The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “You were so smart to stay on the kind side of the camera,” she said, looking at herself in the rearview mirror. “I look in the mirror now … it’s not the same, is it?”

  “Aim, you are more beautiful now than you ever were,” I said. “Lay off the needles. Pretty soon, I’m going to look like your mother instead of your best friend.”

  “I don’t need help,” I said, as we sat in the waiting room in kimonos and slippers surrounded by Brentwood momsters texting like drunken teens. The spa décor was “if a little Asian influence is good, a lot is money”; bamboo meet bonsai meet giant laughing Buddha head. So far, this spa experience was giving stress-inducing yoga a run for its namaste.

  “Hannah, cut the crap,” Aimee said. “You had an entire conversation with an avocado tree. What’s next? You get engaged to a ficus?”

  “Aimee, hi,” a busty, brunette attendant bounced (her hair extensions bouncing a beat behind) into the waiting room. “So good to see you! Come this way, okay?”

  “How’d your Two and a Half Men audition go?” she asked Aimee, as we followed her bouncy self.

  “You went on a Two and a Half Men audition?” I said.

  “It spoke to me,” Aimee said. “There were a lot of colors to play in the scene.”

  “Aimee, I want you to know,” the attendant said, stopping at a door, “this is my last week.”

  “Oh … are you going back to Ohio?” Aimee asked. “This town is so tough.”

  “No,” the girl said. “Hawaii! I got a part in the new Michael Bay movie. They’re saying I’m the new Megan Fox! I’m sooooo excited!”

  This is how I know Aimee’s a great actress. You couldn’t tell she wanted to eat the girl’s liver with a rusty spoon.

  “There’s an old Megan Fox?” I asked. “She’s like … twelve, right?”

  “I’m so happy for you,” Aimee said.

  “Thank you,” the girl said. “Oh, and good luck to you, too!” God bless the children, I thought. Who speak in exclamation points.

  “Your V-Steam attendant will be here in a moment. You’re going to love this! I just had one this morning. My vagina feels brand-new!” she said, then bounced off. I held Aimee’s arm back as her hand formed a fist.

  “What’s this about her … stuff?” I asked. “I’m not interested in a brand-new vagina. I like my old, pre-owned one.”

  “It’s called a V-Steam. You sit on special stools, they bring in giant bowls with Chinese herbs in hot water—and you steam your vagina.”

  “Like a clambake?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Aimee said. “A clam, or a mussel.”

  “Aimee, I love you, but I’m not steaming my vagina for you. I don’t even like to say the word ‘vagina.’ I boycotted the Vagina Monologues for ten years.” I pulled my kimono around my waist and got up to leave, stepping over the elegant older man who had taken a seat next to Aimee.

  “Excuse me,” I said. Then, I realized. He was a man, a man wearing a tailored suit and a hat. He wasn’t here for the vagina steam.

  “Who’re you talking to—”

  “Sitting next to you,” I said. “That man, there.”

  “Hannah. You’re freaking me out. There’s no one here.”

  “Look!” I said, pointing. “Look! You can see him! He’s right there!”

  “Hannah!” Aimee said. “You’re scaring me.”

  “He looks so sad,” I said.

  “Hannah, you need help.” She was holding my shoulders. “You need to relax. You need a break. You need a V-Steam. Do it for Ellie.”

  “Why is he so sad?” I said, as the man faded from sight.

  * * *

  Maybe I was losing my mind.

  “It’s the Ambien,” Jay said later, as day turned to night. “Some people have the Faustino reaction.”

  “You shouldn’t be taking Ambien,” Chloe said. “Read my blog. You could wind up in rehab or dead.”

  “Or, you know, with a proper night’s sleep,” I said.

  “She shouldn’t be drinking so much,” Aimee said, as she poured more vodka into her glass. “Did you drink before the steam?” Aimee had forced me to steam. And no, I don’t feel like I have a new anything down there.

  “I survived porn yoga and poached my bits for you guys,” I said. “Can you all just … leave me alone?”

  “Leave you alone?” Jay asked. “We’re supposed to go into the studio with an entire season of titillating episodes. Hannah, if we don’t wow them, we could be canceled.”

  “Canceled?” I asked. “How is that possible?”

  “They’re cutting way back on programming,” Jay said. “Even our cheap little show.”

  “I’ll figure out the season. I mean, even though it’s reality.”

  “Reality is the greatest fiction, you know that,” Jay said. “Where should I sleep tonight?”

  “Jay, you’ve been here every single day—you need to concentrate on your own life. Halloween is around the corner; you’ve got barely a week to get your Katy Perry on. And Chloe—you’ve got kids, dogs, and a sort-of husband—”

  “Wasband,” Aimee said.

  “You want us out? You like dead people better than us?” Chloe asked.

  “Never,” I said.

  “I’ll come by in the morning,” Jay said.

  “No,” I said, “if it makes you feel better, I won’t talk to any dead people tonight, no matter who drops in.”

  “What’s Ellie wearing tomorrow?” Jay asked, as I escorted them to the front door. “Let me put something aside—fur vest and jeggings?”

  “That fur vest made in China?” Aimee said, then winked at Chloe. “Woof.”

  “Don’t say that!” Chloe said, as I closed the door and turned to my quiet, empty house. I listened for Ellie’s soft breathing. The truth? I was scared—scared to be without my friends. And scared to be with them, denying what I saw. Times like these called for swift, forceful action.

  I headed for the medicine cabinet. And found an expired bottle of NyQuil. I gave myself a shot, and shuffled off to bed.

  8

  Coyote Ugly

  In the fairy-tale land of NoMo, the houses are bigger, the residents are all in training for the imaginary Olympics, the children are blonder, the cars are shinier, and the dogs, even the rescues, are purebred and walked in threes by professionals. The plant life, itself, gives off a richer bouquet—jasmine, pine, rosemary, lavender, olive trees, English roses …

  “Landscaping,” Jay has said, “is what separates civilization from ‘Oh, hell no!’ ”

  Even NoMo’s crazies are a cut above SoMo crazies. Take the mad movers—or peregrinators, if you will. Rollerblade Bob, a sixtyish hippie in tie-dye T-shirts Rollerblades to Whole Foods, Starbucks, the cliffs, and back; Hazmat Harriet, who basically wears a hazmat suit to run San Vicente every morning; there’s Corkscrew-Loose Lizzy, with a head of blond curls, who forces her hapless shepherd to run for hours on end. Goggles Gus is the old man who jogs so slowly past the date palms on Marguerita at dawn, it looks as though he’s moving backward. SoMo only has the homeless population, which occasionally wanders north from its designated areas south of Wilshire. They might show up on the doorstep of a double-lot Cape Cod, or peeing in the bushes of a regal Spanish Revival.

  Coyotes, both two- and four-legged, are another issue. The four-legged leave bloody tracks on the NoMo streets—Binky’s spine on 15th, Tinkerbell’s ear on 20th …

  But the two-legged are more sinister.

  After a peaceful night’s Ny-coma, uninterrupted by the living or the dead, I got Ellie off to school, and decided to take Spice for a walk. He and I needed fresh air and a fresh start. Spice is the color of John’s favorite seasoning, cumin, and is not only of indeterminate origin, but indeterminate age (like Brentwood divorcées). Don’t kill me, but Spice is not attractive. His legs are stubby, his body long. His nose smushed, his ears lopsided. Spice is Bert Lahr in my little Oz. He’s the Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. He must hav
e been traumatized as a puppy, but does he have to run from a floral arrangement? What is it about the guy on the oatmeal box that makes him shiver?

  Our relationship has not been smooth. The first night in my house, Spice peed on my brand-new Cosabella panties. What’s the message? How about “I hate you” in Bark.

  Now it’s me, the baby … and Spice. And two of the three of us merely tolerate each other.

  I put on Spice’s leash and plied him with liver treats. Finally, miracle of miracles, we were walking, moving west toward the beach. The morning was frigid, even for late October; palm trees and blue fingertips. I should have worn gloves. Did I own gloves? I should have worn a hat. Did I own a hat? I’d need more Post-its. I was so busy berating myself as we passed a woman with a tangle of gray hair, tugging at a yellow Lab the size of a linebacker (NoMo’s number two canine, after the omnipresent labradoodle), I didn’t notice her pointing at something in the gutter.

  “This is the work of Cheney!” she said, her eyes sending out messages from Planet I Need a Hobby. Her long wrinkled skirt and blouse with no bra set her fashion clock at Woodstock, between the hours of midnight and two A.M. The older women in the neighborhood (well, older than I am) were bohemians; they could afford it. In any other neighborhood, people would be handing them singles and half-eaten sandwiches. I pulled at Spice, who was barking and whining, mirroring my inner life. The huge Labrador paced and sniffed at the ground.

  “Poor baby!” she said. “You see what these animals did!”

  I peered into the street as Spice wheeled and leapt, pulling me away. I saw a heart pendant, fur, and dried blood. I focused on the nametag. Something had made dessert out of “Cupcake.”

  “Coyotes?” I said. “I’ve never seen one.” I’d heard their cries, their staccato, high-pitched yapping—a war party where the prey eats organic, wheat-free dog biscuits. Because it’s a pain when your dog is allergic to wheat.

  “They’re right here, on this very street! They’re rampant. They live in abandoned homes, and roam, hunting for victims, just as the sun is fading.”

  I had walked into a Gothic novel. I needed to walk out. “I don’t know anything about wildlife,” I said. “I mean, mold won’t even grow in my house.” Just keep talking, Hannah. Keep babbling. You’ll end up like Woodstock Wanda, here.

  “There’s a pack,” she said, buoyed by my nonsense. “Dick Cheney, the big one, he’s bold. I’ve seen him wander the streets in broad daylight. He chased my husband and Sammy, here, just last Tuesday—it must have been six o’clock … Cheney tracked him for three blocks—thank God, my husband’s a triathlete—”

  “A coyote named Dick Cheney chased your triathlete husband.” Were there any other kinds of husbands in Santa Monica? What was everyone in training for?

  I wanted to remember this.

  “He’s got Cheney’s eyes—pure evil, cold, heart of darkness.” (This is the Socialist Republic of Santa Monica, after all. The latest City Council mandate has labeled every third Tuesday “Validate Each Other’s Feelings Day.”)

  “I keep Spice in the backyard. It’s fenced in,” I said, as Spice continued to whine and pull. I am right there with you, buddy, I thought.

  “They’ll hop it. Six, ten feet, they drag off dogs the size of Great Danes—and God help the little ones … I’m glad I don’t have small children,” she said. “Do you have a child?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Ellie is three and a half. She’s not allowed to put toys made in China in her mouth.”

  “Oh, good Lord!” she said, her eyes bright. “Don’t let her outside. Until she’s nine or ten and can carry a bat.” NoMo was getting less appealing by the second.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “We’ll be going now.”

  “You live down my block,” Woodstock said. “I’ve seen your dog. Your husband walks him.”

  “Well, yes,” I said. Every day, John had walked Spice to the palisades overlooking Santa Monica Beach, where he could gaze out at the Pacific past the Malibu cliffs, take iPhone photos, send them to his Facebook fan page, and call it the Cote D’Mercedes Benz.

  Spice was a different dog with John by his side.

  “I see him all the time,” Woodstock said. “Such a nice man. He always waves.… What a smile.”

  Upon our return, a silver Range Rover was parked halfway in the street, blocking my driveway.

  “Oh, no, Spice,” I said with a sigh. “We have another coyote problem.” A haystack-haired blonde with huge white sunglasses, clown lips, white jeans with feathered pockets, and a tank top pulled over authorized flotation devices, was jabbering into her BlackBerry on my little front porch.

  “Oh my God! I know, right?” Blondezilla was saying, loud enough for SoMo to hear. “He’s divorced, he’s got a Cialis prescription, his house is all paid for—oops—gotta runski.” She pulled her sunglasses over her head, appraising me. “See you tonight at the Penthouse.” She hung up the phone.

  Dee Dee Pickler, head of the SMCA, what Jay and I refer to as the Santa Monica Coyote Association, rushed at me on platform flip-flops, locking me in an embrace with Big and Bigger. The SMCA is Westside Real Estate, and they’re coming after your sons and your Gillette Regent Square two-story Spanish colonial. They’re an Army of the Night, living in SoMo apartments, driving leased Range Rovers, and hanging at the Huntley Penthouse on 2nd. They have big dreams harbored in their big bosoms: star on the “Real Housewives of Anything,” live in a NoMo McMansion, and land one of the Wilson Brothers. If Owen and Luke aren’t available, the Unknown Wilson Brother will do.

  “I brought something for you!” Dee Dee said, diving into her fake LV tote. Dee Dee had the first tramp stamp in SoMo and is not afraid to use it; she did not laugh when I asked if she’s a Maori. Word is, she likes gummy bears on her Pinkberry and doesn’t always remember her child’s name.

  “Just a minute,” she said, sorting through her purse. Then she handed me a small package, wrapped in silver.

  “Thank you, Dee Dee,” I said, taken aback. “I appreciate it.”

  “Not a thing, honey … I was so sorry to hear about John,” she said. “He was so cute. Like what was he, six feet? Six one?” She sized me up, as if thinking, “I never knew what he saw in you.” “I’m sorry I didn’t come by earlier, I thought I’d give you some space. So … it’s been over a month. What’s your time line?”

  “Time line?”

  “To sell your place.”

  “I’m not selling,” I said.

  “Property taxes are skyrocketing. Public school doesn’t come cheap in NoMo.”

  I kept forgetting to pay bills. I knew, in theory, that bills wouldn’t stop coming because John died. One of the more shocking things about his death is that time hadn’t stood still; people still shopped and worked and watched America’s Got Talent. And sent me bills.

  “Thanks for paying your condolences, Dee Dee.”

  “I’m just trying to do a favor for an old friend,” she said. “If you sell now, I can get you into a one and one-and-a-half off the 10.”

  “I have enough to cover my property taxes,” I said. John’s life insurance check was coming in soon. To avoid living right off the freeway, I’d return to producing in the next week or so. Really, I would.

  “Well, no pressure, you know who to call,” Dee Dee said. “Your pal Dee Dee.” She teetered off toward her Range Rover. In Santa Monica (“SaMo”), the fewer kids you had, the more car you drove. I went inside with Spice, sank onto the living room couch, and stared at the gift. “Should I open it?” I asked Spice. “It could be truffles.” Spice just sighed.

  “You’re killing me!” someone said. “Don’t keep me waiting. I love gifts!”

  Spice started barking at John’s favorite armchair, an old, cracked leather piece we bought at a garage sale. Trish emerged, seated in his chair, her dark braid around her shoulder, delicate hands clasped, a child’s great anticipation on her old, lovely face.

  “Did you ever go all white?” I a
sked, circling my head.

  “Never,” Trish said, stroking her hair. “I kept my color right up ’til my last breath.” Spice calmed down, sitting still as a statue, completely focused on Trish. Did he see Trish? Or just feel her? Smell her? Her scent reminded me of citrus and sunshine, like the Farmer’s Market on a June morning.

  “What a nice dog,” Trish said. “Not a handsome one, that one. But he’s smart. Now, open the gift!”

  I picked up the silver box, then hesitated. Maybe I was just hearing and seeing things, as my friends feared. Maybe I was losing my mind. After all, Post-it Notes were the only thing keeping the S.S. Casa Sugar afloat.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said, putting the box down. “Ghosts don’t exist. I mean, it’s understandable that I would be experiencing these kinds of hallucinations …”

  “I’m as real as the granola you almost ate for breakfast,” Trish said. I know I poured granola, then changed my mind. Granola’s a lot of effort, let’s face it.

  “I’ve never been so insulted,” she huffed.

  “I’ll open it, but then, do something,” I said. I tore open the wrapping; inside the box was a gift card for three months of storage. “What an ass. Listen, don’t freak me out by pulling your face over your head and screaming.”

  “What? You want me to tell a joke? Dance?” Trish said. She stood and started tap-dancing. “I’m not real, huh! I would cook but I’m not allowed to use a stove. One time, someone up here figured out how to make pancakes, ruined it for everybody. Keys, funny noises, doors slamming, cold air, that’s all okay. But no pancakes.”

  “Trish. My sanity is at stake. If you don’t exist, I’ve lost my mind. And I’ll lose everything …,” I said. “And, by the way, you do have a scent. It’s nice.”

  Trish was becoming even more clear, like a painter’s vision come to life—here was light, there shadow, here color …

  “I still don’t understand.” I asked, “Why me? Do you have unfinished business down here? Is this like a CBS show?”

  Trish leaned back. “God, no. Children have the ability to communicate with the dead, until around age two,” she said. “After two or three, all of the external ‘stuff’ takes over. ‘Do this, don’t do that. Stay inside the lines, don’t climb that tree, don’t tell a fib, say thank you …’ ”