Widowish: A Memoir

by Melissa Gould

  And out of nowhere, these thoughts came into my head.

  We will be OK.

  Sophie knows I love her. She knows that Joel loves her.

  Joel is with us. Joel is with us. Joel is here.

  And in the stillness of my room, my face wet with tears, I opened my eyes, and I swear I heard Joel say to me, “No matter what occurs, I will find you.”

  I felt him. He found me at my lowest and showed up anyway.

  I was getting dressed for Mimi’s birthday party and still hadn’t brought up Marcos to Sophie since the date debacle. It had been almost a full week, and neither of us said anything about it. We went about our lives, intertwined as we were, as if it never happened. But I didn’t want more time to pass before bringing it up again, especially because I would be out with Marcos that night.

  She was on the couch watching TV.

  “What are you watching?” I asked.

  “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”

  “Oh,” I said and sat next to her.

  “Their dad died, too,” she said. “When they were young.”

  “I know. Do they talk about him on the show?”

  “All the time!” she said. “They just showed an episode with them watching home movies of him. It was sad, but good.”

  “That’s really sweet,” I said.

  “I know. I want to watch my bat mitzvah video again.”

  We tried to watch it months earlier, but it was difficult. Seeing Joel again, struggling to walk but with a big smile on his face, hearing his voice; it felt tragic. We stopped the video less than halfway through.

  “We’ll definitely do that,” I said. “Whenever you want.”

  People may make fun of the Kardashians, and I totally get that, but they also celebrate their father on his birthday and keep his memory alive in so many ways. They had survived his loss. It gave Sophie hope that she would survive Joel’s, too.

  I said to Sophie, “So. We don’t have to talk about this right now, but I want you to know Marcos is going to be at Mimi’s later.”

  She nodded. I said, “He’s a good person, Smoosh.”

  “I don’t hate him,” she said quietly.

  “Thank you for saying that,” I said. “But even if you did, it would be OK. Your feelings are yours to have. But I like him very much, and I want you to understand that he will never replace Daddy. No one ever will.”

  She looked at me, her voice shaky. “I just miss him,” she said.

  I reached out and pulled her into my arms.

  “I do, too,” I said. “So much.”

  I held her tight.

  “You know, I will always love Daddy. Always. No matter what.”

  She pulled away to look at me. “But what if you get married again?”

  Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind.

  “That won’t be happening anytime soon,” I assured her. “For real. And even if it does one day in the far, far, far away future, Daddy was there first. He’s still my husband. He’ll always be my husband. Even if I do get married again one day, Daddy is my forever husband.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Really,” I said. “And whoever I end up with, if I end up with anyone, will just have to accept it.”

  The woman at Mimi’s party was waiting for me to answer her questions—You’re here on a date? Wait, when did your husband die again?

  “Are you here on a date?” I asked.

  She gave me a curious look. “Um . . . no.”

  “And how long ago was your divorce?”

  She stammered, her face turning red. “Well . . . um . . . I mean . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” I said as I poured myself a drink. “So nice seeing you.”

  I walked away, knowing that behind me, she was reeling.

  Actually, that’s not what happened. Not at all. But in hindsight, I wish I had said those things.

  In real life, I’m the one who stammered. I didn’t even think to be snarky. I simply answered her question: “Almost nine months ago.” I saw her considering this information. I then told her she looked great and walked away, self-conscious and nervous. I figured that she just said out loud what a lot of people were probably thinking.

  There was an expectation about The Widow.

  Am I sad enough?

  Is it OK to see me smile?

  Am I allowed to feel happy?

  I felt like I was failing at widowhood. I missed my husband, but no one knew that when they looked at me. They just saw a mom with blonde highlights going to yoga, picking up her daughter from school, buying groceries at Trader Joe’s. And now I was at a party with a date when I should have been home, grieving, all alone.

  I didn’t look like a widow. I wasn’t acting like a widow. But I felt like a widow.

  I guess I was just widowish.

  I looked for Marcos and found him in the center of a small crowd. They were all listening to him tell a story. He looked handsome in his brown corduroy blazer, holding a cocktail. He was smiling, and when he saw me, he lifted his arm and said, “There she is. There’s my girl.”

  I was mortified. I was his girl?

  It felt like a dream; I saw all of these faces turn toward me. They were the faces of people I knew casually for years. As I approached, someone reached out, touched my arm. “We’re so happy for you!”

  Another said, “He’s adorable!”

  One came close and whispered in my ear, “He looks like Joel.”

  I reached Marcos, and he put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. Everyone laughed and smiled.

  Marcos kissed my cheek. I turned pink and there was an audible “Awwww” from the people surrounding us.

  This is too much. I can’t.

  I excused myself and went outside to the bar. I poured myself some vodka and drank it down. As I poured myself another, Marcos appeared by my side.

  “Hey,” he said. “You OK?”

  I nodded yes. “It’s just a lot.”

  “You want to stay, have another drink? Or if you want to leave, just let me know. I’m good either way. Whatever you want to do.”

  I looked at him. Like Joel, he was so good.

  How did I get so lucky?

  “Sweetheart?” Marcos said, eyebrows raised.

  I put down my drink and put my hands on his face. I couldn’t help it. It could have been the vodka, it could have been the moment. I kissed him, right on the lips, standing there in the backyard, in front of everyone.

  Marcos may have sung “Uptown Girl” to me when I picked him up that night, but the song that was going through my mind was Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About.”

  Marcos didn’t mind one bit.

  NINETEEN

  Getting Personal

  In my writing group that week, I wrote a scene in my novel where one of the main characters goes on a horrible date with a guy she meets online. It was well received, and I decided that I would read it in our upcoming writer’s salon.

  As Leigh and I were walking to our cars that night, we talked about class and the things we were writing. Leigh and I were close, but we didn’t have a lot of friends in common and I realized I hadn’t told her about Marcos yet. I felt compelled to, especially since half the neighborhood saw us together at Mimi’s party over the weekend.

  “So how are you doing, sweetie?” Leigh asked.

  “I’m seeing Marcos!” I blurted out.

  She stopped walking and looked at me. “What?” she asked.

  It was almost as clumsy as when I used the word date with Sophie.

  “Marcos and I have been seeing each other,” I said.

  “Marcos . . . the musician Marcos?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Like everyone in our neighborhood, her kids had also taken guitar lessons from him.

  “OK, wait a minute, let me absorb that.” She started nodding and turned to face me. “You know,” she said. “I just feel called to tell you something.”

  My guar
d immediately went up. Leigh spoke “universe” and when she felt called, I had to listen. I braced myself for what she was about to say.

  “It’s just . . .” She chose her words carefully. “I love the piece you wrote tonight. I love the whole novel you’re writing. But I feel like Joel recently died. You’re raising your daughter on your own. You’re now telling me that you’re seeing Marcos.”

  “So?” I said. I couldn’t help but feel defensive.

  “So I’d like to suggest that you start writing about what’s going on for you personally. These characters in your novel, they will always be there. You can go back to them at any time.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, wondering where this was going.

  “I say this simply for your consideration,” Leigh continued. “If you were to write about the deep and meaningful emotional journey that you’ve been on, and will continue to be on for possibly even your whole life, I think it would not only be good for you, but good for others as well.”

  I stood there stunned. I just revealed a secret I had been carrying around, and she didn’t have anything to say about it? Then she had the nerve to comment on my writing and what I should be writing instead? I write fiction. I write make-believe. Why in the world would I ever even consider writing about my personal life?

  I got flustered, looking for my words. “Uh-huh. Well, I’ve never written about myself before. I’m not sure I want to.”

  “You may think you don’t want to, but those are just thoughts. I’m just asking you to consider it,” she said. “And as a side note, I love Marcos!”

  She gave me a tight hug, then got into her car. “There’s so much there, Melissa. Personal stories are powerful.”

  I stood there in the middle of the street and watched her drive away. As I turned to open my car door, out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and screamed. I wasn’t expecting to, and it was a scream that was so loud and so fierce that I scared myself. I got in my car, opened up my sunroof, and looked up at the night sky.

  I was so angry. Something about what Leigh said triggered me.

  Write about my “emotional journey”? What the fuck?!

  I rolled down all of the windows and let the cool air in.

  Fuck her!

  Fuck all of this shit!

  Fuck Joel for dying!

  Fuck my writing!

  Fuck my life!

  I felt the breeze on my skin as I drove down the hill. I didn’t want to go home like this. I was too mad. Mad at Leigh for her stupid suggestion, mad at everyone for having an opinion on my life, mad at Joel for leaving me, and mad at Marcos for being so . . . for being so . . . I didn’t know why I was mad at Marcos, but I was suddenly furious with him! So furious that instead of driving down the hill and making a left turn toward home, I made a right and headed straight for his house.

  He happened to be outside, unloading his truck from a gig he had that day. He smiled when he saw me. I pulled up on the wrong side of the street, jumped out of my car, and approached him.

  “Hey!” he said, his smile quickly fading when he saw me rushing him. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

  I was breathing heavily, practically hyperventilating.

  “Sweetheart?” he said.

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!” I yelled.

  “What happened. Did something happen?”

  “I am so mad!” I yelled. “I can’t take it!”

  I heard Joel’s voice say, “What can you take?” It stopped me cold.

  “What?” I said to the air.

  Marcos started to say, “I don’t know what’s happening here but—”

  “Shh!” I yelled. I kept turning around, looking for Joel. “Hun?”

  “Huh?” Marcos said.

  “Who said that?” I demanded.

  It was nighttime. The sky was dark. But I swear, in this moment, I was blinded by the sun. Or what I thought was the sun. I know that I was staring at Marcos. I know that we were standing in front of his house. It may have been my headlights that were blinding me, but I felt the need to squint. That’s when I saw Joel standing there, smiling, happy, the way he was when I saw him on the bridge in my dream.

  “Oh my God, hun,” he was saying, laughing. “You’re losing it.”

  “I really am,” I said.

  We stared at each other. I couldn’t believe it.

  “You,” he said.

  I sighed. “I miss you.”

  “I’m right here,” he said. But I didn’t know if it was Joel saying that. Or Marcos.

  I felt my face wet with tears. I was so tired of crying. I was so tired of feeling all of my feelings, all the time.

  “Hey,” Marcos said, approaching me, hands up in surrender. “Let’s go inside. I think you need to sit down. Or maybe I should drive you home.”

  It was dark out again. Marcos was reaching out for me, and over his shoulder, I saw Joel. He held up his hand in a wave. His eyes were twinkling. He looked healthy. He was smiling.

  “Don’t go!” I whispered.

  “I’m right here,” he said. That time, I knew it was Marcos.

  He looked into my eyes. He wiped my tears with his thumbs. “Hey,” he said. “It’s OK. You’re going to be OK.”

  He took my hand. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home.”

  I wrapped my fingers in his and wiped my face with our clasped hands. He laughed.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Being such a mess, I guess.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I’m a blues musician, baby. I sing the blues, I play the blues, I feel the blues.”

  He sort of sang that last part, and I shook my head wearily—this was so Marcos. What did his being a blues musician have anything to do with anything?

  “I feel crazy,” I said, “but you may actually be crazy.”

  “I am crazy,” he said. “Crazy about you . . . because I love you.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Does that help you feel better? At all? Maybe a little bit?” he asked.

  I looked at this brown-eyed, soulful, truly good man standing in front of me. He must be the one the psychic told me about, right? He had a son. And even if he had never said it out loud, I knew he loved me, because I felt it.

  Marcos often made no sense to me. As a couple, we made even less sense. We lived on “different sides” of the boulevard and occupied what seemed like two different worlds at times. But he was so open, so ready to take me in. Me and my widowed heart.

  He stood in front of me, so happy, even though I was a wreck.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” I said.

  “Do nothing then. Just receive, sweetheart. Think you can do that?” And then we kissed. My anger, sadness, and anxiety dissipated every time our lips touched. It didn’t matter that I felt so broken and overwhelmed and confused, so confused all the time . . . Marcos accepted me as I was.

  I slept alone that night. Sophie was in her room; I was in mine. I read my passage from Healing After Loss by myself and said my memory with my eyes closed, picturing Joel on the sidewalk that night.

  As I went about my life and routines that week, Leigh’s words bounced around inside my head, as much as I tried to ignore them.

  Driving Sophie to school, I’d hear Leigh telling me, Personal stories are powerful!

  Paying bills and writing checks, her words echoed: Write about the deep and meaningful emotional journey that you’ve been on!

  Cooking. Every. Single. Meal. The words Start writing about what’s going on for you personally played over and over in my mind.

  I also pictured Marcos. On the sidewalk. In the dark. Professing his love for me . . . while Joel stood just over his shoulder.

  I wanted so badly to resist Leigh’s suggestion. It felt so personal. Joel was mine. He belonged to me and Sophie. I didn’t want to share him, not at all. And how would I even be able to write about Marcos? I was still processing all of it. I had no
thing figured out . . . But I couldn’t stop writing in my head. I had so much to say on the subject of widowhood. Not just what I was feeling on the inside, but the way I was perceived as a widow in the world . . . the things people said to me, the things I said to them . . .

  By the time I got to class that week, I was bursting. When we finished our meditation and went over some writing prompts, my fingers flew across my computer keyboard in a way that I can only describe as otherworldly. I wasn’t even aware that I was writing so when the timer went off, I was shocked to see that I had written close to ten pages. Single spaced. In a small font. What I had written was personal, intense, and it was all true. I sat there and sobbed while reading it aloud to my classmates. I appreciated their patience as I choked and shnorkled over every sentence. So much for being the only “professional” writer in the class.

  For the next six weeks and the whole following session, I wrote about Joel and the MS. About the confusion in the hospital. About the day he died. About his ashes, and the dogs, and shiva. I wrote about Sophie and feeling the weight of responsibility as an only parent. I wrote about our neighbors and our neighborhood and our friends. I wrote about the depths of my sadness and how my heart was broken and expanding at the same time. Once I started writing personally, about all that I was experiencing, I couldn’t stop. The writing was cathartic, it was healing, it has been the thing that has saved me the most. The best part is, in writing about Joel, it keeps him close and alive.

  And even though I was feeling love for Marcos, I couldn’t admit it to him or myself before I made Sophie fully aware of our relationship. By now, he and I were a real couple. It just happened, and I just let it happen.

  Sophie had started high school, and we had made the transition to those early morning rides to the bus and new friends, and all that comes with being in a new school at fourteen years old. On occasion, I would allude to Marcos, but it would always be a casual mention.

  By the way, I saw Marcos for coffee today, and don’t forget, Smoosh, you need to bring your French book to school tomorrow.

  But I was ready to help her understand that Marcos and I were more than friends. It was the evening of the freshman dance at Sophie’s school. Her friends and their moms were coming over to get ready at our house.