Splitting the Difference

by Tre Miller Rodriquez

During a thunderstorm.

  In Central Park.

  I open my eyes when he playfully bites my lower lip.

  Let’s have a drink and blow this joint, he winks.

  We scale the stone steps to the castle terrace, blazing with strings of lights. Socialites in party dresses are dancing barefoot to a live Brazilian band and between flashes of lightning, Alberto and I exchange silly grins. One drink later, we skip out of the castle, across the flooded grass and into a cab on Central Park West.

  Soaking wet, we find each other’s hands and lips.

  Tonight, he says, was one of those quintessential New York nights. The kind of night people write songs about.

  * * *

  On my lunch break today, I pass a man dressed as Elvis.

  I’m already humming “Return to Sender” when I see a bus wrapped with an ad for a Broadway musical starring Elvis.

  I should stop at Revolución, I think, and play some Elvis. Except their office closes at 3pm for summer Fridays—when I’m still at work.

  I duck into a semi-quiet doorway and call Alberto’s office.

  One of the girls answers and I ask if she would pull up Elvis on Alberto’s iTunes and press play on my behalf?

  Of course, she says. It’s a good day for Elvis.

  Alberto would agree.

  A few years ago, when I was looking for something in his closet, I’d found a coffee-stained cassette tape of Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits.

  What’s the story on this, I asked him.

  That was my dad’s, he said, his voice turning low and gravelly. Whenever I feel down, I listen to Elvis. Gets me through the rough stuff.

  I decide to play Elvis all weekend.

  * * *

  Our espresso machine has stopped espresso-ing.

  Which means I have to messenger it somewhere in the Bronx for service.

  More pressingly, it means I have to find my coffee elsewhere this Saturday morning.

  I decide to go downstairs to the coffee shop I used to frequent every weekend after my cardio class. I haven’t been back since March 14th and today there’s no Ashley behind the counter, no art-house music playing, and I’ve forgotten my stupid loyalty card.

  I get my latté and get the hell out.

  On the street, I take a sip and halt in my flip-flops: the taste transports me back to the chilly air of late winter.

  Patagonia jacket zipped to my chin.

  Post-workout sweat in my hair.

  To the computer where I’d quietly sip my coffee and spend the hour (or three) before Alberto would wake to start our weekend.

  It tastes so much like my former life that back upstairs, I have to stop myself from looking toward the bedroom for a glimpse of Alberto’s feet under the duvet.

  * * *

  In a city of 7 million people, there are a lot of emergencies in a single day.

  Every time I hear the wail of a fire truck or ambulance—whether I’m at work or on the street or in the apartment—I’m sucked back to the phone call with Harmony, hearing the sirens approach.

  In these five months, I’ve developed a coping mechanism, a Pavlov-esque response to the sound of emergency vehicles: I pray for wisdom for the rescue squad and God’s will for the person they’re rescuing and their families.

  By the time I say Amen, the sirens have passed and I’m back in present tense. Back to the conversation I was having, the street I was crossing, the email I was writing.

  * * *

  I’m shamelessly over-packing for the Bahamas.

  I walk around our apartment like the kid in “Home Alone,” announcing what Alberto would disapprove of: I’m bringing FULL-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner! THREE pairs of flip-flops! Two Suitcases!

  Our house is silent but for the whirr of the AC.

  I add another sundress to the five I’ve already packed and play some Elvis.

  * * *

  Four years ago today, we stood in a private garden at Paradise Point in San Diego.

  We exchanged vows, laughter, and a few happy tears at sunset.

  I was, as the florist put it, the calmest bride she’d ever met.

  There was a reason.

  And it wasn’t Valium.

  It was because Alberto planned everything.

  While I was busy storing, selling, or shipping everything in my West Hollywood home, he was designing the wedding invitation. Researching jazz trios and photographers. Creating the four-hour song list.

  As I wrapped my last chaotic week at work, he chose the cake designer and selected matching shirts and ties for him and my father. Planned the menu from three thousand miles away. Recruited Fico to help him taste and pair wines for each course.

  My responsibilities?

  Pick the wedding location, find a dress, book the florist, and plan the engagement party. After that? Just write my vows and show up. Only now do I fully appreciate the magnitude of his planning and his attention to detail. Only now do I recognize how rare a groom he was.

  I spend the afternoon writing an anniversary card to him and fielding calls from the office. Maggie arrives just before sunset, and we tie my card to eight balloons—remembered the hole-punch this time—and watch them disappear into the ether. Afterward, we dress for dinner at a place Alberto would have liked, order a big bottle of champagne, and finish it in our suite.

  * * *

  Lounging at the pool today, Maggie and I do our best to ignore the loud, forty-something men with the corner beach cabana. But around sunset, we accept their invitation to join them for a drink and later, in the casino and VIP section of a club.

  Gorgeous Bahamian girls refill our glasses and give lap dances to the men, who do not hit on us or drop pills into our drinks. They just cheer as we dance together, alone and with other girls. I’m feeling the music and energy and champagne so I dance for hours. We close the place, not being allowed to pay for a thing, and head back to The Cove.

  It’s the kind of night that often happens with Maggie.

  It’s the kind of night I’ve needed all summer.

  * * *

  An afternoon storm postpones our scheduled swim with dolphins so Maggie and I find ourselves in the hotel room watching TV. Since Ted Kennedy died on my wedding anniversary and it’s been four years since Hurricane Katrina, the news channels are a litany of misery. Watching CNN’s broadcast of Kennedy’s funeral at Arlington, I’m surprised that cameras have been granted access to such a deeply personal ritual. I feel like a voyeur, but find myself flippantly observing the details of the service.

  Hydrangeas for an August service in D.C.?

  Those flowers wilt in five minutes.

  But holding the internment at dusk?

  So apropos.

  I announce to Maggie that if I ever plan another funeral, it will be held at sunset: the somber, shadowed setting is pitch-perfect.

  Let’s hope you never have to plan another funeral, she says.

  Touché, I agree.

  When I realize dusk is falling, I turn off the TV. There are ashes and flowers to spread before the day turns dark, so we head downstairs to the beach. In the shallows of Paradise Island, I synchronize my release of his ashes with Maggie’s sprinkling of flowers on the water.

  I reach for the last handful, my arm extending to release it, but my wrist refuses to cooperate.

  My fist remains clenched.

  I neither want to feel the shards of his bone in my hand nor do I want to let go.

  My rational mind negotiates with my grief for a few moments.

  I force myself to try again.

  I aim for the floating red lilies and this time my hand opens: the gray powder streams out, bits of bone go white as they break the surface and sink through clear saltwater.

  Arrrrrgh, I shout. I hate doing this!


  Then why are we doing it? Maggie asks quietly.

  It’s a fair question.

  That takes me a minute to answer.

  To acknowledge him, I say, slowly. To bring our past history into my present tense.

  * * *

  Last night, I flew directly from Nassau to Boston for a new client meeting. Somewhere over the Caribbean, someone hacked Alberto’s Facebook account, initiated chats with his friends, and asked for money. Another asshole—or maybe the same one—stole my banking information and has opened sales accounts in my name for products called Colo Cure, Brite Smile, and Beach Ready body. Via text, I ask my mom to please report the money scam to Facebook. I cancel my bankcard and pray I have enough cash to get back to New York. All this action takes place in my hotel room before I walk into a 10am meeting with four colleagues and two other agencies.

  Fuck August already.

  Meltdowns & Melanoma

  Six months? Really?

  Feels like the half-year that happened to someone else.

  (September 15, 11:28am via Twitter)

  * * *

  I keep seeing shadows of Alberto—men that look and dress like him—everywhere.

  Everywhere except Facebook.

  After my mom reported the hacking, Alberto’s profile disappeared. Apparently, freezing the accounts of deceased members is Facebook’s “corporate policy.”

  Not seeing his picture on my profile page—or anyone else’s—triggers my hyperventilation. I’m trying to contact a college pal with friends at Facebook’s headquarters when Tony Papa calls.

  Thank God, I say. Maybe you can help.

  On the other end of the phone, I hear a sob.

  Tré. Oh, shit, Tré.

  Wait—what’s wrong?

  I have—

  You have—what?

  An invasive form of malignant melanoma.

  No.

  I’m about to have the fight of my life, Tré.

  I can’t even process these words.

  I’ve known Tony for twenty-two years. Since losing Phil, he’s the closest thing to a brother I’ve had. He’s been there for the parties, the birthdays, the weddings, but also the funerals, the break-ups, the bullshit.

  I hear myself talking Tony down from the ledge, praying with him, writing down surgery dates, but I crumble as soon as we hang up.

  I cannot imagine my life without Tony Papa.

  Where are you, Alberto, on days like this?

  Days when a girl needs an effing hug already?

  Alberto wasn’t great with death or diagnoses, but hugs?

  Hugs he knew how to do.

  On our couch, I close my eyes, stretch out my arms, and imagine that he just came home from work.

  I picture him tossing his keys in the foyer dish and taking off his headphones.

  He would say what happened as soon as he saw my face.

  I’d tell him.

  I’m sorry, babe, he would say and wrap his arms around me.

  I can almost feel his tan sport coat against my bare shoulders, his starched collar on my cheek, smell the hours-old Helmut Lang on his neck.

  He would kiss my head, my ear, ask me questions.

  Where is he being treated?

  UCLA Medical.

  Should you go to California for the surgery?

  Tony says no, but I’m thinking yes.

  How’s he handling it?

  Like a man on a mission to live.

  I lie there, waiting for the next imaginary question.

  But as suddenly as the moment washes over me, it’s gone.

  * * *

  Five years ago, I thought the U.S. Open was a televised golf tournament that my dad was glued to once a year. It wasn’t until my first June as a married New Yorker that I realized it’s also a tennis tourney held in Queens.

  In early September 2006, Alberto and I took the train to see the women’s semifinals and again, for the men’s finals. I didn’t follow much of the action—my tennis knowledge was limited to watching my mom take lessons when I was a kid—but I was nonetheless caught up in the experience of good seats at a civilized sport where Heineken Light is served in large souvenir cups.

  By my third tournament, I had a better grip on the sport, due in no small part to Alberto’s commentary before, during and after the matches. And so the U.S. Open became—like the crossword on weekends and Quebec in winter—“what we do in September.”

  This year, I would like to sit out September. This year, I am leading the PR for the vodka brand that sponsors the damn U.S. Open.

  Not only can I not sit out September, my job requires me to follow the tournament and pitch the U.S. Open to cocktail writers and bloggers. Every day, I messenger souvenir gift baskets and comp tickets and arrange for drinks to be brought to the courtside seats of people like Chelsea Handler.

  In the subtext of every client conversation and reporter email is the latent reality that I am not attending this year’s Open.

  Or next year’s.

  Or perhaps any year’s.

  And the subtext of the subtext doesn’t have shit to do with tennis.

  * * *

  I wake up wearing Alberto’s dress shirt and decide there are better places to be today than this apartment.

  A former colleague has invited me to join her and her girlfriend at the beach in Long Island, so I text them and say I’m coming.

  On my walk to Penn Station, I realize the only other time I’ve taken the Long Island Railroad was the weekend of our first wedding anniversary, when I met up with Alberto in Montauk. I had to finish up a client’s media tour in the city, so he drove the convertible out early and I took the train in the afternoon.

  It rained every night but during the day, we’d taken long drives and had beer-battered fish and Coronas at Gurney’s. We’d brunched in town on a chilly Sunday and I’d bought a Montauk sweatshirt that was three sizes too big because all the small ones were printed with the words “The End.”

  What a dreadful motto, I’d said.

  Alberto had laughed, explained that Montauk was at the end of Long Island, hence the local nickname.

  Still, I said. It seems like such a morbid thing to wear.

  * * *

  Two milestones today.

  Found Alberto’s face on Facebook—logged into his account and his profile somehow reappeared—and after nearly six months, cooked dinner for one.

  There’s a saucepan in the sink.

  And a spatula.

  The veggie tacos I cooked?

  Not great.

  But not toxic either.

  I can almost imagine going to Gristedes Market again. Almost.

  A year from now, I will have made dozens of trips to Gristedes. Two years from now, I will host a three-course dinner for twelve guests with ingredients from this market. I will have to push through plenty of meltdowns on Aisle Three but eventually, going to Gristedes will feel as routine as charging my phone at night.

  * * *

  Thirty-seven years ago tomorrow, my parents were married in caftans in California with wreaths of plants and flowers crowning their heads. There was an outdoor ceremony with a wheat-germ wedding cake and gifts of psilocybin mushrooms. A honeymoon in the form of a road trip in their Volkswagen van.

  The van is long gone and so are the mushrooms, but they still have each other.

  I call our family florist and choke out a message for the card. My voice is reciting celebratory words but my internal monologue is writing a selfish version: You guys have thirty-seven years together! Do you know how effing lucky you are? Can you appreciate waking up for nearly four decades beside a spouse who has . . . a pulse?

  I try to imagine Alberto and me at thirty-seven years married.

  He’d be seventy-four. />
  I’d be sixty-seven.

  We’d be wrinkly and retired, living somewhere warm like the Caymans or Key West. Maybe we’d have a restaurant or a few kids, maybe just a Bassett Hound. We’d definitely have a convertible.

  But in 2042, would we still be in love like we were in 2009?

  Not likely.

  At what point would we have fallen into complacency? When would I have stopped mailing love postcards to his office? When would he have stopped surprising me with a dress from Barney’s? Which Christmas would we have settled for dinner at home instead of a view from a fancy hotel?

  Surely this would’ve happened eventually.

  Except it didn’t.

  It ended in the honeymoon phase.

  So I have two options: I can be bitter that it didn’t have a chance to go south. Or I can be grateful.

  * * *

  It’s Fashion Night Out, and I’m meeting a former client for dinner and shopping.

  If you don’t mind, the ex-client had said. I’d like one of my colleagues to join us. Krista lost her husband a few months ago, and it might be good for her to meet you.

  I’m expecting a train wreck who can’t say her husband’s name without crying, but instead, I encounter an endearing woman who’s moving through her grief at a quicker clip than me. At four months widowed, she’s already sold their car and Riverdale apartment. She’s looking at places in Manhattan so she can, as she puts it, start meeting people and stop commuting to the suburbs. She’s changed her Facebook status from “Married” to “Single,” bypassing “Widowed” altogether, and she’s had more one-night stands than I have.

  The only indication that she might be rough around the edges comes when I confess that I just cooked the first meal in our kitchen since Alberto died and she admits that every Monday, her mother delivers a week of meals to her.

  If they weren’t in my freezer, she whispers. I would forget to eat.

  * * *

  My colleague Sharon invited me on an evening bike ride tonight and I heard myself saying yes. Yes because the eighty-degree weather seems too precious to waste and yes because my next bike ride could be six wintry months away. But now, en route to our apartment, I want to take it back.

  The six-month-iversary is hours away and what if I have a meltdown on the bike path with someone I work with?