The Widow and the Rock Star

by J. Thomas-Like

  I sat with Mom that long morning and talked to her. I came clean and told her the entire truth about everything that happened in California. I had given her the Cliffs’ Notes the day after the premiere, but this time I held nothing back. I started with my chance meeting with Will at the television studio, though I hadn’t really known who he was at the time.

  “If I’d known then what was going to happen, I might have run away right then,” I told her, wishing she would laugh with me.

  “Pepper took me to this awful party, Mom. Everyone was so beautiful and perfect. I felt like the class nerd.”

  I waited for Mom’s hand to snake out and biff me on the head, but it didn’t. So I went ahead and described every detail about the beautiful mansion I walked through and the people at the party.

  “So we decided to blow that popsicle stand for something more fun. The bar was called The Relic, and it reminded me of the places Pepper and I used to hang out.”

  I found myself smiling as I told her about my official introduction to Will. I spared her the more intimate details, but I told her everything I could about him and our love affair. I spun a tale about how we had fallen in love and were going to be together. I said he loved me with all of his heart and was going to take good care of me. I told her about how Pepper had gotten us together. I described Pepper in vivid detail, making sure to say her “second daughter” loved her very much. I reminded her that Tony had been caught and that the foundation would, once again, go on to help all of those families that had suffered the loss of a loved one.

  I asked her to give Dad a hug for me and tell him how much I missed him. I told her to give him all the news about the book and Pepper and Will. I wanted her to make sure he didn’t worry about me either. I reminded her that I would miss her more than I could ever express. If ever I put another word on the page, it would be because of her support and love, which had been unconditional my entire life.

  I thanked her for everything she’d ever done. Even though the words were guilt-ridden daggers stabbing me in the guts, I thanked her for cleaning my house one last time and managed a little laugh. I thought she would get a kick out of that.

  When I finally exhausted my vault of words, I cried some more.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you wouldn’t want me to cry, but I can’t help it.” I was losing her, and there was no way it wasn’t going to hurt or not make me sad. “It is what it is, right, Mom?” I used our favorite catchphrase.

  Time seemed to crawl while I waited for Dr. Naber to return, but when he walked into the room, I struggled not to scream at him to leave.

  “Are you ready, Vivienne?”

  Like I could ever be ready for this. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, I nodded. “Yes. She would hate being like this.”

  “You’re right.” Dr. Naber stepped to the bedside and patted Mom’s hand. “Goodbye, Olivia.”

  A moment later, two nurses, one of them April, filed into the room. Each took a place on either side of Mom’s bed and they began removing IVs and tubes. When it was time to stop the respirator, Dr. Naber did that himself. He’d been Mom’s doctor for more than forty years. I would have done it myself, but it was against hospital policy.

  Everyone respectfully left the room, while I sat beside my mother, holding her hand. It only took a few seconds for her breathing to slow.

  “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you again someday.”

  And then her breathing stopped altogether.

  *****

  This time, the details of death did not tread softly on me. When Bruce died, I had no idea what a Casualty Notification Officer was until one showed up at my apartment door. He was dressed in his Class A uniform and wasn’t alone. An Army Chaplin was with him. They were calm and kind, delivering the news that my husband was dead in the forced casualness that was required of them. Everything after that was a blur. I remember holding hands with one of them while I dialed my parents, and the other one getting a glass of water for me to sip. I had one of them get my neighbor, an older woman who collected stuffed cats, because the building allowed no animals. Upon Evelyn’s arrival, the CNO and Chaplin left and I just kind of zoned out until my parents arrived. They handled everything, from all the contact with the Army, to the calls back and forth to Bruce’s family. When I wrote the book, anything I couldn’t remember, I made up and filled in with what I thought happened.

  Now, I was numbly standing at the nurse’s station being presented with forms and decisions to make, having no one to hand the responsibility off to. Who knew there was so much paperwork to sign? I gritted my teeth and scribbled on form after form, furious. Was I doing everything right? Was I making the right choices and checking off the right boxes? I had no way of knowing.

  When Dad died, Mom had been so strong. I knew how devastated she was because we had talked about the day it would finally happen. But she managed to hold her head high and complete the task. I was the one sitting in the corner crying, my heart in pieces on the floor, along with the remnants of the doctors’ last efforts to save Dad. A wave of guilt and shame crashed down on me as I realized it should have been me taking care of her that day. I should have been the one to comfort her and take care of the particulars. Once again, someone else had done the dirty work for me. I sent another apology skyward to where I hoped Mom’s spirit was whirling about.

  When the random nurse handing me the paperwork asked what funeral home I intended to use, I stared at her dumbly for more than a minute. She had the brass tacks to look irritated with me.

  “I beg your pardon?” I slammed the pen down on the countertop.

  “You’ll need to contact a funeral home to collect the body.”

  I half expected her to add “Duh” to the end of the sentence. I shifted the pen in my hand so I could stab her in the forehead with it.

  “Van Lerberghe in St. Clair Shores.”

  “I don’t know that one,” she sighed.

  “Look it up, then,” I growled, my teeth clenched as tightly together as possible.

  Just then, Nurse April appeared at my side and I felt her cool fingertips on my arm.

  “Is everything okay?” Her tone was gentle and kind.

  “Yes,” I breathed in deeply. “Yes, fine. Am I finished yet?”

  “Of course.” April nodded and took the clipboard away from me, shoving it across the counter to the other nurse. “If anything else needs to be signed, we’ll send it to you.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and led me away from what could have been a justifiable homicide.

  Thanking April, I gave her a hug and then went back to Mom’s room for one more goodbye before I left the hospital for the last time. I had to admit, she looked at peace, lying there. But the longer I stood staring, the more agitated I became. My skin began to itch. I wanted to give her one last kiss, hold her hand one last time. But that wasn’t my mother anymore. Mom was somewhere in the universe with my Dad. The body on the bed was just a shell. I was filled with a deep sense of shame because it was beginning to freak me out.

  From the foot of her bed, I put my fingers to my lips and blew her a kiss.

  “Goodbye, Mom. I love you.”

  I rushed out of the room.

  *****

  Sitting in the car, I couldn’t find the strength to lift the key to the ignition, much less the inclination to drive home. Instead, I let the tears roll down my face, gravity pulling them off my chin to soak the front of my shirt. The finality of the moment when mom’s breathing stopped was like a dream. Something I wished I could pretend wasn’t real and could avoid, like so many other things in my stupid, coddled life. Slumped behind the wheel of my pickup, I was pulverized with the feeling of aloneness. There would be no brothers or sisters to help shoulder the burden of the funeral arrangements. No aunts or uncles or cousins supporting me and hugging me close while I grieved. I was alone in my responsibilities, in my mourning. I wasn’t prepared for this.

  My parents and Bruce’s family had taken care of his arrangements.
I had been kept in beds or chairs or on couches to “rest” until the day I had to sit in the front of a funeral parlor, gazing at a flag-draped casket. With my Mom on my right and Bruce’s mother on my left, I’d listed from one side to the other, as the minister droned on. Numbness had been the predominant feeling. Disbelief, confusion, and fear were the petals on my flowering stupor.

  A frown inched over my face as I realized how babied I’d been. Instead of facing the devastation of Bruce’s death, I’d been overprotected, considered too young and fragile to manage the wretchedness of death.

  Hiding in my car, I was ashamed and grateful at the same time that I wouldn’t have to plan a public service for Mom. After the stress and strain of Dad’s, Mom declared she did not want one for herself. She considered them barbaric and unnecessary. Even though I tried to explain to her that funerals were more for the people left behind than the actual deceased person, she would have none of it.

  “Don’t you dare have a funeral for me, Vivienne. I don’t want you to have to go through it alone and I certainly don’t want a bunch of people wandering around crying over my corpse. It’s sick. Throw a party instead!”

  Even in death, Mom was trying to protect me. Did she not want a funeral because she really believed that nonsense of them being barbaric, or was she just trying to keep me from having to deal with it all?

  Using the last few crumpled up napkins in my glove box to clean up my wet, snotty face, I willed myself to start the car and drive home. My brain was pulsing with thoughts as my car auto-piloted its way down the freeway. I would have to disregard Mom’s wishes about not publishing anything in the paper. She had too many people who loved her not to let them know. I’d write something up for the Free Press and tell people to make donations in her name.

  Without realizing what I was doing, I found myself pulling into the driveway of Mom’s house. I hadn’t bothered to check on it since I’d gotten back from California because I’d spent all my time with her.

  As expected, her front door was closed but unlocked. So was the back door. And none of her windows were secured, most of them still wide open in the hot summer weather. I stood in the living room feeling completely empty. We’d never sit together on the couch again. We’d never again argue over what to watch on television. Never again would I see the annual Christmas cards draped across the mantel above the fireplace. I wanted to cry, but for the moment, there just weren’t any tears left.

  I plodded through the saltbox colonial, closing all of the windows and locking them tight. I pulled the curtains on each of them. I went up the stairs and did the same for the eight windows on the second floor. When I got to Mom’s bedroom, I found myself laughing, even though that was the last thing I thought I could have ever done.

  Mom had taken the time to tidy my house, but there was her bed, rumpled and unmade. A paperback lay open, but face down on the bed, about halfway through. A basket of laundry stood in the corner, waiting to be toted downstairs. The closet door was open, and Mom’s slippers were on the floor, tossed haphazardly inside. I left it all as it was. I didn’t have the nerve to change what she had last touched. I went to each window and shut them, trying not to look at anything specific, afraid I would scream out loud.

  Backing out of the room, I pulled the door closed. I hurried down the stairs to stand in the hallway by the front door. I forced myself to take several deep breaths, and then moved from the foyer to the kitchen. Mom’s laptop sat open on the kitchen table, the screen dark. It drew me in. I tapped the space bar and the screen came to life. I entered the password I’d created for her, and several web pages woke up, including Mom’s favorite crossword puzzle site, Facebook, and some news pages.

  I closed the news and puzzle pages, but left Facebook open. The words from Mom’s last post were seared into my brain and memory.

  “So proud of my daughter! Got to see her on the red carpet, on the arm of a handsome young man. Her foundation caught the dirty bastard thief who tried to steal all the money. And she sounds happier than she has in years. Yay for Vivienne!”

  That was what threw me over the edge. I ran from the house like my ass was on fire, hitching in great gulps of air. I jumped into my truck and screeched the tires obnoxiously as I sped away, making the mile-and-a-half drive in under three minutes. I slammed the breaks as hard as I could, hitting my own driveway at a reckless speed leaving long, black tire-marks. I ignored the odd looks from the neighbors as I dashed inside.

  I tore through the whole house, shutting every window and drawing all the curtains to keep out the light. Mom had loved summer and the sunshine, basking in the glow, getting a nice, deep tan. I did not want to see the sun at all. I did not want the reminder of her favorite season. I made my house a tomb.

  I went to my bedroom and stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I crawled into bed, on top of the covers and hugged one of my four pillows tight to my chest and wept. I let all the memories of my life run through my mind, not trying to hide from them or squash them. It was like slowly pressing a knife into my heart. I thought if I pushed the blade down hard enough, causing myself enough pain, I would push past it and come out on the other side. I crushed a corner of the pillow deep inside my mouth and screamed until my throat was on fire.

  I began to feel nauseous and had to sprint to the bathroom to throw up. I’d barely eaten in almost four days and was wracked with dry heaves. I moaned like I was being murdered with each and every one.

  After who knows how many hours of wailing and heaving, I lay prone on the freezing, hard tile floor. My back was jammed against the vanity and my butt rested on the cold base of the toilet. I closed my eyes and watched my mother’s smiling face float around in my mind, taunting me.

  *****

  When had I crawled to bed? I didn’t know. How had I gotten dressed? I fingered the plain white tee-shirt and yoga pants on my body. Was it the middle of the night? Morning? Maybe afternoon? I couldn’t tell. The drapes in my room kept the knowledge from me. It didn’t matter. Whether my eyes were open or closed, all I could see was Mom’s last Facebook post.

  There was a high-pitched keening, even more nightmarish in that it was coming from me. Torture victims couldn’t produce the sounds I was making. Had it not been for all the closed and sealed windows, the neighbors might have called the police.

  Unintelligible gibberish flew from my lips as I screamed and cursed God, the universe, whatever came to mind. Half words, half-formed sentences. No one could have known I was a writer with a flair for language. I kept at it for more than an hour, until I couldn’t breathe. My nose was clogged and my face was drenched with the tears pouring out of my eyes. I contemplated killing myself. If there had been any prescription drugs in the house or any other painless way to do myself in, I think I would have taken it.

  Exhausted amidst the emotional wreckage of my breakdown, I reached for the phone by the bed. It seemed an eternity and an instant for it to power on. Instinctively I dialed Pepper. Four rings later, a male voice I didn’t recognize answered her phone. “Hello?”

  “Pepper?”

  “A moment, please.”

  I heard the sounds of shuffling and muffled voices.

  “Hello?” Pepper sounded slightly out of breath.

  “It’s Viv.”

  “Vivvy! Finally! How are you? How’s Mom? I miss you!” she cried. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

  “Uh--”

  “It’s three in the morning here. Are you okay?”

  My lower lip trembled and I almost hung up. “Mom,” was all I could manage. I couldn’t say another word. I moaned and snuffled, knowing I was scaring the shit out of her, but nothing would come out of my mouth.

  “Viv, calm down,” Pepper commanded. “It’s going to be okay. Where are you?”

  “H-h-home,” I stammered. “Mom—” I choked down bile rising in my raw throat.

  I could hear her moving around.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow! I’ll grab the first flig
ht I can!”

  “N-n-uhng.” Language completely failed me.

  “Shh. I’m on my way. I should have come sooner,” she soothed, but I could hear the tears in her voice, too. “I’m so sorry Viv, I’m so sorry. Just hold on. Don’t do anything at all. I’m coming!”

  Chapter 45

  Gripping her silent phone, Pepper jumped out of bed, searching frantically for her bra and panties, swiping at her cheeks sticky with tears. Gabriel lay sprawled on the bed watching, his eyes intense with growing concern. They had just finished making love when Pepper’s phone rang. He tried to grab it as a joke, teasing her that her other boyfriend was calling.

  “I need to go, Gabe.” Pepper found her pants and jerked them on, forgetting about the underwear. She snatched her tee-shirt from the back of a chair and yanked it over her head.

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  “Viv’s having a breakdown. She couldn’t even speak. I think her mother must have died. How fast do you think I could get a flight to Detroit?”

  “Wait a minute.” Gabriel sat up. “You can’t just run off to the airport in the middle of the night.” He grabbed her hand and forced her to sit.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe.” Pepper kissed him. “You don’t understand. She’s my best friend and I can tell she’s in trouble. I won’t be able to sit here for the rest of the night waiting for morning.”

  Gabriel climbed out of bed naked and padded to the closet in the master bedroom of his Hollywood Hills mansion. He emerged a moment later holding boxers, jeans and a shirt.

  “Finish getting dressed, love. We’ll take my jet.”

  Chapter 46

  Bleary eyed from crying and lack of, or too much, sleep, I wandered through the dim house wondering if I really called Pepper the night before or if it had been a nightmare. My grimy bathrobe hung off me and I couldn’t figure out where the horrible smell filling my nose was coming from.