Seeing Julia (2 page)

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“What will she do?”

“I don’t know. She’s been through a lot, even before this happened. She’s amazing that way. We just have to help her get through it,” Christian says.

“I don’t know…Evan getting married again so soon after Elizabeth’s death and no pre-nup with this one.” The way he says this one causes me to wince.

“He wanted to give her the world. He really loved her. Julia’s the real deal.”

“And she loved him?”

“You’re so cynical,” Christian admonishes. “Of course, she loved him.” The men’s voices get farther away. The echoing sound of a metal door opening and banging shut drowns out the stranger’s response.

Weary, I lean my face against the cool cement wall. How many others at this funeral were going to be suspicious of me? How many would question my motivation in marrying Evan so soon after we first met? Do I really care? Does it even matter? I just want to rewind back time to ten days before, when it was just Evan and me playing with our baby and watching the storm rage outside.

The light bursts on overhead and I sit up, startled, even though I knew she would find me. My respite ends as Kimberley runs up the stairs toward me. “There you are.” She appropriates the lit cigarette from my hand and takes a few tokes of her own. Then flicks it to the ground and steps on it with her black Stiletto. “It’s almost time.” I nod. She flashes me one of her I-know-this-day-sucks looks. I allow myself a wan smile as she helps me up.

“Did you find her?” Stephanie leans through the doorway below and wrinkles her nose at the smell of smoke still drifting in the air. “Julia, you don’t smoke.” She fishes out fresh mints from her handbag and adroitly hands them out to us.

“I can do whatever I want.” I manage to say, though raw emotion constricts my throat. I think our kindergarten teacher is at a loss for words as my assertion reminds her of why we are all here. The empathy for me emanates from both of them. No one wants to be me on this day. “I need a drink,” I whisper to Kimberley as she pulls me up from my sitting position.

“Julia, we all need a drink. In another hour, we’ll do just that.” If anyone can make something better out of this day, it will be Kimberley Powers.

We enter the foyer at the back of the church. I glimpse all the people inside. A mixture of panic and sorrow rush at me.
I will not cry, not today.
My two best friends link their arms with mine and bestow me with their strength. The Oxycodone begins to kick in and man-made serenity slides over me. We enter the hushed church of four hundred restless strangers. All eyes are upon me, as the three of us, dressed in variations of designer black, make our way down the middle aisle to the front pew. I keep my head bowed, not wanting to be here, not wanting to be any part of this day. Yet, I am here and Evan is not.

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Kimberley has outdone herself, even against the high measuring bar as one of the best public relations specialists on the eastern seaboard. I expected a nicely planned gathering after the funeral, but I look around amazed at the opulence of this get-together on the Upper East Side and muse Evan would have loved it. There are more than a hundred people here to honor him. I have already thanked and been hugged by most of them—family, friends, and employees.

Now, I’m flanked by my entourage. Kimberley, to my left, dispenses a continual stream of a chocolate martini mixture in my glass, fulfilling the role as my personal bartender. Christian’s older brother, Gregoire, sits on the other side of her, intent on keeping Kimberley entertained. Stephanie and Christian are to my right attempting to ply me with food. Mr. and Mrs. Chantal take turns, encouraging me with, “try this, Julia.” I do not openly refuse their offerings. I eat a little, but drink more.

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I cannot feel my toes any longer. I vaguely try to contemplate if this is due to the vodka or the Oxycodone. I give the group a reassuring smile as my head swims with a mixture of pain killers and alcohol. This is a non-smoking lounge. I lament that fact as I dangle an unlit cigarette between my fingers. The bartender continues to eye me in this vigilant way surely wondering of my intention with the forbidden cigarette. I’ve already shared with him my theory about breaking the rules. I think he would like to agree with me. Rules are meant to be broken when your loved one dies, but the hotel general manager hovers twenty feet away from all of us eyeing me in particular with uncertainty.

Kimberley orders another chocolate martini and slides it over in front of me. I look up at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and lift my glass in gratitude and take a sip. I try not to grimace at the amount of alcohol that assails my tongue with this semi-sweet concoction. I’m a light-weight. Kimberley knows this, but we keep going. I have not informed my co-conspirator about the vial of Oxycodone—an inheritance—a gift from the god, himself, from a knee injury Evan suffered skiing the winter before. I’ve already pilfered two more pills from the vial in the last hour. I catch the edge of the bar as grief plunders me with this fresh memory of Evan, whose life we celebrate. He is gone. I am still here. I cannot reconcile these two incongruent thoughts.

I hazily continue with my performance for my two best friends and their significant others showing them all I will survive this, though I am not at all sure how I will. Despite all of these people around me, I feel alone. The thought cuts across me in a peculiar ominous way. I am alone in the
after
. Again.

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The crowd has moved on to dancing—the signs of a good wake so I’m told by one of Evan’s nostalgic uncles. I perform a waltz in a semi-daze in the older gentleman’s arms. Even when his hands stray to my right buttock and give it a firm squeeze and I feel his hard-on accost my right hip, I keep up the pretense of dancing with him for a few more minutes with a fake smile pasted on my face. Evan’s Uncle Joe gives me a lustful look and mutters under his breath that I am a sweet young thing and he can show me a good time.

I step back away from him, more unsteady now, but too weak to actually slap his face because my imbibitions are beginning to catch up to me. I sway and take another precarious step. Someone comes up behind me and squires me away from the lecherous old man.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” drawls the voice from the stairwell in my ear. He puts his arm around my waist and we move together across the dance floor. “The old guy is a real dick and to do that to you here on this day, unforgivable. He’s perfectly harmless, I think, though I would have thought Evan would have warned you about him long ago.”

Invoking Evan’s name upsets me and I pull away from my intended rescuer, intent on making it back to my appointed place at the bar. “Don’t talk about
Evan
,” I say in alarm.

Tears threaten me, again, but I’ve already resolved not to cry, not here. I haven’t cried at all. Not yet.

“Careful, Mrs. Hamilton, someone will get the wrong impression.” I’m startled by the disdain I detect in his voice and turn back and give him a beseeching look. His blue eyes are mesmerizing and I stare at him, this golden god, and try to place his face.
Do I know you?

“Jake Winston,” he says with diffidence, extending his hand toward me. “Evan’s best friend from Yale.”

I gaze at him through a haze of inebriation and a self-induced drugged state and try to focus. Then, I lift my head in defiance and shake his hand, half holding on to him.
Steady.
“Hello, Evan’s best friend from Yale. Julia Hamilton,
the real deal
,” With sudden ingenuity, I sweep my arm outward with an exaggerated Vanna White move and almost fall down. He catches me around the waist and steps back as if burned.

“I apologize,” he says with an embarrassed flush. “I guess dark stairwells are not the place for private conversation. You never know who might be there lurking in the dark.”

“You never know who’s lurking in the dark. And, don’t worry about Uncle Joe; I’m sure he’s just trying to show the grieving widow a good time.”

He gives me a deliberate look and asks, “Are you…having a good time?”

His implication is not lost on me and my temper flares. “Fuck you.” I take a deep breath. “You’re deplorable, you know that? I realize the idea of a deep relationship doesn’t extend beyond fucking someone more than twice, but my marriage to Evan was very real and I love…him.”

I’ve run out of words and lost control all at the same time. I’m mortified at my behavior and retreat away from Mr. Jacob Winston and unsteadily make my way back to the safety of the now empty bar. Frantic now, I search around for Stephanie and Kimberley and finally spy them both out on the dance floor.

I am alone.
The realization at all of
this
overwhelms me.

I ask the bartender for my evening bag and he reluctantly hands it to me, while asking if I’m okay. I nod and give him a contrived smile. The sight of myself, smiling, in the mirror behind him, almost makes me cry again, but I turn away and make a hasty retreat. The bartender calls after me. I do a backhand wave and keep moving.

In the lounge bathroom, I pop two more Oxycodone. The funeral was too painful. And now, all of this is too much. Desolation overtakes me as I try to envision a life without Evan in it. The grief is too much. I don’t want to feel it anymore. I can’t feel this pain anymore. Not again. For good measure, I take two more pain killers.

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