The After Wife (3 page)

“Can we not fight, children?” Jay pleaded. “Mother’s under enough pressure here.”

To my knowledge, this
was
Aimee’s first funeral. Aimee studiously avoided all things potentially unpleasant—children, dogs, plants, Renée Zellweger comedies, and love. She folded her long legs under her and I snuggled onto her shoulder.

“Indira Chloe raised her voice first,” Aimee said, pouting.

“Jay wants to turn John’s funeral into a Broadway musical,” Chloe said.

“And that’s bad, how?” Jay asked, waving the teasing comb. “Wait, before we go any further. Just … take a look.”

He pulled a hatbox out of a shopping bag. “Florence of Miami sent her.” Florence, Jay’s mom, had hopes that her 6′4″ Nordic god progeny was going to be the world’s most famous drag queen. That’s the kind of mother she was.

“Jay,” Aimee said, “this is not the Kentucky Derby.”

Jay opened the hatbox … and brought out a veil. I am not kidding.

“I’m not wearing a veil,” I said.

“Don’t you want to be fashion-forward?” Jay asked.

“I didn’t even wear a veil at my wedding,” I pointed out.

“To my eternal dismay,” Jay said.

“Wedding?” Aimee said. “Standing in line at the courthouse behind a guy with prison tats and a girl with shaved eyebrows—”

“I don’t know why you didn’t have it in my backyard,” Chloe said. “I had a Hindu priestess, a certified vegan caterer, Native American four-piece band …”

“And I just lost hearing in one ear,” Jay said. “Girls, you know how I love a white wedding. Well, Hannah’s was the most romantic wedding I’ve ever been to.”

I looked up at Jay, and he grabbed my hand. Aimee checked her Cartier watch from Disappointed Suitor, Fall 2007. “Ten minutes, people. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Aimee,” Jay said, “this is an iconic moment in Hannah’s life. Let them wait.”

“After all,” Chloe said, “it’s not like John’s going anywhere.”

We all looked at Chloe, who clapped her hand over her mouth. Jay burst out laughing. It was so absurd, choosing the right shoes and hairstyle for my husband’s funeral. I wondered whose tragic life I had stumbled into. I had to laugh, too, through my tears. Even Aimee tried laughing, though it looked like a struggle. In the midst
of my grief, I thought Aimee could lay off Professor Botox for a couple weeks.

The 405 freeway was suspiciously uncrowded. Where were all the normal people—the “norms,” Jay and I called them—rushing to normal events? I looked out the window at gray skies. I couldn’t take the thought of rain. John hated rain.

Where are you?
I thought.
Why did you leave me?

“I wish we’d have brought Ellie,” Jay said. “I feel like I’m lying to my little darling.”

I had been to funerals before. Mom and Dad’s funeral—that was a biggie. Emotionally, I mean; there were no attendance records broken. I’d decided not to bring Ellie. This could have been a bad call. But look, when you are forced to decide whether to take your preschooler to her daddy’s funeral, then you can judge.

“She had the perfect dress,” Jay said.

“Ellie’s way too young,” Chloe said. “Check my mommy blog.”

“Please don’t talk about your mommy blog,” Aimee said. “I beg you.”

“Ellie would have looked exquisite,” Jay said. “I’m just thinking of the photographs.” Uncle Jay had bought Ellie the perfect two-hundred-dollar dress for a kid who’s going to a fancy wedding, high tea, or, you know, Daddy’s funeral. Ellie had opened the big box with the rope handle and squealed. It was a Jenny Kayne midnight-blue silk dress with an empire waistline.

“She makes children’s clothes?” I had asked, pulling John’s old gray robe tighter and wiping my nose with the sleeve. I had slept in this robe for two nights.

“Where do you think the money is?” Jay said. “Kids and dogs, sweetheart.” He was slipping the dress over Ellie’s chubby arms, held high above her head. It was their personal
Dancing with the Stars
routine.

“Divine!” Jay said, as Ellie twirled, pausing before the heavy antique mirror in the living room, placed to give the small room a
feeling of depth. “Look at my angel—she’s Audrey Hepburn!” he said, then whispered, “It’s perfect for the f-u-n-e-r-a-l.”

The truth about Ellie, my glowing, effervescent daughter, is that she has a little weight problem. Okay, she’s a chunk. I feel terrible even talking about this. She’s chubby, cute, but at certain angles, chubby, uh-oh. Like Michelle Obama could come after her with a calorie counter. In my neighborhood, the kids are thin as knives.

“Ixnay on the uneral-fay,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take her to the MOCA opening for Murikami.”

“Please don’t turn her into the girl from the Grinch.”

“God no. That kid looks like a walking STD,” Jay said. He refused to believe there was anything “wrong” with “his” child. Since her six-month half-birthday, he’d taken her to breakfast at the Polo Lounge, sushi at Katsuya, charity balls at the Beverly Hilton, fund-raisers in Brentwood mansions, and premieres at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. He dressed her like royalty, or, you know, Suri.

Jay had an ongoing one-sided rivalry with Suri Cruise.

“We wore that last week!” Jay would yell at a picture of the littlest Cruise in
People
magazine. “That whole sailor look—Ellie’s already played that, sister!”

I’d look over his shoulder, and indeed, there’d be Suri, wearing one of Ellie’s outfits.

“Suri is gorgeous and sweet and she’s being raised by people who are very close to seemingly human,” I’d say. “What about that Jolie-Pitt brood?”

“Well, I adore me some Shiloh. She knows exactly who she is. Flannel has a name and that name is Shiloh. I say, more power to her. Own it, girl! You do you!”

We’d left Ellie at the neighbor’s house, watching loud cartoons, as though the world was still making good on its promises.

The limo turned onto Hillside Memorial driveway and parked in front of a big white building. “You look beautiful, honey,” Jay said. “Like Kim Novak beautiful.”

I pulled the veil over my face. I understood why widows wore veils. Grief changes a face. You’re unrecognizable, even to yourself. Your facial geography is redrawn, as though gravity has struck, suddenly and indelibly.

I teetered into an auditorium filled with faces, familiar and unfamiliar. Whose life is this?
Why?

“Goodness,” Jay whispered, as he held me up. “Standing room only.”

“John was so beloved,” Chloe said, as she started weeping and snapped pictures with her iPhone.

“No,” Aimee said, snatching the phone. “You are not twitpic-ing John’s funeral.”

“Are memorial services the new singles bar?” Jay asked.

I focused; the attendees were 25–45, in the warm-to-on-fire range. John’s fan base was young and included gay men and single women. Based on his series, they must have thought he was single, or didn’t care that he was married. L.A. Moral Standards = Champagne Bentley + Malibu Colony beach house minus wife and kids.

“They’re dressed like they’re going to Vegas to see Sting,” Aimee sniffed. Aimee was not ready to hand over her “Prettiest One in the Room” trophy. These Brookes and Jasmines would have to pry it from her cold, dead hands.
Pardon the expression
.

“Facebook,” Jay said, as though Facebook were the explanation for everything. “Hold your head high, Hannah. You’re Liz Taylor, remember? Let’s give them a show.”

He kissed my hand. With as much dignity and balance as I could muster on Louboutin stilettos (a funeral gift from Uncle Jay) I made the most glamorous entrance of my life, as though this were the movie version of “My Husband’s Funeral” starring Hannah Marsh Bernal.

Sophia, Ava, Ingrid, and La Liz, herself, would have been proud.

* * *

The Grief Team and I had agreed to let Chloe speak for me at the funeral. Chloe was the earthy, poetic one. She would choose the right words to capture the man who was my husband.

I still couldn’t find those words. I tried. I didn’t have any sonnets in my head, no poetic verse I could conjure up. I couldn’t do it then, couldn’t do it now. Maybe when I’m very old, and have distance over time and space, distance and memory loss.

Chloe made her way to the podium. I waited for her to tell everyone how wonderful John was, in every single way that I could think of. Even the ways that made me crazy. She would tell them he was a giving husband and father, kind to animals, plants, and made magic with crushed garlic … and I was going to die without him.

“I’ve always had a crush on John,” Chloe said, into the microphone.

After that, I blanked out. Jay finally raced up and wrestled the microphone from Chloe, who was rhapsodizing about John’s veal piccata for an uncomfortably long time (especially for a vegan).

“So,” Jay said, into the microphone, “I’ve always had a crush on John.”

The most popular boy had married me, the geeky girl. Without him, I was nothing. Without him, I would disappear.

Jay had planned a small memorial for a few select people at my home. “Let people give you their condolences,” Jay said, when I objected. “Let people say goodbye.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” I wept. “I never want to say goodbye.”

I sat on my couch, Spice at my feet, and received the sad faces, the nervous smiles, the plates of homemade squash risotto, the tears rolling down big men’s faces and the shaky grips of slender women. That night, after the “festivities,” Aimee and I relaxed outside in John’s new patio chairs, under my avocado tree, and shared a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked in a decade. Chloe came out with a pile
of laundry under her arms. She’d been cleaning house since the last mourner had left.

“Everything’s under control,” Chloe said. “The dishes are out of the dishwasher. I have raw, organic vegan meals for two weeks in the freezer.”

“Discomfort food,” Aimee said. “Sit, Chloe. You’re making me crazy. More crazy than usual.”

“Chloe, what are you doing with those clothes?” I asked.

“Laundry. I brought my own nontoxic detergent.”

“No!” I said, shooting up from my chair. “No … no laundry—”

“But it’s just dirty clothes,” she said. “They were all in a garbage bag.”

“They were in there for a reason,” I said, as I tore through the basket. “I have to keep John’s scent, don’t you see? I have to keep him.” White and black T-shirts. Calvin Klein jockey shorts. Socks. I grabbed the basket and ran into the kitchen. I could feel Chloe’s and Aimee’s eyes on me.

“No laundry!” I said, slamming the door behind me.

4

Wife After Death

Beyond the shock and the horror, there’s just so much … stuff. That box of Sweet’N Low in the cupboard? No one drinks coffee with Sweet’N Low. No one except John. I always told him that one day, that stuff would kill him.
Way to prove me wrong
.

“Does the Salvation Army take Sweet’N Low?” Jay asked, as we cleaned out cupboards in the kitchen. John’s kitchen. His wood chopping block marked by pot burns and oil spills, nicks from his set of Henckels knives.

“Chrysalis won’t take it,” Chloe said, talking about an “exclusive” homeless shelter in Santa Monica. “They only allow Stevia. It’s natural.”

“Of course,” I said. “What do I call John? Is he still my husband?”

“Of course, he’s still your husband,” Chloe answered.

“In a year? Will he be my husband in a year?”

Chloe and Jay exchanged glances. Here’s the thing about death—it’s unlike any other game you’ve played (unless you’ve played gin with Aimee)—there are no rules.

“What about my wedding ring?” I ask. “It makes me feel like I’m lying. But if I take it off, I’m really alone.”

“You want me to make you some grieving tea?” Chloe asks.
How do I tell her that I am all tead out?

“No thanks, baby,” I say. Chloe and Jay are helping me sort
through John’s belongings. What to keep, what to donate, what to toss. So far, I’ve kept everything. I stop Jay when he’s about to throw out a small jar. “What if I need fish stock base?” I ask. I’m not even sure what fish stock base is.

“It’s expired,” Jay said, “September.”

“The fish base went at the same time as John,” I said. “That means something. I have to keep it.”

Grieving is difficult in a world where bad news doesn’t exist, a world known as Santa Monica, California. Every day is a sunny 72 degrees, except in the early mornings, when the fog rolls in. I’m up early to spend quality time with my fog. The fog and I, we have an understanding; the fog “gets” me. But soon enough, here comes eight o’clock, and it abandons me, surrendering to blue skies and fresh, ocean breezes. And that sun, that damn sun. Santa Monicans act like they can “catch” bad news. I think it’s because everyone’s so healthy. Grieving widows, a living sign of human vulnerability, are as welcome as chlamydia. (Unless, I imagine, you’re a vegan, recycling widow.)

I live in NoMo, the fashionable side, North of Montana Avenue, in a Spanish-style bungalow. NoMo has wide, tree-lined streets curving toward the ocean, large, expansive homes, and swimming pools. SoMo, South of Montana, has apartments and condos, small homes, a few anemic-looking trees, and the dreaded parking issue. In these parts, Montana Avenue is our 8 Mile.