Two Kisses for Maddy

by Matthew Logelin

  I walked up the stairs to my house, leaving wet footprints, and thought about how pissed Liz would have been that I had just ruined a pair of perfectly fine socks. I stood in the doorway removing the soggy things, thinking I shouldn’t make matters worse by tracking wet footprints into the house. I pulled them off and pushed the front door closed, slowly realizing that this was the first time I’d been completely alone in our house since Liz died. Though fewer than 1,200 square feet, it then possessed the kind of cavernous emptiness I imagined could only be felt in palatial structures. I melted into the couch and listened to the music I had left streaming into my living room. The words from “Last Tide” by Sun Kil Moon reached my ears and the torrent of tears continued to flow.

  Every bird fall weak on lifeless ground

  Every eye swelled from tears ever clear

  Every seed broken in spring lived till fall

  All your babies be around to see them growing up.

  Will you be here with me, my love

  When the warm sun turns to ash

  And the last tide disappear

  All darkness near.

  I kept quiet so you’d think my heart was tough

  I never showed you if I loved you enough

  The dreams I had, yeah, I kept but I wouldn’t dare

  Share with you for fear of things still living in me.

  Will you be next to me, my love

  When the cold moon vanishes

  And the last cries no yells

  For it to hear?

  It was one of Liz’s favorite songs, and it would be echoing through the chapel at Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis in fewer than twenty-four hours.

  “What the fuck is up with this weather?” I said with exasperation.

  “It’s Minnesota,” A.J. replied. “Have you forgotten?”

  He was right. Spring snow at the end of April was not unprecedented, but it seemed unreasonable and more than a little cruel. I guess after six years of living in Los Angeles, I’d officially become a weather snob—I couldn’t stand any temperature below seventy degrees. I tentatively shuffled my feet through the icy snow, hoping to avoid falling on my ass in front of the large group of people already lined up outside of the chapel.

  I gave depressed looks of acknowledgment to the couples clutching each other as they walked in, and I was sure that after seeing me they’d look into each other’s eyes and squeeze each other a little tighter. I knew what they were thinking: I’m glad this isn’t us. No person with even one ounce of compassion would say those words in front of a grieving widower, but the way they gripped each other’s arms, the looks—that said it all.

  I wished so badly that I were in this line with Liz, waiting to walk into someone else’s funeral. I wished that she were holding tight to my side, her teary blue eyes looking up at me, saying, “Those poor motherfuckers. I love you.” I wished that it wasn’t us.

  More than anything, that’s what I wished.

  But it was.

  An hour later I was standing at a podium, microphone just below my mouth, staring out at a sea of people. This was an exceedingly shitty feeling, waiting to give my wife’s eulogy again. Before I’d walked in here, I thought it might be easier to do this a second time, but as I strained to hear Liz’s funeral soundtrack, the same one we’d played in Pasadena, I realized just how wrong I was. I wanted so badly to hear a familiar song, no matter what it was, something other than the depressing-ass one in my head at that moment. “If I Needed You” by Townes Van Zandt was playing over and over again, and the line “If I needed you, would you come to me?” was making me think about how impossible it was for her to come to me now, when I needed her most. But the sounds of people shuffling in drowned out the music we had playing, leaving me stuck with that one. When all the pews were taken, people filed into the side aisles, and when those spaces filled up, too, they sat on the floor behind me and in the aisle running up the middle of the chapel. The place was packed like the Animal Collective concert I had seen at the El Rey.

  I could just picture the look Liz would have given me if I had sat down on that floor, ruining my only suit. A mess of melting snow, dirt, and salt had been tracked into the chapel and was now being ground into the funeral clothes of everyone who had come out for Liz. I looked down at my suit and tie, and thought, I really need to retire these things. After wearing the ensemble to my wife’s funeral—twice—I knew I could never put it on again.

  Standing there, I thought about the conversation I’d had with the funeral director in Pasadena. With the emotionless tone expected of an undertaker, he’d said to me, “You know, you’re the first person to use the word fuck in my chapel.” I don’t think he was admonishing me as much as he was trying to tell me he was proud…but then again, I might have been projecting. “Well,” I’d replied, “it was the most accurate way to describe my feelings.”

  The shuffling stopped before I could replay any more of the conversation, and I knew it was time for me to speak. I felt the same way I had the first time around, so I began with the same words: “This fucking sucks.” And for the next hour, we all remembered Liz.

  Once the service concluded, people made their way to Tom and Candee’s house. I caught a ride with A.J.—I needed to be with my best friend at that moment. We drove out the gates of the cemetery in the direction of Liz’s parents’ house, and after sitting in silence for a couple of blocks, I suddenly yelled, “Take a right!” just as we approached Lake Street. A.J. took the turn without question or hesitation, even though we were now heading in the wrong direction.

  “I need to stop at the record store. Those Replacements reissues came out on Tuesday and I need to get them.”

  He laughed. “Do you think that’s a good idea right now?” I knew what he meant. The few hundred people on their way to Tom and Candee’s would likely want to talk to me, or would at least expect me to be there.

  “Liz wouldn’t have it any other way,” I replied.

  Actually, Liz probably would have been pretty pissed about me stopping for records after a funeral, but in this case, I felt like she’d understand. Yeah, I was being a little selfish, but she knew that one of the great joys in my life was buying records, especially when I was having a bad day. This was a bad day of epic proportions. She’d grant me this stop, and she’d be glad to know that I was keeping my shit together, even if doing so meant that I kept some friends and family waiting.

  “I know exactly what I need; we’ll be in and out,” I promised.

  Five minutes later we were back in the car and heading over to the house. A.J. followed the road on the north side of the lake, and my stomach sank when the stoplight turned green. Just ahead was the Calhoun Beach Club—the place where Liz and I had gone to dinner before our prom, and the place where we had been married not even three years earlier. As A.J. and I approached the building I did my best to avoid looking at it, but the harder I tried, the faster it came at me, and I started sniffling before we had even reached it. It was like the drive home from the hospital past the funeral home all over again.

  A.J. looked over at me, tears welling up in his eyes, too. “Matt, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about it.”

  I managed to say, “It’s okay.” But I wasn’t okay, not yet. I would be, though—or at least I tried to think so, until we got to Tom and Candee’s house.

  This miserably failed attempt to ignore the unavoidable forced me to realize that after more than twelve years together, it would be impossible to steer clear of all the places that held memories of my life with Liz. It would be to my advantage to go to these places, to embrace them, and to remember the moments that shaped our relationship, no matter how painful confronting them was. As A.J. and I continued driving, I thought about all the significant places we had passed that day just going to and coming back from Liz’s funeral. The gas station where we had met, the restaurant where we had our first date, the spot where we had our rehearsal dinner, and the countless stores, streets, and restaurants that h
ad been a stage to so much of our lives. And it wasn’t just Minnesota—I had felt this way in Los Angeles as well. I wasn’t going to the farmer’s market at the Grove or the Oinkster or Whole Foods anymore.

  Just thinking about stepping foot in a produce aisle brought me back to a memory of the last New Year’s Eve Liz and I had together. That night, Liz, her pregnant belly not showing quite yet, spotted one of her many celebrity crushes, Joel McHale, at the Glendale Whole Foods. The well-trained LA girl that she was, Liz never said a word to him; she just trailed him like a puppy. While we waited to check out only one line over from the subject of her stalking, I said, “Liz, it’s pretty fucking creepy that you followed him around the entire store.”

  “He’s so hot. And a lot taller than I expected.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I wished you dressed more like him.”

  “That is my child in your womb, right?”

  “I think so.”

  I smiled thinking about that moment, realizing how much I missed her sarcastic sense of humor. I wanted so badly just to talk to her.

  But if I went to these places, embraced them instead of avoided them, maybe I could recall other long-forgotten, tiny moments that illuminated just how amazing both my wife and our time together were. I could share these memories with our daughter and hopefully create some damn good new ones, too—in Minnesota, Los Angeles, and around the entire world.

  Chapter 17

  starting to feeling like a

  divorced parent,

  sharing custody,

  arranging pickup/drop-off times,

  carting baby supplies

  from house to house.

  this is weird.

  and not how i

  pictured fatherhood.

  damn it.

  After the difficulty of leaving Maddy behind for Liz’s second funeral in Minnesota, I was thrilled to finally bring her with me when I went back for my cousin Josh’s wedding in June. It would be her first trip anywhere outside of Los Angeles. Attending the event was going to be incredibly difficult, but Josh had asked me to be in his wedding party, and in going I would be keeping a promise I had made to Liz—or rather, a promise Liz had made for me.

  Madeline’s original due date fell just before Josh’s wedding, but Liz definitively told me, “You’re going to his wedding.” She was adamant because she knew how important the event was for Josh. We thought Madeline would be barely a month old, so the plan was for my girls to stay behind in Los Angeles while I headed to the wedding in Minnesota. So now, even though it would be painful to face all of the reminders of the life I no longer had, I was determined to be there for my cousin. I didn’t want my bad days to cast a shadow over anyone else’s good days, and I certainly didn’t want to disobey Liz’s orders.

  A family friend took it upon herself to call the airline and tell them it was Madeline’s first flight. When we boarded the plane, the flight attendants presented us with a First Flight certificate and a book in which we could record all her travels. I knew already that this would be the first of many trips together. Of course we’d be regularly visiting family and friends in the Midwest, but a list was already forming in my mind of everywhere else I wanted to take my daughter. The world was full of places where Liz and I lived together and loved each other, and I pledged then that I would take Madeline to see all of them.

  Thanks to the advice of my blog readers I was well prepared for the flight, but I might have overdone it a bit. A few people had suggested I bring an extra outfit for Madeline, in case of the dreaded diaper blowout—I brought five. They told me to bring a few extra diapers—so I brought eleven…for a four-hour flight. Though I was physically overprepared for the trip, I was seriously underprepared mentally. I hadn’t even considered how difficult it would be to face the stares and whispers of the other passengers who were expecting my baby to be the crying, whiny horror story they could tell once they landed in Minneapolis. I tried my best to ignore them and focus my attention on Madeline.

  Thankfully, she slept almost the entire way to Minneapolis. I didn’t need any of the extra outfits, and I didn’t have to try to change her diaper on the plane. But I was the mess, spending the entire flight awaiting the expected meltdown or the promised diaper explosion, so I really didn’t get a chance to enjoy Madeline’s perfect behavior.

  One of the first events of the weekend was a round of golf as part of Josh’s bachelor party festivities. When I arrived at the course to the company of twenty or so guys, many of whom I’d known since fourth or fifth grade, few of them said a word to me. Most gave a polite wave and avoided eye contact, not knowing how to talk to the guy whose wife had died. I felt as though I was a ghost they couldn’t see. It was just fucking weird for some of my oldest childhood friends to treat me like an outcast: I expected this kind of reaction from the strangers I encountered, but not from them. Thankfully, A.J. and my good friend Nate were on the golf course, and they were perfectly willing to talk to me. I just wanted people to be normal, but nobody could be—nobody knew how to be. It may have had something to do with the amount of booze in their systems, or the fact that I was acting completely normal (apparently to their surprise), but by the end of the night all the weirdness disappeared, and I was once again just one of the guys. I had found that people often followed my lead. If I cried, they cried, and if I laughed, they laughed. That night, there was a lot of laughter.

  But the wedding itself was more difficult for me. I struggled to keep my composure, trying to be strong for my cousin and wanting not to cry openly on his wedding day. I felt like I occupied an awkward position in the celebration: I wanted to be social and catch up with as many people as possible, but without taking the focus off the bride and groom. I tried to blend in, but it seemed like wherever I was, people were giving me too much attention. Sure, I might have been imagining it, but it really felt that way: like I had some spotlight following me everywhere I went, illuminating the fact that I was the guy who had already experienced the “until death do us part” line of the vows. I was even more worried that Madeline would deflect attention away from Josh and his wife, but I was happy that my family got to see her.

  The evening ended up going way better than I expected. Madeline did draw a lot of attention, but she went home with Tom and Candee before the reception really kicked into high gear, and the rest of the night was exactly the kind of party that Josh had planned. Liz would have loved the wedding, and knowing that I had successfully survived the day, she would have been proud.

  In addition to getting to know more distant relatives, this trip was a great opportunity for us to start spending more time with the grandparents—even more than I might have if Liz had been with me. When she and I came home, family hadn’t always been our first priority. We both had a lot of friends still in town, and would often head straight from the airport to someone’s house for a dinner party that had been arranged just because we were visiting. But this trip was different. With Madeline in tow, I had to pay more attention to our families because they wanted (and perhaps needed) to spend time with her as much as I did. So during this trip we began a new tradition: my two sets of parents would meet us at Tom and Candee’s house on the night of our arrival for dinner and some shared time with Maddy. Thankfully, everyone had always gotten along well, but after Liz’s death they became even more willing to spend time together.

  During that first trip back, everyone sort of swapped her around, eager to have her in their houses—I like to think that Madeline’s presence brought their homes to life in a way that Liz had. But it wasn’t just the grandparents who wanted to hang out with Maddy; each set also made sure that their friends and extended families were able to spend time with her as well. Though I was happy to lend out my best girl, it felt fucking strange that she was having new experiences with new people, and I wasn’t there to witness it all.

  But while everyone else was getting their fix of Madeline, I got to take a short fishing trip with three of my five brothers
. It was something I wanted to do to recapture a camaraderie that had disappeared long ago, so we went up to the family cabin, where I hadn’t been since the late ’90s. We headed out to the middle of the lake in a boat, drinking beers, joking around, and doing some fishing. For a second, it felt like it used to feel when we all lived in the same state and could get together more easily. It was great to be back with my brothers—there was no pretense. We didn’t have to worry about awkward silences, and no one had to fear saying the wrong thing.

  Going back home again, this time with my daughter, was exactly what I needed to refocus and remind me that my life would continue to move forward, even if I thought it never again would. The trip to Minnesota had been a refreshing and much-needed escape, giving me a chance to spend time with family and friends who kept my mind off of Liz’s death. It was these people who’d be there for me to make sure I’d someday be happy again. And with their help, I’d been able to start making new memories with Madeline in this old place.

  When we arrived back in Los Angeles, I was jarred into the present. One of Liz’s friends had arranged for a housekeeper to come in and give our house a thorough cleaning while we were gone in Minnesota, which it had not had since Liz died. When I set our luggage down in the living room, I was surprised to see a path carved through the piles of unopened packages that had been arriving from blog readers. The outpouring of kindness had been unreal—and now the boxes were stacked neatly, which was a massive improvement.

  With Madeline in my arms, I walked through the house as if for the first time. The kitchen was immaculate: the sink free of dishes, bottles behind the cabinet doors, counters clear and devoid of anything but small appliances. I walked into the hallway. The kitchen door closed behind me and I stopped in my tracks; one of Liz’s black elastic ponytail holders on the doorknob had caught my eye. She had left one on every doorknob in the house so that anytime she needed to throw her hair back she could do it without having to dig one out of a drawer in the bathroom. They’d always been there, but seeing the little bungee cord now—without being distracted by messiness—was like being stabbed in the heart all over again. Like when I saw her car parked out front, for a brief second it felt like Liz was still here. Like she was just in another room and would be coming back shortly to put her hair up in a ponytail. I missed her so fucking much, and those little black things were a big enough reminder to set my heart racing.