My groom was already at the altar awaiting our arrival in his best suit.
In a closed casket.
Pete’s paper published a three-page, highly moving tribute to his life and short yet promising career. All the local city papers did a nice job, actually. Had Pete been there to read them, he would have rolled his eyes and mocked, “So this is all the news that’s fit to print?” Seeing his face—from his grainy black-and-white mug shot press credentials picture to color Corbis stills taken at a recent UN event—staring up from the pages for several days straight was like a cruel gift. My heart would flutter and sink, my hopes would spike and dive. My brain played tricks on me, allowing me to forget for nanoseconds at a time before flooding me with the knowledge and realization at the oddest times . . . while brushing my teeth, changing Abbey’s diaper, buttering toast.
Gone. No more.
Friends and loved ones flocked and fed me that first week, as I struggled to remember there was a life before the after. Acquaintances and colleagues came out of the woodwork to pay their respects and offer what comfort they could. Pete’s family and I would literally collapse at night, exhausted by the kindness of others that forced us to be social when we least wanted to.
And then, day by day and one by one, people began to get wrapped back up in their own lives again. I was relieved in a bittersweet way to have some of the pressure lifted, but the realization that life goes on was still a bitter pill to swallow. It was hard to believe the whole world wasn’t sticking around to mourn in unison with me. Didn’t they know? My whole world had come crashing down, after all. I would recoil in shock at the alien sound of random laughter on the street and stare curiously at the shopkeeper who requested I “have a nice day.” Nice days were out of the question. How could they go on as if nothing had happened . . . How could I go on? How could I ever explain this all to Abbey?
As Piaget observed, the beginning of object permanence occurs when a child starts to actively look for an object that has been hidden or has slipped out of view. My wizened one-year-old took to peeking around corners with her wide brown eyes, plump palm opening and closing, as she would coo, “Da . . . dee? Bye-byeeee.” A milestone heartbreakingly mastered.
Remaining in our apartment was unbearable, unthinkable. I didn’t know where Abbey and I would go, but during those numb days after the funeral, I robotically dismantled and packed up our life. As I carefully wrapped our wedding china in a week’s worth of the New York Times, I noticed every monochromatic bride smiling up at me from her wedding announcement. Her marriage just beginning; mine abruptly over. I would place each wrapped piece into a box with the gentleness of a lover, all the while wanting to scream and fling it against the wall.
It was easy to torture myself with those “what if” questions: What if he had refused to cut short his leave? What if he had chosen to fly instead of take the train? What if Abbey had gotten sick that morning, forcing us both to remain in the cozy cocoon of our home? What if war had been newly declared on that country whose name I can never remember, keeping that diplomat far from Washington and unable to be interviewed? What if we had kissed good-bye longer and he had missed that train? Whatifwhatifwhatif. Then, on my blacker and most pathetic days: What if this was some kind of punishment for me? I had been checking out that cute guy on the treadmill, which kind of falls into the “covet thy neighbor” category, right? Was I an unfit wife? If there was a God doling out only what you can handle, did He think I couldn’t handle a husband? Couldn’t handle being a wife?
The magazine had no objections to my leaving. I was pretty much useless; the hard drive of my mind had shit the bed, and the only things I cared about were Abbey and leaving the city. My assistant, Daisy, sublet the apartment, and Abbey and I did the most logical thing I could think of at the time: We moved in with my parents. Which normally would be the most illogical thing, since they drive me slightly batty. Don’t get me wrong, love and respect them and all that, but the twenty questions (Mom) and the “moral of the story” lectures (Dad) I ran from in my late teens had multiplied exponentially over the years. They were eerily silent for about two weeks after we moved in, and I almost wished for the zany dysfunction we had had when Kevin and I were kids. But they respected this fragile new unit that extended from their family tree, giving Abbey and me our space to grow as daughter and mother, but caring and supporting us as grandchild and child.
Abbey’s first birthday was the first milestone to get through; everyone always says the first year of birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays is the worst after someone passes. Honestly, I was glad it was Abbey’s day, because it broke through the melancholy and the mourning. How can anyone be sad at a first birthday party? The birthday girl put smiles on everybody’s faces, especially when hers was ringed with chocolate buttercream frosting from her tiny three-tiered personal birthday cake Uncle Kevin had flown in from his restaurant in Portland.
My parents left for Florida a couple weeks later, keeping up their traditional migratory pattern as snowbirds who leave New York the minute it’s time to turn on the heat and don’t return until it’s time to turn on the air-conditioning. My dad would be happy as a clam living in a sensory deprivation bubble, and my mom probably would, too, so long as she was allowed out twice a week to shop and get to the hairdresser.
“Don’t forget to winterize the hose bibs” were my dad’s parting words as we pulled suitcases out of the trunk at Stewart Airport. I had no idea what he was talking about, but assured him I would. “Keeps the pipes from freezing and conserves water.” See, there was always a moral to his lectures.
“Tree, are you sure you’re okay with us leaving? Keep the doors locked. I know it’s a safe neighborhood, but I worry. Do you remember where our personal papers are? You know, in case—God forbid—anything should happen? Abbey, come here, give Grandma kissies, Grandma loves you, come visit us soon. Tree, I think she’s hungry. Do you have a snack for her? Do you want us to run inside and get something? Phil, go get a snack for your granddaughter.”
“She’s fine, Mom. I want you to go catch your plane. We’ll be fine, we will lock doors and winterize hose thingamabobs.” I hugged each of them awkwardly, Abbey in my arms and squirming. “What’s this?” My dad was stuffing a manila envelope into my purse from behind, practically dislocating my shoulder.
“It’s the deed to the house. We are transferring it to you, Treebird. We’re tired of the dual households. We’ve decided to stay in Florida year-round.”
“But—”
“It’s all settled, honey. You and Abbey enjoy the house for as long as you need it. Our gift to you. If you decide you want to leave Lauder Lake, sell it and use the money for a new place, or for Abbey’s college fund,” Mom said.
“Gee, are we that hard to live with?” I joked lamely.
“Oh, Tree, the move was something your father and I have been considering for the last year or so . . . Your brother has no interest in the property, so it seemed like the logical thing. But tell us honestly if you are not ready for us to leave. We will postpone. Phil, we can postpone.” She held up her hand authoritatively to prevent my dad and the porter from loading any more of their bags onto the cart.
“No, no, we will be fine. I just . . . I wasn’t expecting it, but it sounds like a good idea.” Truth be told, it was getting slightly claustrophobic in my childhood house; like being examined under a microscope for tiny cracks and signs of a breakdown. I had been juggling Mommy & Me with grief counseling sessions to cut down on our hours spent inside. Bounce ’n’ Play in the morning, followed by bereavement group meetings in the damp basement of the senior center across town. Perhaps the two concepts could be merged: Bounce ’n’ Grieve. I pictured the widows in their elastic waist lounge pants, defying gravity within the MoonWalk, bouncing their bereavement away. “Seriously, Mom. Go. We are okay.”
Relieved, my mother hugged me. “We will call every day. And you’ll be coming
for Thanksgiving, we’ll be up for the holidays . . .”
I went from city co-op dweller to homeless widow to hapless houseguest to suburban homeowner in the span of a month, which is enough to make the average head spin. My head, however, was floating somewhere between the clouds Pete and I used to occupy as we planned our blissful life and purgatory.
I drifted through the days with Abbey by my side, losing myself in innocent play with her only to be yanked back into reality each time I put her down to sleep. I lost interest in the playgroups and bereavement groups. The former was filled with moms chattering about their date nights and their kids’ days out with Dad and the latter filled with women twice my age who had had the luxury of “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” for enough years to at least prepare themselves somewhat. Neither group applied to my situation. They did not make sense in my world.
My alone time was spent munching my way through bags of tortilla chips smothered in cheese, scarfing down store-bought cookies by the cellophane sleeveful, and devouring raw gritty cookie dough straight from its chilled tube—tasks that didn’t require me to think and were best done when I didn’t have to be a good example to my child. That fall, the local Girl Scout troop must’ve had a picture of me along with a map leading right to my house plastered on their wall. They just kept ringing the bell, and I just kept buying and eating more. There was no such thing as too many Thin Mints or Tagalongs when they were being delivered right to my door.
Halloween approached; Pete and I had been looking forward to strutting Abbey around in an adorable chicken costume we had found at a shop in the West Village. Instead, I trussed her up and used her as an unknowing accessory in my quest for easy access to chocolate, eating all of her Halloween loot single-handedly (and single-mouthedly) in less than a week. Some people turned to drinking and let the alcohol wither them away under the same circumstances; I, on the other hand, liked the feeling of the heft and the weight I was gaining. My mind continued to hover above it all, but I liked that my body at least was still anchored to the place where Abbey was. I found it oddly comforting that my thighs now rubbed together when I walked, and I enjoyed the childlike swell to my belly. My body continued to exist and grow, even if my brain didn’t.
Marissa would come over and, like any good friend would, eat cookies with me. She no longer told me to kiss her big fat lily-white ass, as I was toting around one of my very own. And then one day while carrying some of Abbey’s baby toys to the basement, I spotted my dad’s treadmill under a box filled with our Super 8 home movies and some questionable-looking bulky black garbage bags. My parents saved everything, which I guess came in handy when running an antique shop, like my dad had for forty years. I pushed the junk aside, gingerly running my finger over the dusty console. Fuck you, I mouthed to the evil high fructose sugar demon that laughed every evening as I stuffed myself to the point of nausea. What was I gaining, besides weight, by living like a robot, waiting for my blood sugar to crash so I could fall asleep at night? No more nachos, no more nonsense.
I remembered Pete’s mother telling me the story of how he had flipped over the handlebars on his bike at nine years old, cracking a tooth, bloodying his nose, and embedding gravel into his forehead. She had feared it would prevent him from ever getting onto another bicycle again. But the next day, he was at it again. He got right back on that horse, she relayed. And I owed it to Pete to climb back on to my horse.
For Abbey. For myself.
Nighttime treadmill running became my drug of choice. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Yet every time I climbed onto that treadmill and started my ascent, it was in spite of what had happened. My homage to Pete, I suppose.
After logging many lonely miles, I forced myself to seek out a more social situation. The local Y offered a daily spinning class, taught by a peppy lesbian with a hair color fetish named Donna who had the most killer mix CDs to accompany her regimen. The first class I took was not unlike the experience of childbirth: grueling and not sure what to expect, cursing as someone in a less torturous position yelled, “Come on, push!”
Making my mind up to attend that first class had been tough; returning for a second time was tougher. But my curiosity as to how short or purple her hair got or which songs we might hear each day coaxed me in. She would play everything from Johnny Cash to “The Imperial March.” I began to attend regularly, making sure I was on the bike closest to the door in case I needed to bolt. Initially, every other song in her playlist could reduce me to tears; songs as inane as the Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” or as sappy as Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend.” But soon, I broke through the wall, hitting that high runners often describe, and let the sweat replace the tears. I slept better, and I certainly looked and felt better. I could keep up with Abbey, whose legs had lost the baby Michelin Man look and were now long, toned, and coltish. I lost the tummy but gained a shapely butt and more boobs, much to Marissa’s chagrin. She had lost her cookie-eating comrade, but had gained back her best friend.
Big in Japan
“Sure you don’t want a drink or something?”
Leanna and I were standing on my enclosed front porch watching Ed secure the mattress and box spring with rope in the flatbed at the curb.
“Nah. You okay?”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing. Change is good.” I kicked the futon that served as a couch on the porch. “Can you help me bring this into my room?”
“You’re kidding, right? You can’t sleep on that!” Leanna folded her arms across her cashmere cardigan and fixed one of her signature stares on me. Barely five feet two, she commanded attention like a five-star general. “It’s . . . porch furniture.” Her tone sounded eerily like her mother’s “I’m the doctor’s wife” voice we mocked throughout high school. I wondered if she even realized she was doing it.
“It’s a futon. I hear they’re big in Japan.”
“Duh. But you’ll kill your back sleeping on that every night. Christ, what is my husband doing?”
“Sounds like he’s going to leave without you.” Ed was in the truck and honking impatiently. “This isn’t permanent. Just until I buy a new bed.”
“Fuck him. He can wait. I’m not going to come running because he’s honking. Let’s move this thing.” She grabbed one end and tugged it. “Holy crow, this thing weighs more than your mattress and box spring put together!” We managed to drag it off of the wooden frame and down the hall.
“Good thing my bedroom is on the first floor.”
“Good thing I love you like a sis,” she replied. It was our motto, written in each other’s yearbooks and at the bottom of notes we passed secretly in school. Leanna had been an exotic import from Chicago into my biology class freshman year. I could still see her as a sneering punker chick in her tiny combat boots, daring any teacher to catch us; jet-black eyeliner rimming her deep-set Asian eyes, her hair shellacked up into a spiky black mess with sugar water. She had fallen right in with Marissa and me, and with Liz rounding out the group, we became the Fab Four of Lauder High.
“My chariot awaits,” she said sarcastically as we each dusted our hands on our jeans and walked toward the front door. The horn cacophony was approaching warp speed outside. “Like Eddie has anywhere important to go. The man has been unemployed for over two years. Sorry he’s being such a prick.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” Ed had never been too social with any of us, so his behavior didn’t faze me. “How did the shrink visit go?”
“Fine . . . for me, anyway. Ed blew it off.”
She shook her head in dismay, her smooth black hair fanning around her face. Gone were the days of sugar-watered Mohawks and most of her punk attitude. In fact, when she and Ed relocated back to Lauder Lake from the city after 9/11, she seemed about as foreign to me as she had upon first sight in biology class. At the time, I chalked it up to the fact she could have lost her husband, who had been in Tower 7 tha
t day. But as we renewed our friendship once again, I could see there was much more at work breaking her spirit.
“Thanks for helping. And you know I’m always here if you need an ear.”
“Likewise, girl.”
The door clicked closed behind her and, as if on cue, the phone began to ring. I didn’t peek at the caller ID; I suspected it was Gwen. The director of the Lauder Lake Library had been calling daily to inquire about the status of my program. I had sketched out a rough proposal for her weeks ago, but still needed to find the talent.
The ring seemed to take on her shrill and desperate demeanor before finally clamming up. Well, the ringing phone and she could wait a few more hours. I debated whether or not to just break down and ask Karen for the name of her scary balloon-twisting clown. I knew I could do better; I just needed some inspiration.
The box of CDs sat patiently next to my old boom box on the screened-in porch. I slid a fresh disc from the case of thirty and contemplated it. I hadn’t even played it for Abbey or mentioned the program idea yet; I was hoping I’d track down her elusive singer before getting her hopes up. Skipping past the first few tracks, I slipped down to a seated position on the floor where the futon had been, leaned back, and closed my eyes. The same gravelly voice that wooed my daughter to watch Maxwell MacGillikitty, Feline Private Eye every day began to sing a song I remembered from my childhood about a garden and a hoe. About weeds and stones and being made from dreams and bones.
I could picture Abbey’s face the minute she heard this. She was going to love it. I clicked to the next track, “Transatlantic Wake-up Call,” which described a father’s frustration trying to reach his young daughter and the challenge of being in a different time zone. Hmm, was there a deeper metaphor running through there? The song had a somber sound to it, reminiscent of some of my favorite Beatles songs and nothing like any children’s music I had heard before. My fingers smoothed over the bold print of the address label. Burning Barn Studios, LLC. The CD played on as I made my way back inside to my computer.
Louder Than Love Page 3