The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “Does the Salvation Army take Sweet’N Low?” Jay asked, as we cleaned out cupboards in the kitchen. John’s kitchen. His wood chopping block marked by pot burns and oil spills, nicks from his set of Henckels knives.

  “Chrysalis won’t take it,” Chloe said, talking about an “exclusive” homeless shelter in Santa Monica. “They only allow Stevia. It’s natural.”

  “Of course,” I said. “What do I call John? Is he still my husband?”

  “Of course, he’s still your husband,” Chloe answered.

  “In a year? Will he be my husband in a year?”

  Chloe and Jay exchanged glances. Here’s the thing about death—it’s unlike any other game you’ve played (unless you’ve played gin with Aimee)—there are no rules.

  “What about my wedding ring?” I ask. “It makes me feel like I’m lying. But if I take it off, I’m really alone.”

  “You want me to make you some grieving tea?” Chloe asks. How do I tell her that I am all tead out?

  “No thanks, baby,” I say. Chloe and Jay are helping me sort through John’s belongings. What to keep, what to donate, what to toss. So far, I’ve kept everything. I stop Jay when he’s about to throw out a small jar. “What if I need fish stock base?” I ask. I’m not even sure what fish stock base is.

  “It’s expired,” Jay said, “September.”

  “The fish base went at the same time as John,” I said. “That means something. I have to keep it.”

  Grieving is difficult in a world where bad news doesn’t exist, a world known as Santa Monica, California. Every day is a sunny 72 degrees, except in the early mornings, when the fog rolls in. I’m up early to spend quality time with my fog. The fog and I, we have an understanding; the fog “gets” me. But soon enough, here comes eight o’clock, and it abandons me, surrendering to blue skies and fresh, ocean breezes. And that sun, that damn sun. Santa Monicans act like they can “catch” bad news. I think it’s because everyone’s so healthy. Grieving widows, a living sign of human vulnerability, are as welcome as chlamydia. (Unless, I imagine, you’re a vegan, recycling widow.)

  I live in NoMo, the fashionable side, North of Montana Avenue, in a Spanish-style bungalow. NoMo has wide, tree-lined streets curving toward the ocean, large, expansive homes, and swimming pools. SoMo, South of Montana, has apartments and condos, small homes, a few anemic-looking trees, and the dreaded parking issue. In these parts, Montana Avenue is our 8 Mile.

  “Fashionable,” however, doesn’t describe my home. Casa Sugar has two bedrooms, almost two baths; it’s what’s known in real estate parlance as “charming.” Charming, if you like old, spotty plumbing. Charming, if you like raising mice. Charming, if you want to get to know drywall specialists. Casa Sugar is a 1920s vestige from when wealthy people built beachside bungalows to live in during the summer months. These homes are a dying breed; they’re rapidly being torn down and replaced by marble and cement “Mediterranean” monoliths.

  In my little backyard is a beautiful hundred-year-old avocado tree. My Realtor—who knew Trish, the widow who’d lived there close to fifty years—told me the tree was the reason she’d bought it. I believe her. Monet would have painted this tree had he lived in NoMo instead of Giverny.

  Over the years, I had saved a reasonable amount of money for a down payment, and had been searching for a charming (small, extreme fixer-upper) bargain. I’d almost given up when my Realtor called, and in her gravelly New Jersey accent, intoned: “We got somethin’ here, geez, you better come see it. It’s nothing to look at, frankly, but it’s cheap. They got it on the historical registry, you won’t believe it.”

  Historical registry. Music to my ears. The price would be more reasonable, as developers wouldn’t want to swoop in—there was no upside to buying a tiny house where the lot was worth more than the structure.

  Walking into Casa Sugar was like taking a trip in a time machine. A step-down living room. Original moldings. Antique lamps and ashtrays. A Japanese screen from the 1920s. Hard candies in carnival glass dishes. Silver-framed eight-by-ten glossies of a black-haired beauty with bow lips and arresting eyes. The widow Trish had been some looker, way back when. On the counter in the tiny kitchen, a notepad with careful cursive writing.

  Trish’s heirs were looking for a quick sale. Anyone with half a brain would have walked away. Well, apparently, I don’t possess half a brain, because I loved Casa Sugar. She was like me, outmoded and in need of cosmetic work.

  My daughter, Ellie, named our house when she was barely two (proof of Ellie’s genius). Casa looks like a big sugar cube, with thick white walls and deep blue accents. I’d seen some crappy movie shot in Greece with Daryl Hannah, a French chick, and the actor with the eyebrows, in a tame ménage à trois. I don’t remember the sex (I don’t think about sex anymore); what I remembered was the architecture, the predominant colors: dazzling white and sharp, almost severe, blues.

  Casa Sugar became my Mykonos.

  John and I had plans for a trip to Greece next summer. We’d be quaffing ouzo and eating fried octopus under a blazing Aegean sun. He was going to finish up Greek for Bachelors; I was going to take a month off from work. We had our itinerary mapped out. I still can’t bring myself to call the hotel or airlines to cancel. Maybe I’ll take Ellie. I can’t tell you how screwed up it is that I won’t make it there with John. Unless I bring his ashes with me.

  (Note to self: YouTube “How to pack your husband’s ashes for romantic trip to Greece.”)

  Build it and he will come. It turns out that all I had to do to attract the right man was to spend all of my life savings. When John showed up, I was like a male peacock, but instead of flashing tail feathers, I wooed him with hardware. He didn’t fall in love with me so much as my doorknobs. Don’t laugh. Those brushed brass doorknobs are very special. I receive a Christmas card from Restoration Hardware every year. And do you think I bought copper pots for my health? I don’t think so.

  Ellie had missed her preschool’s field trip to the Santa Monica Aquarium on the pier. Basically, I had neglected to fill out the field trip form. John had been our designated field trip form filler-outer.

  “Don’t worry, Ellie,” I said, after I realized my (hundredth) slipup. “Mommy will take you to the pier.”

  The Grief Team wasn’t about to let me drive yet, so Chloe volunteered her services. She’d be spending the morning working at the Santa Monica Animal Shelter, which was just up the street.

  “Today might be a good day to tell her,” Chloe said, as she dropped us off on Ocean Avenue, just east of the pier. Ellie was standing on the grass, under a palm tree, just outside of earshot.

  “Great idea, why don’t I just ruin the aquarium for her?” I said.

  I turned to look at Ellie, who was concentrating on a dandelion she’d pulled out of the ground.

  “Children know a lot more than we think,” Chloe said.

  “Go blog yourself,” I said, joking, then called out to Ellie, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go see some fish.”

  Ellie had closed her eyes and was blowing on the dandelion. She was making a wish.

  I knew what it was.

  * * *

  We wandered into the small, open, bright blue building with a sign that read SANTA MONICA AQUARIUM. I was happy to see it wasn’t crowded. Ellie shied away as an older woman, a volunteer wearing a blue shirt with a nametag that read JUDY, approached.

  “Welcome to the Aquarium,” Judy said, then smiled at Ellie. “My, you have a pretty sweater on.” Ellie stared impassively back at her.

  “We’re just going to look around,” I said. “Ellie wants to touch the sea stars, and maybe see an octopus, isn’t that right, honey? And she is really excited about the seahorse exhibit.”

  Ellie frowned.

  “Oh, the seahorse exhibit is very special,” Judy said. “If you have any questions, I’m here to help.”

  Ellie and I cruised the aquarium, from the shark egg tanks to the moray eel exhibit. I could feel her relax as we observ
ed the sea life around us. She became more verbal, less anxious. Ellie sat on my lap as she drew a picture of a humpback whale at the children’s art table, and looked back at me, smiling. When we spied an octopus at the bottom of a big tank, camouflaged as a rock with goggly eyeballs, she laughed out loud. My daughter and I were experiencing a glimmer of normal life.

  There was no way I could introduce the concept of a dead father into this near-perfect morning. I shoved the idea, along with my guilt, to the back of my mind as we pushed on to the seahorse exhibit.

  Ellie pulled me over by the hand. The seahorses were out in force, gliding like water fairies on the current, their tails loosely attached to long strands of sea grass.

  I squinted and read the information card on the tank, then paraphrased for Ellie. “Honey, the female seahorse, the mommies, lay the eggs, but the male seahorses, the daddies, carry the babies until they’re born. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Ellie pressed her nose up against the tank as Judy appeared at our side. “Are you enjoying your tour?” she asked.

  Ellie nodded and smiled at Judy this time, a big grin. “The daddy seahorses are like my daddy,” she blurted out. “My daddy carried me around when I was a baby all the time. Right, Mommy?”

  She turned her little face up to me, her round eyes accentuated by her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Yes, Ellie,” I said softly. “I don’t think Daddy put you down for a whole year.”

  “Your father must be very special,” Judy said.

  “Oh, he is. He’s not here right now,” Ellie said, as though she were reassuring Judy. “He’s visiting somewhere. But he’s coming back. Soon.”

  Judy’s eyes skipped to mine momentarily, then back to Ellie. “I’m sure he is, dear,” she said.

  “Very soon, like at dinnertime,” Ellie said. Judy smiled at her, patted her shoulder, then left to help a family full of kids find the touch tanks. Ellie and I sat back on a bench in front of the seahorse exhibit.

  The seahorses were mesmerizing, with their rainbow sherbet coloring and their quiet domestic contentment. I found myself wishing I could climb inside the tank and gaze soothingly at disquieted humans.

  “Ellie, do you think seahorses talk to each other?” I asked. “Like, do you think they discuss the weather, or who they played with at school?”

  The biggest one of the brood of seahorses was staring me down.

  “Ellie?”

  I turned. Ellie was gone. I looked around. I stood and whirled around—Ellie wasn’t on the other side of the tank. I couldn’t see her anywhere.

  “Ellie?” I called out. “Ellie!”

  The aquarium was starting to get crowded with kids. The sound level was rising.

  “Ellie? Where are you?!”

  I couldn’t possibly have lost my daughter. “Ellie!” I yelled. I was starting to lose feeling in my hands. My knees were getting weak. “Ellie!”

  I was spinning. Where was she? I had looked away for one second.

  “Ellie!”

  Oh, God, I’m the worst mom ever—oh, God, oh God—“Ellie! Where are you?!”

  “Miss?” Judy appeared, and grabbed my shoulder. “Miss, your daughter’s fine.”

  “Mommy, I’m fine.” Ellie was standing next to Judy.

  “She was over by the octopus.”

  “Mommy, I was over by the octopus,” Ellie repeated, and took my hand. I grabbed her to my side.

  “Are you okay? Do you need some water?” Judy asked.

  “I’m fine, sorry. I’m just … I got so scared,” I said, then bent down to look my daughter in the eye. My knees were still shaking. “Ellie, please don’t ever do that to Mommy again. Promise Mommy.”

  “I promise,” Ellie said. “I promise I won’t leave you forever.”

  She hugged me. I buried my face in her hair. When Chloe picked us up, I informed her that we had a great time, and we would never be going anywhere again.

  Have you had a loved one die? A family member? A child? God forbid, don’t even think about it. Ptew, ptew—wave your hands over your head. Okay. How about a husband or boyfriend or wife or girlfriend?

  Here’s what you don’t realize when it happens. You’re going to walk around for days, weeks, calling his name, and getting annoyed when he doesn’t answer. Like he’s ignoring you instead of what he’s doing, which is being dead. You’re going to leave a message on his voice mail and wonder why he didn’t return the call. Then, you’re going to call just to hear his voice. You’re going to forget something at the grocery store and think, well, he’ll pick it up for you. You’re going to wonder what he’s making for dinner tonight. Because he always made dinner. You’re going to hope he’s not experimenting, like the night he made sand dabs with licorice glaze. The pharmacist will call to have you pick up John’s new prescription for Ambien. You’re going to wonder why he needed Ambien. What was keeping him up at night?

  You will pick it up, because you need to sleep. You’re not sleeping at all, but when you do finally, finally fall asleep, you see him in your dreams and he’s so alive in your dreams, you make love to him, he holds you, you talk. You will be crying when you wake up. Waking is the enemy, yet dreams are torture.

  The September sky was ink black and dotted with stars. As Spice stood sentry at Ellie’s bedroom door, Jay and I snuggled on the ground in the backyard like lovers under a blanket, sharing a second bottle of Trader Joe’s seven-dollar pinot. We weren’t in the State of Lucid.

  “I see the first guy I slept with,” Jay said, staring at the stars. “The Constellation Cyrus. Look at the size of that celestial body.”

  I thought about Ellie, fast asleep in her room. “Kids are so resilient,” I said. “I don’t want her to forget … When she laughs, I feel like she’s forgetting …”

  “They’re not that goddamned resilient. I remember every bad moment of my childhood. Ask your therapist.”

  “I don’t have one,” I said. “I have you, I have my Grief Team.”

  “A crazy dog lady, the poster child for narcissistic personality disorder, et moi, Miss Lonely Hearts.”

  “When do you need me back at work?” I asked, changing the subject. Jay hadn’t brought up work, but I know it had to be wearing on him. Jay shifted. I could smell his signature scent above the jasmine. If I had to guess the name, “Rodeo Park Men’s Stall” might be about right.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “I could definitely use your people skills—but take as much time as you need. Within reason. Tomorrow morning good?”

  I laughed. I was the wrangler. I was good at coddling talent (using the term “talent” loosely), making them believe I was listening to their complaints when I was actually thinking about lunch.

  “Tell me a story, Uncle Jay,” I said. “Are Kevin and Karli still together? Have they had a baby yet?” Kevin and Karli were the married, D-level stars of our semi-successful reality show. Think Tori and Dean, lite. Yes, I said lite.

  “They’d have to have sex—with each other,” Jay said. “He’s not a fan of the punany. He has a T-shirt with a circle around a punany, with the punany crossed out.”

  “Even money says they hire a surrogate,” I said.

  “Too easy,” Jay said. He looked at his BlackBerry, then started to get up.

  “You’re leaving?” I whined.

  “Hidalgo,” he said.

  “Married,” I intoned.

  “Hello? Green card. His wife understands.”

  “This is you talking,” I said. “This is what I hear—blah, blah, blah, wife.”

  “I love you, despite your lack of respect for romance,” Jay said. “Don’t stay out here too long. Cold.”

  He kissed the top of my head. I held on to his hands.

  “I love you more, despite your romanticism,” I said, stumbling over the “cism” part. Hi, Wine Tongue. I listened as the screen door shut. A moment later, I heard Jay’s MINI Cooper as it rolled down the street.

  I reached for my glass. My eyelids were getti
ng heavy. Did this mean I would sleep? How about a pleasant dream? How about we leave Salvador Dalí at home tonight?

  “Well,” I said, “tonight I sleep.” I shivered. The night had suddenly turned frigid.

  “It’s not true, you know,” a woman’s voice said.

  I sucked in my breath. Maybe it was the neighbor. Her kids still up?

  “Hello?”

  “What they say,” the voice said. It sounded like an older woman.

  “Oh my God,” I said. Someone was toying with me. Ellie! How many steps to the door? Where’s my phone? Why didn’t I bring my phone outside?

  Slowly, I rose to my feet. My knees were shaking.

  “So … what do they say?” I said, trying to seem calm. I moved toward the door, jumping as I knocked over my wineglass.

  “That you can sleep after you’re dead. Not true.”

  I lunged for the door. It was jammed. I jiggled the door handle. Spice barked from inside.

  “I love what you’ve done with the house, by the way,” she said.

  My eyes were on the kitchen counter. The knife I’d used to cut open a bag of frozen cauliflower was still there. No one eats cauliflower, it turns out. I had to get that doorknob fixed. Nothing would ever get fixed again. Faucets, doorknobs, cauliflower, my life. Oh, John. Where are you?

  “Thank you?” I said. I felt a cold rush of air behind me. The door would not open. Finally, I summoned my courage, and turned around. I saw no one there, but the swing hanging from the avocado tree was swaying in the breeze.

  5

  The Town Crier

  I am trying to remember to do two things: eat and sleep. Per Chloe’s advice (also posted on her blog at NoMoMama.com—named for our neighborhood), I’d started leaving Post-it Notes for things I’ve forgotten. Like where my daughter is. Or did I eat breakfast? Or where did I leave those darn Post-it Notes? Widowhood was sort of like Alzheimer’s, without the funny. I put Post-it Notes with the words EAT and SLEEP in big black letters on my bathroom mirror. I’m bone tired but I don’t sleep at all. My brain is on overdrive, tracking every memory of John and pinning it down, saving it to be filed, alphabetically and chronologically. I’m beyond the point of exhaustion, but still I strive to remember; I’m in a waking coma, but am afraid to forget. I’m desperate not to forget.