The After Wife (19 page)

“Tell Nacho to stop picking on widows,” Jackson said. He laughed, his chest heaving.

“Stop picking on widows, Nacho,” I said, gazing back into Ramirez’s eyes, my reflection stern in his Ray-Bans lenses.

“What did you just—”

“Ask him when he got so fat,” Jackson said. “In ’89, he was a skinny little thing. Shit, he jumped fences like a junkyard dog.”

“This person … Jackson … would also like to know when you got so fat,” I said. “Not my words. I would never say you’re fat—stocky, more like.”

“What did you say?” Ramirez asked. “Why did you say Jackson?”

“That’s what it says on his nametag.”

“Where?” He whipped around.

“Right behind you, but you can’t see him.”

“You’re giving me the creeps, lady,” Ramirez said. “You need to stop this—now.”

“Or what? You’ll arrest me? Put me in Prada Jail?” I asked. “He’s in uniform. L.A.P.D. Big smile, big laugh.”

Ramirez said something in Spanish, rubbing his shiny head with his thick fingers.

“He better remember me!” Jackson said. “I saved that fat man’s life!”

“Don’t forget. He saved your life, Detective Ramirez.”

“Oh my God,” Ramirez said. “Where is he?”

“You can’t see him, I’m sorry.”

Ramirez glanced nervously over his shoulder, then turned back to me.

“My partner … I was a rookie. We rode in the South West division. Eighteenth Street territory. Back when I thought I could, you know, make a difference. It was just a traffic stop. A parolee. I should have known, I should have called for backup—”

Jackson was still standing over his shoulder, his hands on his hips, listening.

“Your partner looks happy,” I said. “I wish you could hear him laugh.”

“He’s laughing?” Ramirez looked up. “Oh, man, that laugh—”

Jackson started to fade.

“It’s so crazy,” Ramirez said. “What you miss—and then, what you forget you miss.”

We stood there as people walked by, as the sun found its way to us.

“Find the Range Rover,” I said.

“Dead people or no dead people, we got our guy,” he said. “But I’ll put some calls out. On one condition—you get professional help. There are groups who can help you. I don’t know you but I know enough about your situation. And I know it could go either way. Mrs. Bernal, you owe it to your daughter.”

He trucked back into the station. I angled my face to the sun, letting the warmth and essential vitamin D sink in (encouraging freckles, age spots, melanoma—can’t I just have a moment?). I heard a noise, opened my eyes to see a homeless woman pushing a baby stroller filled with bottles and cans. I can’t tell you how disturbing it is to see baby strollers filled with things that aren’t babies. The homeless woman suddenly pointed her finger at me. And laughed.

Because I wasn’t wearing sunscreen? Maybe she recognized me as the person she was twenty years ago. We weren’t so far apart, she and I; my hair was dreading up like hers. My skin would thicken and wrinkle. Probably within the next ten minutes. I hadn’t paid that much attention to my teeth lately, and who knows if my dental insurance was good anymore. I doubt it. I was gawking at my future—typical Santa Monica homeless woman—and she was mocking her past—typical Santa Monica latte-slinging, hand-wringing, hybrid-driving, liberal-voting, yoga mat–toting bourgeoise. The flip side of the coin was not so flippin’ far.

Meanwhile, I was still in love with my dead, though conversational, husband. How would I recover from my grief if we never stopped dating? Detective Ramirez was right. It was time to call in the professionals.

“I’m getting help,” I said to the laughing homeless woman. “Okay? I’m getting help.”

Widows and Widowers of Santa Monica met at a stately Tudor built over two lots on Georgina, just west of Casa Sugar. I parked in front, admiring the huge lawn, manicured coral trees, and ocean
views, and navigated the brick walkway. I heard soft voices, silverware tapping good china, classical music playing in the background.

I rapped the antique knocker on the large wooden door, waited, then pushed it open. There was a sea of gray heads, bobbing up and down in conversation. Everyone wore a nametag. Women were walking in behind me with Pyrex dishes, heavy with casseroles. I was empty-handed.

An elegant woman in her sixties, with a silver bob, wearing a suit and a silk scarf, waved to me from the other side of the room, then weaved through the crowd, and took me by the arm. “You must be Hannah,” she said, smiling, “I’m Amelia. Welcome. Let me introduce you around—”

“I forgot a casserole,” I said. “Should I go out and get one?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” She laughed. “Only the gals who’ve been here awhile know to bring food.”

“They all look so happy,” I said, focusing on the crowd’s smiles and laughter. No frowns or sad faces; I would have settled for a yawn. “Are you sure they’re widows?”

“Time heals all things, dear.”

“Oh. They must have been widowed a long time ago, then.”

“No,” Amelia said. “The more time you’re married, the less healing you need. Come on, let’s get this party started. Every Tuesday, we have a Zumba class …”

A few minutes later, I was having a conversation with Lilith (who wore a tennis skirt cut short above her wrinkled knees) about her dear, departed husband, Millford.

“You were married how long?” I asked.

“Forty-two years,” Lilith said, tearing up.
The widow I was looking for
. “Wonderful years.”

“You’re so lucky.” I sighed. “I wish I had even ten years with John. I’d settle for ten.”

An eerie quiet descended over the room. A tall gentleman with thick silver hair, still wearing his confident handsomeness from decades
past, was making his way to the buffet table. Just as he reached the deviled eggs, he was widow-rushed.

“Horace,” I heard. “Horace, over here …”

“Lilith,” I said, “who’s that?”

“Why? Are you interested?” she asked, her gaze narrowing.

“Not at all,” I said, “I’m just curious.”

“You get near him, missy,” she hissed, lipstick marking her teeth, “and I’ll cut you.”

Lilith ran off toward Widower Number One. “Horace! Horace, dear! I made your favorite! Lemon meringue pie!”

Time to go, but I wasn’t leaving empty-handed. I fought my way through the granny rave, snatched a few homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, and made my escape.

Widowed Partners in Transition’s homepage described themselves as a healing group for women under forty-five who’d recently lost a loved one.
Hello, target audience
. I headed to the Urth Café on Main on a bright, crisp winter morning that Packers fans would kill for. While Urth Café was hardly the ideal setting to grieve (surrounded by lululemon asses and Gaiam yoga mats) I liked their quart-sized lattes and their street parking.

(L.A. sidenote: There’s a lot you can overcome in your search for the perfect mate in L.A.—including a rap sheet or pan-sexuality—but if you can’t find a parking spot on a Tuesday afternoon, you’ll be single the rest of your life.)

I stood in line, waited for my two-ton latte, and looked for the group on the back patio. There were several women and one guy crowded around a small circular table. They looked worried. They looked depressed. They looked like they’d forgotten to brush their hair.
My people
.

I caught the eye of the woman leading the group. She was wearing a stretchy top, had wiry black hair, and a prominent nose with a diamond piercing. “Hi … you joining the group?” she asked.

“Is this the … for widows?” I asked.

“You could say that. Have a seat,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.”
Yoga Instructor-Grief Counselor
, I guessed. L.A. was the Hyphenate Capital of the world.

“I’m not much of a joiner,” I said. I squeezed between an Asian lady with a boy cut, and a large-boned Scandinavian woman, and placed my latte on the tiled table. “But I figure, hey, I qualify.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the leader said. “I’m Shalimar. We’re all … dealing with our special form of grief.”

The All-American brown-haired girl was crying into her napkin. A guy with a crew cut, wearing a down vest that made him seem even more bulky, pulled her in for a hug, muting her sobs.

“What’s your name?” Shalimar asked, snapping me out of my trance.

“Hannah Marsh … Bernal.”

“How long ago did you lose your partner?” Shalimar asked.

“September. It feels like this morning, and like … years …”

Their sad, knowing eyes were upon me. Maybe this would work, after all. Shalimar put her hand on mine as a lone tear drifted down the side of my nose.

“I cry at the weirdest times,” I said.

They nodded.

“In line at Whole Foods,” I continued. “Ron Artest was there, in his Laker uniform, ordering vegan food—and I lost it. I think he felt bad.”

More nodding.

“Santa Monica Seafood. The pesto shrimp sent me into heaving sobs. It’s not just the prices. My baby would have never let me buy that,” I said. “Ordering a latte at the Pirates, not ordering the Americano, too … that took weeks.”

All-American whimpered.

“I have to physically stop myself from saying the words ‘Americano, bone dry.’ ”

More weeping.

“Mail makes me cry. Mail. Looking at the name on the envelope … T-shirts. Clogs. The soles—the way they’re worn down on the side.”

More tears.

“The outgoing message on my phone machine. I can’t change it. I can’t. Stray hair from the brush. I kept all of those. I collected them for our daughter. Is that weird?”

Six sad heads swayed side to side.

“I miss John so much,” I said. “No one has ever had a better husband.”

The swaying stopped. The weeping came to a halt. There was silence.

“Husband?”
Shalimar asked.

“Yeah …,” I said, looking at her. “John, my husband—”

I looked at the group. Nose rings. Butch haircut. A wife-beater. The crew-cutted guy was no guy. But really, nothing had been a dead giveaway that this was a lesbian grief circle.

“Did I say husband?” I said. They just stared at me.

“John …,” Shalimar said.

Widowed Partners. You idiot
, I thought.

“I meant … John … anna …,” I said. “Johnanna?”

“Nice try,” Shalimar said.

“So he had a penis,” I said. “What difference does it make? Grief doesn’t discriminate.”

“I’m so sorry, Hannah,” Shalimar said. “But this group is only for gays and lesbians.”

“I voted against Prop 8,” I pleaded. “I made out with a girl my freshman year in college—I kind of enjoyed it?”

“I’m sure you’ll find the right fit, honey,” Shalimar said. “There’re plenty of other groups out there.”

I gathered my pride and my latte and walked out. Again, I belonged but didn’t belong. I had loss, yes, but not the right kind.

I wrapped my scarf around my neck, and turned down Barnard, then toward the Venice Pier. The last time I’d been to Venice Beach, on a foggy June morning, John and I had rented bikes and strapped Ellie on a seat in the back.

“She’s going to fall,” I’d said.

“She’s not going to fall.” John laughed. “Bad things don’t always happen … Don’t always expect the worst, Hannah Banana.”

He secured Ellie’s baby seat, put a yellow bike helmet on her head, smushing her curls, and took off down the bike path, with me following, my eye never wavering, willing our precious cargo to stay, stay, stay …

A young family now whizzed past me on bikes. I woke from the past and found myself standing in front of Hairy Eddie’s Tattoo Shoppe.
(Yes, shoppe spelled just like that—this was the “classy” area of the boardwalk; it didn’t reek of week-old vomit.)

“Walk in,” I heard myself say.

Inside the shop, myself said, “Have you lost your damn mind?” Tattoos and I have an understanding—we stay away from each other. Even during the Westside Mom Yin-Yang/Celtic Cross/Child’s-Name-Inside-Your-Wrist trends. During these and most other trends, I lie down until the trend is over. Also, I hate needles.

“Are you asking me?” An African-American man who must have stood 6′ 8″, over three hundred pounds, with a clean-shaven head, addressed me in a soft voice.

“Sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“You did,” he said. I stared at the walls covered in tattoo designs, from dragons to naked women to Snoop Dogg, and signed photographs of rap artists, actors, and, well, strippers.

“Is Hairy Eddie here?” I asked.

“You’re looking at him.”

“Forgive me. You’re not hairy.”

“I forgive you,” he said. “I’m not even Eddie. I just thought the name combo sounded cool. You looking for something special?”

“It’s like this—” I started. I glanced at his handiwork. There was a photo of a man covered in tattoos, including his head. It was hard to tell what race he’d been born to. It was indeterminate, like so many things in L.A.—“of indeterminate sexuality” being number one on our indeterminate list.

“My husband died,” I said. Hairy Eddie nodded. “And I … I want to get something to remember him by. He was a chef, so … we could be creative, here … like a chicken? Or maybe some cookware?”

Hairy Eddie rubbed his chin with his hand. He wore a thick gold wedding band. He seemed accustomed to women who talked on and on.

“Don’t do it,” he said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” I said. “You’re Hairy Eddie—tattoo artist to the stars and their cars. Look at the
Venice Magazine
piece over there—you’re supposed to be selling—”

“There are four stages in life when you should get a tattoo. When you’re in high school, when you join the military, when you get your first recording contract, or when you’re so drunk you can sing the lyrics to ‘Oye Como Va.’ ”

“How are you going to make a living if you don’t pander to middle-aged white women going through life crises? You’re eliminating half your customer base.”

“Young lady, all I know is, it never comes out right with dead people. You will regret it,” Hairy Eddie said. “Maybe not today, but someday, for sure. When you have more happy days than sad. You will regret it. And so will your lover.”

The word “lover” made my stomach turn.