“Maybe it’s that taxi driver we met in Vegas. He literally wouldn’t take his eyes off of you. Remember? We almost got killed!” she’d say, laughing.
“Yes,” I’d say, “but that was a woman, not a man.”
“Then maybe it’s that doctor of Joel’s? The one you’d call Prince Charming?”
Joel had had a doctor on his MS team who literally looked like a prince from a Disney movie. Long dark hair, strong jaw, athletic build.
“He’s too young and has no children. The psychic said the new guy has a son,” I’d remind her.
“Hmm,” Ellie would wonder. “What would Joel do?”
“I don’t know,” I’d say.
“Joel!” Ellie would say looking toward the sky. “We need you!”
“We do, but let’s not bother him with this.”
“Oy,” she’d say. “This is all too much.”
“Way too much,” I’d agree.
Life was moving forward without Joel. We lived in the same house. I drove the same car and slept in the same bed, but everything was different. It was confusing. Like being lost in a place that was entirely familiar. It was as if all of a sudden, everyone started speaking a different language . . . Imagine every street sign, every piece of mail, every instruction manual, every song, every conversation was now in another language. You never learned this other language, but since everything else was still the same, you just forged ahead and managed somehow. Then one day, you realized, Hey, everything is the same, but totally different! And you had that thought in the new language. That’s where I was in the grief process. I was living my life in this new language. I was still learning it, getting the hang of it, but it was sounding more and more familiar.
I noticed that with Allison. Whenever I met another widow or widower (I like to call them wisters—widow sisters and widow misters), we spoke the same language. It’s based in grief and resilience, a knowing we’ve been to the same place.
My Spanish friend Maria did Clooney with me one day. She wanted to go off the main path to a different one, a harder climb, the end of which had a waterfall in a lush pasture. I’m sure it was beautiful. I’m sure the extra bit of exercise would have done me good. But as we huffed and puffed our way up the original mountain trail, I said to her, “I don’t think I can make it. Not today, but let’s do it another time.”
“Oh, come on,” she pleaded, “you can do it!”
“I know I can, but this is hard enough right now.”
She stopped midstride, thoughtful.
“Do you know something?” she said. “You are right. For you, everything is difficult right now. So you know what?” she asked. “You’re making the right decision. You need to take it easy. From now on, everything you do, choose easy.”
“Easy?” I asked.
“Yes! Every thought, every task, every chore, do whatever is easiest for you,” she said. “You lost your husband. What is harder than that?!”
“True,” I said.
“I mean it,” she said, shaking her index finger. “I think we are onto something with this.”
We continued up the hill. I liked the sun on my face, the soft breeze through the trees. It felt peaceful. Maria understood that just living my life every day was difficult because Joel was no longer in it. So the idea of making everything easy struck me as a solution to the weight I felt I had been carrying around since he died. I felt heavy and tired all the time, even when I was doing things I enjoyed. That was grief. But maybe I didn’t need to push myself to do the things I found difficult just because I thought I should be doing them.
I’d feel guilty using the dishwasher when there were only two of us at home now. But making things easy meant I would use the dishwasher more often. That was easier than washing every plate, fork, and glass that piled up in the sink. It meant alleviating my meal planning stress by accepting that we would eat more frozen pizza and ready-made salads. Easy meant I didn’t feel compelled to answer every email and text the minute I received one.
Making things easy meant that I could give myself permission to admit that losing my husband was the hardest thing I’d ever been through, and that I was doing the best I could.
Marcos told me that he had exactly a half an hour to spend looking through our music equipment. We had texted the day before, and I was glad to be moving forward. I got the impression that Marcos was a busy guy. In addition to his music, teaching and playing gigs around town, I knew he was involved with the food pantry and neighborhood church, which is also where he lived and taught music—in a bungalow in the back. A few years earlier, shortly after meeting him and talking about him with some other parents, I thought I knew his whole story.
“Hun,” I said to Joel one night when we were getting ready for bed. “I bet Marcos is in Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“I don’t know,” he said, flossing his teeth, not really interested. “Maybe.”
“Why else would he be so involved in the church?” I asked. “He runs or helps out with the food pantry, and he lives right there with his son. He was probably some horrible alcoholic or drug addict. He probably has a tattoo.”
“What a shock,” Joel said, smiling. “You’re making up stories.”
“But it tracks, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t really thought about it but, sure.” Joel was always so patient with me.
I continued. “He probably hit rock bottom, found Jesus, found the church . . .”
Joel shrugged.
“Found God or whatever and is now devoted to giving back.” I was so pleased with myself. “I bet he’s, like, a Jesus freak but kind of low-key about it. Makes total sense.”
“Yeah,” Joel said. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know. His girlfriend is an actress or a model or something. I think she lives there with him.”
“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” I said, trying to see how she fit into my story. “Hmm, maybe she’s an addict, too.”
Marcos’s life was intriguing. It was so different from mine and Joel’s. I wanted to figure it out. Figure him out. He seemed grounded and confident. Very masculine. He was a musician. Jesus Lover. Addict. This was the story I had made up about him, and I was sticking to it.
I was feeling good the day Marcos came over. I was looking forward to my writing group that night. I was also happy to be making progress cleaning out the garage. I wasn’t just getting rid of Joel’s things either. I had boxes of tax returns I was happy to shred and dispose of. I had boxes of scripts from every show I’ve ever written on. I had yearbooks and articles I wrote for my high school newspaper. I found my childhood report cards and journals and old photo albums.
I got rid of all of it.
Stuff was just stuff. I didn’t want to hold on to any of it. This was something that Leigh called high-level spirituality. Fine with me.
When Marcos showed up, I had just gotten home from a long walk with the dogs. I was sweaty, my hair was a mess inside one of Joel’s baseball caps, and I may not have brushed my teeth yet that morning. I had lined up the guitars and amplifiers in front of the garage. I opened the gate to my driveway when I saw Marcos pull up in his big black Toyota Tundra. I saw him get out of his truck in a red T-shirt and jeans, his mass of thick dark hair slicked back as if he had just gotten out of the shower. He took a sip out of his coffee cup—an actual ceramic mug, not a Starbucks paper cup—and approached with confidence, all business.
“Hey. Good morning. How are you?” he said. But he wasn’t looking at me at all. He was eyeing all of the gear. He immediately picked up a guitar for inspection. He strummed it a little bit, tuning it, listening. He smiled and set it down.
“I have a student looking for these,” he said about some pedals and a microphone, making a pile.
He moved over to two amplifiers, inspecting them.
“I’m pretty sure this stuff all works. Joel kept everything in such great condition,” I said.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
I watched him fiddl
e with cables on the back of the amps as I tried to keep the dogs from barking and running around this stranger.
He finally glanced my direction. “I have a guy in Torrance. He’d take these off your hands.” He made another pile, looked at his watch.
“Is any of this worth anything? I mean, I’m happy to donate it but—”
“Oh yeah,” he said, “people will pay for this stuff.”
“Well,” I said, “take whatever you want or need first. I mean, I appreciate your help so . . .”
I felt he should be compensated for his time. He picked up one of Joel’s electric guitars. He examined it, played it although it made no sound, not being plugged in.
“This one,” Marcos said, smiling. “This one is special. I know where to take it, but you’ll probably have to go with me. There might be paperwork.”
“Um . . . OK.” I didn’t understand what I was agreeing to, but fine.
Marcos started carrying some of the lighter gear to his truck. “OK if I take this stuff with me now?”
“Sure,” I said.
He seemed hurried. “I’ll get back to you, OK? You have some good stuff here. Really.”
“OK, great,” I said.
“You’re going to be fine. Joel did a good job.”
I must have made a face. I had no idea what he meant. Joel did a good job keeping his music gear in good condition? Or did he mean that Joel did a good job in life? In choosing me as his wife? With our family?
Marcos looked back and smiled at me. He laughed a little and reached out, touching my arm. “You’re doing good, Melissa. It’s going to be OK.”
His brown eyes crinkled at the sides, and he looked genuinely happy. I watched him get into his truck.
“I appreciate you coming by,” I said as he started the engine and rolled down the window.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he reversed out of my driveway, coffee mug back in hand.
Then he was gone. The whole exchange was so fast. I looked around like, What just happened?
I walked up my driveway and saw less than half of what I had pulled out of the garage. I felt a sense of relief. I trusted Marcos to handle it.
But it felt odd. I didn’t think that he was afraid of The Widow . . . but we only discussed the gear, and hardly even that. He was so casual. He mentioned Joel easily and seemed perfectly comfortable with the task at hand. We didn’t know each other well. In fact, we really didn’t know each other at all. Sophie hadn’t had a lesson with him in over a year, and I had only met him a handful of times at most, including the night I asked for his help. Maybe he was just a no-nonsense guy. An attractive no-nonsense guy. A really cool no-nonsense guy.
I went inside and called Jillian.
“Are you sitting down?” I asked.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “What happened?”
“Sophie’s guitar teacher, you know, who we saw play the other night? He just came over and took a bunch of Joel’s music gear with him.”
“OK,” she said.
“And it was totally . . .” I tried to come up with the word. “It was like . . . He acted sort of . . . I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” I admitted.
“Did he hit on you?” she asked.
“Oh my God, no!” I said. “I wish!”
I wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.
“Ha!” Jillian laughed.
I gasped. “I can’t believe I just said that!”
“You told me you thought he was sexy.”
“Sexy? Is that the word I used?” I asked.
“Yup,” she said.
Joel had been gone for six months. In that time, a good friend had tried to fix me up with one of his brothers, who was moving back to LA after living abroad most of his adult life. I told him I wasn’t ready.
Sophie had a friend whose parents had been divorced since we met them in elementary school. The dad had messaged me early on to tell me that he always liked me, and that if I ever wanted to grab coffee or a drink, to please be in touch. I declined.
I also received a marriage proposal from an English guy I exchanged a few words with in the wine aisle of Trader Joe’s. I told him I’d think about it (he had dimples!).
The thought of meeting someone new, or even getting together with someone I already knew, was not appealing. I was a married woman. I was married to a man I loved. It was baffling to even consider dating because, how could I? I loved Joel. My marriage didn’t feel like it was over, even though it was. But not by choice.
Marcos and I were Facebook friends, probably from when he first started teaching Sophie. I scoured his page, looking for clues to his personal life. There was nothing about a wife and nothing about a model girlfriend either. Nor did I see anything about his son. What I did see was post after post about his past and upcoming gigs. Where most people I knew were bragging about their kids’ accomplishments, or posting silly pet photos, or getting into deep discussions about neighborhood issues, Marcos seemed to live in a world of self-promotion. I got it. He was making a living as a musician. He kept things professional.
A few years earlier, Joel had come home from one of Sophie’s guitar lessons. I was in the office writing. Joel walked in, kissed me hello, and handed me a CD.
I looked at it. “What’s this?”
“Marcos’s newest CD. You should listen to it. I think you’ll like it.”
I shrugged and put it near my car keys so I could listen to it in the car. I always took Joel’s music recommendations to heart. Marcos’s sound was bluesy and skilled—I liked it.
Now I was mourning my husband and tried to practice what I always preached to Sophie: Just feel your feelings, whatever they may be. Grief was my constant companion who occasionally took naps. It was during those nap times that I made my way back to myself. Through my writing. Through my spiritual readings. Through my close friendships. And now, through the slight rumblings of attraction to someone new.
It was easier than I care to admit, to consider a possible fling. But it was also unrealistic. I had no idea what Marcos’s personal life was, other than what I assumed was a clean and sober existence. Plus, as confident and casual as he seemed, I was a widow. Who’d want to deal with that kind of complication?
Over the course of a couple of weeks, I heard from Marcos about some of the music gear that he was able to sell or donate.
Sold the acoustic, the text would read. Or, Keeping the harmonica for my lessons. Smiles. Once, I came home and there was an envelope under my front door mat with some cash in it. A Post-it note inside said, From Marcos.
It was a weird way of doing business, but taking Maria’s advice, I decided to keep things easy and tried not to think about it too much.
One night, Sophie lying next to me in bed, I got a text from Marcos asking if I was available to go to the guitar shop with him the next day to try to sell Joel’s one remaining guitar. My stomach did a flip-flop. I was excited. I was nervous. And I felt guilty about the kind of thoughts I was allowing myself to entertain.
It’s nothing. A simple business transaction. As Joel liked to remind me, I was a writer. I was creating a scenario between Marcos and me that didn’t make sense. I was a Jewish only parent and widow who was trying to get back to living my life. He was a recovering drug addict and/or alcoholic who lived behind a church, taught and played music, and fed the homeless.
These were the thoughts I had as I fell asleep that night. They were a welcome reprieve.
FIFTEEN
Marcos
When the waiter came by for our lunch order, I asked for the two-enchilada combo plate with rice and beans.
“Anything to drink?” he asked.
I shook my head no and ran my fingers through my hair. It had been up and under a baseball cap when Marcos picked me up to go to the guitar store. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and in the morning I was in the usual rush getting Sophie out the door. I walked the dogs and did some work for Joel’s company but hadn’t had time to
shower.
“Ready?” he asked when I opened the door that morning.
“Yes, thanks for picking me up,” I said.
“No problem.” He opened the truck door so I could climb in.
I was a mess. I felt frazzled, nervous. Marcos was calm as ever. Steady. I thought it might be awkward driving with him, but it wasn’t. He was sporting his usual jeans and T-shirt attire. His hair was thick, and his beard the solid five o’clock shadow it always was.
“So I think the guy’s name is George. He owns the store, and he said he’d take the guitar on consignment. You’ll get your money but it could be a few months. Or maybe only a day, depends who swings by.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “I’m in no rush.”
“Good,” Marcos said. “And this gives me an excuse to go into his shop. It’s for serious musicians. You’ll see.”
He smiled at me. I felt my face turn red, and so I looked out the window instead. It felt like someone else’s life. Someone young, inexperienced, and carefree. Not someone who watched her husband suffer through a horrible illness and ultimately die of a mosquito bite. Not someone who slept with her fourteen-year-old daughter every night because they were both afraid of being alone.
I handled the business transaction with George while Marcos acted like a kid in a candy store. He plugged in every guitar that interested him and played with genuine abandon.
I sat down and observed him going from one guitar to the next, talking shop with the owner and his assistant. He winked at me as he crossed my path, headed for another guitar.
“Real serious musicians,” I said.
He stopped and smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re probably bored to death.”
“Not at all!” I said. I wasn’t. This wasn’t my world. It was nice feeling incognito.
He noticed as I checked my phone for the time.
“We’ll get out of here, soon. What time are you picking up Sophie?”
It startled me when he mentioned Sophie. My real life seemed so far away.
Widowish: A Memoir Page 13