At home, I change clothes and force my head to focus on which downtown route to take and where we should eat. It’s not until I’m riding east on 24th Street that I realize I forgot to say hello to his bike.
* * *
Six months?
How many sunsets and sunrises have I seen since March?
How many flights booked, bills paid, birthdays attended?
How many suitcases packed and unpacked?
Who’s the girl who’s been doing all this?
She can’t be . . . me?
I’m the girl who cries each time she deletes one of his shows from the DVR.
And chokes every time Citibank asks if there are any other signers on the account?
I’m the girl who still lights the candle in front of his photo and restores her wedding ring to the left hand every night.
I’d like to meet the girl who’s been handling all this other shit.
* * *
Before walking into a room, I usually know if I’m the white elephant or just a girl in a party dress. Knowing which one I am influences who I talk to, how much I drink, how late I stay—or how early I duck out.
Tonight, I’m attending a party for a Vogue freelancer and I’m pretty certain she’s the only person who knows I’m a widow. I want to keep it that way because, well, crying at parties just weirds people out.
All night, I artfully dodge grenades: Why did you move to New York? For love. And how’s that going? Not quite as planned, but I absolutely love the City. [Change subject quickly.]
I use vague phrases like “the man I was with” instead of “husband” and swap out “mother-in-law” for “relative.” These edits prove successful: no one asks if I’m married/how long I’ve been married/was married. It’s not until a girl named Emily hears my name, repeats it, and gives me The Look that I realize I’m not incognito anymore.
Oh my, she says. You’re Tré.
Damn it, I think.
I’m a friend of Mariana’s . . . she’s told me so much about you.
I love Mariana, I gush. She’s in Wyoming—or South Dakota?—on some crazy road trip with her favorite gay. How do you know her? Did you work together?
Emily’s not listening.
She’s reading my face, my eyes, my diamond-on-the-right-hand.
Assessing the white elephant.
I will not cry right now. I will not.
I try again to deflect: Mariana, I say, is truly one of the amazing people in my life.
That’s so good to hear, says Emily.
She was my rock this summer, I say.
It’s been, what, a year and a half now?
Six months—yesterday.
She exhales the words Six months?
And reaches for my arm.
Her eyes widen, no longer analyzing me.
Let’s get you a drink, I say, signaling a waiter.
* * *
Next weekend is the one-year birthday of Barby’s daughter and I’ve recently learned that a kid’s first birthday is a big deal in Cuban culture. As in, invite people from all over the country, rent event space, and order a special piñata involving a string. This party will mark my first appearance at a Rodríguez family gathering since It Happened, and I already know I’ll be the white elephant in the room. But since I cannot duck out early or get drunk at my niece’s birthday party, I’ve asked my mom to fly in and be my date.
When I open the door to her tonight, it’s the first time she’s seen me in three months. It’s also the first time she’s seen the teak box in the living room. Her suitcase is barely inside the apartment and she’s already crying.
Welcome to my world, I almost say.
I hug her, but I can’t have puffy eyes at client meetings tomorrow, so I bite back my emotion and feel validated for booking her in a hotel all week. When she reluctantly leaves a few hours later, I have a stone in my stomach but I force myself to choose tomorrow’s outfit and go to bed.
* * *
During my lunch hour, I call my mom for the eighth time. She’s been MIA since leaving for the Royalton last night, and when I finally reach her, her voice is sad and squeaky.
What’s wrong? I ask. Do you not have cell service?
Oh, Therresa. I’ve been crying all night.
But why?
Because we’re separated in the same city, she sobs. Why did you put me in a hotel?
Because the last time you stayed with me, I say, all you did was clean my already-clean house and vibe me for smoking. Because you won’t want to go to the dinners or parties on my schedule. Because I don’t want an audience when I light the candle in front of Alberto’s portrait and answer emails from lawyers and cry myself to sleep.
I’ll stay out of your way, she promises. I just want to be there for you.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why won’t I let her be a mother to me?
Because she’s leaving next Sunday and I’ll be alone, missing her.
And I’m tired of all the missing.
I want to tell her to man up, stop being silly, and just go to the Met and see some art already. Instead, I tell her in a flat voice that I’ll cancel the hotel for the rest of the week and meet her in the lobby at 7pm.
* * *
Mom wasn’t expecting me to be such a shit show but it’s what I am.
And worse.
Me and my brave face are coming off as mean and bossy but I feel powerless to course-correct. Everything she does offends, inconveniences, exhausts me. She pushes back on dinner reservations I made weeks ago, stuffs my refrigerator with food I have no appetite for (I hate asparagus!), and wants to watch movies I can’t stand.
Even as I’m fighting her every thoughtful gesture, every well-meaning action, I’m acutely aware of what a selfish little monster I’ve become.
* * *
In the shower before work, I know I should apologize for the asinine argument I started with my mother this morning.
But my ego—my effing ego—shouts over my conscience and by the time I exit the bathroom, I’m all wrapped up in a towel of self-righteousness.
Mom takes one look at me and shakes her head.
What, I say.
She bites her lip before bursting into tears.
You have no idea how hard it is to see you like this, she sobs.
Like what, I say, indifferently.
Like a bitter old woman, she says.
Love you too, I say, but somewhere inside me, something gives.
Her tears.
Bring me to tears.
I embrace her and apologize.
And mean it.
I spend the rest of the day asking God, between conference calls, to forgive me.
* * *
I come home to a mother who’s kinder than I deserve.
I set down my handbag and meet her eyes.
Okay, so I’m not saying it’s a valid excuse, but today I realized that my brave face is not really brave. It’s just straight-up fake. You truly know me—so you see right through it—but my fake face is how I get through the workweek. And if I don’t put it on, I will cry when I read the front page of the Post. Or lose my shit in client meetings.
I get it, she says.
But I didn’t, I sigh. I don’t know how to balance work performance and grieving, but I’m now aware that my fake face doesn’t work outside the office.
Now I know how to pray for you, she says, wiping her eyes.
In this moment, Mom and I are restored to our rightful orbit. Our banter is once again easy and I’m laughing, not bristling, at her idiosyncrasies. What was unbearable yesterday is now cute, endearing even.
I let myself enjoy her company, appreciate the fact that someone is once again seeing me off in the mornings and welcoming me hom
e at night. She spends the rest of the week doing errands that I haven’t found the energy to do, like finding a good upholsterer so I can choose the right shade of velvet for the vintage armchair in the living room. She prints the application to renew my soon-to-expire passport. Measures my end tables and orders glass tops for delivery. Locates a lamp store to replace the tired shades on Alberto’s modern lamps.
In three days, she accomplishes more of my household to-do list than I’ve managed in six months.
* * *
It’s turning into autumn, which means an inevitable trip to the storage basement to swap out my summer wardrobe for fall. In lieu of Alberto, my mom helps me roll our Metro rack upstairs to the apartment.
When I unbutton its linen slipcover, it opens like a stage curtain revealing scenes from my previous life. What was once a lovely seasonal ritual—rediscovering clothes we’d forgotten about, trying things on and making piles for charity—has me hyperventilating today. I turn away from his summer clothes hanging where he placed them last September and focus on sweeping my closet for summer whites, madras, sandals, pastels. These go into the wardrobe rack as my velvet blazers, wool slacks, boots, and cashmere come out. I move quickly because the sooner I’m done, the sooner I can retreat to the office and avoid the sight of Mom moving his linen suits, polo shirts, and swim trunks into storage bins.
In the office, I put on my iPod and drown out the clatter of hangers and the soft sound of molecules being folded away, out of sight, out of memory.
* * *
I’ve pasted a smile on my face.
Linked arms with Mom.
And hung Alberto’s Nikon around my neck.
Without these props, I know I will cry today. But a meltdown in front of sixty people at my niece’s first birthday party, well, that dish ain’t on the menu. A few of the women here seem to be expecting my meltdown, intent on prompting it even. At least that’s my take on the various characters who hover after making small talk with me, just waiting for the “right” moment to rub my arm, look squarely in my eyes, and say something like, but how are you holding up?
How am I holding up?
How do you think, lady?
I’m a string and a paper clip away from falling apart, thanks for asking?
* * *
While Mom packs for her afternoon flight, I take a call from an
anxious Tony Papa regarding the timeline for his surgery and recovery.
You sound a little stressed, man. Can I do anything?
Nah, the issue is that I’ll be bedridden, he says. Can’t shoot or edit. No revenue for two weeks.
I’m scheduled for two new-business presentations so I can’t fly out for his surgery, but after doing some math, I do the next best thing: write him a check. I also dig out a photo of the slateboard from the first film he directed. I’ve been meaning to frame it for six years, but cancer has a way of kicking your ass into action.
Hey, Mom, I say. You busy this Thursday?
What’s up, she asks.
Tony Papa sounds pretty freaked out about his surgery. Can you be my proxy at UCLA Medical? Be in the recovery room when he wakes up?
Absolutely, she nods. I’m there.
You rock, Mom.
I do rock, she laughs.
I circle the apartment, admiring her edits: the rearranged foyer, new lampshades, bookcases installed on either side of the living room windows, a velvet headboard that was delivered yesterday.
You did good, Mom, I say.
She looks up from her suitcase and smiles.
And even though you’re going, you’re leaving me with an apartment that feels reclaimed. Couldn’t have done it alone, I say. And I can’t thank you enough.
She pulls me into a tearful hug.
Thanks for letting me be here for you, she whispers.
When I walk her downstairs to the car, the stone in my stomach from last week has been replaced with a sense of lightness. I spend the afternoon organizing bookshelves and moving around lamps and picture frames, but the household progress comes to a pitiful halt once I mount the new headboard.
It’s been more than an hour and the old one is still in the living room.
Part of me is screaming he built it! You spent your entire marriage with it! Don’t get rid of it!
The other half hears Alberto’s mantra of something-comes-in-
something-goes-out.
No, I say aloud. I’m not ready.
Where you gonna store it? I can hear him asking. It’s old and it’s missing a button. The new one’s better. So, c’mon. Pull your shit together and help me take it to the basement trash room.
Alberto and his damn practicality.
How can I argue—even now?
I wipe my cheeks, get out the camera, and take a few shots.
I open the front door.
And shut it.
I pace.
I cry.
I sit on the floor and hug the headboard. All these smudges, coffee stains, pen marks: have they always been here? I look closer and see a few dark hairs clinging to the fabric.
Chest?
Or pubic?
His?
Mine?
Ours?
Stop.
Stop right now.
You are not saving these hairs.
Or this headboard.
You are standing the hell up.
And opening the front door.
You are carrying this thing into the elevator and down to the basement.
It’s what I do.
Fight or Flight
“You look good—like you’ve bounced back,”
says another well-meaning friend’s mother.
(October 6, 8:58pm via Twitter)
* * *
Over drinks in the Meatpacking district with a few girlfriends and Olympic skier Bode Miller, he and I share a few laughs and stories.
So, I say, any regrets in life? Anything you would do over?
I’ll answer that, he says, but only if you agree to answer the same question.
I agree, though I do not know how I’ll answer. I’ve made my peace with the regrets of March 15th, but do I regret marrying someone who died young? If I’d somehow known Alberto would die four years later, would I have been all in?
I regret nothing, Bode says. What about you?
Just that my husband didn’t live long enough to have drinks with America’s greatest alpine skier.
Bode smiles and clinks his glass to mine.
* * *
I’ve been sleeping on our sofa since the new headboard was installed, but last night’s drinks found me stumbling into bed without a second thought.
My reward?
A few hours with Alberto.
When I awake, I can still feel his hug on my skin. It carries me through a day of meetings and home to change clothes before seeing a play with my colleague Sharon and her theater friends.
I’m changing my earrings when I notice the blue ring box Hilda gave me last Christmas. Or rather, the ring box Hilda gave Alberto to give me last Christmas.
We had left Barby’s after celebrating Noche Buena and as we drove onto Route 3, he’d handed me the blue box and said Merry Christmas from my mother.
Wow, I said, even before seeing the cocktail ring with a large sapphire surrounded by fifteen diamonds.
Holy wow! I said after opening it.
You like?
I love!
I try it on, looking for a finger that fits.
Why didn’t she give it to me herself?
In case you didn’t like it.
I call from the highway and thank her.
I love it, Hilda! Why would you think I wouldn’t?
It wasn’t you I was worried about, she says.
What do you mean?
Come on, Tré: I gave it to Albert first to make sure he approved of it. You know how he is.
I laugh, end the call, and look at Alberto, who’s doing his mock impression of a complete innocent.
In case I didn’t like it? I tease him.
He shakes his head, purses his lips.
I don’t know what my mother told you, he says, but it’s a lie.
Tonight, I pause over the blue box. I’m about to meet people who don’t know I’m widowed and might ask about the engagement ring on my right hand.
Should I?
Is it time to—?
I pull out Hilda’s sapphire ring, slip it on my left middle finger, and hold up my hand.
It doesn’t look remotely wedding-ish.
And it is a Rodríguez heirloom.
I make the switch like I’m removing a bandage on a wound: quickly and without looking. Seconds later, my engagement ring is in its little red box. The transitional ring is on my left hand, which shuts the front door behind me.
* * *
Watched “P.S. I Love You” for the first time tonight and can’t believe how textbook I am: the calls to Alberto’s voicemail, sleeping in his clothes, the shrine in our living room.
Did I actually think my grief was unique? That I was the only other girl in the world who ignored calls from friends and wandered around a messy apartment in one of his shirts, her last shower three days ago?
When Hilary Swank receives the final letter from her late husband, I walk out of the room.
I want letters.
Where are my fucking letters?
* * *
Tré,
You’ve moved me. Thrilled me. Danced me. Laughed me. Delighted me. Intrigued me. Smartened me. Lived me . . . and allowed me to live you this past week. I never want that to end. I hope to always love you as I do right now. I hope to give you all the reasons to love me the same in return . . .
With everything I have,
Alberto
(June 9, 2005)
* * *
The movie I live in? It’s not “P.S. I Love you.” I’m living the nonfiction version, so it doesn’t wrap with a tied-in-a-bow visit to the late husband’s motherland to meet relatives and spread his ashes all over the country.
Or could it?
Splitting the Difference Page 15