Dating da Vinci (5 page)

Zoe joined us for lunch because she only attended a half-day kindergarten, though her afternoons were spent in an endless
juggling act of dance, gymnastics, and cheerleading. The only time my otherwise chipper sister had bitten my head off was when I'd suggested, upon seeing a sad dance recital where my niece was two steps behind the other little girls, that perhaps Zoe had inherited my awkward rhythm.

We'd shopped for three hours already and while my mom and sister's bags piled high next to their seats, the only thing I 'd gotten is the terrible confirmation that my mid-section needed lipo and some of da Vinci's morning sit-ups. Being a junk food addict did have its side effects, namely thunder thighs and a jiggly badonkadonk.

Having someone like da Vinci as a personal trainer just might make me stick to a workout routine. That doughy area that sits atop the pants' waistline was called a muffin top, my sister informed me after I tried on a pair of pants that would've fit me two years earlier. No wonder I hadn't shopped for myself since Joel died. Jogging suits (not used to jog) were my primary wardrobe.

My stomach growled as soon as I'd finished my sandwich, proof that my appetite was spoiled and indulgent. But no more. Today I was going to start taking back control, starting with what went into my mouth. To prove I was serious, I would pass by the fast-food chains on my way home without even glancing at their evil bright signs, let alone turn into the drive-thru where sadly, all the workers knew me by name. Thanks to the excruciating task of trying to squeeze into sizes I once wore with ease, I realized the huge void in my life could not be filled with powdered donuts and cheeseburgers. If only I'd realized that twenty pounds ago.

“Mom tells me you have a hot Italian living in your studio,” Rachel said as she pushed away the cookie I tried to get her to eat.

“What's this?” Judith asked, her red lip pursing in surprise. Judith looked like she'd just had a Mary Kay makeover every time you saw her. Coiffed hair, heavily lined lids, powdered-to-perfection face.

“Oh, he's a student,” I said nonchalantly. “He only had $200 for rent so I thought he could stay in the studio for a bit until he starts earning more money.”

“That's our bleeding-heart Ramona,” my mother said.

Judith crossed her manicured hand over her heart, as if she were having chest pain. “In
Joel's
studio?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, yes. But it hasn't been used.”

Judith's brows went up. “I suppose I could come help you pack Joel's things out there.”

She had been in the camp that believed you did not have to get rid of the deceased's belongings. In fact, Joel's bedroom in her house was the same as it had been in high school, complete with his trophies and party pics (though Joel had scratched out Monica's face with a black marker after the wedding had been called off) and even the clothes in his closet. Judith was certain, even after we got married, that he might long for a T-shirt or red checked Polo or any number of the clothes she had so lovingly purchased for him over the years.

“Oh, that's not necessary, Mom G,” I said, patting her arm. “It's just a few things, and I'm going to keep them.”

“Of course you are. But if you decide you don't want them any longer, please give them to me. I couldn't stand his things being thrown out.”

I took a sip of diet Coke, while my sister kicked me under the table. She thought Judith's preoccupation with Joel, even in his death, was a bit much. But then she wasn't a Griever, so she would never understand.

“How about giving your sister the hook-up?” Rachel said, turning the conversation back to herself.

I considered my sister's blonde hair, the C-cup breasts “Santa” gave her for Christmas three years earlier and her sparkling white teeth. She wasn't Jessica Simpson, but she was a close clone. He would like her. “He doesn't speak English,” I told her.

She flipped her long hair. “Not seeing the problem, Sis. Haven't you heard of the universal language?”

I nearly choked on my diet Coke. “Love? You're not falling in love with da Vinci.” Over my dead body.

“Thanks, brainiac. My plans don't include love or verbal communication. Body language of
another sort
.” She giggled and my mother shook her head as if to disapprove, but smiled anyway. Judith forced a smile, though I gathered she wasn't one of my sister's biggest fans, something Mom Griffen and I shared besides our love for Joel and the boys. I thought about telling them about my dissertation on the language of love, the one that I'd benched After because it was the last language I wanted to speak and doubted I would ever speak again. If everyone in the world can speak the language of love but me, who am I to write about it?

I grabbed the cookie she wouldn't eat and stuffed it in my mouth. Rachel leaned in and shook her French-manicured finger at me. “Look who's proclaimed herself the bodyguard to the hot immigrants! Well, Mom's setting me up with a handsome doctor, anyway. I hope he lives in a gated community with a pool in his back yard.”

Before I could remark on how shallow my sister was I glared at Barbara. “Mother! You're giving her the doctor you were giving me?”

Barbara's face softened. “Just because your sister might go out on a date with Dr. Cortland Andrews doesn't mean you can't also be friends with him.”

Judith nodded in agreement. “So your mother told you about our idea for the Life singles group, then?”

My voice shrilled. “I have male friends. Michael, for one.” I shot a glare at my sis.

“My ex?” Rachel shrieked. “I wouldn't say that out loud.”

“He's not a good influence,” Barbara said.

“He broke one of the Ten Commandments,” Judith said, then added in case any of us had forgotten, as if Rachel didn't remind us and her public all the time, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

I kept my tongue to myself to keep from lashing out that perhaps even her own son had broken a commandment, the very same one, and that now I was determined to find out if it was true. Even if I did find out he had cheated with his ex-fiancée, I knew I couldn't burst Judith's bubble about her only son. “Well, Michael's not my only male friend. I have da Vinci now.”

My mother giggled. “Oh, Judith. You should see him. He's quite a looker.”

“Whatever would you have in common with him?” Judith asked.

I began to formulate a list, but then thought how ludicrous it would be to have to prove to any of them the who and why of my friendships. Da Vinci and I could be friends. And so could this Cortland fellow. Just because I was a widow did not make me unfriendly, though Anh would probably take me to task on that one. She had said the Seven Dwarfs I most resembled were Sleepy, Bashful, and Grumpy. I told
her
to try raising two boys on her own and grieving a soul mate and see if she came up any different.

Rachel flicked her golden hair, giving me the puppy-dog stare she often did her viewers when she looked into the camera and told them she knows how hard it is to get off that couch. “It's okay, sugar. You'll always have us,” she said and it dawned on me that this is what my new Normal looked like. If I continued down this path, having my mother visit on a daily basis would turn into a permanent situation. These three musketeers would try to steer my life from here on out.

My new Normal did not seem like a big step up from my Griever life. No way. This couldn't happen to me. If it was time to transition to a Normal, it had to be on my terms, not taking the scraps of others' sympathy to piece together a life without Joel.

I thought about the binder back home in Joel's office—the one where I'd stuffed everyone's articles, magazine ads and letters with ideas on how to deal with my grief. So far the only recommendation
I'd taken was attending a Parents without Partners class, which focused more on parenting needs than personal ones. Because, really, I wasn't worried about
me.
It was my boys, fatherless boys who would grow up into fatherless fathers, who most concerned me. I'd been most concerned about. And luckily they were still young enough that they opened up to me and shared their feelings. It was
I
who hadn't fared so well in the sharing department. It was
I
who hadn't done a single thing to try to recapture
la vita allegra.

Finding joy would not happen in one lightning strike. Just as my students couldn't swallow big words all at once, I would have to start slow—finding the root and adding prefixes and suffixes until before long I had one word following another, making sense of my life again, creating a new story that may not be the same as my old one, but joyful nonetheless. I had to believe it could happen.

I checked my watch, wishing I could return to spend some time with da Vinci before we had to pick up the boys. Our next class wasn't until the following morning. Muffin top or not, I couldn't give up on at least one slimming outfit first. I would wake up the next day and put on something new, something that I felt confident in, something that a butterfly might wear on her debut into the world.

Who knew one needed courage just to shop for a new look, let alone a new life? I threw down the challenge to my fashion-loving familials and we dove into the shopping sea.

“Are we on for Bunko tonight?” Zoya asked as we both pulled groceries out of the trunks of our cars, hers a cherry-red convertible. Zoya was my next-door neighbor in the cul-de-sac, a former student from five years earlier, a pricey mail-order bride from Russia, though Donald had asked her not to tell anyone. (As if we weren't bright enough to know he wouldn't vacation in Russia and during one week,
boy meets girl, boy marries girl, and girl leaves for big adventure in the U.S. with a virtual stranger.) With a Russian mother and a German father, she usually spoke German around me since I'm fluent, and Donald didn't seem to mind that he didn't know what his wife was saying half the time. But then couldn't the same be said of English-speaking spouses?

Her family and six brothers and sisters had gotten a sizable sum for her marital commitment (Bunko nights are quite revealing) and the then-nineteen-year-old had been desperate to start a new life in the United States, even if it meant marrying a slightly overweight CPA twice her age.

It might be easy to rush to judgment on a man that would resort to such drastic measures to find a mate, but I understood his desperation. If I hadn't met Joel, I often wondered if I'd still be searching for my soul mate. Donald had tried for twenty years the traditional way with no luck. At least I'd had one true love, more than most people ever get.

I slung my arm through three plastic bags and watched Zoya maneuver the heavy groceries in her platform heels and skin-tight ankle pants. Her dark hair swung down to her hips, the sides pushed up in clips. She was exotic, though not quite beautiful, and Donald kept her happy with all the American luxuries: a red sports car, designer clothes and weekly spa appointments.

“Bunko. I don't think so,” I told her. “I have company.” Sort of company.

Zoya smacked her gum and shut the trunk with one overly braceleted arm. “You got the man in the backyard. Very handsome man.”

I nodded, fighting the temptation to correct her broken English. My vow was once they left my class not to put on my teacher hat again. “He's a student from Italy. Needed a place to stay.”

Zoya eyed me suspiciously, then added, “We have you all over for dinner tonight. You, the Italian, and your boys.”

“Thanks for the offer, Zoya, but we're working around the kids' schedules so things are crazy. But we'll do it another time. Are things okay between you and Donald?”

She shrugged, her long silver earrings brushing her collarbone. “Husband trying to impregnate me.” Zoya, much like Anh, never held back. I don't think it was lost in translation, either.

“Oh. Do you not want a child yet?”

Zoya raised her Prada sunglasses to stare at me as if I should know better. “If I get with child, this body goes kaput. Same goes my mother and three sisters. One day thin and beautiful, after baby like a big Russian housewife.”

I suppressed a laugh. I could tell from Zoya's attire that being attractive was very important to her. Unlike me, she did work out to
Get Up and Move It, Texas!
every morning. “Well, I'm sure Donald just wants a child before he gets too old,” I said. “And lots of people get their bodies back after they have children.” Just not me.

As if a light bulb went off, Zoya pulled out a
National Enquirer
from her bag. “Like article in newspaper. Angelina Jolie gets body back after baby. Zoya too get body back?”

“Yes,” I nodded, the grocery bags' handles digging red marks into my forearm. “Zoya gets her body back.”

Pleased with this, Zoya waved her long manicured nails through the air and said over her shoulder, “Donald will get baby then. But still want to meet Italian.”

As I entered the house I instinctively sang, “I'm home,” as I'd done for ten years upon returning from the grocery store. Because the boys asked for everything in the store, they stayed home with Joel, yet in the last two years, it was hard to break the habit. My announcement echoed through the laundry room, my heart sinking when I didn't hear the familiar “It's about time” from my husband. To my surprise, another voice echoed back.