Lucy

Ann Patchett, who was a great friend of my friend Lucy Grealy, who was herself a brilliant writer (AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FACE), wrote a book called TRUTH AND BEAUTY. It is a memoir of their friendship. Lucy died. She had become a heroin user, maybe an addict; she and I had lost contact as her drug habit progressed, not by intention but by circumstance. But I loved her in a way that I can't describe (and so many people did love Lucy). There is one passage in the book that I return to again and again, although it makes me unbearably sad. It recalls a conversation they, not long before Lucy died (an overdose? no one knows for sure):

"I'll get over this," she said. "We'll look back and call these the heroin years. We'll say,`Do you remember when Lucy was a heroin addict?'"

"We thought it was very serious," I said.

"We thought she was gone for good," Lucy said, "but then something happened, no one ever knew what it was, but one day she straightened back up. When you look at how wonderful her life is now, you can hardly even believe it was really her."