The After Wife (7 page)

A week went by. Almost two weeks. Aimee and I were sharing a bottle of pinot noir as I tried to roast chicken à la John. Crispy skin, juicy breast. Truckloads of garlic.

Ellie danced through, then stopped as I sweated over the bird. “Mom, that’s Daddy’s job,” she said.

“You’re right,” I said, “it is Daddy’s job.”

“You’re not a cook, remember?” she said, her hazel eyes huge in her chubby doll face. “Daddy really needs to come back and cook.” She was wearing a new outfit, via Uncle Jay. I wasn’t totally sure about the leopard tights. The beret seemed fine.

“That’s right, Ellie. I’m not a cook,” I said. “Just ask this chicken.”

“Daddy’s the Mommy Daddy. And you’re the Daddy Mommy. You go to work and he stays home with me.” She waltzed off, wiggling her bottom. I tried to avoid Aimee’s glare by hiding behind my undercooked chicken.

“I’m trying to find the right moment,” I said weakly. “I’ll do it. After I make these vegan cupcakes for Ellie’s lunch.”

“Step away from the spatula,” Aimee said. “I’ll roast the salmonella out of the chicken. There’s no time like the present.”

“And there’s no present like time,” I said. “But we don’t have that, do we.” Now and then, Aimee made sense. I had to be the adult, even if I just wanted to lie around in my pj’s and watch cartoons and eat cereal out of the box and generally avoid everything.

“I’m going in,” I announced, and went to find Ellie.

I hadn’t stepped foot in John’s office since he died. My books are there. Various pens I like. I just can’t seem to cross the threshold.
See, if I walk in and he’s not bent over his desk, mumbling he’s got “nothing in the tank”—then he’s really dead, isn’t he?

Ellie had wandered into his office. I watched her from the doorway, hopping around, peeking behind the bookcase, looking through his scribbled recipes.

“El,” I said, finding my voice, “I want to tell you something.”

El’s usually the one who wants to tell me something—that’s what she always says, very serious. “Mommy, I want to tell you something.”

I sat on the love seat from his old apartment. Ellie snuggled close to me. She’d been clinging to me lately, without even knowing the bad news. I’d wake up to her little fingers entangled in my hair.

“I don’t want you to tell me something,” she said, whispering.

“El, it’s important.”

“No.”

Ellie is three. Three’s a stubborn age. But more than that. Three is smart. Three knows. This three, she knew. Her daddy had never been away from her. I had an epiphany.
Luke the Goldfish
.

“El, you remember Luke?”

John had won Luke the Goldfish at an arcade game at the Malibu Chili Cook-off, from a toothless carny. Luke was a bargain at three bucks.
(And $120 at Petco for the tank, food, chlorine drops, light-up rocks … goldfish are a money pit. You know the drill.)

Luke the Goldfish was effervescent and full of life. He had a little Joel Grey in him, now that I think of it. He really enjoyed greeting us in the morning, swimming right to the surface and blowing goldfish kisses. Ellie loved Luke. I loved Luke.

A week later, Luke went belly up. At first, I thought he was sleeping. I’ve never had a pet, forgive me for not knowing that goldfish don’t sleep. I tapped the bowl, then screamed, dropped his food, and ran out of the room.

“Luke’s dead,” I said to John, who was making French toast.
(Oh, his French toast—browned edges and sifted powdered sugar on top—you don’t even know.)

“Well, I’m not surprised,” he said. “We did win him from a guy with no teeth.”

“It’s like a bloodbath in there!” I said. Ellie was still asleep. “Go, get him out, please, before Ellie sees—I can get a goldfish twin later. Maybe say a prayer—what’s a prayer for the dead?”

“You want me to do a prayer for Luke?”

“Luke. Was. Special.”

“I’ll do the kaddish,” John said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. I followed him, then listened in the doorway as he recited words in Hebrew, and as the toilet flushed.

“I love Luke,” Ellie said, bringing me back to the (horrifying) present, in John’s office.

“El, you know how Daddy hasn’t been here in a few days?” I said. Lying. Few days? Kids have no sense of time, scientists say. Like dogs, a year will go by and feel like hours. They’ll just pick up right where they left off. I don’t buy it.

“No no no nonononononononononono …,” Ellie said, putting her hands over her ears.

“Ellie, Daddy loves you so much—”

“nonononononononono—”

“He loves you so much but you’re not going to see him—”

“nononononononononono—”

“Ellie, please—even though you won’t see Daddy anymore, I mean, in his office, or cooking—”

“NONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!”

“El, El, Daddy’s in heaven—”

“NONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!!”

“You’ll feel him forever, in your heart—he’s there, he’s still there—we just can’t see him—but you can still talk to him—I’ll never ever stop talking to him—”

“No no no no! NO, MOMMY, NO!” El said. She hit me.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” I pleaded, going down on my knees. “Please, El—”

“NO, MOMMY, NO!”

“I’m here, Ellie. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to be okay. Daddy wants us to be okay. He doesn’t want us to be sad. I’m here. I’m here!”

How could I lie to her? I wasn’t there. I was gone. Could I even say I would survive? What if I got sick? Died of grief? People die from a wounded heart
.

I couldn’t write the how-to book on telling kids their father is dead.

And if you’ve written it, you haven’t done it. Think back to the hardest conversation of your life: “I want a divorce.” “Princess has to be put to sleep.” “Mom and Dad, I’m gay.” I win “Most Difficult Conversation.” I get first place.

And when the wailing and sobbing and sniffling finally came to an end, I sat on Ellie’s bed and held my exhausted, red-cheeked daughter in my arms. And around us, Casa Sugar was silent, holding us in its embrace.

7

Dead Men Tell No Tales;
Dead Women, Either

One clear Saturday morning, Jay somehow got it in his head that it would be a good idea for me to take Ellie to Pacific Park for the day.

“You can take her on rides, play games. She needs alone time with you,” he’d said in my bedroom, as he instructed me on how to dress myself. I’d lost the will to accessorize.

“She’ll have a whole lifetime of alone time with me,” I’d said, as I slipped into old Juicy Couture sweatpants. I could see Jay blanch. “Jay, she wants her dad, not me. I was the third wheel.”

“Nonsense,” Jay said. “Ellie adores you. More important, you adore her. Now, let me get you down there early enough to avoid gang shootings.”

With that, Jay drove us down to the pier, with instructions to have fun, and that he’d pick us up in two hours. We looked around. The ocean was flat, the sun glinting off its surface like a new set of knives. I stared out at the endless sky and sighed. I’d forgotten my sunglasses. Of course.

Ellie clasped my hand and looked up at me, giving me a wan little smile. There were circles under her eyes.

“Ready to have some fun?” I said. I smiled back—or at least, a close facsimile of a smile.

Ellie nodded. The sun shone on her curls. We walked down the pier, into the park.

We’d eaten cotton candy, rode bumper cars, won a stuffed SpongeBob toy at the water cannon, got carried away at Whac-A-Mole, and I’d lost about twelve million dollars at the basketball hoops (which John could win in a heartbeat).

Hip-hop music blared as the Saturday crowd filled up the lines, and though I was done before I began, Ellie was desperate to ride the Ferris wheel. We were running late, and Jay would be waiting for us, but Ellie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I’m not a big fan of heights,” I informed Ellie. “And the fact that it’s solar powered just makes me nervous.”

“Mommy, it’s okay,” Ellie reassured me. “See?” she said, as we were strapped into our cart. “See? We’ll be okay.”

She slipped her hand over mine, and laughed as the Ferris wheel floated lazily toward the sky. I felt light-headed as the ground drifted away from us.

Suddenly, Ellie got squirmy. “Mommy, make room,” Ellie said.

“Ellie, stay,” I said. “What are you doing?” The Ferris wheel continued to circle up. Ellie scooched her bottom away from me, toward the other side of the cart.

“Ellie, stay next to me—”

The view was breathtaking, a postcard for Southern California days. I could see the entire coastline. All I wanted, though, was for the ride to stop. I was feeling woozy. I needed solid ground beneath my feet. My palms started to sweat.

“Mommy, when we go to the top, Daddy can jump in!”

“Honey, no,” I said. I felt stunned. “Daddy’s not going to jump in.”

“Mommy, Daddy’s in heaven … he’s right up there.” She pointed to the sky. “He can see us—he’ll see us and jump in!”

Ellie tried to stand up—I grabbed her and screamed as she leaned over the rail. People below started staring and pointing.

“Ellie, stop!”

“Daddy!” Ellie yelled. “Daddy! We’re here! Daddy!”

The ride operators took notice. I held on to Ellie, who had started to cry, until we reached the bottom. Jay, pale, a worried look on his face, was waiting for us. A ride operator, an older woman, shook her finger at a sobbing Ellie as she raced out of the cart into Jay’s arms. I stumbled as I walked toward the exit.

“Mommy!” Ellie said, her eyes red, tears running down her face. “Why didn’t you let Daddy in? Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Jay said softly, holding Ellie in his arms, his hand over her head, as we made our way back to the car.

Five-fifteen in the morning. The wind blows through an open window. I get up to close it.
October
, I think. The air is changing. Chilly. A sweet smell, the promise of rain. I sit in front of my mirror, and stare at myself. Stare at all the ways my face has changed. I’m forty-three-and-a-half years old.
Only
. Too old to fully appreciate Lil Wayne, too young to be a widow. This is around the time I start lying about my age, but I lie older. I look much better for forty-four than forty-two. Especially since John died.

I’ve lost twelve pounds. I can’t coax it back on. I’ve tried everything, except, maybe, eating (
where’s that damn Post-it?
). I know what you’re thinking. You’re mad at your husband or boyfriend, the guy who takes up most of your bed and the last piece of crispy bacon. “I could drop these saddlebags? Just by losing
this
guy? Done and done!”

Listen, don’t get too excited. Like love and marriage, death is complicated, as complicated as life. But back to me. Because this is my story. When you lose the love of your life and twelve pounds, you can write yours.

I’ve always had a little extra. Extra in the boobs, waistline (what waistline?), the Big Three: hips, thighs, and tushie. I was born with a little extra. Never bothered me except on tropical vacations, where girls forget to wear the bikinis along with the strings. But when I go to Eastern Europe or Orlando, Florida, I’m a beauty queen. Croatia is my Oahu, Disney World is my Bahamas.

John fed my little extra. He fed me, I mean, really fed me. In
every sense of the word—spiritually, emotionally—and, this is important—physically. He was a professional chef. I’m a professional eater. When my sweetheart was alive, if I grabbed a roll around my stomach, or complained that my breasts made a backhand an impossible dream (not that I ever played tennis), John would speak up in their defense:

          ME: I hate my boobs.

          JOHN: How can you say that about Lola and Michelle?

          ME: I wish you wouldn’t call them by name.

          JOHN: Those are my boobs. If we ever break up, I get custody. Or, at least, visitation rights.

          ME: You can have them. As long as I can have Roger and Degen.

          JOHN: Who are they?

          ME: Your balls.

          Pause.

          JOHN: We’re never breaking up.

Now, I look older than my “lying up” age. My Grief Team tells me I look great. They’re lying. I look like a hard forty-four, a forty-four who’s had a few too many, too many times. A forty-four who steals her kid’s Adderall. I can’t sit on my newly bony ass more than a few minutes at a time, and yet, that’s all I want to do. Sit, and lie down. My breasts, proudly established since the mid-eighties, are deflated. I look like what I am. A grieving widow. All I need is prayer beads and a black lace scarf over my head and I get to be an extra in
Godfather 12
.