by Wendy Wax
“This isn’t my area of expertise, but we do have someone in the firm who deals with elder abuse.” She goes to her desk and comes back with a business card. “Just remember to be careful what you share with anyone who might not be completely in your camp.”
* * *
• • •
When I get home, exhausted and oddly hollow inside, I’m shocked to smell food and even more shocked that the tuna casserole and leafy green salad waiting on the table were made by Dorothy. A bottle of wine sits open, and presumably breathing, between our place settings.
“Wow, this looks great.” I wash my hands at the kitchen sink, wondering whether to be grateful or suspicious, then join her at the table.
“So, how did it go?” Dorothy asks, dishing salad and casserole onto my plate while I down half my glass of wine. This may be the most motherly gesture Dorothy has ever offered, but Bonnie Traiman wasn’t the only attorney I met with today who warned me to be careful about who I took into my confidence.
Dorothy may be living in “my camp,” but this was not her choice. The fact that she’s a voracious reader does not automatically make her a kindred spirit. She could be a very thin and somewhat frail Trojan horse.
“Okay,” I say as I drink an entire glass of water, then take a bite of salad. “I think I found an attorney.” I am careful not to offer details. Mostly I eat and drink—a Kind bar can only go so far—but neither the food nor the wine I wash it down with can wipe out this day or the realities of my life.
Her expression is tight-lipped, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m drinking too much or because I’m keeping the day’s details to myself. But she hasn’t exactly shared any of the conversations I’ve overheard her having with Mitchell. I have no real idea whether she’s friend or foe or somewhere in the middle, and I don’t know how to ask.
My wineglass is empty, and I’m trying not to dwell on how grossly and painfully unfair life is when Dorothy sets down her fork. She’s only eaten a few bites, and her glass of wine is untouched. Despite the tight lips and her faint air of disapproval, I see a shadow in her eyes, a vulnerability that reminds me that I’m not the only one of us battling fear and uncertainty.
“When I told the attorney I’m planning to hire what happened to your house, she said that it could possibly qualify as elder abuse.”
Dorothy does not meet my eye, but she’s clearly listening.
“She gave me the card of a lawyer who specializes in that field. For you. If you’re interested.”
Dorothy bunches her napkin in one hand. “I’m not that old. And I am not going to sue my son.” She sniffs. “He’s made mistakes. But I know he’ll come through. He’s promised to talk to the mortgage company and I guess I just have to believe he’s telling the truth.”
I beat back a rush of disappointment. Was I really expecting her to take my side over her own flesh and blood?
“Thank you for dinner.” I stand and reach for my plate.
“Leave it. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I appreciate it.” My words are heavy and oddly formal. The time for pretending that Dorothy and I are ever going to see eye to eye on her son is over.
So is my marriage. There’s nothing Mitchell could say or do that would erase what’s happened. It’s time to find the money to pay Bonnie Traiman’s retainer and file for divorce.
“I’m going to turn in early. I’m beat.” I turn and head to my bedroom.
lu·gu·bri·ous
loo-GOO-bree-əs
adjective
1. sad or gloomy
2. exaggeratedly mournful
Ex: “I am far too lugubrious due to the state of my marriage and my life to sit here a moment longer.”
Judith
I’m curled up in a chair reading Bill Bryson’s The Body: A Guide for Occupants and trying not to picture the bazillions of bacteria that reside in my belly button, many of which modern science has yet to identify, when my phone rings.
The sound is jarring. While I’m used to the daily ding of texts from the kids, it’s been a while since I got a call from anyone not trying to sell me something.
“Hey. What are you doing?” Meena’s voice is even perkier than usual. I’m pathetically happy to hear it.
“Reading our book club book pick and realizing how miraculous our bodies are even though we have a lot of spare parts we don’t really need anymore.” I flush for the thousandth time at the memory of what happened the last time I used my entire body.
“You gotta use it or lose it, girlfriend.” Meena is the only person who knows just how much guilt and anger are mixed in with my sorrow. Not to mention what a horrible comedy of errors Nate’s death was. This makes her the only person I can share my emotional roller coaster self with.
“Use it or lose it? What exactly are you suggesting I do with mine?”
“I’m suggesting you shower it, put clothes on it, and bring it over here so that we can hang out. Frank’s in California,” she says, mentioning the man she met on match.com and is now seeing regularly. “I thought you and I could walk somewhere for dinner.” Her voice drops a bit. “After we drop by the building happy hour.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that last part.”
There’s a pause and then, “My building has happy hours at nearby restaurants every other month. The restaurant puts out appetizers, and we buy our own drinks. This time it’s at Del Frisco’s—it’s just a five-minute walk up the street.”
“Happy hour?” It sounds so far removed from my current reality that it takes me a moment to respond. “First of all, I’m in mourning.” I consider myself in the family room mirror. Ratty pajamas. Wild hair. Luggage-size bags under my eyes. “And even if I weren’t, it would take me hours to get presentable.”
“I doubt it. Come on. It’ll do you good. It’s not healthy to spend so much time alone.”
“Thanks, but I don’t really feel up to it. I don’t think I’m ready for strangers.”
“Jude, seriously. You can’t sit in the house forever.”
At the moment, I’m pretty sure I can. It’s one of the few things I feel capable of.
“Sitting there isn’t going to bring Nate back. And it sure as hell isn’t doing anything positive for you.”
“But it would be disrespectful of his memory. He’s only been gone six and a half weeks.” I have been counting the days. One day, I even used the calculator on my phone to add up the hours and minutes. “People will think I’m . . . that I’ve forgotten him already. No, I don’t want to.” Only, some part of me actually does.
“No one here knew Nate, Judith. And they don’t know you from Adam’s house cat. It’s not a crime to do something that might be fun.”
“Fun?” Surely, this word does not belong in my current vocabulary.
“You’re allowed to have fun. All you have to do is come, have a few drinks, and meet some of my friends from the building.”
Drinking alone takes the edge off and can blur the misery. But it is most definitely not fun.
I could go to Meena’s happy hour and just have one drink so that I can drive home. Only, I’m not sure one drink is enough anymore.
I’ve spent a month and a half just trying to get through each day. My biggest accomplishment has been making it until four o’clock—well, sometimes more like three thirty—before I pour the first glass of wine. As if that’s some sort of badge of courage. Or proof that I am not an alcoholic.
“Or better yet, spend the night,” Meena suggests. “You’ve seen the guest suite. We can have a pajama party. Then tomorrow morning we’ll go to Buttermilk Kitchen for breakfast. They have a pimento cheese omelet that is truly to . . . that I know you’ll love.”
“I don’t know.” I’m dug in so deep that I’m not sure how I’ll handle the bright light of day. The
idea of going somewhere new, of being around strangers with no preconceived notions about who I am or how I should act, is both exciting and frightening.
“Just say yes, Judith. Honestly, I really think this will do you good.”
* * *
• • •
I don’t actually feel all that good the next morning when I wake in Meena’s guest room with my face pressed into the mattress and my head buried under a pillow. My mouth is dry and cottony. I drag the pillow off my head, pry open one eye, and see my clothes in a heap on the floor.
A brisk knock sounds on the door. Meena’s voice precedes her into the room.
“I’ve been debating whether to wake you up or not, but I was starting to get worried.” She places a cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand and plops down on a nearby chair.
“Holy shit.” I manage to prop myself up on an elbow and reach for the coffee. My hand shakes slightly as I lift it to my lips. My brain is filled with odd fragments that I can’t quite piece together. “Did I get run over by a truck?”
“Not exactly. But you did have quite a lot of . . . fun.”
I take another sip. But my memory of last night remains sketchy. “So, I didn’t do anything . . . embarrassing?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
“Could you stop grinning like that and give me a recap?”
“Okay, let’s see. First, we had drinks and appetizers at the happy hour as planned. Then we stayed for dinner and drinks with friends from the building.” She smiles. “Then we moved elsewhere and had a couple of nightcaps.”
In my muzzy brain, I hear laughter and music and see a large round table crowded with people. “Did I . . . I didn’t dance, did I?”
“You did.”
“With whom?”
“Everyone!” Meena’s still grinning. “We all danced together. You also danced with Chris and Scott, who both thought you were a hoot. And there was this guy at the bar who tried to talk you into going home with him.”
I blush with embarrassment, but I am also secretly pleased and oddly impressed with myself.
“Everyone really enjoyed meeting you. And you seemed to be having, dare I say it . . . quite a lot of fun.”
“I know I’ll never hear the end of it, but it appears that you might have been right.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she teases.
“Fine. It was fun.” In truth, I still feel a residual sense of well-being. It was the only evening other than book club that I laughed and smiled. A night that wasn’t all about me. Or Nate. Or my guilt. Or the loneliness. “Everyone was very welcoming.”
“It’s what I love most about the building,” Meena says as she puts her feet up on the ottoman with a satisfied smile. “I mean, the location’s great and my condo and its views are fabulous. I enjoy the walkability. But it’s being a part of a community that makes it so special.
“It reminds me of how it was when we moved into River Forge and we all first got to know one another. We became friendlier with some people more than others, but we always had the neighborhood in common. It’s like that here, only it’s not the ‘bubble’ we raised our kids in. I like the diversity. The different ages and ethnicities. It reminds me of book club, only I get to see these people more than once a month.”
She beams, and I think how much Nate would have liked this place if he’d been willing to let go of the familiar and try something new. Maybe our marriage would have been enhanced by the infusion of new people and experiences. Or maybe we would have been over faster, unable to coexist in the smaller square footage, like Meena and Stan. For the first time since I overheard Nate’s “good egg” conversation, I don’t feel that pressing weight of unhappiness on my chest. The need to fix my marriage. My life.
“When we got back it was after eleven and you, well, you were having some difficulty getting your pajamas on,” she says, and a picture forms in my mind of Meena and me giggling hysterically while I try and fail to get my feet into the legs of my pajamas.
“You were a little rubbery last night. It was a miracle you figured out how to get my nightshirt over your head. Lucky for you, I made you take aspirin so you wouldn’t have a hangover.” A last grin. “You’re welcome.”
Sunshine streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look around the bedroom, taking in the room’s crisp white walls covered with brightly colored artwork, the thick pile rug, and the clean-lined furniture. All so Meena. No sign of the dark woods and heirloom furniture that filled her home in River Forge. No sign of Stan.
“Frank called after I was in bed.” Meena lights up at even the mention of his name. “I wish he didn’t have to travel so much for business, but it does make the sex spicier.” She winks.
We both blush—her in anticipation, me in embarrassment at even the idea of having sex with someone I haven’t spent a lifetime with.
“I think we both need more coffee,” Meena says. “After that, shall we go out for breakfast?”
My stomach rumbles in response. This is the first time since Nate died that I actually feel hungry. “That would be great.”
She reaches for my empty cup.
“Is there time for a shower?” I ask as I get out of bed and stretch.
“Absolutely. As far as I’m concerned, we have all the time in the world.”
When I come out showered and dressed, my overnight bag is sitting open on the ottoman. Meena is standing next to it with a copy of 121 First Dates in her hands. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of buying you a copy.”
“Oh, there’s no way that’s going to happen.”
“Just read it. You know, so you’ll know what’s going on in the world. You don’t have to do anything.”
“Said the snake in the Garden of Eden.”
“I don’t think either of us is Eve,” Meena replies. “And I promise I’m not going to push you to start dating. But one day you might be ready. You were not responsible for Nate’s death, Judith. And thanks to you, he did die with a smile on his lips. A lot of men would be glad to go that way.”
“But I was lecturing him while he was dying.”
“Based on the medical examiner’s report you shared, he was probably already gone before you got out of the bathroom.”
“So, you think lecturing a dead person and not noticing is better? After all those years of complaining that he wasn’t paying attention?”
“Okay. It’s a little ironic. And I’m not trying to belittle the loss. I liked Nate, and I’m sorry he’s gone. I know you miss him. You built a life and raised children together. But you’re still alive. And hiding in the house afraid to come out because of guilt or what someone might think or say isn’t going to bring him back.
“It’s not an insult to Nate’s memory for you to move on with your life. You never have to tell your children that you considered leaving their father. You didn’t do it, and believe me, they don’t want to hear it. I know that from personal experience. You need to go a little easier on yourself. Nate’s heart attack should be a reminder that there are no guarantees in life. None of us know how much time we have left.
“It would be a damned shame to waste your life dwelling on the past rather than figuring out what to do with your future. I hope one day you’ll be as happy as I am right now.”
I agree with this in theory, of course; it’s exactly what I would say to someone else. But in my experience, giving advice is a lot easier than following it. And making it through one happy hour is not necessarily a harbinger of happiness to come.
Twenty
Jazmine
My daughter has a backhand that could make the angels weep. I mean a serious, God-given backhand that a million years of lessons might never produce. Her forehand is gorgeous, too, and her serve will be a serious weapon one day. She has it all. Everythi
ng I struggled and worked so hard to master seems to come easily to her.
She’s smart and intuitive, with her father’s speed and power and my timing and agility all wrapped in her DNA and tied with a silver ribbon, hers to command. With all that athletic ability that she can unleash at will, she’s gotten used to winning.
It’s a beautiful March morning, and the sky is bright and clear as I sit between my father and my sister watching Maya play. As an agent, I’m careful to school my features and reactions, but when I’m watching Maya compete, I am every bit as emotionally invested as any other parent.
“Jamal and Derrick had lunch yesterday,” Thea says. “And Derrick couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“That’s nice.” My eyes remain on the court. It’s match point. For the third time. Maya has lost her focus and seems irritated that her opponent refuses to give up. This is when mental toughness becomes even more important. An ace would be nice. But that’s never something you can count on. She has to aim for that but also be prepared to play out and win the point.
“He thinks you’re really great.”
“That’s nice.” Maya steps up to the service line. She bounces the ball once. Twice. I hold my breath as she begins her serve. As soon as she releases the ball, I can tell that her toss is too low.
The return slams right up the line just out of her reach. She’s muttering to herself as she moves into the ad box. Even before she tosses the ball, I know she’s going to lose. Because her opponent is laser focused and Maya is clearly angry. At herself. At her opponent. At the world.
I watch her double-fault. Then I watch her fail to return her opponent’s first serve. Her second return is long. She has pretty much handed her opponent the game.
The winner jogs to the net and offers her hand. Maya doesn’t even attempt a smile or offer congratulations as she shakes it. She’s scowling as she stomps off the court.
