Anyone looking at us would have seen a regular couple sharing a conversation over food and wine, not two people who’d been abandoned by the normal world. He was the Widower, and I the Widow. This was our first real date. We were ocean explorers, charting the Strait of Magellan, we were Sacajawea and Lewis and Clark.
We were middle-aged white people living and suffering in the suburbs.
“I kind of have to avoid hanging out at the riding ring, though,” Tom was saying.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was sipping my chardonnay and dreaming of waking up in his arms. Skipping the sex, just getting to the snuggling part.
“Well, there’s a divorced mom there,” he said. “A wacky stage mom. I made the mistake of going on a date with her. I thought that was her real hair. Silly me.”
I must have grimaced, because Tom said, “Just one date.”
“Oh … you’re dating?” I asked. Inside, I screamed: When? How? Why? Who? Where? What?
“She took the whole thing way too seriously,” Tom said, while I quietly experienced sensory overload. “It was probably my fault. I should have been upfront with her.”
I looked at my plate. The leftover meat was congealing beneath a blob of cheese. “Oh,” I said. “So you slept with her.” You would have been proud of how casually I said this. I thought about how I’d gotten waxed down there, how I’d had my eyebrows plucked … how Jay had gone with me and now looked like a baby with a man’s penis. Sacrifices were made.
“Just once,” Tom said. “She’s crazy.”
“You’re sleeping with women,” I said. “I mean, of course you’re sleeping with women—it’s not like you’re sleeping with men, right?” I looked at him. “Right?”
“Of course not. I’ve, ah, seen a few … women. No men.” He smiled. “I know that seems suspect, here on the Westside—”
He’d been seeing normals, all along. Tons of normals. Thousands.
“When did you start seeing … non-survivors?” I asked.
“I’ve been dating for a couple months, Hannah,” Tom said.
“How is that possible?” I asked. “I can’t even imagine.”
“I got lonely,” Tom said. “I did therapy. It’s only natural that I’d want to go out.”
“Therapy?” I asked. “That’s healthy.”
“My therapist was very helpful,” Tom said. “She was very understanding. I had to stop seeing her.”
“Tom,” I said, “you dated your therapist?”
“Not exactly. We didn’t … go out.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Wow … wow … wow … I haven’t even … kissed anybody, much less screwed my therapist.”
“I waited over two months,” Tom said. “I wanted to be respectful.”
“So, like, weeks,” I said. I was trying to joke—really. Meanwhile, the rickety wheels in my head started turning. “Wait—you were at Peet’s the morning I met you. You’re a Caffe Luxxe guy, right? The Coyotes told me—they had you pegged the day of the memorial service.”
Tom looked down at his plate. “I … kind of have to avoid Caffe Luxxe.”
“Oh God. Don’t say it.”
“I slept with a barista,” Tom says.
“Not the one with the—” I pointed to my nostril. “And the …” I pointed to my eyebrow.
He bit his lip and nodded, silent.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Oh, left-nostril, right-eyebrow-pierced dear—”
“And her—” He pointed to his tongue.
“Why?” I asked. “What was the attraction?”
“Like I said, I was lonely …”
“So am I,” I said. “I mean, if I were ever alone, I’d be lonely. If my friends would leave me alone for twenty minutes.”
“I’d heard stories … about tongue piercings,” Tom said. “It turned out to be scary. I almost got injured.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “Whoever you are, you shouldn’t drink. You’re in full reveal mode.”
“I just feel comfortable telling you things,” Tom said. “Hannah, you have to understand. Men are different from women.”
“I’m aware of the differences—it hasn’t been that long.”
“I know,” Tom said, “but it has been a while … right?”
I pondered my options. I decided I wanted nothing more than to sit in my Christmas pajama bottoms and watch The Office on DVR. Is that so wrong?
“I’d better go,” I said, trying not to betray my hurt feelings. My quivering lower lip was not cooperating with my brain’s directive.
“But we didn’t even go to the movie,” Tom said.
“I can look at my own boobs,” I said. “They’re not French but they’ll do.”
“Hannah, I don’t want to lose our friendship,” Tom said, as I slid out of the booth, walked past the crowded bar with fashion-forward normals, and into the night.
“Friendship,” I repeated to Jay, as I took my shoes off, sank into my couch, and began to navigate 543 HBO channels.
“It’s your last month of cable,” Jay said. “It’s important to bid adieu to each one of the HBOs.”
“Friendship,” I muttered, while I spilled a box of Junior Mints into my mouth. “I’d been agonizing over whether to let him stick his tongue in my mouth.”
“Can I have the condoms back?” Jay asked, as I put my head on his shoulder.
“All yours,” I said. We watched Valentine’s Day until our eyes bled—which took about, oh, three minutes.
“What genius made Jessica Biel the girl who can’t get a date?” Jay said. “And what’s Jennifer Garner grinning about? Enough already!”
I was falling asleep in his arms.
Suddenly, Spice started barking at the screen.
I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the TV. Bakasana, Chloe’s Rescue Pom, was on TV, lounging on a mink doggy bed, being fed grapes by a female Pom. I heard Frank Sinatra in the background. Spice started scratching at the television set.
“Oh, shit. Jay,” I said, “do you see what I’m seeing?”
“Yes,” Jay said, “the end of Julie Roberts’s career.” He pointed the remote at Bakasana and turned the television off. Blocks away, I heard the familiar howl of a coyote.
“Jay,” I said, “do all dogs go to heaven?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Even Pomeranians?” I asked.
Jay looked at me. “Do we have a problem?”
18
Bottoms Up
“Have you seen Bakasana?” Chloe asked, shoving a flyer of the Pomeranian’s peculiar mug into a guppie’s face as he ate strawberry layer cake for breakfast at a sidewalk table outside Sweet Lady Jane’s, the new go-to spot on Montana. Go-to spots are my run-from spots, just fyi.
“Chloe,” I said, “don’t disturb people while they’re pretending to eat.” Eight A.M., and already Chloe had printed up flyers with Bakasana’s distinctive face plastered on them.
Jay, tugging an insousciant Ralph wearing a tennis visor, took me aside. “You have to tell her about your vision of Bakasana in Doggie Heaven,” he said. “She’s making a fool out of herself in front of my people. Unattractive dogs offend them. It’s good you left Spice at home. By the way, when did NoMo become WeHo? We should call it Sweet Gay-dy Jane’s.”
“What if I’m wrong about Bakasana?” I said, watching as Chloe approached a pair of women wearing tennis togs. “She’ll never forgive me.”
“What if you’re right? She’ll never forgive you,” Jay said. “Besides, do you really have time to track down what now may very well be coyote scat? You’ve got issues of your own, my dear. How are you feeling this morning?”
“A little older, a little wiser, a little sadder. I don’t know what I was hoping for with Tom, but it wasn’t that he was a slut. And meanwhile, on the work front, I can’t even get a meeting with a network parking guard.”
“You tried the Yet-Works?” Jay said. “Bravo, Logo, Own, anything with an O?”
“Of course,” I
said, with a sigh. We watched as Chloe pressed a flyer into the hands of a reluctant young mother pushing a baby stroller, then handed another to the baby.
“Stop the madness,” Jay said, as Chloe showed a flyer to a poodle tied to a mailbox.
“Hannah!” someone yelled. “Jay!” We turned to see Aimee waving from her convertible.
“Look who’s happy,” I said, returning the wave.
“Put another poor soul in the ICU, no doubt,” Jay said.
Aimee double-parked then sprinted across the street as cars braked and honked.
“Guess what?” she said as she ran up, breathless. “Oh my God, did you see my knees when I was running? Remember when our skin fit?”
“You found Bakasana?” Chloe asked, handing Aimee a flyer.
“Who?” she asked, appraising the flyer. “What an ugly monkey.”
“I’m guessing you just got a clean bill of health,” I said.
“No, no, this is important,” Aimee said. “I have an audition for Mamet’s new Lifetime show. Do you know what this means?”
“Confusion,” Jay said.
“Scale,” I offered.
“Who’s Mamet?” Chloe asked. “Oh, the one with all the toilet words.”
“And yet, it still breathes,” Aimee said, addressing Chloe. “Kids, Mamet saw my Chico’s ad and tracked me down. I’ve trained my whole life for this moment. Strasberg, Stanislavsky, Katselas …”
“Scientology Celebrity Center,” Jay said.
“I was trying to get close to Bodhi Elfman,” Aimee said. “Oh, no—I only have a week to get my colon cleansed.”
“That was my next thought,” I said. “Mamet requires a spotless colon. Isn’t it easier just to get a mani-pedi? There are eighteen thousand nail places on Montana.”
Aimee was already scrolling through her BlackBerry. “Let’s see who’s available …”
“You’re the only person who has high colonics on speed dial,” I said.
“Not in L.A., sadly. Wait a minute,” Aimee said. “Let’s make a weekend out of it, the four of us on a cleansing vacation. There’s a spa I heard about in Palm Desert.”
“I can’t enjoy a cleanse while Bakasana and Angel are missing,” Chloe said. “That would be insensitive.”
“Angel’s missing, too?” I asked. “That skinny one with the nutty Sharon Stone eyes?” A disturbing thought entered my head. I tried to catch Jay’s eye, but he was busy adjusting Ralph’s visor.
“Yes, but I didn’t have a single picture of her for a flyer,” Chloe said. “We never had time for a photo shoot. I feel just terrible about that. Do you think that’s why she left?”
Jay cleared his throat. I got the message.
“Chloe, there’s something I need to tell you about Bakasana,” I said, “and maybe about Angel, too—”
“Can we get back to my offer?” Aimee said, interrupting. “I need to make reservations immediately. They get totally booked up for New Year’s. Who’s up for an intestinal scrubbing?”
“Moi,” Jay said. “I could lose a few. And maybe a twelve-pack will lure Hidalgo back.”
“He’s already married,” I said. “You’re acting like a sorority girl.”
“So?” Jay said. “Your point being?”
“Well, I can’t go,” I said. “I’m not ready to have fun that doesn’t sound fun, and I couldn’t leave Ellie. Not in the year of the dead father.”
“Oh, please. Ellie would love to have Brandon all to herself,” Aimee said. “Chloe, pretend we’re at the West L.A. Animal Shelter for two nights. C’mon. Let’s start this year off with a bang. So to speak.”
Chloe sort of blinked, then turned to me. “What did you need to tell me, Hannah?”
I looked in her wide, trusting eyes and swallowed hard.
“That we’re on a boat to Palm Desert!” Jay interjected, then pursed his lips. “I’ve never been out there with a group of girls. I usually go with hairless boys wearing cheap sunglasses. Am I losing my edge?”
“Never. Think of it as an embarrassment of riches,” I said, as Chloe took off toward an old lady attempting to enter the Pirates coffee shop and Aimee started speed-dialing.
“Embarrassment of bitches, you mean,” Jay replied, with a wink.
I rehearsed my conversation with Ellie about our mini-vacation. “Mommy is going on a very, very short trip with Auntie Jay, I mean, Uncle Jay and Auntie Aimee and Auntie Chloe. Brandon is staying here with you. I’ll be gone for only two nights.”
This is what I actually said: “Ellie, Mommy loves you so, so, so much. I’m so sorry, I’m going away. You know what, I don’t need to go—I’ll never leave you—” while tears streamed down my face. Ellie stared at me as though she were looking at a snail; sort of interested, mildly disgusted.
Brandon gently interrupted my snotfest. “Ellie, your mom is going to Palm Desert, which is a really nice place—and you and I get to have fun here, together, for two whole nights. How does that sound?”
“Yay!” yelled my daughter, sticking the knife in my back. She hugged Brandon, around his knees.
He put his arms around her, and looked at me. “Sorry,” he said.
“No, don’t be sorry,” I said. “I’m glad she loves you so much.”
“I love her, too,” Brandon said. “Don’t I, El?” He swooped her up and lifted her to the ceiling.
“Yes!” she said. “Yes!”
I watched them, lost in their happiness. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I was thinking of John. My husband, Ellie’s father, had been replaced.
I hate you, death.
* * *
I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.
Oh, wait. There it is.
John was writing Spanish for Bachelors. I was a few months pregnant. We landed in Barcelona. August, ninety degrees in the shade. Our small hotel was in the Gothic Quarter, overlooking a placa, near a huge cathedral where geese honked at all hours. I was so sick, nauseous, vomiting all day. Even with severe jet lag, there was no sleeping in this ancient Spanish city that awakens at midnight. The air was dense and my clothes clung to my damp skin. The smell wafting up to our hotel window of paella and sar-suela in crowded, thick-walled restaurants with low-slung ceilings sent me running to the nearest baño. The only thing I remember digesting there is warm flat bread our hotel served in the mornings.
It was the most romantic trip of my life.
John never left my side. He held my hair back as I crouched before toilets on tile floors that had probably been around since Queen Isabella sent Columbus on an extended cruise. He’d stroked my growing belly, my swelling breasts, pressed cool, moist hand towels to my forehead, and threw coins at the guitarist strumming outside our hotel window, requesting anything by Barry White.
I came out of my reverie in our home, in my own sun-dappled bedroom, an overnight bag open on the bed, packed for our two-night expulsion-excursion. I thought about Greece. Three non-refundable coach tickets to Athens, and I still hadn’t canceled the hotel. I could post them on Craigslist. Maybe I’d be the lucky online seller who wasn’t sliced into a million pieces and dumped in Barstow.
To a single mother, nothing is scarier than Craigslist.
A car honked outside. I heard Tony Bennett singing, and Jay yelling my name. Time to go.
Two hours out of L.A., and the farther we drove, the more I began to suspect that Lite Glow Spa was not in the Palm Desert of my Frank-Sinatra-wooing-Ava-Gardner dreams. Wearing a straw fedora with a pack of Salems tucked into his Dacron shirt pocket, Jay drove our rented convertible Cadillac and played Bobby Darin and Dean Martin on his iPod until I felt like choking on a string of cocktail pearls. Chloe was silent most of the way, except to request that we post Bakasana flyers at rest stops.
“Do you think Billy will remember to give Mulabanda his diabetes shot?” Chloe asked.
“No,” Jay said, rubbing out his cigarette in the car’s ashtray. He couldn’t have looked happier if Ricky Martin, or Ricki Lake, for
that matter, were seated next to him. “I just love an ashtray.”
“They paved paradise and got rid of ashtrays,” I said.
“What a gorgeous day,” Aimee said, leaning back and gazing up at the cloudless blue sky from the backseat. “It couldn’t be more beautiful.”
Chloe stared out the side window, sinking low in the backseat.
Meanwhile, Aimee continued to be uncharacteristically chatty and upbeat. “I love this weather,” she blabbered. “I love dry heat.”
I realized I might actually prefer the Lost Brontë Sister Aimee.
“You hate weather of any kind,” I said, turning around in my seat. “Since I’ve known you, there is no weather you will not complain about.”
“Nonsense,” Aimee said. “Smell that clean desert air. I feel healthier already. Hey, there’s a McDonald’s at the next off-ramp—”
We passed a road sign emblazoned with the big red M.
“Chicken McNuggets on me,” Jay said. “This McFag is McHard as a rock just thinking about ’em.”
“Hi, McCancer,” Chloe said. “You obviously haven’t been reading my blog. My kids have never touched a french fry.”
“Good luck with that,” Aimee said.
McDonald’s drive-thru turned us into animals. We amassed five Big Macs, family-size fries, two McNuggets, three vanilla shakes, and a jumbo Dr Pepper for Jay. Chloe ordered oatmeal.
“Doesn’t this kinda sorta negate the whole ‘cleansing’ objective?” I asked, as we gathered up the greasy wrappers.
“Au contraire,” Aimee said. “We need something to be cleansed.”
Twenty minutes later, we took an off-ramp in the middle of nowhere and hung a right on a side street, where tract houses were huddled together behind concrete walls swathed in graffiti.
“Where are we?” Jay asked. “My Palm Desert doesn’t do ‘Clownie Was Here.’ ”
“Stop being such a cultural elitist,” Cultural Elitist Numero Uno Aimee said. “Stretch your world a little.”
The After Wife Page 20