The After Wife (8 page)

John’s toothbrush tortures me.
What do I do with his toothbrush?
There’s no handbook for this stuff. I would trade all the frozen 3 Musketeers bars in the world, the entire eighties music oeuvre—George Michael, Madonna, Duran Duran, even INXS—vanilla lattes, the Oakland Raiders, and that good European butter, to hold John’s hand
one more time
.

“And dear God, dear, dear effing God,” I say. I’m sobbing. “What I wouldn’t do for our Saturday morning quickie …”

* * *

The first ghostly “conversation” happened when I was drunk; the next, I was crazy. I hadn’t mentioned what I wasn’t sure was real to anyone, not even the Grief Team. Now, I felt (relatively) sane, but then again, maybe not: I was raking Casa Sugar’s backyard one evening when its poltergeist returned to lecture me on home décor.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, the blue tile in the kitchen—you think that’s too much?” the old woman said.

Exactly when did it became apparent to me that I was speaking to a ghost? Well, generally speaking people stand on the ground, the floor, or steps. This woman was floating. Plus, she had a translucent quality. Floating, translucence
—dead giveaways, if you will
.

“I like blue,” I croaked. “I’m just going to …” I had to sit. Sit or faint. These were the choices.

“Who doesn’t?” she said. “But, why so crazy with the blue, I wonder.”

“Um … who are you?” I asked.

“Trish, of course,” she said. “This is home sweet home. I mean, before you moved in and brought the whole blue thing.” I could see her more clearly, now that I was no longer blinded by fear. Her black hair was braided, accented by silver streaks. I recognized the beauty queen in her cupid’s bow mouth.

“Do you mind?” I asked, motioning toward the wine bottle on the small patio table. She shrugged. I was planning on having a glass when I’d finished raking, but now I picked up the bottle, sat back down, and drank right from the source.

“It must be a shock,” she said.

“Well, kinda, yeah,” I said.

“Losing your husband. So young.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a shame.”

“It’s all kind of a shock,” I said. “I’m talking to a dead person. That’s kind of surprising.”

“I’ve talked to you before,” she said. “You asked a question that needed an answer.”

I thought about it. “My God. You’re Mrs. Why Not.”

“Why not,” she said, nodding her head. “I thought you might appreciate that.”

“Why me?” I asked. “Why are you contacting me?”

“It’s obvious. You need me,” she said. “Look, you wouldn’t hear me, or see me if you didn’t want me here. We’re around all the time—but no one pays attention, past, you know, like age two.”

“I’m surrounded by dead people?”

“Spirits. Sounds better, no?”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this—”

“A gust of cold air. That’s a sign. You know, they keep it freezing up here. The ones in charge, they’ve got the AC on full blast. Or, you walk into a room and smell vanilla. But no one’s in there, the stove isn’t on. How many times have you misplaced your car keys?”

“Those are all signs?”

“Sure. We used to use chimes more, bells, too, but with all the cellphones—doesn’t work anymore. We had to update our system.”

There was so much I wanted to know.
Was there heaven and hell? Was Anna Nicole Smith sorry she missed the reality show craze? And John, where was John?
Trish wouldn’t answer any of my questions. She claimed she’d get in trouble if she got too detailed. “Who’s going to come down on you?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve made it, right?”

“Kid,” she sighed, “there are rules for this, rules for that, there’s the Special Communications Committee, the Office of Otherworldly Affairs, the Committee to Oversee Overseers—and the politics! Don’t get me started. Washington has nothing on this place.”

“Is John coming back?”

“I can’t tell you that, sweetie,” she said. “I have to go now. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

I’ll tell you this. Dead people sure are nosy, but ask them a question? They shut right up.

And Trish faded away.

* * *

I was surprised to find Jay in the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest. “Who, may I ask, were you talking to?” he asked. “I was watching you from the kitchen window.”

“Don’t you mean ‘whom’?” I said, stalling for time using grammatical diversion.

Jay didn’t go for it. Was it better to lie or tell the truth?
Always, always tell the truth
.

“No one,” I said. “Why?”

“You appeared to be talking to the avocado tree,” Jay said. “What does one talk to foliage about?”

I tried another tack. “You look like the actor from
True Blood
in this light.”

“I do?” Jay said, momentarily distracted. “Wait. No. You, my best friend. My business partner. The ‘practical’ one. The anchor, remember? You were talking to a tree.”

He sat on a kitchen stool, put his elbows up on the chopping block, and stared at me.

“I thought you were hitting Main Street with Hidalgo tonight,” I said.

“We met up. I gave him money. That was our date.” Jay hid behind his brave face, which looked like a six-year-old eating a lemon.

“I see a lip quiver,” I said. “And you promised you’d never let him make you cry!”

“The money’s not for him,” he said, his eyes watering. “Damn these lilac contacts. The money’s for the baby.”

“Baby?”

“Yes. Hidalgo and his wife—guess what—they’re having a baby,” Jay said, his voice cracking. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“Oh, honey,” I said. I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetie, I’m the one who sews outfits for his dog. Can you please not be crazy, too?”

“I’m not crazy, Jay. Look at me. I’m not crazy.”

“I’m looking. The eyebrows have me a little upset.”

“I have to tell you something,” I said.

“Give it to me straight, no chaser, no ice. In fact, just give it to me uncut on a mirror.”

“I was talking to a ghost.”

Jay put his head on the block. “I just can’t,” he said. “I just can’t …”

“Don’t you want to hear about the conversation?”

“I’m sure this is normal.
Not
. I’m sure that a lot of new widows go through this.
Never heard of it
. I’m sure that you will be fine.
I’ll visit you on weekends
.”

“Fine. I’m going to check on Ellie and go to bed. I’m sleepy.”

“Night, night, crazycakes,” Jay replied. “I’ll see you in the morning. Unless you’re having breakfast with your ghost friend.”

“Do they eat in heaven?” I wondered. How happy would John be if he could at least cook? I walked toward my bedroom, feeling Jay’s gaze on me.

“Not crazy,” I said.

“Like Teri Hatcher’s eyes,” Jay said.

“Mean!” I said.

I woke up to Jay and Ellie and five giant pumpkins (and one little one) in various states of evisceration on my kitchen chopping block.

“I love the smell of pumpkin guts in the morning,” I said. Ellie, scooping seeds from the little pumpkin, had an apron around her red cashmere robe (that Jay had bought to match his).

“Never too soon for Ellie to learn family traditions,” Jay said, working his Obama pumpkin. “This Halloween, I’m getting my Katy Perry on. I’m thinking Lady Gaga for our little miss, here.” Jay doesn’t just carve pumpkins; he designs “squash art.” If you had seen the Lindsay Lohan Mug Shot he carved last year, you would have wept. Someone actually stole the Liza Minnelli pumpkin from his front porch.

“Over my dead—,” I said. “Oh, wait. I meant, no, never,
nein
.”

“Mommy,” Ellie said, “who invented purple?” Purple was John’s favorite color.

“The Tiny Artist Formerly Known as Prince, sweetheart,” Jay said.

“What does Ellie have today?” I consulted the calendar, taped to the refrigerator. “Wait. What day is it, again?” John had written Ellie’s schedule through the end of the year. It was disconcerting (understatement) to read his scribble every morning, reminding me where to go. Reminding me he wasn’t here.

“Mommy, it’s Wednesday. I have school today. Monday, Wednesday, Friday …”

“Right. Wednesday,” I said. “No Mitt Romney pumpkin?”

Jay shot me a look while concentrating on Obama’s mole. “Pumpkins are Democrats, everyone knows that,” he said. “I’m taking Ellie to school this morning. Isn’t that right, child?”

Ellie smiled and nodded, her mouth full of scrambled egg. Spice waited at her feet for anything dropped. No need to vacuum!

“I can take her,” I said. I heard dogs barking in front of my house, and a second later, Chloe strode in, wearing the NoMo Momzilla uniform: lululemon tights, Harari flip-flops, and a twelve-year-old boy’s ass.

“Why isn’t she ready?” she said, looking at me, then Jay.

“Why aren’t I ready for what?”

“Power Yoga,” Chloe said, over the dogs barking outside. “You need a break. You need peace. You need warrior one. Oh my God,
be quiet
!”

“You guys decided this?” I said. “Last night?”

“Yes. Come on, we’re running late. I’ve got the dogs in the car.” Chloe’s frantic meter was rising. “I can’t leave them at home, my dining room table is missing a leg now, and I think there’s a litter somewhere …”

“Already, yoga is stressing me out,” I muttered.

Chloe’s hybrid SUV was covered in bumper stickers. Iraq, Non-Violence, Anti-War, Obama, Obama–Biden, ObamaMama, HOPE, Arms are for Hugging …

“How’s Billy?” I asked, as I got in, trying to ignore the dog glut.

Chloe is separated but living with at-some-point-ex-husband Billy. In this “new”—read “shit-ass”—economy, they can’t afford a
divorce. Billy Lew Superstar was a big trader with Bear Stearns until the company evaporated overnight. He still shakes his head, as though it’s a magic trick he can’t figure out.

“Billy bogarted my yoga practice. He spends hours on YouTube learning crow pose and bird of paradise. He’s even walking on his hands,” Chloe said, turning to me. “Hannah, he’s thinking about becoming a Democrat.”

“Now I know the end is nigh,” I said.

Chloe and I pull up on San Vicente, outside her favorite studio. Yoga studios in Santa Monica are like hookers in Las Vegas—there are ten on every corner. Wait, come to think of it, there are ten hookers in every yoga studio in Santa Monica. Talk about parallel universes. In the entry, I navigate Ugg and Croc Mountain, vying for ugliest footwear ever invented. I’m overcome by the smell of dank yoga mats and feet.

“So this is what staph smells like,” I said to Chloe, who’s on a mission to find the best floor spot in the sea of tramp stamps, bandannas, and Hollywood divorcées. I follow, and set my mat down between her and a woman of indiscernible age and race. Eminem started blasting. The instructor, a hot, shirtless guy with a booming laugh, called out the first forward bend. I touched my toes. Well, okay, I touched my knees as my eyes wandered into Silicone Valley. “It’s like Frank Ryan’s memorial in here,” I said, referring to the deceased plastic surgeon. Chloe stuck her palms under her feet.
Bitch
. As we moved through our first down dog, I recalled a death at the serious (i.e. no fun) yoga class on Main. A bulimic yogini went into shavasana and never got up; it ain’t called “corpse pose” for nothing.

It was just after we moved into triangle pose that I started to experience the Five Stages of Yoga Grief.

Denial:
My triangle feels good. I’ll whip through this class, no prob. In fact, I’m so relaxed and confident, I almost feel normal.

Anger:
Sun salutations. I’ve lost my breath. Shit. I’m a grieving widow surrounded by hairless, nubile bodies. Why is everyone else able to touch their toes with their tongues? And why aren’t these
people working at ten on a weekday? (Porn isn’t a 9-to-5 job, I remind myself.)

Bargaining:
Holding warrior two. Dear Lord, Mary, Dear Baby Jesus, if you get me through this pose, I will devote my life to helping others. (I’m not sure how, maybe I can find something that doesn’t take time away from my breakdown.)

Depression:
I am not the skinniest, sexiest, richest, bendiest, down-doggiest in this class. I may be the funniest, but that’s only because the porn twins, or T-Rex, the tall guy in the corner who wears the ski cap, or the good-looking, creepy guy I call “Bundy” have no idea how funny they are. I could be the widowiest, but I don’t think I qualify as the depressed-est: Crazy loves yoga.

Acceptance:
I accept that I suck at yoga.

I’m rolling up my mat when a woman with matted hair and a Pillsbury body squeezed into neon tights bounds over. Her silvery eyes are going off like the Fourth of July.
(She does yoga three times a day. Which begs the question: Yoga or Muffins?)

“Oh my God!” she says, grabbing me in a sweaty, neon hug.
I can’t think of her name. Morgan? Marianne?
“How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I’m … okay,” I say, as I watch Chloe weaving her way through the crowd. I ache to be away from this person.

“How’s that handsome husband of yours?” she asks. “How’d you get so lucky, huh?”

I really just want to leave. Do I lie and say he’s fine?

“Um,” I said, “he’s … he passed away. He died.”

“Oh!” she says, her eyes popping out like a Tex Avery cartoon character. “Oh my God. Well … no wonder you look so skinny! You look amazing!”

L.A. is no place for widows.

Aimee was in my driveway, smoking a cigarette, wearing a leather jacket, and leaning against her black convertible BMW. She looked like she belonged in the Brentwood traveling company of
Grease
.

“We’re late. You smell like wet cat,” she said, as I limped up with
my yoga mat. Chloe coughed at Aimee, then sped off in her dog car toward the West L.A. shelter. Her Pomeranian, Bakasana, had refused Doggie Dramamine and vomited in the backseat.

“I’m just relieved I don’t smell like rescued Pomeranian vomit,” I said.

“They don’t really have Pomeranian Rescue?” Aimee asked, wrinkling up her nose, the only part of her that can wrinkle. “That’s just going too far.”