The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “I like NoMo. I don’t want a stretched-out world,” Chloe said, sulking.

  We located Lite Glow Spa at the end of a dirt road where several low, reddish buildings hunkered together. Tumbleweeds blew past our Caddie.

  “Does anyone else hear the twangy rhythms of Ennio Morri-cone?” I asked, as we parked next to a Bentley in a dirt lot just outside the “spa.”

  “I’m not getting out,” Chloe said. “This place is tacky, and I’m too upset to get an enema.”

  “C’mon, Chloe,” Jay said. “I just sucked down eight thousand McNuggets and a Dr Pepper—I need some cleaning up in here, yo!”

  “Chloe,” I said, “have you not seen the Bentley? It can’t be all bad.”

  Chloe just sighed and got out of the car, grabbing her overnight bag, a Vuitton from better days.

  “Why don’t you eBay that thing?” I asked. “You could get a fortune for it.”

  “Better yet, give it to your friend who’s recovering from illness,” Aimee said, as the four of us walked to the red clay building with a sign that read LITE GLOW SPA, then through a large doorway to the front desk.

  Tiffany, the receptionist—sporting five earrings in her left ear—checked us in. “We have a menu of services here at Lite Glow Spa,” she said, flashing meth teeth.

  “Listen, Princess,” Jay said, “I want two things—a massage by a guy with hands that could tear apart a sink, and a colonic that ends with my liver in a jar.”

  A tall, lean, über-tanned man wearing doctor’s scrubs appeared at Tiffany’s side.

  “Happy New Year and welcome to Lite Glow Spa,” he said with a European accent. He sounded Austrian, like a member of the von Trapp family. “I am Dr. Manheim, the resident doctor here.”

  “Do you hear angels singing?” Jay asked, shaking Dr. Manheim’s hand.

  “I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” Dr. Manheim said, seducing us with his pearly teeth.

  “I’m so glad you’re glad,” I said, losing that last tasty morsel of my dignity.

  “Are you a medical doctor?” Aimee asked.

  “I am,” Dr. Manheim said. “I can assure you.”

  “I’m assured,” Chloe said.

  “Me too,” I piped up.

  “Why don’t they have you on the website?” Aimee asked.

  “Oh, I don’t want the attention,” Dr. Manheim said. “I like keeping my operation small and manageable. Now who’s going to be first for their colonic?”

  We all raised our hands at once.

  Good news. Dennis Quaid was staying at Lite Glow Spa. Thus, the Bentley. During our tour of the facilities, we spied him eagerly supping on broth in the dining room. I half expected him to be hooked up to IVs.

  “What’s he doing here?” Aimee asked. “And when did I start outweighing Dennis Quaid?”

  “Same thing you’re doing here,” I said. “He must be manoerexic.”

  “Some guys have all the luck,” Jay said, sniffing.

  We were taken to our rooms by a bellman/massage therapist, Jacques, who lovingly described the décor as Santa Fe meets St. Tropez.

  “Santa Fe meets homeless shelter,” I said, to myself. After I cleaned the drawers out (small black pellets = rat poop), Jay and Aimee appeared at the door, dressed for dinner. Jay wore crisp white linen and lace-up loafers with red soles.

  “Colon cleanings are black tie?” I asked. Aimee was wearing a turban and a floor-length sundress. “Very Sex and the Desert,” I said. My wardrobe choices? Loose-fitting jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt. Flip-flops.

  “Someone has their Forever Single look on,” Jay said to me, pity in his beautiful gray eyes.

  “I checked,” Chloe said, as she walked in the room. “I don’t think that Dr. Manheim character is a real doctor.”

  “He could play a doctor on All My Children,” Aimee said.

  “That’s canceled, you know.” Jay paused thoughtfully. “Do I miss me some Wings Hauser. Dr. Manheim seemed to like you, Hannah. God, I hate the straights.”

  In the spa’s dining room, four long wooden tables packed with colonic-seekers lined the room, cafeteria-style. Shoved against the far wall was a small refrigerator, the kind you’d find in a frat house hallway. Next to it were three large metal canisters, each with its own label. On the labels was handwritten scrawl: TEA, BROTH, JUICE.

  We squeezed into a table and enjoyed paper cups filled to the brim with broth. Okay, we didn’t actually enjoy the broth; we tolerated the broth. I looked around at the clientele—mostly WIBYs—Women of Indeterminate Birth Year. I sat next to a very blond woman with lips bigger than her hips.

  “Wow, you have great meridians,” Mega-Lips said. “Is that your real hair?”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to stare. Now I know what Medusa’s victims felt like. “And yes, I made this hair myself. I’m to blame.”

  Meanwhile, Jay was casting his eyes about for boy candy. “Do I look thinner?” he asked. “I feel like Gisele three weeks after the Brady baby.”

  “Mr. Bundchen, you are still up to your hips in Chicken McNuggets,” I said.

  “If anything, you look a little puffy,” Aimee said.

  “Hey,” Chloe said, elbowing me in the side, “Manheim is staring at you.”

  “What?” Aimee said. “Staring at Hannah? Why the hell did I bother wearing a turban, for God’s sake? Whatever. Go for it. You deserve some happiness.”

  “Something to bring home as a souvenir,” Jay said, as I glanced over at Dr. Manheim.

  His gaze was undeniable; I had caught the good doctor’s attention. My stomach growled.

  “Hold his gaze for two seconds,” Aimee said.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “You must,” Jay said. “Take one for the team.”

  “You can do it, Hannah,” Chloe said. “Get back on that horse.”

  “I hate horses,” I said.

  “It’s a metaphor,” Aimee said. “You have to learn to flirt again.”

  “I’m not sure I knew how to do it the first time.”

  “That’s true,” Jay said. “I remember. It looked like Regis doing the Dougie.”

  “Now that’s just mean,” I said. “Watch me. Watch me gaze.” I turned in time to be eye-to-crotch with Dr. Manheim.

  “Have you ever seen the desert sky at night?” his crotch asked.

  With no response coming from my frozen vocal cords, Jay piped up. “Hi, I’m Jay and I’ll be your interpreter tonight. The last time Hannah saw the desert sky, she was a chubby fifteen-year-old wasted on Annie Green Springs.”

  “What he said,” I croaked.

  “Come,” Dr. Manheim said. “I’ll show you.” He pulled out my chair for me.

  We strolled past the spa, past the little bungalows where the colon assaults took place, past the sputtering tile fountain, to a spot where two beach chairs were set up in the red sand, surrounded by cacti aplenty. Between the chairs was an ice chest, with plastic champagne glasses set on top.

  “Please,” Dr. Manheim said, his hand on a chair. I pushed away the thought that this wasn’t the first, second, or hundredth time he’d brought a “client” outside to look at the stars. Dr. Manheim handed me a champagne glass and opened up the ice chest.

  “Would you care for some champagne?” Dr. Manheim asked. “It is New Year’s.”

  “Is it on the spa menu?” I asked. Wind chimes softly serenaded us.

  “Only for my favorite patients,” Dr. Manheim said as he popped open the bottle and poured.

  We clicked our glasses and I took a sip. Then another.

  “So, Dr. Manheim,” I said. “Call me Karl.”

  “You can call me Karl, too,” I said. Was it possible to be drunk off two sips? My last meal was hours ago.

  The linty Swedish Fish at the bottom of my purse taunted me.

  Karl’s clear blue eyes registered confusion.

  “So, where did you go to medical school?” I asked.

  “Universidad de Ara Macao. It’s the Harvard Medi
cal School of Northern Honduras.”

  “Isn’t the Macao a bird? The University of the Red Macaw …” I stared at his hands, his forearms, the creases between his eyes. “Karl, you’re not an actual medical doctor, right? I’m cool with that, it’s not like you’re taking out my spleen.”

  “Well, it’s like the Harvard Medical School of Chiropractic.”

  “You’re not from Austria.”

  “I’m a Texan.”

  “You were a drug dealer?” I speculated. “No. Wait. Hiding from a former life … which is why you can’t put yourself on the website.” A breeze picked up, along with the wind chimes.

  “I like you,” Karl said, at last dropping the fake Austrian accent. “You’re funny.”

  I tilted my head back. Karl the All-American was on point about one thing: These stars were must-see TV. Swarovski crystals twinkling against black velvet beckoned. A crystal dropped out of the sky, falling between distant mountains.

  “A shooting star!” I said, pointing at the mountains.

  “Did you make a wish?” Karl asked.

  My first thought was for John to be here with me. Then, my true wish, deep in my heart, was for me to find happiness again.

  Karl reached over and kissed me.

  “That wasn’t my wish,” I said.

  His response reeked of unleashed testosterone. “You may not have been asking for it, but I think you needed it.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve learned a lot from my exile in the desert,” he said. “There’s so much mental anguish out there. For some reason, people want to believe the solution is in their lower intestine. That’s where I come in. With my equipment, of course.”

  “You know, you’re not bad for a fake doctor.”

  “Thank you,” he said, carressing my hand. “So you want to make out?”

  “Maybe just one more kiss, nothing consequential,” I said. “I just need to prove something.”

  Leaning toward me, he put his hand on my cheek and pressed his lips against mine. He held the kiss …

  “I can help you prove other things,” he said, sliding his finger down my neck. I shivered. All over my body, things were waking up.

  “I’m good,” I said. “I’m good, for now. Thank you.” Even if I had wanted s-e-x, my body was too weak for anything but the missionary position minus the missionary. Three hours into our spa excavation/vacation and girlfriend here needed an IV, stat.

  I could tell by his silence that Karl was disappointed. Should I sleep with him to assuage his bruised male ego? Maybe he had been a fat teenager. What if he’d had a mean stepdad? Or maybe his basketball coach had made him run hundreds of extra laps? Should I make the poor guy feel better by giving him a naked hug?

  “Hey, you know that blonde …” I said, mentioning the woman I had briefly talked to in the dining room. Blondie had lips for miles, like so many Westside she-wolves (where you’re only as old as your plastic surgeon’s datebook). “Age is just a state of blind in L.A. I can’t tell if she’s retired or a runaway.”

  “Her meridians have serious issues,” he said.

  “She was very complimentary of mine. And she thought I had hair extensions. Like someone would do this”—I grabbed my hair—“on purpose.”

  “You do have efficient meridians,” Karl said, “and great hair. Or at least, lots of it.”

  “Thank you. She’s in room seven.”

  “Nine.”

  “Go get ’er,” I said. “But don’t light any candles—she could melt.”

  Karl fled for greener, lasered pastures, leaving behind the champagne and plastic flutes.

  I poured myself another glass of Brut, vintage Tuesday. Kissing another man, a perfect, or highly imperfect stranger on New Year’s Eve hadn’t sickened me—just the opposite. Karl’s kiss had awakened me, cheered me up, made me think about possibilities. Trish was right: I wasn’t dead.

  “Can you cheat on a dead man?” I asked. Did John sense my betrayal? He wasn’t there, not in the black sky nor the shadows. Stars bobbed and weaved around me and I slipped into a half-asleep, half-awake state, a similar feeling to when I watch Ben Affleck in a romantic comedy. The wind chimes serenaded me.

  “That was cute,” someone said.

  “John?” I opened my eyes.

  “Who was that clown?”

  “You followed me here?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly the thing a guilty person would say,” John said.

  “Peevish ghost,” I said. “I’m sorry. Nothing happened. I mean, not really.”

  “What does ‘not really’ mean? Like, I not really-ed made out with him?”

  “I kissed him.”

  “Aaaagh!” John yelled.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “It is New Year’s. You would have been married by now.”

  “I definitely wouldn’t have been married,” he said.

  “Why? You hate marriage?” I said. “What are you saying? Our marriage was so bad?”

  “No, crazy lunatic person,” he said. “I loved being married to you. I just might want to not be married for a while.”

  “Oh, I see. You would have screwed everything within a five-mile radius.” I thought about Tom, the Widower ManWhore. Maybe I’d been too hard on him.

  “Not a five-mile radius,” John said. “That only gets me to Robertson. Everyone knows the cute girls are in Koreatown.”

  “Shut up,” I said, suspecting he was right. “I hate you.”

  “I hate you, too,” John said. “I hate that you’re moving on. I feel it in my bones. Well, not bones … Anyway, I guess you’re supposed to move on. You must.”

  “I don’t want to move on. I want to stay where I’m comfortable. Miserable, USA.”

  “If you don’t move on, Hannah,” John said, “think about how unhappy Ellie will be. She needs her mommy to be happy.”

  I thought about Ellie. I remembered kids growing up, kids whose mothers never got out of their terry-cloth robes, or who dropped their children off at school wearing pajamas under their raincoats. I felt sorrier for them than for myself, the orphan.

  “So who was Doctor Feelgood?” John asked. “The poster boy for suspended medical license?”

  “Karl’s a doctor of chiropractic-ish from the Red Bird University. It’s one of the finest in Northern Central America.” I giggled, and John laughed. A warm breeze wrapped itself around my body; it felt almost human. I relaxed and closed my eyes as the stars wrote bedtime stories in the sky.

  John had been waiting for me at home, wearing his daytime uniform: baggy shorts and a T-shirt with the arms cut off, just in case a pickup basketball game materialized out of thin air. He had lunch ready. “I sliced the leftover steak from last night, and some arugula and wild greens, peppercorns, sea salt—I put my mustard dressing on it.”

  I had barely tossed my keys on the couch when he rushed over, his hand under a forkful of arugula topped with a sliver of steak, drenched in a mustard vinaigrette.

  He shoved it in my mouth, his eyes lighting up as he watched me eat.

  “Honey,” I said, between chews, “I don’t have much time—I have to get back to work.”

  “Thank God, you come fast,” John said, as he pushed me toward our bedroom. I protested as he slipped off my heels, my skirt, my panties. I covered my pussy with my hands.

  “I didn’t have time to shower this morning,” I objected.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Why are you talking?” He pushed away my hands and dove in, his head between my legs, making quick work of me with his tongue. He loved my body, every part. Parts I had never seen and didn’t really care to. I was helpless. I came. John had my clit on a hair trigger.

  “The romance is gone,” John panted. “I’m sorry.” He mouthed my neck, like a mother lion with her cub.

  Someone shined a flashlight in my eyes. I shielded my face. When I was able to focus, I realized where I was: sitting on a beach chair in the desert, a bottle of champagne at my feet.
>
  Jay was squatting down next to me. He brushed my hair from my eyes.

  “You slept here all night. Happy New Year’s Day.”

  “You looked so peaceful,” Chloe said, standing just behind him with Aimee. “You had a smile on your face.”

  “I had a dream about John,” I said. “One of our lunches.”

  “Lunches? You mean afternoon sessions. I remember those,” Jay said. “You always came back a little late and a little flustered and a lot fucked out.”

  “I’m starved for my man,” I said. “God, I used to tell him I’d cut him up in little pieces and make a stew out of him.”

  “That’s love?” Aimee asked, lifting the champagne bottle and pouring the rest, a few warm drops, into her mouth.

  “Of course. I’ve loved that much,” Jay said. “It’s never been taken from me, though. It just walks away … or, you know, makes out with some other guy in my Jacuzzi.”

  “I hate you,” Chloe said, turning to me with tears in her eyes.

  “What did you just say?” I squinted at Chloe.

  Aimee and Jay just stared at her.

  “I’m jealous of you and your dead husband,” she said, pouting. “Maybe I’m just tired of hearing how great everything was.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Oh, I see. We’ve gotten our roles mixed up. You were the happily married, well-connected rich girl, I was the harmless chunky girl whose shoulder everyone cried on, Aimee’s the beautiful and ultimately tragic single girl.”

  “Wait,” Jay said, “I want to be the ultimately tragic single girl.”

  “Jay, you’re the sweet, funny, lovelorn girl. You’re tragic, but not ultimately tragic.”

  “Now I’m the nutcase whose husband is probably screwing the yoga instructor,” Chloe said. “I’m just not ‘intellectually challenging.’ ”

  “A yogini who does ‘life work’ on the side is intellectually challenging?” Aimee said.

  “Even by L.A. standards, that’s bad,” I said.

  “Stupid is in the water,” Jay said. “My New York friends are the worst. All they do is talk about books. Everyone knows books are obsolete. It’s like Buddhism. It’s done. Next!”

  “I could have done more,” Chloe lamented. “Billy wanted me to stay home. He insisted that I put aside my career.”