Two Kisses for Maddy

by Matthew Logelin

  In addition to such crises, I was also dealing with a host of new feelings that came with being a parent. I felt love, exhaustion, nervousness, and, perhaps least expectedly, disgust. Parenting an infant requires a whole new relationship with bodily fluids. With Maddy around, I had to let go of a lot of my hard-lived obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I’d always sort of had them, to the point that Liz once accused me of being bulimic because I rushed to the restroom after every meal. I had to work hard to convince her that I was simply going to wash my hands because I couldn’t stand to have them smell like food. Since most of my clothes are recycled from the thrift store and I insist on keeping a grimy-looking beard, this may be difficult to believe, but it’s true: I am a clean freak. But kids are not clean. They’re dirty, filthy little creatures, and I had to come to terms with the fact that Maddy was going to get me sticky and sneeze on me and wipe her boogers all over me.

  Madeline was in my arms one morning, and for no reason at all she vomited. All over me. My adorable little girl opened up her mouth and released a stream of pureed peas, Exorcist-style, all down the front of my Hold Steady T-shirt. There I was, cradling this child, and my first thought was not to put her down and clean myself up—which it absolutely would have been before she was born. Immediately, I made certain that nothing was obstructing my daughter’s breathing. I was covered in green vomit, and I didn’t even care. I wished that Liz had been there to see the vile mess—she would have laughed her ass off.

  Without Liz, I now had to deal with our finances, bills, and the rest of the real-life, grown-up responsibilities that came along with them. One of my biggest and most immediate concerns was how we were going to survive financially. As a part of the survivor benefits extended to me through Disney, Liz’s employer, I met with a financial adviser who walked me through the process of creating a budget. Looking at our expenses, I wondered how the hell Madeline and I were going to make it without Liz’s salary—more than half of our income. Ten months before she died, we bought a house at what turned out to be the peak of the real estate market. I now saw it as my duty to ensure that we didn’t lose the house of our dreams, the one Liz fell in love with the moment she saw it. The one she spent countless hours decorating to make perfect. The one we wanted to start our family in.

  “With the money you have, if you live conservatively, you’ll be able to stay here for about three years,” said the adviser.

  Three years sounded like a long time to me, but then what? Would I have to get a second job? Would I have to short-sell my house, or, even worse, walk away from my mortgage, take the hit to my credit, and move in with family members? According to the financial adviser, I was eligible to collect some form of Social Security benefits on behalf of Madeline, and as Liz’s surviving spouse I’d get a small onetime payout. I wasn’t exactly eager to deal with any sort of government bureaucracy so soon, but I knew that it would ease some of the financial stress and anxiety I was already feeling, so I made an appointment.

  I arrived at the Social Security office in Glendale and took a seat near a couple of old women, both probably in their seventies. I figured that they were there for the same reason I was: their spouses had died, and they were hoping to find some financial assistance in this dismal office. But I couldn’t help think how lucky they were to have had forty or fifty good years with their husbands. It was all conjecture—I really had no idea why these women were there, and frankly, I didn’t give a shit. All I could think was that I’d had twelve great years with my wife, and now I would have maybe forty or fifty without her. I couldn’t believe how much my life sucked.

  I lifted Madeline out of her car seat and held her in my arms, talking to her about where we were. I’d been doing that since I’d brought her home, talking to her like she was an adult who couldn’t see or hear what was going on around her. I probably sounded like a complete lunatic to those around me as I laid out the scene for my newborn. The old women moved closer to us.

  “You have such a beautiful baby. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  I thought that to be an odd question, considering Madeline was covered in pink from the neck down.

  “It’s a girl, and its name is Madeline,” I said snidely, already pissed off at them based on the story I’d made up in my head. I could tell they completely missed the fact that I was patronizing them—old people often didn’t understand my sense of humor.

  The women took turns touching her cheeks and cooing at her with the kind of baby talk I’d sworn I’d never use with my child. Thankfully, before Madeline’s brain was fully turned to mush by their inane chatter, my name was called. Someone led us through a doorway and directed me to sit down at a desk across from a young woman who shook my hand, introducing herself with a name I forgot immediately. Without making eye contact or acknowledging the baby I held, she began to read from a sheet of paper in front of her. Just as the financial adviser had promised, she informed me that I was eligible for a onetime payout.

  “The Social Security Administration will directly deposit two hundred fifty-five dollars into your bank account…”

  Two hundred fifty-five dollars? That’s it?? Two hundred fifty-five dollars??? Are you fucking kidding me? I tried to find a proper response to the woman’s words. No amount would have taken away the pain of Liz’s death—but seriously, couldn’t they have at least given me enough to buy a couple of month’s worth of diapers?

  During my internal rant, I missed the end of her script. I zoned back in when she finally asked if I had all of the necessary paperwork to get my benefits claim started.

  “I hope so,” I said, trying to lighten up the mood. I reached into Madeline’s diaper bag to grab the manila folder full of documents that had come to rule the last few weeks of my life. I handed her Madeline’s birth certificate and Social Security card, but hesitated before pulling out Liz’s death certificate—the grim reminder that the two most important dates in my life will forever be connected.

  I didn’t want to give her the death certificate; I didn’t want to show it to anyone. It was a private thing, and it took an emotional toll on me every time I had to watch another bureaucrat scan it for information. I hated that the death certificate would now be the defining document of Liz’s life. And really, I didn’t need to be reminded that my wife was dead; the emptiness in my heart was reminder enough.

  I wondered if I could get away with not handing it over—after all, I was able to describe its every last line by heart. I knew every square inch of it like it was the ceiling in my childhood bedroom, and I knew every word like it was my favorite poem. I could tell this woman that the seal of the state of California was in the lower left corner of the document, and that the city of Pasadena was incorporated in June 1886, according to the city seal found in the lower right corner. I could tell her that Evonne D. Reed was the coroner who signed it, and that Takashi M. Wada, M.D., was listed as the health officer at the bottom. I could describe in great detail the way the colors faded from pink to blue from both the left and the right sides, and the ornate patterns created by the blue and white lines bordering the entire paper. I could tell her that in Box 8 was the number 1511, noting Liz’s time of death at 3:11 p.m., and that Box 41 listed the letters CR/RES, indicating that she had been cremated and that her remains had been removed from the state. I could tell her that Box 107 listed two causes of death, and that the document had been issued on April 1, 2008, one week to the day after Liz died.

  But I knew that for the Social Security Administration, this recitation would not be proof enough that my wife was dead. I reluctantly slid the document across the desk and sunk deeper into my chair.

  “Did the marriage end in death?” she asked, still reading from her script, still not looking at me.

  What kind of question is that? What the fuck do you think? I wanted to scream, but what came out of my mouth was far less eloquent: “Technically, yes, but I’m still wearing our rings, so no. Well, yes. Um, never mind.” Jesus.

  Even though Liz
was dead, I really did still consider myself married, but to this woman, there was no room on the paperwork for any explanation. All she wanted was a simple yes or no so she could check the correct box on the form in front of her. She finally glanced up, making eye contact for the first time since I had sat down.

  But all she did was look at me. I felt like I was back in elementary school, taking part in a playground staring contest. I lost.

  “Yes. The marriage ended with her death.”

  I overthought and had a hard time with the rest of her questions, but ultimately answered in the way she wanted. When the interview ended, she informed me that we’d be getting just under $1,800 per month to be used to provide for Madeline. After the paltry $255 death benefit, this amount made me feel as though we’d just won the lottery. Mostly, I was thrilled that Madeline wouldn’t have to join the workforce just yet, and that we might be able to stay in our house longer than I’d anticipated.

  With the formal interview over, the woman became almost human and began making small talk with me. I would have obliged her, but at that moment, I smelled something awful. While she was still talking, I grabbed Madeline’s car seat and stood up.

  “I have to get going. My daughter just shit herself.”

  The woman looked flustered, obviously unprepared for my crassness. If only she could have read my mind during her interview, she would have known just how unrefined I really was. Pointing to her right, she said, “Uh, you can use that conference room to change her.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked into the conference room, closed the door behind me, and pulled out the changing pad that matched the diaper bag now permanently attached to my shoulder. For the first time since bringing her home from the hospital, I changed Madeline’s diaper in public, right there on the middle of the table. As I dropped the diaper in the trash can and walked out, I smiled at the thought of someone else entering this room and wondering where the shit smell was coming from. Hilarious—especially after the interview I had just endured.

  Chapter 14

  sometimes it feels like

  yesterday.

  other times it feels

  like a lifetime ago.

  i’m having a hard time

  remembering her voice,

  but i find myself

  saying things that

  liz

  would have said if

  she

  were standing next to me,

  looking at our child.

  like cute.

  and pretty.

  The people I encountered in public had no clue what I was going through. It’s not that I expected them to—​obviously strangers don’t generally know what’s going on in another stranger’s world—but my entire life had fallen apart, and it felt crazy to see everyone around me continuing on as if nothing at all had happened. Drivers honked and gave me the finger when I hesitated at a green light because I was thinking about the last time I’d driven down Fairfax Avenue with Liz. Baristas turned up the snark when I took too long deciding between Earl Grey and Darjeeling because I was lost in a memory of drinking tea while we watched the sun rise over the Himalayas.

  Sometimes, though, strangers could be the greatest source of comfort. I went to my bank to make a deposit, and as I approached the bulletproof glass that cascaded from the ceiling to the counter, I couldn’t help but think about all the times I had visited Liz at her college summer job as a teller in Minneapolis. I did my best to hold back the tears, but when I was about to speak to the young woman at the counter, I completely broke down. “Are you okay?” she asked. I looked up and made some sort of unintelligible sound that clearly indicated I wasn’t. I’m not sure if it was the noise I made or the sadness plastered across my face, but the teller immediately started crying and looked at me with an expression I would never have expected from someone I didn’t know. It wasn’t pity—she didn’t even know my story, so it wasn’t shock, either. It was the purest and most sincere form of sympathy a human could relay. When I pulled myself together, I told her all about Madeline’s birth and Liz’s death. I told her about the uncertainty I felt and the fear I had about my financial situation. I must have sounded like a total fucking lunatic. But if I did, she never let on.

  On another occasion, I was picking up some supplies at Home Depot and the person who was helping me, a tough-looking Hispanic guy wearing an orange smock over a white muscle shirt, his arms and neck covered in tattoos, took one look at me and knew there was something wrong.

  “You okay?”

  “No. Not really,” I replied.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “My wife died a few weeks ago and I’m a fucking wreck.”

  “I’m sorry. I lost my son in a shooting last year. It’s not the same, but I know pain.”

  Just feeling that hurt was something that a lot of people couldn’t relate to or even fathom, but by simply asking me if I was okay I knew that this man got it. He knew that no matter how tough or together you tried to look, there were moments when nothing but a good cry would do the trick. And that helped.

  When I walked down the street with Madeline in my arms, it seemed like everyone was looking at me as if I’d stolen her. When I walked into a kid’s clothing store, I felt like everyone thought I was using her as a prop in order to kidnap their children and use their skin to make lampshades or something. The people I encountered on a daily basis could jump to any number of conclusions: to some I might be a deadbeat dad, babysitting my child on weekends; to others, maybe I was a child predator. But, as is the case in all encounters with strangers, the only way to really know what was going on in my life was to ask questions. And it was always the same one: “Where’s her mother?” No one ever asked where my wife was.

  Seriously? A father alone with a baby is not such a rare occurrence in modern society, but it seemed that some people’s attitudes needed adjusting. When was the last time a mother was out with her child and a stranger wanted to know where the father was? The very idea of asking such a question would not only be rude, but it would also be a complete invasion of privacy. Yet I got that question almost every time I went out alone with Madeline.

  I always answered the question as honestly and directly as I could, which often made me feel like I had somehow been tasked with pissing in everyone’s lemonade. It’s not fun to ruin people’s days by answering a simple, terribly inconsiderate question, but I couldn’t avoid the truth of my own situation, and I certainly wasn’t about to soften things for someone I didn’t even know.

  But it wasn’t just the sad look on my face or the baby in my arms. I know I brought some of this attention on myself by continuing to wear Liz’s rings, but I just couldn’t take them off. They had been on my left pinkie ever since I put them on in the hospital, and I was too afraid to leave them unattended in the house. I would have been seriously pissed off if something had happened to them. Besides, with my unexpected weight loss, they fit perfectly. What dude doesn’t need a few diamonds on his finger? And still, I needed that physical reminder of our closeness; I wanted Liz’s most prized possessions to become a part of me, just as they were a part of her.

  When Anya and I took Maddy to the pediatrician, the assumption in the waiting room must have been that we were a very happy family—mother, father, and daughter. But I could feel the other parents’ puzzled looks: Why was he doing all the caregiving? Why was he holding their baby up and pointing at the fish in the tank? Why was he carrying the diaper bag? I mean, the sign-in sheet at the desk had the word mother written on every line from top to bottom, with my lone father scribbled in the bottom row.

  A woman sitting next to us noticed the rings on my finger. She was there with her two children, an infant and a girl about eight years old. “Those are lovely,” she said, then cast her gaze in Anya’s direction. “Why isn’t your wife wearing them?” When I gave her the truthful answer, she couldn’t deal with it; overwhelmed, she left her daughter in charge of the baby and fled the waiting r
oom in tears.

  The varied reactions I got from total strangers were something of a surprise, but I suppose my answers to their questions were equally surprising. No matter what the situation that brought forth my story, I found that mothers always had the most extreme response, maybe because they could see their partners in my situation, and that scared the shit out of them.

  I met one mother in a coffee shop. Maddy and I were there hanging out with Deb when Windy approached us. Looking at Deb, she asked, “How old is your baby?”

  “Three months,” Deb responded.

  “She looks so small.”

  “Well, she was born seven weeks early.”

  “Was it a tough pregnancy?”

  “Yes, five weeks of bed rest.”

  “Wow. Good luck to you,” Windy said to Deb, as she headed toward the exit.

  I was a bit dumbfounded. Dealing with strangers who assumed that I was not Maddy’s primary caregiver was one thing; leaving them with the impression that Deb was her mother was quite another. It was obvious that Deb didn’t want to discuss the circumstances that led her to be the woman in Madeline’s life, but hearing her speak as if she was the one who had given birth to Madeline really hit a nerve. I couldn’t believe she didn’t at least hint at what had actually happened.

  When I thought about it, though, I understood why Deb had responded that way. My wife was dead, the person who had been my compass for the past twelve years, and I had my own feelings about that. But Deb had lost her sister, whom she had loved and been so close with for her entire life. I addressed the grief in my way, and Deb in hers. There was no right or wrong way to mourn—this much I knew. But in that moment, Deb’s handling of the questions had been unbearable for me.

  I felt very upset and more than a little angry, but I wasn’t about to lecture Deb on how to deal with her sister’s death. I got up from my chair, grabbed Madeline from her car seat and said, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be right back.”