Saturday Night Widows

by Becky Aikman

  “I talk about stuff with you guys that I have a hard time bringing up … even to my family,” said Tara.

  We tucked into the meal. I looked at each woman individually, each face so intimidating a year ago, so familiar now. I knew that Tara didn’t eat shellfish, that Lesley took her mint tea with sugar, that Marcia couldn’t stand The Sound of Music. We plucked lint off each other’s sweaters and fallen eyelashes off each other’s cheeks. I thought about my meeting with Professor Bonanno at the grief lab, about his theories on overcoming loss, the novel experiences he recommended, the fun, the ties with friends. He might have years of study under his belt, but tonight I wanted to hear from my own experts.

  “Why do you think this has worked?” I asked.

  “We’re not best friends,” Marcia began, “we’re all very different, and yet there’s a …”

  “… a bond,” Tara and Lesley said simultaneously.

  “Yes, a bond we’ve created.”

  “Tara said it once before,” said Lesley. “We feel safe.”

  “We can say, ‘That guy is cute’ without feeling guilty,” said Tara. “We can say ‘I want to have sex again’ without feeling guilty. We can say ‘I feel like crying’ without feeling like we’re dragging in somebody who doesn’t want to hear our story.”

  “I learned that grief is a process, and you can choose how to handle it,” Dawn said. She inhaled a sharp breath. “I can’t talk about it, because I’m so emotional, but I just want to say how grateful I am for each and every one of you.”

  “We’re the blubberers on this side of the table,” Lesley, seated next to her, apologized.

  Dawn changed the subject, asking Denise for the recipe for her salad dressing, which she’d made with capers she’d brought from Morocco, and then admiring her ring. “My wedding ring,” Denise said. Lesley had expressed interest in seeing it, so Denise wore it on her right hand that night, for the first time since the funeral.

  “I’m a private person,” Denise said, as if we didn’t already know. “This group was so out there—it was freeing.”

  Marcia agreed. “Becky and I were the only ones of us who joined a typical bereavement group,” she said, “but it was so depressing compared to this. Still, I think if we had been in a typical group, our personalities would have come out eventually.”

  Tara grimaced. “Sorry, but I wouldn’t have lasted a week,” she said. The rest of us laughed. She summoned all her powers of vocal drama to add, “I … want … to … live.”

  We passed around seconds. “But we did all talk about our losses,” I said.

  “Sometimes,” Lesley said, “but nobody ever said, ‘Let’s talk about Kevin,’ ‘Let’s talk about David.’ It was never about how they died. I remember at our first meeting my heart was going like crazy, because I was going to have to say that my husband committed suicide. But it didn’t matter. This was about us.” She started to blubber again. “You are my soul mates. I love you all.”

  Others joined in, except, as usual, Marcia.

  “Marcia,” Lesley said, “do you ever cry?”

  “I do. I just do it in private, that’s all.”

  It was so unlike Marcia to concede that much, as unlike her as getting on a camel and trekking into a sea of sand with women she didn’t know a year ago.

  “We’ve influenced each other, don’t you think?” I said.

  “I like to think that I convinced you all that we should be having more sex,” Lesley said, and we all agreed.

  “I have a serious answer,” Tara announced. “This group has made me braver. My journey would have been a lot more tentative without you. You convinced me to listen to myself, first and foremost … and stick with what I heard. You gave me courage when I needed it.”

  We recalled how full of fear Tara had appeared at our first meeting, how she found the nerve to raise the subject of alcoholism to the Moroccan widows, how her honesty gave them strength in turn to tell their stories, too.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to do it,” she said, “without the courage I got from this group.”

  “All I can say is, thank God I made the cut!” Lesley said. “But what about you, Becky? What did you get?”

  I busied myself pulling cookies out of the oven, the chocolate cookies with the molten centers that we had learned to bake at our cooking class, while I weighed many possible answers. “This recipe,” I could have said, but I knew I owed them a thoughtful response.

  “Even though I’m further along in this process,” I said finally, setting down the tray and taking off the oven mitts, “my life had been knocked off course, just like yours, and I’m still reorienting, still making decisions every day about what to do next.”

  I placed the cookies on the table, a powerful temptation, but the group sat suspended as they cooled, waiting to hear what more I would say. I took my seat and thought again about Bernie’s words when something needed to be done: Let’s put our heads down and go.

  “I think when anybody is reinventing herself, she’s got a choice.” I went on, feeling my way. “She can stay detached and look inside herself for answers. We’ve all heard that advice—finding yourself.” I shook my head and threw them a dubious look. “Knowing you has shown me that, at least for me, finding myself wasn’t a solitary task. The way for me to move forward was to get out there on Saturday night, to engage with other people, to engage with the world, to engage with you. Funny as it may sound, I’ve found myself by going outside myself. I’ve found myself through action, through action with you.”

  Dawn reached for dessert and offered a final Dawnism as a benediction: “To stay detached, Becky dear, is not my idea of living.”

  OVER THE NEXT MONTHS, our little tribe kept moving. Denise began to come into her own. After a year and a half of pushing through shock and toiling to make ends meet, a window opened. In February, she ran into someone she had dated briefly in the past. He was going through a divorce and needed a place to live. Denise needed another roommate so she could afford her cherished apartment. A few months later, the course of true romance and the vicissitudes of real estate dovetailed nicely, and he moved in. Toby, one of the widowers she’d met at Marcia’s, called after that to ask her out, but he was too late.

  In the end, her new relationship didn’t work out either. “But it got me six months closer to normal again,” Denise said philosophically. “Luckily the widow thing has made me tough.” And determined. The books she edited began to make their way to stores, and three of them made the bestseller list.

  Dawn’s love life continued to play out in the spirit of fortissimo. She turned out to be right about Collins. Their quick passion was destined to last, but not without its share of drama. They lived far apart, as Bob and I had, and like me, Collins had no experience with children. But she drew on lessons from the rest of us and worked through the logistics. Luckily, she said, “my daughter is a hugger—she’s good at breaking down barriers.” Both children warmed to spending time with Collins, hanging out in the garage while he tinkered with his car or darting outdoors with him when he did his best to compensate for Dawn’s well-known deficit in sportiness. “It’s all right to love someone else,” she told the kids. “It doesn’t mean you didn’t love Daddy.”

  For his part, Collins began to appreciate that raising children might be one of life’s more rewarding challenges. He and Dawn talked about a future together, maybe moving somewhere new to both of them, someplace warm. But Collins couldn’t wait. He proposed marriage, and Dawn accepted. He plans to move into her home, commuting to manage his business, so the four of them can form the nuclear family that Dawn and the children yearned for.

  Marcia sent us each a gift after the last meeting, a stunning coffee table book, bound and printed on the best paper, of photographs from our Morocco trip. At her next evaluation at work, she received highest marks for teamwork, and the parties she held for colleagues on her new roof became legendary.

  Outside the office, she thrived as well. “Ever
y time I walk into my new apartment, I feel glad,” she told me. To stay in touch with her godsons, she organized a once-a-week project to explore new restaurants together, as well as a more ambitious expedition—a trip to Southeast Asia, no expense spared, selected because the centerpiece was an excursion on the backs of elephants. Whatever she paid, it was worth it if only for the resulting pictures of Marcia aboard a hulking pachyderm. This was Marcia, I had to remind myself, whose previous model for a daredevil vacation was a survey of Parisian restaurants that served the thickest, richest béarnaise. I teased her that close contact with large animals was her new obsession, which she confirmed by planning another excursion, this one to the Arctic, to photograph polar bears.

  Lesley and Craig split up for good a week after our last official meeting. Friction between the two families finally overwhelmed them, but Lesley never let her daughters speak ill of Craig. “I’m grateful to him,” she said. “He taught me to feel again.” After the breakup, she didn’t get out of bed for two days. In the loneliest hour of the second night, she was sure she felt someone tapping her back. “It’s okay,” she heard Kevin say to her. “I’m here looking after you.” Lesley never told us exactly how Kevin died, and we never asked. At our last meeting, she hinted that he had killed himself as a character had in a movie, but none of us had seen it, and none of us tried.

  Resolved to heal before taking on new romance, she devoted herself to volunteering on behalf of suicide prevention. But a friend spotted Craig on eHarmony.com, which gave Lesley the impetus to go on a few dates herself. By summer, a promising guy materialized on the Internet, and like Dawn, Lesley settled into a long-distance relationship. “It’s a huge gamble,” she said, “but I never for a minute considered that I wouldn’t try again.”

  Tara was well satisfied with her new man, her new work, and her new home. “I love my life,” she said more than convincingly. She still took voice-over jobs, but she also returned to philanthropy, serving on the board of a new venture to benefit outstanding underprivileged college students. Tara and Will remained a solid, committed couple, but they agreed they needn’t be together … all the time. He kept his home, and she kept hers, turning it into an eclectic showplace—wall-to-wall cashmere, just like Tara. The Moroccan mirror is the first object anyone sees in her front hall. In fact, Moroccan motifs repeat throughout the house, and pride of place in her living room goes to a photograph of the Blossoms on the crest of a dune.

  There were more endings and beginnings, for Lily and Bob and me. She graduated from high school a few months after the last official Blossoms meeting, and we put Connecticut behind us when she headed to college. Lily never fails to call me Becky now, except when I visit her at school, where she presents me to friends with a higher honor: “This is my stepmom.”

  My husband and I have settled in the Brooklyn apartment that I shared with Bernie. Bob likes it as much as I do, and he insists we keep Bernie’s photo on the mantel. “I feel close to him,” Bob likes to say. “He looked after you for twenty years, and I look after you now.” To make room for our new family, Lily organized a stoop sale of Bernie’s jazz records, but Bob opted to keep most of them anyway, interspersing them with his rock-’n’-roll collection. It’s crowded here—Bob and I still share an office every day, like partners in a mom-and-pop store. We comment on each other’s work and revel in our good fortune. It’s the life I dreamed of when I lost the one I’d made before.

  And what of the Blossoms? I wondered that night at Marcia’s, our year of blossoming complete, whether I would ever see them again. And if so, would it stay the same? Nothing does, as we know best, which is as it should be. Yet our group lives on, no need for organized activities, no need for the guides who ushered us through our many discoveries, no need for tears. Especially no need for tears. We gather often in twos or threes, and we always have plenty to say, because to share a story, as we now know, is to truly understand it. Dawn and Tara remain fast friends. Lesley steers her bicycle over to Tara’s house when she wants a little perspective. Denise and I lounge around Marcia’s rooftop pool on hot summer weekends. Marcia the lawyer and Lesley the housewife get a kick out of implausible dinners they plan together.

  And when we gather all at once, steeped in our collective insight and wisdom, we still laugh until our insides hurt. Everyone stayed overnight at Tara’s and Lesley’s one weekend, and we agreed to rally at sunrise on the beach, where each of us would share one favorite memory from our year of Saturday nights. We got too busy talking, as usual, and missed the moment, which was just as it should be, too. If I had to come up with my own stages of grief, the last and the best would have to be friendship. Although love is pretty great, too.

  They say that grief is a process of finding comfort. Together, with Denise and Dawn and Marcia and Lesley and Tara—and me—that is what we did. The worst had already happened. We were ready for anything.

  acknowledgments

  denise Roy, Dawn Jiosi, Marcia Wallace, Lesley Jacobs, and Tara Nicholson Olson—after all the adventures we’ve been through together, what I feel most is gratitude. They generously shared with me their time, their thoughts, their high spirits, and ultimately their friendship, which I value most of all. I am grateful to them beyond measure for the courage it took to tell their stories and for tolerating my ever-present notebook and tape recorder. We documented dozens of hours of meetings, discussions, and often madcap exploits, which I have drawn upon to write this book, and I salute the women’s resolve in putting practically nothing off limits.

  Along the way, we enjoyed the wise counsel of many talented guides. They included Lauren Groveman, the cookbook author and cooking teacher whose chocolate cookie recipe, among other delicacies, still lures me into the kitchen; Katie Hanson, our knowledgeable and entertaining escort through the art museum; Maria Rendon, the sympathetic assistant manager of the La Perla shop; and of course Saida Ezzahoui, our fearless leader in Morocco who for ten glorious days became one of us, a Blossom.

  Others helped us set up our adventures, most notably Judith Walsh of Art Smart Adventures; Ginny Lopis from The Lodge at Woodloch, the spa in Pennsylvania; Brandon English from the Comfort Zone Camp, where we volunteered; and Edward Piegza, from Classic Journeys, who satisfied our demanding standards by setting up a mishap-free Moroccan trip, complete with fully functioning toilets.

  For helping me to locate the women and men who participated in this yearlong adventure, as well as holding my hand through the writing, I have many to thank: Fred Plotkin, Liz Beinfield, Gail Pellet, Kathy Kukula, Rozanne Gold, Diane Terry of Private Journeys, Elizabeth Beier, Laura Schneider, Sue and Stanley Schneider, Elizabeth Sanger, Barbara Selvin, Mary Kuntz, Alexis Gelber, Rosalie Weider, Leslie Meredith, Myra Shendell, Margaret Polanesky, Betty White-Ross, Loyda Rivera, and Jackie Leopold.

  Professor George A. Bonanno of Teachers College at Columbia University and the author of the fine book The Other Side of Sadness, was invaluable in guiding me through the research on grief, as was Professor Camille B. Wortman of Stony Brook University and Dr. David B. Goldenberg.

  The Blossoms often discussed whether love at first sight exists. I learned that it does from the moment I met Joy Harris, my agent, champion, and honorary Blossom. I was fortunate to have as my editor and ardent cheerleader Vanessa Mobley of Crown, who not only offered me wise counsel but is one of the best lunch conversationalists going and also introduced me to the Alabama Shakes. And she is only one member of the talented and hard-working team at Crown, which, lucky for me includes Molly Stern, Miriam Chotiner-Gardner, Penny Simon, and Julie Cepler. Jaya Miceli created the lovely cover.

  Lindsay Maracotta, my friend, weighed in with razor-sharp comments on the manuscript.

  My sister, Nancy Martin, whose books have brought her legions of fans, offered me crucial support and advice on how to tell a story with grace and narrative coherence. My mom, Barbara Aikman, has given me a lifetime of unstinting love and guidance and can take credit for whatever good qualities I may p
ossess. I thank Lily for welcoming me into her life, making helpful suggestions, and tiptoeing around while I wrote.

  All the happiness the Blossoms found together is enriched by the memories of those dear ones no longer with us: Steve, Andries, Martin, Kevin, and David among them. My dad, John, remains in my heart, as does my departed husband, Bernie Lefkowitz, who inspired me throughout our life together and inspires me still.

  No one contributed more to this book than my husband Bob Spitz. Working back-to-back in our little office as I wrote the manuscript and he completed his biography of Julia Child, I’m surprised the words Bon appétit! didn’t slip into these pages somewhere. He pulled me through, contributing everything from big ideas to the smallest syntactical fixes. For Bob—after all we’ve been through together already and all that I forsee for the rest of our lives—I expect to feel gratitude for a long, long time.