided me with another opportunity to do my life’s work. I was tired, though, and maybe a little scared, so I decided to call the Servants of Mary and request their services for her as well.
    Mother Superior summarily rejected my pleas, telling me that Marcy was ineligible. I begged. I offered to donate my Land Cruiser in return. I went to their convent, admitted I was Jewish, and prayed for their help. No way. There were too many others in line who were completely alone, and Marcy was not. She had Jocelyn, a live-in caregiver whom I’d hired a year earlier to help with shopping and cleaning. Marcy was a stickler for a spotless home and never wanted to be taken to an assisted-living facility. After her serving my family for thirty years, I figured I owed her those things.
    I can’t remember a day when Marcy didn’t love and tend to me, my cats, and my dogs as if we were her own. She was the most honest person I’d ever known, not hesitating to tell me when I was acting spoiled or being messy. I appreciated her. I loved her. When homegrown chaos ensued, Marcy was always in the next room dusting furniture. Or cleaning windows. Bringing order. Bearing witness.
    When she retired at age eighty-five, assisted by a generous parting gift from my father, Marcy settled comfortably into her studio apartment, filling it with new Ethan Allen furniture and covering the walls and tabletops with dozens of framed photographs of me, depicting every milestone from my third birthday through my wedding and my children’s births. Every square inch of her floral couch displayed a needlepoint pillow designed from photos of my childhood pets: Fluffy the cat,Lady the silky terrier, Anastasia the husky. Whenever I entered her apartment, I was warmly greeted by the Ivory soap smell of Marcy and the memories she held for safekeeping.
    Marcy was finally able to live a life of complete independence, which she did with great enjoyment. This diminutive rock of a woman took weekly buses to either the Santa Anita racetrack, Hollywood Park, or Del Mar. She loved to watch the horses. In her free time, she’d study the odds, knit a sweater, needlepoint a pet pillow, or do a crossword puzzle with a ferocity