The After Wife (32 page)

“I’m not upset,” I said, trying to be strong.

“Then … what are you doing in that tree?”

He had me there. Tom was brighter than he looked, despite the beanie.

“The Turk’s taking the tree down,” I said, choking up. “It’s just too much for me. It’s all just too much.”

“Please, can you come down here?” Tom said. “Please?”

“Why?” I said. “What do you care?”

“Hannah, I care about you. I’d like to comfort you.”

“No,” I said, “I’m fine.” My chest heaved. “I’m really fine. Just go away.”

“Hannah,” he said, “I’ve missed you.”

“The Happy Widower missed me?” I said. “Between assignations? When would you have time?”

“Hannah … come on,” Tom said. “I have a right to date.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “I just thought … I don’t know what I thought. What does it matter?”

“Will you please come down?”

“No,” I said. “I have my convictions … plus, I’m afraid to come down.”

Tom stepped over, stood beneath me, and held his hands out for me to jump.

I untied the rope and leapt into his arms. He fell back onto the ground. I thought I heard his spine crack.
I leap into a man’s arms and paralyze him for life
.

“Oh God, are you okay?” I asked, as I heard him groan beneath me. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Tom opened his eyes, pulled my face toward his, and kissed me. My head started spinning as his tongue pushed its way into my mouth. All over my body, switches turned on; the entire rusty machine was whirring to life. Even with him wearing Lycra bike shorts, I was a goner. But then, so was he.

Wow
. So. Grief Sex. How to describe? You know, different types of sex match different emotional states.

There’s Make-up Sex. Or Sad Sex. There’s Sex just to get it over with Sex. There’s Guilt Sex. Anger Sex. Happy Sex. Embarrassed Sex. Anxiety Sex. Bliss Sex. There’s I’d Rather Be Doing Anyone Else, but You’re Here Sex.

Those are all Grief Sex’s bitches. Yep, that’s right. Those sexes couldn’t hold Grief Sex’s jockey strap.

Grief Sex with Tom may have been the best sex I’ve ever had. And no, haters, it wasn’t because I hadn’t had sex in forever. Okay, maybe it was. I’m not going to get into details. But when we emerged, our legs and arms wrapped around each other, we were laughing and crying.

“That’s not normal,” I said.

Tom shook his head. “I know,” he said.

“It’s my first time,” I said.

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, not my first, first time. I am a mother.”

He pulled me closer, and held me tight in his arms, as I cried. I cried because I had sex, I cried because I missed sex. I cried because I was grateful and because I was guilty. I cried because I was happy (which made me feel shitty). I cried because I was lonely, and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.

That’s a lot of crying, let’s face it.

After Tom left for work, I stared at myself long and hard in my bathroom mirror. I had to see if this experience, making love for the first time since John’s death, had changed me. Was I in love? I don’t think so. But I was definitely, solidly, in interest. The truth was, my heart had been so damaged, so traumatized by John’s death, that maybe from here on in, love would feel different, unrecognizable in its new, subdued form.

All of a sudden, I felt old beyond my years. Too wise, even for my forties. In the quiet, bells started going off around me, the air cooled, and the toilet seat suddenly dropped.

“Not now!” I said. “Can’t you see I’m having a moment?”

Surrounded as I was by death, I decided that life was too short and precious (even if it weren’t short enough in some cases) and I needed my disgruntled, estranged, and strange best friends in the world now more than ever.

Also, I needed to brag.

* * *

Jay’s small, tidy craftsman house, in a row of other small, tidy craftsman houses, was situated on a small, tidy street west of Main, just off Santa Monica beach. I overpaid for beach parking and headed to his home, organic dog biscuits in hand. I knew my audience.

I heard the music a half block before I reached Jay’s home.
George Michael
, the lean years. Which predates George Michael, the surgery years. Whatever was happening with Jay required immediate attention.

I rang, and after a drawn-out moment, Jay opened his front door, clutching Ralph to his chest.

“Hi,” I said. “I brought you a present, and I just had amazing sex.”

“Well, hello, Merry Widow,” he said, looking at his watch. “That was quick.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said, feeling defensive. “It’s been months.”

“In my grandmother’s day, if a woman were widowed, she’d never have sex again.”

“Do you want the biscuits or not?” I asked, waving the bag in his face.

Jay grabbed the biscuits and motioned me in. “Details” was all he said, as he sank down on the couch.

I sat facing him, our knees touching, mirroring each other’s posture. “Okay, I was tied to my tree and then I fell on top of him, and then we kissed.”

“Wait,” Jay said, “who are we talking about, here?”

“Tom the banker.”

“Nice. Waxed?”

“No!”

“Trimmed?”

I had to think. “I guess so.”

“Circumcised?”

“Yes,” I said, sitting on his living room couch. “Who isn’t circumcised these days?”

“Dominicans,” Jay said. “We call those ‘hooded anteaters.’ ”

“Enough. Why are you listening to George Michael, circa mid-eighties?” I asked.

“Any of his other circas worth listening to?”

“ ‘Cowboys and Angels,’ ” I said, “you’re playing it over and over, aren’t you?”

“No,” Jay said, sitting next to me. “Of course not. I intersperse it with ‘I Can’t Make You Love Me’… I just can’t get Hidalgo out of my head.”

“So when are you killing yourself?”

“About an hour. I have to highlight my hair first. I’m a hot mess. Sweet Baby Jesus, save me.”

My BlackBerry started buzzing.

“Please get an iPhone. BlackBerrys are uncivilized,” he said.

“You’re pretty judgmental for a potential suicide,” I said, then answered. “Hello?”

“Emergency,” Aimee said.

“Are you okay? I’m with Jay—”

“Oh, that,” she said. “Promise me you won’t tell him anything.”

“But you haven’t told me anything.”

“The reason I didn’t pass the physical?” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

I straightened up and looked at Jay.

“What?” Jay said.

“You’re joking,” I said.

“Why would I joke about something as horrible as that?” Aimee said.

“How do you know?”

“Holy Mother of Oh My God,” Jay said. “That old witch is pregnant?”

“Don’t tell him!” Aimee screeched.

“He knows,” I said, as Jay tried to wrestle the phone from me, settling for listening in by pressing his head against mine.

“I can’t tell you who the father is,” she said.

“Translation: The girl doesn’t know,” Jay said. “Are we keeping it?”

“No,” Aimee said. “Where would I put it?”

I was gripped by maternal longing. “You must keep this baby.”

“Hannah, I kill everything I touch, you know that.”

“Have you told the father?”

“He wants to get married,” Aimee said.

“My God, what a scumbag,” Jay said facetiously.

“That’s sweet,” I said. “Do I know him?”

“I’ve lived alone for twenty-five years. Do you know what that does to a person?”

“It makes them a selfish bitch?” Jay offered. “I don’t believe this. I can’t get married, and she won’t get married.”

“Hannah, Jay, please, I need your support,” Aimee said.

“We can raise the baby. Together,” I said.

“I’m a selfish bitch. Even Jay said so.”

“Full disclosure,” Jay said. “I may have been talking about myself.”

“Where are you right now?” I asked Aimee.

“I can’t be a mother,” Aimee said, pacing my kitchen. “Mothers have to do things, like take care of a child.”

The four of us, including Chloe, who’d brought over pastries and was serving them with tea for our baby-or-no-baby discussion, had gathered around my kitchen table. Ellie would dance through every so often, as a gentle, extremely cute reminder of what could be.

“You take care of Ellie when I need you,” I said. “You’ve taught her things.”

“Like what?”

“Like …” I looked around for help.

“Always put vodka in the freezer?” Chloe said.

“You do know you can’t do Botox during the pregnancy?” Jay said.

Aimee looked as though someone had punched her in the mouth.

“Why would you say that to her?” I asked, grabbing Aimee’s hand.

“I can’t have this baby,” Aimee said. “I need to schedule an appointment right now. Today.”

“Not being able to get Botox injections is hardly an acceptable reason to have an abortion,” Chloe said.

“Okay, then. What about fillers?” Aimee asked, sounding like a wounded child.

“Jury’s out,” Jay said.

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

“At one point, I was looking for a surrogate to carry Hidalgo’s and my child,” Jay said. “I looked through a million pictures. One came close, until I noticed the cankles. Ankles are so important in life, don’t you think?”

“I’m about to break up with you again,” I said.

“Please don’t. Those were the worst three days in my history.”

“I can’t do this,” Aimee said. “I was supposed to get the biggest role of my life.”

The four of us sat in silence. You’ve gotten to know us—you know what it must take for us to sit in silence.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” I finally said, “that there is no bigger role than being a mother?”

Aimee shut her eyes. I wanted to take her uterus from her, put it into a uterus-holder inside a terrarium, and feed the baby until he, or she, was ready to be born. It sounded like a story line out of
Nip/Tuck: The Later Years
.

“Just yesterday, my sweet little Lorraine told me that God doesn’t make mistakes,” Chloe said. “If you believe in God, or fate, or universal energy … Aimee, this pregnancy, this baby, is meant to be.”

Chloe to the rescue
.

“God picked a selfish, middle-aged actress for this role?” Aimee said. “He really has a problem casting parts.”

Jay kneeled down before Aimee and took her hands in his. “Nonsense, honey. I was a selfish bitch until I had Ralph, and then Ellie. You’re going to be a great mom.”

The light in my kitchen dimmed as clouds moved across the sun. Construction noise outside had ceased. All was silent, but for the light touch of a wind chime.

Aimee started to cry.

I watched as Jay wiped her tears, as Chloe hugged her and kissed her cheek. I watched as Aimee’s grandfather flickered in and out, the grief that had been etched on his face replaced by something greater:
hope
.

To recover from his breakup with Hidalgo, Jay had taken on a new workout routine. The old workout routines of the eighties (coke), nineties (Ecstasy), the new millennium (HGH and 5-hour Energy Drink) wouldn’t work anymore. I needed his advice, but the only way I could catch him was to pin him down at “the Stairs.”

Starting before six
A.M
, dozens of scantily clad pros and non-pros (celebs and civilians), hot and wannabe-hot, singles and swingers, trudge up over 180 concrete stairs off 4th Street down to Entrada and up again for their daily workout, sweating, heaving, grunting, and smirking all the way. The bluffside views from the top of the stairs are breathtaking—you can see the wide Pacific, the Santa Monica Mountains, and the sumptuous homes of rich folk who have to contend with boot camps taking place on their front lawns.

I feel about these stairs the same way I feel about brussels sprouts; namely, they shouldn’t exist.

“I have to have the talk with John,” I said, my chest heaving as I climbed the narrow stairway, hoping one of these Stair Maniacs knew CPR, and would be willing to administer it on a person with a BMI of more than 2. Jay’s perky ass served as my tracking device—as long as I kept it in view, I would live.

“How do you tell a dead husband you’ve slept with someone else?” Jay said, as he skipped a step. “It’s just going to hurt his feelings.”

“I’d feel dishonest if I don’t,” I said.

“So you’re going to rub it in his face,” Jay said, between deep breaths. “Wait. Does he have a face?”

“Yes. I can see his features. He’s matured, now,” I wheezed. “Is there an end to these stairs? Where’s civilization?”

A shirtless Stair Master in running shorts came up behind me,
breathing down my neck. He finally ran past me, spraying me with his bodily fluids. I prayed I wouldn’t get sick.

“Like, only thirty more … This is so
Ghost and Mrs. Muir
. Remember the movie? I had such a crush on Rex Harrison. I’ve spent decades looking for my Henry Higgins.”

I stopped, catching my breath, as a tight sixty-year-old woman skipped past me.

“What are you doing?” Jay said. “There’s no stopping on the stairs! You can’t hold up the line. It’s like a Liverpool soccer match—you’ll get trampled.”

“Can we get back to me breaking up with my dead husband, please?” After glancing at my phone, I resumed my snail’s pace. Tom had texted me, checking in, ending in a smiley face emoticon. Why did that make me feel giddy instead of creeped out?

“Don’t tell John,” Jay said. “It will only upset him. And who wants an angry ghost?”

“We still love each other,” I said. “I wouldn’t want him to find out some other way.”

“You mean, like from another ghost?”

“Dead people love gossip,” I sputtered. I saw daylight. We were almost at the top. I felt a kinship with the Chilean miners.

“Oh my God. What do you do if you’re banging Tom and some dead person pops up?”

I took three more steps.

“I haven’t gotten there yet.” I shuddered. Was it possible? “I have to come up with a set of rules. Dead people are like toddlers—always testing the boundaries. They need discipline and structure.”

We reached the top. I felt like vomiting. At least thirty people were standing around, stretching, waiting their turns. Both private expansive lawns and the grassy meridian on 4th were filled with people working out with weights, doing sit-ups, push-ups, and most of all, pick-ups.