The After Wife (24 page)

“Mommy?” Ellie said. “Play it again!”

“Hold on, Ellie,” I said. “Let me just … pull over.”

The woman smiled and peered back at Ellie. Ellie smiled at her and waved. Ellie could see her. I pulled the car over to the curb.

“Ellie, do you know this lady?”

Ellie shook her head.

“Hi,” I said to the woman, who smiled pleasantly at me. “Do you mind …”

I reached over and touched the gardening shears. My hand went through them. You have no idea the relief.

“Just checking,” I said.

The woman had a distinguished bone structure, silvery blue eyes, and freckles dotting her face and her hands. She wore bright red lipstick on a pert mouth. She reminded me of someone.

“Do you need to tell me something? I have to get Ellie to school, running late as usual.”

“Stephanie,” she whispered, with a soft Southern accent. “Tell her it will only get worse. She needs to get out. Now.” And just like that, she vaporized. I was starting to get used to the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t sensation. I wish I could learn it myself, without, you know, having to make the ultimate sacrifice.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Ellie, looking into the rearview mirror.

“The lady?” she said. “She’s worried about Miss Stephanie.”

I pulled into traffic and thought about our girl Stephanie. She’d been quieter than usual, but I was so wrapped up in my own myriad problems that I hadn’t thought to inquire. But who was I to question the dead?

The school was abuzz with excitement over the Christmas Pageant. I dropped Ellie off in her classroom and headed for Stephanie’s office. Anna, the office manager, told me she was already in the auditorium. I found her getting the costumes ready for Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

“Steph, you have a minute?”

“Ooh, can it wait?” she said, turning to me. “Is it Ellie? Everything okay?”

“No, Ellie’s good,” I said, reading the new lines in her face. She’d gotten thinner. Or was I looking for something?

“Can we talk later?” Stephanie said. “The first show comes on in an hour.”

I took her hand. Her mother’s message was urgent.

“No, I’m sorry, this is going to sound weird,” I said. “Stephanie, I need to know if you’re okay.” I decided to be blunt.

She flinched, so slightly that no one except for the person who’d been visited by her dead mother would notice.

“I had a visit from your mother this morning.”

“My mother?” Stephanie motioned for Mary and Joseph to wait for her.

“She was in my car. Wearing a smock. She’d been gardening—”

“My mother gardens …,” Stephanie said. “Hannah, are you okay?”

“She had a message for you—” I wanted to repeat it word for word. I didn’t want to get anything wrong. “She was wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat—she had shears with bright green handles. When did she pass …?”

“My mother is alive, Hannah, alive and well—I mean, she had a scare a few years back … her heart,” Stephanie said. “But she’s perfectly fine now. You’re freaking me out. I can’t deal with this right now—”

Who the hell was that, with the red hair and freckles and gardening shears?

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know—I should go—”

Anna came running backstage, holding a cordless phone in her hand. Her face was pale. “Stephanie, it’s for you,” she said, holding the phone out. “It’s
your father
.”

Stephanie and I looked at each other.

“Answer it,” I said. “Please.” I was trying to ignore that the temperature in backstage had dropped; I was the only one who’d noticed.

“Daddy?” she said, into the phone. She closed her eyes. “No … not Mommy … no …” Her skin turned alabaster. “When did this happen?” Her eyes were on me, now, tears spilling onto her cheeks. All movement backstage had ceased. “Are you sure? No, no. Let me just … get myself together here. Can I call you back, Daddy? I’m sorry—I love you, Daddy.”

She handed Anna, who was also crying, the phone.

“She was in her garden,” Stephanie said, shocked. “She collapsed in her garden …”

“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching out to her. “I’m so sorry.”

Stephanie looked at me. “What did she say to you, Hannah?”

“Maybe it’s nothing.” I knew it wasn’t nothing.

“What did she say?” she asked again as Anna started herding the children and actors away from where we were standing.

“She said to get out. Now. It’s only going to get worse.”

Stephanie just sat there, twisting her engagement ring.

“Is he hurting you?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Do you need help?” I asked. “Let me help you. I can get Brandon—”

“I’ll call my girlfriends,” Stephanie said, sounding exhausted. “I’m moving out today.” She exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in months. I grabbed her hand and held on.

“I’m going to stay until I see you make those phone calls,” I said. “Your mother’s depending on me.”

We went to the office, and I sat with her while she made her escape plans. It wasn’t until I checked my phone later that I realized I’d missed a coffee date with Tom. He’d left several messages; I could tell he was not used to being stood up.

I called him as I headed back to my car. He answered his phone with an officious “Tom DeCiccio,” though I knew he could see my number on the telephone pad. “Tom!” I said, “I’m sorry—I got caught up in something.”

“It’s okay,” he said. His tone made it obvious that it wasn’t okay.

“How was your skinny vanilla?” I asked. “I have to know. The world has to know.”

“Fine.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Tom said, then, “Maybe we should go to a movie or something.”

I froze. “You mean, like a non-caffeinated date?”

“Yeah. Like dinner and a movie,” Tom said. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I understand.”

“No, it’s not—”

“But I’d like to take you out.”

“Out, sure, okay,” I said. How would I explain this one to John?

“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Sure. Really?” I was saying when he hung up.

That night, I put Ellie to bed, poured myself a glass of pinot, and headed outside, under the cover of my dear avocado tree. Even
though I could speak to Jay (once he kicked the Olde English habit), or Aimee, or Chloe—or even Brandon—there was one person who could truly relate to my pain. My anguish. My suffering. My thoughts of getting laid.

It didn’t take long for Trish to appear. Except for the dark hair, she reminded me of photographs I’d seen of Georgia O’Keeffe. Long braid wrapped around her shoulder, those deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones. Wearing loose white pants with a drawstring and a caftan top. Basically, she was a dead woman who was much cooler than I.

“Damn, damn, damn. I wish I could have a sip … or three,” Trish said. “What is that? Italian?”

“Yes … pinot grigio. It’s light—so if you finish the bottle, you don’t feel so bad.”

“I still prefer bourbon,” Trish said. “Would it kill you to buy a bottle of Chivas and set it on the table out here? No, don’t—it would kill me!”

She laughed. Dead people make a lot of dead people jokes. It’s funny the first hundred times.

“So what’s happening in our little suburban enclave?” Trish asked, floating sideways with the breeze.

“I’m starting to have feelings for …” I started to speak, then hesitated. “Can John hear this?”

“Oh, I forget,” Trish said. “The rules haven’t been explained to you. We can only visit one at a time. It avoids complications. And fights. As you can imagine.”

I couldn’t imagine. Ghostly brawls?

“I’m feeling guilty,” I finally said. “I think I like someone. A man someone. Well, maybe that’s not even true—he’s nice and attractive. I just agreed to go on a date with him.”

“Oh,” Trish said. I couldn’t tell if she was grimacing, because the breeze had picked up again and knocked her torso back.

“What do I do? I can’t imagine kissing someone else—but I look at his mouth, and I kind of wish I could touch it. I know it’s wrong—I’m so afraid the minute I kiss someone else, John will fade. That our time together will … wilt. Right now, I can still feel him—I
still feel our moments, our lovemaking, our Christmases, our baby’s birth, our mornings alone, together. But if someone else enters the picture, if I let them—those new moments will take over …”

I was starting to cry. Again. If crying were an Olympic sport—and don’t think I won’t petition for it—I would be taking home the gold. Unless, say, Brett Favre showed up.

“I had sex a few weeks after I was widowed,” Trish said.

“What?!”

“I mean, that’s what we’re talking about, here, with the holidays and births and mornings. We’re talking about you having sex.”

My tears dried up immediately.

“You had sex right after you were widowed?” I asked. I mean, Trish was what, in her seventies, then.

“Oh, yes. You know Mr. Reindorp, down the street?” Trish said.

“That old guy?” I asked. On a good day, Mr. Reindorp looked like he voted for Lincoln.

“Ah, Jerome. He was something.” Trish sighed. “He couldn’t stand up without a floor jack, but he was the high school quarterback when he was lying down.”

“Wow, I’m so not there yet,” I said.

“Sex is normal. And grief sex is even more normal. Honey, there were widows and widowers banging each other all over this neighborhood. We blew the roof off the place.”

“You know, Trish? This ‘talking to dead people’ gift thing should be returnable.”

“I miss those days,” Trish said wistfully. “Do you ever see Mr. Reindorp? Who’s he doing? Not that old witch across the street—”

“Mrs. Graff?” I said. “She uses a walker!”

“Don’t be swayed. She’s a dirty bird, that one.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“There’s no right time,” Trish told me. “You’re allowed to enjoy another man. You might find it … a relief.” She was fading. I was beginning to feel that ghosts were like people—any conversation with me that lasted more than five minutes bored them.

“Hannah … John died,” Trish said. “You didn’t.”

17

Sex, Warts and All

Wednesday morning, and the Grief Team was huddled sullenly around my kitchen table. There was an air of ennui that reminded me of a Jean-Paul Belmondo movie, but with kale juice. Jay’s iPod was playing sorrowful German techno-disco; I was sure crows would soon be falling out of the sky. Chloe was feeding string cheese to her dogs out of my refrigerator. Aimee was reading the paper and complaining about the political climate in Jakarta. Meanwhile, I felt giddy, like I was living the final act of a romantic comedy, but hadn’t told anyone about my—

“Hannah. You have a date,” Jay said, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“She’s turning bright red,” Chloe said, looking at me, “like a farmer’s market tomato.”

“It’s so SaMo to draw delineations between farmer’s market tomatoes and evil grocery store chain tomatoes,” Aimee said.

“How could you hold out on us?” Jay said. “We’re your best friends.”

“Who are, you know, still breathing,” Aimee added.

“Okay,” I said. “So … yes, I have a date. This Friday night. With Tom.” Jay hugged me. You would have thought I’d just announced I was giving birth to Gerard Butler’s baby.

“It’s nothing, just dinner and a movie, a French film.”

“The one with the two hot, young, smooth-skinned French-Algerian
actors who get naked twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds in, or the one with the tits?” Jay asked.

“It’s too soon for anything French,” Chloe said. “Why not the Reese Witherspoon movie? I love everything she does. Did you know she picks up her kids from school every single day?”

“Hannah,” Jay said, “your chances of getting some just multiplied.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” I said.

“Of course not,” Chloe said.

“Of course, yes,” Jay said.

“De rigueur,” Aimee said.
“D’accord.”

“Exactly,” said Jay. “You know what this means, kids? It means … we have a project.”

“A raison d’être!” Aimee said.

“Something to do,” Chloe asked, “besides sit with our feelings?”

“I appreciate your concern, I do,” I said, “but I can handle this on my own. I’ve been on a date before.”

“When was your last first date?” Jay asked.

“Ah … over four years ago.”

“Before Twitter, before Facebook, before sexting …,” Jay said.

“Before papers,” Aimee said.

“Papers?”

“Call your gyno right now,” Jay said. “You need to get in before Friday. Girl, you need your papers!”

I hung up the phone. My gynecologist had a cancellation that morning—I’d be able to see her before my date with Tom. Not that we were going to go all the way (oh, dear God—my thighs were not ready for prime time) but the big show could happen someday, and apparently I needed to have my papers ready.

“My people always have their papers on them,” Jay said, fiddling with his iPod.

“They actually bring signed notes from their doctors?” Chloe said. “I’m so glad I’m not single.”

“But you are single,” we all said at once.

“No, I’m not,” Chloe said. “We’re separated but living together.”

“What do you call that,” Aimee asked, “besides a recipe for murder-suicide?”