I decided to stay in Idaho for the remainder of my pregnancy, but my parents weren’t letting Phil skip out on his senior year of high school. In late August of 1993, I accompanied him to a small airport in Washington, from which he would fly to Spokane and then to California. We hugged on the runway and I gave him an envelope containing a four-page letter and one of those cheesy Blue Mountain poems entitled “Why You’re the Best Brother.”
So Phil went back to California and I immersed myself in the Pacific Northwest. I joined the professor’s family of four on outings that involved pressing apples into cider at a Washington orchard. Going to a pumpkin patch in the middle of Montana. Attending Christmas concerts of Handel’s “Messiah” and performances of Swan Lake at the University of Idaho. Going to Lamaze class on Tuesday nights and writing anyone in California who would write back.
Anyone except Griffin, whom I didn’t trust with my whereabouts. His temperament was equal parts lazy and crazy: he’d blow off simple traffic hearings—knowing the penalty was jail time—but he’d also spent months building a lawsuit against his big-box employer . . . and won. Common hassles were beneath him, but big, impossible battles? Those were the sort of quixotic pursuits he went in for.
My California friends had laughed at my warning to keep my location a secret—you’ve seen Sleeping with the Enemy too many times—yet I never quite shook the sense Griffin might appear on the farmhouse porch or outside the florist’s shop.
But my due date came and went with no sign of him—or labor.
My brother and parents also came and went, flying up to spend Christmas with a very swollen version of me.
The day after they left, I worked until noon before heading to my weekly doctor appointment and learning that my ob-gyn was going on a New Year’s ski trip.
Dr. Chen will take great care of you, he assured me.
Dr. Chen? I said. Who the hell is Dr. Chen? You are my doctor and you are delivering this baby. I am not meeting some new guy with my legs in stirrups.
He sighed, looked at his watch, and agreed to induce me.
Today.
Now.
He proceeded to strip my membranes—with something that looked not unlike a knitting needle—then told me to drink some caffeine to boost the baby’s heart rate, pack a bag, and meet him at the hospital at 2pm.
I stopped to tell the florist I’d be back next week—having a baby today, people!—and got a soda with lunch before walking the mile home to pack a bag.
Three hours and seventeen minutes after arriving at the hospital—without so much as a Tylenol despite grand plans for an epidural—Laurie Therese was born.
A day later, her parents arrived and I held her for the last time before going to the Moscow courthouse and signing away my biological rights before a judge.
Six weeks—and thirty sessions with a personal trainer later—I was back in California, rediscovering my pre-pregnancy wardrobe and life. While Laurie spent her first year doing newborn things, I returned to my parents’ house, enrolled in junior college, and took a museum job.
And that four-page letter I gave Phil on the airplane runway?
The day he died, I will find it pinned to his wall, behind the cheesy Blue Mountain poem.
I will re-read it a dozen times while trying to write his eulogy and plan the service.
It’s what I will read aloud—in lieu of a eulogy—at his funeral.
In the years to come, I will flinch at its easy clichés and prescriptive tone, but even more, at the inescapable sense of a sister saying good-bye—twice.
August 30, 1993
Dear Phillip,
I can’t believe you’re leaving! These two months have flown by, haven’t they? It’s been so fun being stranded up here together! I think we’ve had more meals together this summer than we’ve had in two years!
Man, Idaho will not be the same without you to nod at and say “Idaho thing” simultaneously. Who else will shake their head with me at the sight of a dessert pizza (so weird) or people square dancing in the middle of the street? Or when someone offers me kohlrabi (i.e. vegetable that tastes like dirt)? Who else will laugh at a “Clucker’s Club” sign or at someone bumpin’ Vanilla Ice? Who else will ask my not-so-cheerful boss if his sister can please leave for lunch?
I will miss you, little brother, but have to admit how very proud I am of you. You’ve proved yourself responsible, respectful, and dedicated . . .
those are serious accomplishments for only eight weeks! Be confident there’s nothing you can’t achieve once you decide to try your best.
I am so blessed that you decided to resume high school. Since you’ll be done so soon, maybe we can go to college together . . .
wouldn’t that be killer?
On a more serious note, we both know our family isn’t what it was when we were younger. But that doesn’t mean it never will be—it just means a little cooperation and a lot of prayer is needed. Please don’t feel helpless if Dad disappoints you or frustrated if Mom gets on your nerves. But please think when you have the urge to yell or slam a door. Are you hurting their feelings or showing them
how much you love them?
You can make such a difference on our family. It’s up to you whether that impact is negative or positive. Please don’t take that wrong: I’m saying how vital you are to this family and thus recognizing how much you influence it. Thinking before you speak or act will be hard at home—believe me, I know!—but you’ve grown up so much lately
that I know you are capable.
I’ll be praying and rooting for you, Phil, as will many others. And if a situation or decision arises that you feel confused about, don’t hesitate to call me or ask for prayer. I’m proof that it can work miracles!
Not a day will go by that I won’t think about how much I miss you.
But I am comforted just knowing that you are pursuing a goal
of your own . . . and that I’ll see you at Christmas!
(I’ll be big as a house, no doubt!!)
I LOVE YOU!!
Your Sister,
Therresa
Griffin was among the several hundred people who heard my letter-as-eulogy. Undaunted by the circle of friends around me, he had approached during the after-thing at my parents’ house.
Can I have a word, he asked. Outside?
I nodded and stepped onto the porch.
In a quiet voice, he told me how sorry he was about Phil.
I think I finally understand the whole Idaho thing, he said. And I’ll sign whatever you want me to. I just want to make things right.
For the last eleven months, he’d done everything he could to make things wrong.
He had—as I feared—made a trip to Idaho after all. He’d shown up in a Boise courthouse the same day the adoption was to be finalized and petitioned for full custody of Laurie. I learned of this development when he called me from a pay phone afterward.
I’m gonna get her, he snarled. And you’ll have to pay me child support.
I laughed out loud.
Yeah, you and what army?
I lost no sleep over Griffin’s posturing.
Because—let’s review—I’d heard the voice of God on a freaking mountain.
The Voice said adoption.
I’d kept my end of the deal.
God had my back.
The Idaho lawyer who took my case pro bono put in a hundred more hours than he planned. The adoptive parents did a lot of hand-wringing. Phil had taken matters into his own fists and given Griffin a black eye.
And now, out of respect to Phil, Griffin is holding out the white flag.
I don’t make him wave it twice.
I march upstairs in my funeral dress and find the form my lawyer had faxed over months ago just in case. I stand over Griffin while he signs it in my parents’ living room. By the time full
parental rights are awarded to Jack and Lisa a year later, Griffin will be back in jail: a fix-it-ticket-turned-bench-warrant, no doubt.
I will graduate Berkeley a few years later on Mother’s Day and Laurie will move to North Carolina with her three adoptive sisters and all-American parents. According to their most recent letter, she’s the fifteen-year-old star of her cross-country team who loves to entertain and wants to go into criminal justice or culinary arts when she grows up.
* * *
It’s the four-month-iversary of Alberto’s death and my first official day “leading” the PR strategy for one of the world’s biggest vodka brands.
Nine conference calls scheduled this week?
Nearly two hundred incoming emails in four hours?
Can I even do this?
I contemplate quitting all morning.
When I return from lunch—a loose word for three cigarettes, one tweet, and half a banana—I’m greeted by the office doorman, who always has a kind word or compliment for me.
Today I’m in no mood for banter, so I smile and pass through the lobby quickly.
As I wait for the elevator, I hear him say he can’t quite put his finger on it.
On what, I ask, reflexively.
What’s different about you. You’re still smiling like the sun, but it’s a—heavy smile.
The elevator arrives.
I can’t get in fast enough.
He reaches out his arm to stop the closing door and waits for me to say something, explain something.
There’s a reason, I say, but if we keep talking like this, Warren, I’m gonna cry. And I cannot be crying on the twelfth floor.
I press the DOOR CLOSE button and this time he doesn’t stop it, but as the elevator ascends, I hear the faint refrain of his voice.
I just can’t put my finger on it.
Who am I fooling, I think. I can put on lipstick, high heels, and a brave face every day—but for what?
Even doormen see right through me.
* * *
I don’t know how to do this.
How to have dinner with the man I met in New Orleans, who happens to live in Brooklyn.
Feels like I’m cheating.
And incapable of graceful conversation.
The man is asking if I cook, but this question doesn’t come with a simple-dimple answer.
Other than warming a can of tomato-and-rice soup or milk for a latté, no, I haven’t made a thing in our kitchen in four months. Every stupid pan reminds me of meals for two: Meyer lemon pasta, swordfish, tacos with “Tré’s mystery meat,” Boston lettuce salads with blue cheese, eggplant parm from Da Silvano’s cookbook. I’ve been to the market exactly twice since Alberto died.
So to answer your question: Yes, I used to cook. I don’t anymore.
Any more awesome questions?
Turns out, he has lots of awesome questions.
I can’t stand any more, so I ask two of my own: Can you drop me off in Chelsea? Or should I just take a cab home?
I’ll drive you, he says.
I thank him for dinner—and for being a gentleman.
We both know we won’t keep in touch: the Alberto-shaped space between us is too massive.
* * *
I’m the white elephant in the room.
In the sanctuary, specifically.
Someday I’ll feel comfortable enough to stay after the sermon with other churchgoers, but at this part in the movie, I haven’t recovered enough of my small-talk skills to have coffee in the basement with Pastor Weinbaum’s congregation.
With any congregation, for that matter.
I duck out the church’s side door, wishing widowhood came with an invisible force field that gently—and wordlessly—repelled others on demand.
* * *
I can’t be the only idiot in NYC who’s noticed the sound the subway makes as it takes off?
How similar it is to the first few notes of “There’s a Place for Us?”
Before meeting Alberto, I didn’t know this song—or anything else by Barbra Streisand.
He’d found this impossible to believe.
Are you saying you don’t know the People Who Need People song?
Sorry, I said. When you sing her songs, I’ve got nothing: not the next note, not the next word.
Shee-ott, he said. You gotta get educated, girl.
My education began that night, when he launched an iTunes session of Babs 101, and continued through our marriage.
Hearing the sound of Streisand in the subway today and not being able to text him makes me want to climb out of the metro, out of the moment, out of the memory.
* * *
My office has kindly granted me time off for Alberto’s birthday and the days surrounding our wedding anniversary. I want to get out of the City, as far from familiarity as possible, but I need co-pilots.
I text Maggie, who accompanied me to Sway a few months ago, and ask if she’s free for my anniversary weekend?
Hell yes, she replies. Let’s make like a hurricane and blow.
Since Tony Papa’s birthday is two days before Alberto’s, he suggested we meet up for a long weekend.
Just pick a city, he said, and I’ll meet you there.
I start considering destinations.
Alberto never got to Vegas—still can’t wrap my head around that—but I’ve been a hundred times and so has Tony.
Puerto Vallarta?
Too much traveling for a three-day weekend.
Puerto Rico?
I’ve heard that’s where Alberto met his first wife, so um, no.
Grand Canyon?
Too hostile in August.
Aspen?
It’s nothing without snow.
I’ve heard North Carolina’s beaches are lovely, but my biological daughter vacations there and should we ever meet, I’d rather not be swimming in a bucket of grief.
I give up on the birthday destination for now, and head out to meet Nikki and Fico for Wednesday night dinner at their place. En route, Nikki texts and ask if we can meet at Ditch Plains instead? It’s the Manhattan outpost of a restaurant in Montauk where Alberto and I dined on our first anniversary, but for once, I actually keep this information to myself.
After a perfect summer meal of oysters, rosé, and fish tacos, we walk through the West Village. Fico points out his favorite townhouses and Nikki describes interiors of landmarked brownstones they once visited on a historical tour. They share stories about their college romance at Hobart and long-distance courtship when Fico worked for an ad agency in Chicago. We part with leisurely hugs on Hudson, and I resist Fico’s offer to hail a cab for me.
I’m gonna walk, I say. It’s a lovely night.
I head north and pass a wine store Alberto and I frequented. The brunch place with good omelets. The park on Bleecker where we always seemed to run into friends with kids.
Yeah.
Enough with the memory lane already.
I see a cab thirty feet ahead and shout for it. The cabbie doesn’t hear me, but the exiting passenger does.
He holds the cab, but disappears before I can properly thank him.
Bless you, I shout as I slide into the backseat, thanking God for the benevolence of strangers.
* * *
Certain objects in our kitchen comfort me.
The sofrito sauce in the fridge is like a familiar stranger whose name I’m surprised I remember but I’m always glad to see.
Alberto’s cursive handwriting on the silver dry-erase board still makes me grin like a schoolgirl.
But his row of cereal boxes atop the fridge?
Not so much.
But why? Because he’ll never finish them?
Yes.
Actually.
That’s exac
tly it.
So why keep them around? Do I not encounter—at every turn—furniture, art, bathrobes, and razors that remind me of him? And these objects, for the most part, don’t inspire the same anxiety as the cereal?
I take a picture of the cereal boxes and carry them to the trash chute.
* * *
Over a bottle of wine at my sister-in-law’s in Jersey, we have our first unfiltered conversation about Alberto since It Happened.
So, Barby says, did he ever tell you about the time he got arrested on New Year’s Eve in Miami?
Um, no, I laugh.
Really? So Albert calls me from jail—
Wait—how old was he?
Well, I was going to college in Tampa and my father was still alive, so Albert would have been—well, he’s three years older—twenty-one or twenty-two?
Before he moved to New York, I say. Got it.
So he gets pulled over on his motorcycle—one of those, what do you call ’em—a rice something?
A rice rocket?
Exactly. So he’s pulled over because apparently his helmet isn’t regulation. But when the cop runs his license, there’s a warrant for his arrest—
For what?
Unpaid parking tickets—which Albert claimed that my father had supposedly paid. So yeah, they take Albert to jail and he called me to get our father to bail him out.
So you call your father, I interrupt.
Who basically had no money at that point. And he played dumb about the whole parking-ticket thing.
And your mother?
Right. My mother.
What did she say?
She was in the Dominican Republic or Costa Rica or wherever she went for the holidays that year. No cell phones back then.
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