The After Wife (13 page)

“Jay,” I whispered, tugging at his sequined dress, “I don’t feel right about this—”

Santino suddenly thrust the pigeons to the rock circle and brought down the knife. I shut my eyes and screamed, hiding behind Jay.

Then I heard the pigeons cooing. I opened my eyes. The knife had been plunged into the ground. Santino plucked feathers from the birds, then released them. As they flew to the tree (presumably to view the proceedings), he placed the feathers in the shape of a cross inside the circle, sneaked a flask from his bosom, and started drizzling a dark liquid over the rocks and feathers.

“Oh my God, I thought he was going to kill them,” I whispered to Jay, as we watched Santino continue to chant and gyrate.

“Not since the goat incident at Paris Hilton’s place,” Jay said. “He just outsources, now.”

Santino finally quieted down and motioned for us to sit. Hidalgo hung on to Jay’s arm. I wondered where Spice was hiding—I could use something to hang on to, myself. Santino placed his hands above the feather cross, his eyes blinking rapidly. He flapped his arms and shook his head, his wig falling to the side. Jay giggled nervously. Hidalgo pinched his side.

“I feel him,” Santino said. “He is here … John … John …” (Which sounded like “Yawn, Yawn,” but I wasn’t about to correct his pronunciation. I did yawn, however.)

The wind picked up and flames shot up. We jumped back as the whole circle went ablaze. Santino stammered in Spanish and readjusted his wig.

The breeze ceased. The flames died down.

“Okay, that’s it,” Santino said, clapping his hands.

“That’s it?” I asked. “What’s it?”

“That was John,” Santino said. “You no feel him? The wind, baby.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

“Hannah, Santino is a Son of Shango,” Jay pointed out. “If he says John was the wind, then John was the wind.”

“Do you have Kool-Aid?” Hidalgo asked. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Come on, baby,” Jay said. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

I was left alone with Latin Anna Nicole Smith, who had closed his eyes. I stood, and started cleaning up. I didn’t want Ellie to see this mess and start asking questions.

“Stop,” Santino said, grabbing my hands. “Don’t touch!” His hands were calloused and warm.

“Listen to me, girlfriend,” Santino said, his eyes searching my face. “Your husband,” he whispered. “He love you very much.”

“How do you know?” I whispered back.

“You will see,” Santino said. He whipped around, as though someone was shouting behind him. I saw nothing but the tree. My tree.

“Girlfriend, honey, you got lots of action, here, oh my God,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied stiffly. “I haven’t had sex since John died.”

“No, baby,” Santino said. “You have the dead.” He gazed at me and said nothing, which was more unnerving than “killing” pigeons and lighting my backyard on fire. “Know the Goddess Oya, sweetheart. She runs the show between the dead and the living. The dead, they want to speak to you.”

“The dead need someone to talk to? Why? Are they lonely? Seems like there’s a lot of them out there … I know at least three, not even counting Hervé Villechaize.”

“The little man from
Fantasy Island
?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead?” Santino said, starting to crumble.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure?” Santino asked. I helped him stand on his light-up stripper shoes.

“I’m really so sorry,” I said, as I walked him up the stairs into the kitchen.

Like you wouldn’t have looked up Oya on Wiki. She’s bigger than Oprah—the warrior goddess of lightning, wind, fertility, fire, and magic. Talk about a full-time job. Plus, she guards the underworld and causes hurricanes, tornadoes, and earthquakes.
Do NOT cross her
. Oya is the guardian of the realm between life and death; she can call forth the spirit of death.
So why was John playing hard to get?

I fell asleep with my laptop on my stomach, waking at the crack of dawn to Spice licking my face, rain pelting the tile roof, and Ellie screaming. Even before my eyes opened, I knew there was a leak in the kitchen, Spice needed to pee (and would refuse to go out in the rain), and Ellie had awakened from a bad dream. I ran into Ellie’s room. She was sitting up in bed, crying. My heart broke at the sight of her.

“I had a dream!” she said, shaking in her satin pajamas. “A bad dream!”

“Honey, I’m here,” I managed. I put my arms around her and held her tight. “What was it?”

“A scary cow!” she wailed.

I started laughing. Ellie looked at me. “Why are you laughing, Mommy?”

“I’m just so … relieved,” I said. Spice was whining, so I made him go in the backyard. There’d be no walking couples therapy. I went out back with my hoodie over my pajamas and looked at the mess. Feathers, burned-out candles, scorched circle on the cement. I had to get this shit gone before Ellie started to ask questions. Then
I noticed … the feathers had been rearranged into a single word: BOO.

My back stiffened. “Who did this?”

“What, Mommy?” Ellie ran to the kitchen door.

“Nothing!” I said. “Nothing … just someone trying to be funny.”

I messed up the feathers, then ran back inside.

10

Social (Paranormal) Networking

Monday morning, and already I was a week behind. I had to check out new schools for Ellie, and I was having my first network meeting, A.D. (After Death). Jay and I had spent the weekend going over fake reality scenarios for Karli and Kevin, including the scenario where we lose our network deal because our scenarios sucked.

I was getting breakfast ready for Ellie, who was taking decades deciding between platform clogs (courtesy of Uncle Jay) or Vans (courtesy of me). Ellie didn’t know the meaning of the word “overdress.” At times I wondered if Jay hadn’t gotten his DNA mixed up with mine.

“I can’t go back to my school?” she said, peering up at me. She’d decided on the inappropriate clogs. I’d have to peel them off of her with a paring knife.

“We’re just checking out new preschools,” I told her. “These ones seem more … fun.”

Of course, I had no idea whether a new place would be fun or not. I just knew I had to find a school to take Ellie that morning so I could go to my meeting. One of us had to earn a living, and Ellie wasn’t old enough unless we moved to a third world country where she’d make Nikes.

I opened the refrigerator to get her milk. Two percent. Was I supposed to force her to drink nonfat milk, like her pediatrician had
suggested? No. A dead parent was enough suffering for the time being.

I grabbed the milk, closed the refrigerator door, then opened it again.

Someone had arranged the tiny pickles John kept on hand for emergency charcuterie (yes, you read correctly). And they’d written, in pickle: LOVE.

“Not funny,” I said, out loud.

“Mommy?” Ellie asked. “Can I have my milk? I don’t like it dry.”

She was eating the organic “cheerios”—you know, the kind that cost twenty dollars for a box that lasts two days? I closed the refrigerator. Poured the milk on Ellie’s exclusive cheerios. And then, I tiptoed back to the refrigerator and opened it.

Hi
.

I slammed the refrigerator door. My knees were shaking. Was my husband flirting with me from The Great Beyond? I needed to ask Trish. I needed to call Santino. But first, I needed to remember how to dress for a network meeting.

Number one on a very short list of schools was a nursery school at Santa Monica Methodist, a neighborhood church just a few blocks west of us. The office manager, a grandmotherly type named Anna, greeted us and led us back into the playground. I heard children’s screams and chatter and cries and laughter. The yard was big and messy, with a sand pit, climbing structure, trees and tricycles, lost sneakers and hair bows. Ellie wasn’t even enrolled yet, and I was having visions of her tearing up the place, pumping her feet way too fast on that shiny red trike, which I knew would be her favorite. She unscrewed her little hand from mine and made a beeline for it.

Anna looked at me and gave me her toothy smile. “Why don’t I take you to meet Stephanie?” she said.

“If I don’t get in here, I’ll die,” I said, though I knew death was not a viable option. Someone had to stay alive for Ellie.

The pressure!

Stephanie Clark, the school director, was chatting with two
smudge-faced boys with white-blond Buster Brown haircuts, about the goldfish in her tank. Pulled back red hair and granny glasses only accentuated her “hot librarian” look. Or maybe hot “Kindle” look. She glanced up and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Stephanie,” she said, as she shook my hand.

“Please take Ellie,” I said. “Hi, I’m Hannah, I mean. Please take Ellie.” Anna scooted out the two boys while we sat. Stephanie looked at me from across her desk.

“Mrs. Bernal, have you seen other nursery schools in the area?”

“No,” I said. “I love this place for Ellie. It’s messy. It’s rough around the edges. It smells like cafeteria food. The moms look like moms and the teachers look like they’re tired but having a good time. This is where we want to live out my days—I mean, this is where I want Ellie to go to school.”

“Where is Ellie now?” Stephanie asked.

“She’s making the Indy 500 rounds with the red tricycle.”

“Of course,” Stephanie said. “It’s the toddler Lamborghini. Can I ask you about …”

“My husband. He, ah, died recently. Ellie’s been talking to him at night. I’ll get help. I mean, that’s why we’re here. The parents complained at Bunny Hill. They weren’t comfortable with their kids hearing about Ellie’s dead father. I understand, no one really likes to hear about death, especially from a little girl, who’s, you know, grieving …”

Stephanie tilted her head, her eyes widened. “I was going to ask about allergies. Does Ellie have any food allergies? Allergic to anything at all?”

Damn my big mouth. “No, no she doesn’t.” Damn it. Damn it.

“I’m so sorry about your husband,” Stephanie said. “It must be so hard for you … and Ellie.” She gave me a small, sincere smile. I think she might have actually meant it.

“Thank you,” I whispered. We sat for a moment as kids’ voices punctuated the air. Even in the din, I could hear Ellie’s laughter.

“And while those parents should be ashamed of themselves and won’t be,” Stephanie said, “I blame the school. Shame on them.”

I started crying. Stephanie handed me a Kleenex box. I never wanted to leave.

“Would you like Ellie to start today?” Stephanie asked. “We have an opening.”

I couldn’t get my words out. I just nodded. Maybe there was grace in this world. And maybe there were angels.

I arrived five minutes early for the network meeting and congratulated myself. I still remembered where to go. Greeting the parking attendant at the gate felt natural. I had a moment of panic when I couldn’t find my driver’s license, but that passed without incident. I had even remembered my notes. Maybe I was getting back to me.

Jay and I met up outside the main building. There was always something thrilling about being on a production lot. I loved the huge billboards on the sides of buildings, the buzzing of golf carts transporting talent, the incessant hubbub of people creating and working and getting things done.

“New York is here, in this meeting. The She-Devil herself,” Jay said. “Are you ready?”

“Isn’t this more a pro forma thing?” I asked. “What’s she doing here?”

She-Devil was the über-chief of the network. She hated Los Angeles. She-Devil despised sunshine.

“I should have picked out your suit,” Jay said. “You’re too thin for it now, and you need a higher heel. And a haircut. Does my Ellie like her new school?”

“Loves,” I said, diving into my bag for a granola bar, fruit snacks, anything. “I’ll gain ten pounds right now.”

Jay took my face in his hands. It was hard to see his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“No weirdness today, Hannah,” Jay said. “I don’t care if Ethel Merman appears in a G-string in the middle of the room and starts belting ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business.’ Let’s sell the
new season, then go to that Mexican dive across the street. You need eight gallons of melted cheese. Your ‘zaf’ has lost its ‘tig.’ ”

She-Devil sat in Todd the Reality King’s office. She was dressed in a power suit so tight she could have used it to scuba dive. She rose, briefly, as we walked in the room. When she shook my hand and squeezed, I thought I might need to ice it. Her skirt squeaked when she backed into her chair. In her late forties, she was 90 percent muscle, 10 percent balls. She had probably been born in her late forties.

I started to sweat. I was terrified.
What the hell was she doing here?

Kevin and Karli, the half-gay, all-narcissist couple was seated on the couch, and putting on a sex show. Karli had stuck her tongue in Kevin’s ear and somehow managed to touch his reptile brain. Kevin was practically stuffing dollars down her miniskirt with his teeth.

Todd the Reality King was rocking in his chair and clapping his hands like a seal. Did I mention he’s pocket-sized? If this were an earlier era, he’d be dancing (and popping pills backstage) with Judy Garland.