When I lived in Boston, I was a flight attendant. Mister was in grad school and my job paid the bills. We lived in a tiny apartment in Beacon Hill. When people heard where we lived, they assumed our place was super-swank (being in Beacon Hill and all). Swank it was not. In fact, Mister and I used to say that we lived in the slums of Beacon Hill. Didn’t matter, as I loved it anyway.

Many of my flight attendant buddies lived in a 2-bedroom apartment on Commonwealth Avenue in Back Bay. A couple of those gals were fixtures and lived there for years, but the rest of the cast changed fairly regularly, as other girls transferred to other cities. After Mister graduated and moved to L.A., I was stuck in Boston for a while, waiting for my own transfer. That’s when the Comm Ave apartment became my commuter pad.

By that time, there was a new flight attendant living there. Her name was Christina, and she was a hoot. And a holler. She would regularly pull some little quip, tale or saying out of her repertoire, slaying us all with laughter in the process. There was the time several of us were wrapping up lunch and we made a group-visit to the ladies’ room. Christina took her turn after one of our gang, and as she entered the stall and closed the door, she said, “Chrissie – if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie, wipe the seatie.” On another occasion, she broke into song as one of our roomies returned from a trip. This particular gal’s last name was “Beaver.” For reals. When Christina saw the girl walk through the front door, she sang/shouted, “Beaver! In the morning, Beaver all through the night! You give me Beaver!”

Christina did more than make me laugh. She seemed so mature, so knowing, and I often consulted her about my being stuck in Boston while Mister was on the other coast. Though she was a few years my junior (and unmarried), she just had a grip that manifested as wisdom. She was smart, beautiful and funny. She was always up for a trek across the city to a gallery or a short trip around the corner to a pub. She was game. She was fun. She was deep. I trusted her. More importantly, I liked her.

One afternoon, I myself was returning from a 3-day trip and upon entering the Comm Ave apartment, one of the gals told me we needed to get to Mass General right away, as Christina had suffered a seizure. This girl had already gathered some of Christina’s belongings and was on her way to deliver the requested items. I changed as quickly as I could and we rushed off to grab the train. On the T, this girl told me she had been alone in the apartment when Christina became ill. She had called 911 and had gone to the hospital with Christina. By the time they’d arrived, Christina was lucid and answering questions. The answers she provided had surprised this girl and had left her at a loss. As she shared this private information with me, we both wondered how we’d known so little about our friend. Who was the real Christina?

We visited the hospital. Christina seemed embarrassed and our being there felt like a strain for her. Turned out Christina was bulimic, and the toll of her illness had been more than her body could tolerate. She would be in the hospital a long time.

My transfer came through, and I moved my few belongings out of the Comm Ave apartment for the last time. Christina was still in the hospital when I moved away, and, as email was hardly yet known, we fell out of touch. The last I heard, she had moved back to her home-state of Utah. I have no idea if she recovered, got better, or what. I suppose I’ll never know.

I guess Christina popped up in my mental rear-view this week because Boston is news. She isn’t the only Boston memory to surface, just one of my favorites. And no matter how or where Christina’s life may be, I feel nothing but fondness for her. I’ll always remember how she made me laugh, but more importantly, I’ll remember late nights at the Comm Ave apartment, the two of us on opposite sides of the room, in the dark, trying to fall asleep. Christina’s quiet voice, assuring me that everything would be okay. That it would all work out. Such calm comfort from that sweet, worldly young woman. A woman I never really knew at all.