“Not for a couple of hours,” I said.
“Good,” he said, smiling.
We ended up at the Mexican restaurant down the street. Our eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting as we were shown to a quiet booth. My inner voice was telling me this wasn’t a date (but it felt like one) and was also trying to tell me that I looked good (I didn’t) and to remember everything so that I could tell Jillian about it later. Mariachi music played softly on the speakers behind us; I was impressed as Marcos ordered his lunch in broken Spanish.
“Señor, por favor,” he said to the waiter. “Un chile relleno, one enchilada de pollo, and un taco de pollo.”
I figured Marcos had some Hispanic origins, but it didn’t occur to me that he could actually speak Spanish. I was riveted.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter asked him.
Marcos looked to me. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“OK.” Marcos turned to the waiter. “I’ll just have a beer, please. Una cerveza. Thank you.”
My heart started pounding. Hard. Did Marcos just order a beer?
The waiter smiled and walked away. I looked at Marcos.
“Are you sure you can do that?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do what?”
“Have a beer?” I said.
“Well, yeah. I’m not teaching until tonight, so . . .”
I quietly panicked. Marcos was falling off the wagon right in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do. I reached for my phone. I wanted to call Joel. Hun, Marcos just ordered a beer! What should I do? I sat deflated, confused. I felt like crying.
“What’s the matter?” Marcos looked at me.
“I just . . . I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.
He smiled. “Well, I do. Every now and then. I like a beer with my Mexican food.” A concerned look came over his face. “I mean, if drinking is a problem for you—” He started to signal the waiter. I stopped him.
“No, no. It’s fine. I drink. I like to.”
He settled in and started eating some chips and salsa. The conversation could have gone in many directions. We were two people, two adults, having lunch together in a Mexican restaurant in our shared neighborhood. But the conversation taking place in my mind was so loud—Joel, you’re not going to believe it!—that I had to excuse myself from the table. I went to the bathroom.
I got the story wrong, all wrong! I can’t trust myself, I thought.
I didn’t mind that Marcos was drinking, in fact I was relieved in a way. But if I got his backstory wrong and the narrative that I had created about him, then what else might I misinterpret? I didn’t know him at all, which made me even more nervous. How could I dare to determine if this was a date or just an extension of our business transaction? I wanted to call Joel so badly that I started praying. Tell me what to do, hun . . . I don’t know what this is! . . . Marcos is not who I thought he was, who we thought he was!
I stared at myself in the mirror, ran some cold water on my inner wrists, and breathed.
When I got back to the table, Marcos’s beer had arrived. I picked it up and drank half of it in one giant gulp. He gave me a look.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You OK?” he asked. “You seem a little . . . I don’t know, nervous or something.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just. Well, it’s a lot. And I thought, I mean, Joel and I thought, that maybe you were in AA?”
He started laughing.
“Joel thought that? Why?”
“Well, I mean, I may have convinced him of it. I just thought . . . You do some work with the food pantry, right?”
“I’m the director. Going on six years.”
“You’re the director of the whole food pantry? Do you get paid for that?” I couldn’t help but be direct.
“Nope. Strictly volunteer.”
“Wow,” I said. “You must meet a lot of homeless people.”
He nodded his head, ran a hand through his thick hair. I could tell he was considering a response.
“The pantry isn’t just for the homeless. There’s a lot of elderly people. A mom or a dad who just lost a job or who’ve been out of work. People who fall just below the poverty line.”
“So why do you do it? Especially if it’s volunteer,” I asked.
Marcos started to laugh.
“Why? Well, it’s the kind of thing, I guess you could say . . .” He really was contemplating the question. “I guess I think that if I don’t do it, who will?”
The people I knew wrote checks. Maybe volunteered once a year at Thanksgiving or Christmas by feeding people in homeless shelters. I had never seen or heard of real-life altruism like this.
Marcos looked at me, his eyes slightly squinted, like he was trying to figure me out.
“So why do you think I’m an alcoholic?” he asked.
I tried to tread lightly.
“Well. You live at the church, right?”
He nodded.
“They have AA meetings there . . . and you’re raising your son there—”
The minute I said son I had to catch my breath. The psychic. She said a man who has a son, someone I already know, loves me. Will love me. Future love me. Marcos?
“You ever meet Davis? He’s just a couple of years older than Sophie. She knows him.”
The truth is, everyone in our neighborhood knew Davis. He was the quintessential bad boy. Wild. Gorgeous. Troubled. Girls who were scared of him also had crushes on him. Boys who weren’t scared of him wanted to be his friend.
“OK, I’m just going to say it. I thought that since you lived at the church and worked at the pantry, you must be in recovery. Found Jesus. And devoted your life to giving back out of gratitude for being saved. Like, maybe you were a born-again Christian or something?”
I couldn’t help myself and added, “Or . . . maybe you were a drug addict?”
“What? No!”
I covered my mouth with my hand. I was slightly mortified by my assumptions.
“I’m sorry!” I muttered. Then, because I couldn’t help myself: “Any tattoos?”
Marcos started laughing, shaking his head. “Wow,” he said. “You’re a writer, right? Did you tell me that or did Joel?”
“I don’t know if I did,” I said, liking that he mentioned Joel again.
“Your husband must have told me. You’re good. That’s a story, alright,” he said. “It’s all wrong. Not even close, but plausible. Points for plausible.”
We both smiled as our food arrived. I had taken Marcos’s beer. The waiter asked if he wanted another. He considered for a minute, then shook his head, smiling. “No, thank you, compadre. Better not.”
The beer helped calm my nerves. I gobbled up my cheese enchiladas. They were delicious. Marcos and I talked easily, but I couldn’t help but feel like he was doing me a favor. Yes, he had helped with Joel’s guitars, which I was grateful for. But it felt like he was taking out his friend’s kid sister on the night of the prom to distract her from the fact that she didn’t get asked to go.
When he dropped me off at home, he got out of his truck and came around to open my door. He then got back in on the driver’s side, said, “I’ll be in touch,” and drove off.
When I picked up Sophie from school that afternoon, she got in the car and asked, “What’s for dinner?”
It was always the first thing she asked when I picked her up. There could have been an earthquake that morning, there could have been a horse in the back seat, I could have even been driving a different car, but no matter what, this was the first and usually only question she ever asked.
“Cheese enchiladas,” I told her.
“Yay!” She clapped happily.
Thankfully she didn’t ask where I had gotten them. I didn’t want to tell her about my afternoon with Marcos. It would be too confusing and too weird to tell her that he and I had lunch, so I didn’t volunteer the information either. We were both just
happy she had something delicious for dinner that night.
The following week, as I was pulling up to my writing group, my phone rang. I checked to make sure it wasn’t Sophie, and instead I saw Marcos’s name pop up.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Melissa! It’s Marcos,” he said. He sounded happy. “So listen. I realized you asked me a question the other day that I didn’t answer.”
I did a quick inventory of my inquisition. AA, check. Drugs, check. Do-gooder, check. So what’s my unanswered question?
“Oh-kay,” I said. Now I was smiling.
“Do you remember what it was you asked me?”
“Um . . . not specifically.”
“Well the answer is no, I don’t have any tattoos,” he said.
My face almost hurt from smiling. “Ha, well, that’s . . .” I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Are you surprised?” he asked.
“That I got everything I thought I knew about you wrong? Yes, that’s a surprise.”
“It’s kind of funny,” he said. “That you were thinking about me at all.”
“Well.” I tried to cover. “I put some thought into who spends time with my daughter, so . . .”
“You’re a good mom, Melissa. Joel was a good father. Sophie’s lucky.”
“Really? Her dad just died, so I don’t know how lucky that makes her,” I said, cringing at what had just come out of my mouth.
“Well yeah, yes. That’s . . . It’s just sad. But she’ll be OK. She knows that both her parents loved her,” he said.
“Thank you. Thanks for saying that, for recognizing that.” I noticed the time. My class was starting soon.
“So were you just calling to tell me about the tattoos?” I asked.
“I thought maybe we could get a drink one night. If you’re OK with that. Casual, easy. No problem.”
I noticed the awkwardness of his phrasing, but it didn’t bother me.
“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”
“Good,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”
We hung up, and I got out of my car. I fumbled to find my car keys to lock the doors. I was excited and nervous. And while I was also happy, I had to hold back tears. I miss Joel. Most of my memories were still of him in the hospital. I got in the habit of looking at pictures of him to remind me that he wasn’t always in a coma, that he once lived a life. A life where he wasn’t compromised by disease. A life that was full and for the most part, happy.
I had become obsessed with one particular photo. In it, Joel takes up the whole frame and he is smiling and looking down because five-year-old Sophie was the photographer. Joel has a sincere smile, and there’s so much love in his face. It’s because, I’m convinced, he’s staring into his daughter’s eyes. She was able to capture that moment in a way that is authentic to their relationship. That is the Joel I wanted to remember. That is the Joel who wouldn’t want his youngish wife to continue suffering where and when his life left off. That is the Joel who exudes love.
Joel Osteen has a sermon in which he speaks of there being a season of mourning as opposed to a lifetime of mourning. That resonated for me. I could see where losing Joel could also cost me my livelihood. I wanted to get to the other side of grief, not stay in it forever.
It had been over six months since Joel had died. I didn’t know if I was ready to move on with someone new. Not that I was really moving on with anyone. I didn’t think I could let myself do that yet. But I did know that my feelings were stirred up a bit. I was ready for . . . something.
SIXTEEN
Man of My Dreams
If it’s OK with you, I’m going to give you a kiss,” Marcos said, leaning toward me in the front seat of my car. He smiled, waiting for my consent. He had shaved, and for the first time I noticed he had dimples. I was a sucker for a good dimple. I leaned toward him and as our lips touched, the floor fell out from under me. I felt light as air, which was unnerving—I had felt so heavy since Joel died. It felt like Marcos and I were wrapped in bubbles, weightless and buoyant.
We never made it to drinks. Here’s why:
I was terrified.
Unlike our impromptu lunch, this was unequivocally a date. I lacked grown-up dating experience. I lacked confidence. I was still married to the man I loved even though he died.
“Yes, do it!” Jillian said when I called her the next day to tell her that Marcos had asked me out.
“I’m scared, though,” I admitted.
“That’s OK. This will be good for you. It will be great, no matter what happens.”
I wanted to tell all of my friends. And my sister! And the mailman! But I kept it to myself because first and foremost, I didn’t want Sophie to know, and I didn’t want anyone to accidentally let the information slip. I had already made up my mind that no matter who I dated (because I thought that I would eventually), I wouldn’t tell Sophie about it unless it was serious because, why would I? It wouldn’t be worth the stress and upset it would cause.
Going out “for a drink” had me feeling self-conscious, too. I was afraid we’d run into someone I knew, and they’d be suspicious or judgy or overly excited. So to avoid all of these things—we agreed that we would meet at a restaurant with a full bar, at 2:00 p.m. On a Wednesday. I couldn’t make plans for an evening because I was still building my schedule around Sophie’s.
I also insisted that we meet in downtown Burbank. It was close but not so close that we would risk running into anyone familiar. I hoped.
Lastly, I suggested that we drive separately. But with all of my planning for what was starting to feel like an illicit affair, I did not count on seeing Marcos standing outside the restaurant by the valet parking area. We agreed we would meet inside, at the bar. I had the irrational thought that he must be canceling. I rolled down my window. He smiled and said, “Best-laid plans. They don’t open until dinner. Three more hours.”
I exhaled, relieved that he wasn’t backing out, but seeing him standing there, talking to me through the open window, made me panic.
“Get in!” I ordered. Marcos got in the passenger seat. “I don’t want anyone to see us!” I said as I sped down the street toward the residential area.
Marcos started laughing. “What’s happening? Where are you taking me?”
I pulled over, my hands gripping the steering wheel. My mind was racing. This is crazy! I’m crazy! What am I doing? My husband just died! Joel . . . Joel . . . Where are you? Is this OK? That I’m with Marcos? Oh my God! I’m a bad person, I thought. I’m a bad wife and a bad mother, and I shouldn’t be here!
I looked at Marcos. I had tears in my eyes. He nodded, patiently.
“You know,” he said. “It’s OK. Whatever you’re thinking. Whatever’s going through your head right now? I’ll just sit right here.”
He was killing me. Who is this man? This church-living, feed-the-homeless musician/teacher/do-gooder?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel like I’m making this into such a big deal, and it’s just a drink. I mean it’s nothing; this is nothing! And now we’re not even getting a drink! I’m just a little nervous about all this. Maybe it’s too soon, or too much?”
Marcos looked at me. He appeared comfortable sitting there. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. “I mean . . .” He tried to find some words but after a minute, he just shrugged. I felt a need and desire to touch him, so I did. I gently placed my hand on his arm.
“It’s just, I love Joel. He’s my husband, and we’re still married.”
“I get that,” Marcos said.
“How do you get that?” I asked. “Does it even make sense? It sounds crazy but also, not crazy. I think I’m going crazy.”
Marcos looked into my eyes. “Look. I think it’s all pretty normal. I think you’ve been through a lot. You and Joel were solid. You were.”
I nodded. He was making sense. My mind may have been slowing down but my heart was still racing.
“I think you have a lot going on,
especially up here.” He tapped his temple, then reached over and tapped mine. I smiled. “So I’m thinking that maybe you need to just relax a little bit. Does that sound OK? Like you just need to . . . relax.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said, considering how exactly to do that.
“So,” he said, “if it’s OK with you, I’m going to give you a kiss. I think that might help.”
He leaned toward me, and I let him kiss me. It was soft and tender and exactly what I needed to calm down. I kissed him back. We stayed like that, kissing in the front seat of my Toyota Prius for over an hour. It was a good, old-fashioned make-out session that as a married woman of over sixteen years, I hadn’t experienced in quite a while.
If I didn’t see Marcos again after that day, it would be OK because that particular moment was so excruciatingly perfect, it would forever be enough. It was exactly what I needed. While I had experienced some levity and happiness in the aftermath of Joel’s death, this was a feeling that managed to touch a part of me I forgot existed.
It was desire.
I wanted this to happen; I had wished for this to happen. Marcos fulfilled that desire. It was everything.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said when we parted. We both seemed drunk with kisses, silly smiles on our faces.
“Me, too.”
He went through his weekly schedule, counting off each task on a finger. “I’m teaching most of tomorrow into tomorrow night and the next day. I also have to be at the hospital in the afternoon. I have a board meeting this week, and I’ll be at the pantry Friday and Monday. I have a gig next—”
“Wait.” I stopped him. “What hospital?” Is he sick? Dying? Or just visiting a friend?
“The children’s hospital. I go once a month.”
I gave him a look. “Why?”
“I volunteer,” he said. “I bring my guitar and sing to the kids.”
“What kids?” I asked.
“The sick and dying children.”
My mouth must have dropped open.
“For real?”
“It’s meaningful work. The families appreciate it. I like doing it. Going on almost ten years.”
Widowish: A Memoir Page 14