“Range Rovers are like holistic life coaches in Santa Monica,” I said. “You know six out of ten people claim that on their W-9s.”
“I have to go …”
“Don’t leave.”
“I love you.”
“Don’t leave,” I screamed. “Don’t leave!” Spice started barking again.
“Mommy?” Ellie called from inside. My eyes held on to the dark. The wind had ceased. It was time for the living to get on with it.
Jay was right, though, about love.
Love isn’t buried with the dead.
14
Grief Spreads Like Butter
After dropping off Ellie at school, I made a trip back to the Santa Monica Police Station. Once again, I admired its modern, pristine architecture. It looked like it should house Warhols, Pollocks, and Johnses (Jasper Johns, people!).
I asked the policewoman at the front desk for the detective who was working the Bernal hit-and-run case. If you’re old enough to remember Barney Miller (if you’re not, be happy, work hard, and don’t let bad boyfriends get you down), you think of a jail as a run-down, dusty old place filled with characters. This place was like a futuristic movie set with gorgeous extras.
“May I say who’s asking?” the policewoman asked.
“Hannah Bernal,” I said. “My husband was the … victim.” I felt like human buzz-kill.
“Oh … yes,” she said. “Hold on.” She scurried past a group of police officers huddled around Starbucks lattes and cranberry scones.
“Mrs. Bernal?” someone said, a moment later. I turned and was eye-to-eye with a stocky bald man sporting a thick black mustache. His gaze was so intense, it felt like he was getting into the ring, despite the suit and tie. This is exactly the kind of person, I thought, who brings out my Tourette’s.
“I’m Detective Ramirez.” He held out his hand. It felt like I was shaking a tree stump.
“Hi, Hannah Bernal,” I said. “I have some information on my husband’s death.”
“Odd,” Detective Ramirez said. “I was just about to call you.”
Five minutes later, Detective Ramirez clasped his hands as he peered at me over his cluttered desk. “Mrs. Bernal, we’ve just found the hit-and-run driver responsible for the death of your husband.”
“You found the woman driving the Range Rover?” I asked.
“Range Rover?” Detective Ramirez said. “The suspect was driving a gardening truck.”
“Oh, see,” I said, “I’m sorry. You have the wrong guy. My husband was run down by a woman driving a Range Rover.”
“Mrs. Bernal, the driver is a Hispanic illegal who was driving a gardening truck.”
“It’s not him,” I said. “He didn’t kill my husband.”
“Mrs. Bernal, this is the man who was running away from the scene.”
“Of course he ran. He was probably scared out of his mind.”
“Mrs. Bernal, are you interested in attending the court hearing?”
No wedding ring on Detective Ramirez’s thick fingers. What a surprise, I thought.
“I’m interested in attending the hearing for the woman who hit my husband, then left him in the street for dead. I am not interested in convicting the man who comforted my husband as he lay dying.”
Detective Ramirez leaned back. “You know, Mrs. Bernal, usually people are grateful when we have news concerning their loved ones, no matter how painful it may be.”
“Detective,” I said calmly, recalling the Om at the end of yoga class, “I am grateful for all your hard work, but as difficult as this must be for you to hear, you have the wrong guy.”
“If he’s the wrong guy, why did he run off the minute he heard sirens? My mother had a saying. Cuando el rio suena, agua lleva.”
“My mother had a saying, too,” I said. “Although … it’s really not pertinent to this situation. May I see him?”
“See the perp?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “Look, I know this is hard for you. Trust me. But the sooner you accept this, the better off you and your little girl will be.”
“Please.” I put my hand on his forearm. It felt like he ate pit bulls for breakfast.
Detective Ramirez walked me down a stark white hallway with polished cement floors.
“You could eat sushi off this floor,” I said. We walked past cell after cell, one cleaner than the next. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” I joked.
We stopped at the cell on the end. There was a lean, dark-haired man in ill-fitting jeans staring out into the silver-white sky.
“Del Toro!” Detective Ramirez barked.
Ramirez took a step back, motioning me to move forward. “Are you going to stay here?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smiling. His teeth were white and even.
“You have nothing else to do?” I asked.
“I have thirty cases on my desk. Murders, arson, rapists, kidnapping. Cases dating back decades … but yes, I’m staying here.”
“Well, perhaps you can interpret then?” I asked.
“I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Oh.”
“Disappointed?” Detective Ramirez said. Was he teasing me?
The prisoner called Del Toro stared at me through the bars. He wore tennis shoes, loose jeans, and a crumpled T-shirt. He was young, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, but he looked like he had the weight of the world on his skinny shoulders. I wanted to hug him.
“Can I go inside?” I asked Detective Ramirez. He snorted.
“Señor Del Toro,” I said, “Me llamo Hannah Bernal, yo estoy—oh, God, what’s the name for widow? Um. I’m the widow of the man … hombre … you’re accused of hitting with your gardening truck.”
“That morning haunts me still,” Del Toro answered in perfect, poetic English. “I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since I held your husband in my arms.”
“You speak English?” I asked. Estupida.
“I was raised just on the other side of the Texas border. Near Nogales,” he said. “I picked it up on television game shows. In particular, Wheel of Fortune was very helpful. Do you know Miss Vanna White?”
Ramirez was suppressing a laugh.
“You could have told me,” I said, turning to him.
“Not really,” Ramirez said. “I needed this—it’s been a rough morning.”
I focused on Del Toro. “You comforted John, mi esposo, my husband … you gave him solace. I’m grateful you were there for him.”
A tear ran down Del Toro’s cheek. He wiped it away.
“I didn’t want to leave him, but I don’t have papers.”
“You said a prayer.”
“A prayer for the dying …”
I felt Ramirez watching every facial tic, listening to every syllable.
“Did you kill John?”
“No, oh, dios mio, no. I saw … he was on his bike. And there was this big black car—”
“A Range Rover?”
“Sí, yes, a Range Rover—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Detective Ramirez said. “Mrs. Bernal, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Detective Ramirez escorted me out the front doors. Sun hit my eyes. The fog had lifted. “Range Rover,” Ramirez said, in a flat tone.
“A black Range Rover,” I confirmed, as though that were more specific.
“I suppose you have the license number?”
“No.”
“You’ve just described sixty percent of the cars driven in Santa Monica.”
“Isn’t that annoying? What are all these people doing with Range Rovers? There are no bogs to drive over here. I’ve never even seen a bog. What is a bog?”
“Mrs. Bernal, how did you come to this conclusion, as unlikely as it is?”
The sun was shining into Ramirez’s eyes. He squinted and looked like an angry grapefruit. He flipped on a pair of Ray-Bans.
“John told me,” I
said with conviction.
“Your dead husband John?” His eyebrows shot up over his sunglasses.
“I only have one. That I know of.” Hi, inappropriate joking.
“Mrs. Bernal, have you had a psych eval?” Ramirez asked. “You were arrested a couple weeks ago. The death of a loved one can affect one’s mental state.”
“I am not crazy, Detective. John told me about the Range Rover just the other night. We were reminiscing about Thanksgiving and then …” I shut my mouth. Hi, Crazy!
“You know what I think?” Ramirez said, taking off his Ray-Bans and looking into my eyes. “It’s one of two things. You’re having a nervous breakdown—that’s best case. Or you had something to do with his death. That’s why you’re trying to get this guy off the hook. You feel guilty. Did you want your husband dead? Was it his life insurance?”
“How dare—” I didn’t finish my thought as a cloud passed overhead and a church bell rang. A robust African-American man in an L.A.P.D. uniform appeared over Ramirez’s shoulder. He was young (although most people seem young at my age), maybe late twenties, early thirties. His badge read JACKSON. He must have been dead at least ten years—he was dimensional, opaque; he’d done his time.
“Tell Nacho to stop picking on widows,” Jackson said. He laughed, his chest heaving.
“Stop picking on widows, Nacho,” I said, gazing back into Ramirez’s eyes, my reflection stern in his Ray-Bans lenses.
“What did you just—”
“Ask him when he got so fat,” Jackson said. “In ’89, he was a skinny little thing. Shit, he jumped fences like a junkyard dog.”
“This person … Jackson … would also like to know when you got so fat,” I said. “Not my words. I would never say you’re fat—stocky, more like.”
“What did you say?” Ramirez asked. “Why did you say Jackson?”
“That’s what it says on his nametag.”
“Where?” He whipped around.
“Right behind you, but you can’t see him.”
“You’re giving me the creeps, lady,” Ramirez said. “You need to stop this—now.”
“Or what? You’ll arrest me? Put me in Prada Jail?” I asked. “He’s in uniform. L.A.P.D. Big smile, big laugh.”
Ramirez said something in Spanish, rubbing his shiny head with his thick fingers.
“He better remember me!” Jackson said. “I saved that fat man’s life!”
“Don’t forget. He saved your life, Detective Ramirez.”
“Oh my God,” Ramirez said. “Where is he?”
“You can’t see him, I’m sorry.”
Ramirez glanced nervously over his shoulder, then turned back to me.
“My partner … I was a rookie. We rode in the South West division. Eighteenth Street territory. Back when I thought I could, you know, make a difference. It was just a traffic stop. A parolee. I should have known, I should have called for backup—”
Jackson was still standing over his shoulder, his hands on his hips, listening.
“Your partner looks happy,” I said. “I wish you could hear him laugh.”
“He’s laughing?” Ramirez looked up. “Oh, man, that laugh—”
Jackson started to fade.
“It’s so crazy,” Ramirez said. “What you miss—and then, what you forget you miss.”
We stood there as people walked by, as the sun found its way to us.
“Find the Range Rover,” I said.
“Dead people or no dead people, we got our guy,” he said. “But I’ll put some calls out. On one condition—you get professional help. There are groups who can help you. I don’t know you but I know enough about your situation. And I know it could go either way. Mrs. Bernal, you owe it to your daughter.”
He trucked back into the station. I angled my face to the sun, letting the warmth and essential vitamin D sink in (encouraging freckles, age spots, melanoma—can’t I just have a moment?). I heard a noise, opened my eyes to see a homeless woman pushing a baby stroller filled with bottles and cans. I can’t tell you how disturbing it is to see baby strollers filled with things that aren’t babies. The homeless woman suddenly pointed her finger at me. And laughed.
Because I wasn’t wearing sunscreen? Maybe she recognized me as the person she was twenty years ago. We weren’t so far apart, she and I; my hair was dreading up like hers. My skin would thicken and wrinkle. Probably within the next ten minutes. I hadn’t paid that much attention to my teeth lately, and who knows if my dental insurance was good anymore. I doubt it. I was gawking at my future—typical Santa Monica homeless woman—and she was mocking her past—typical Santa Monica latte-slinging, hand-wringing, hybrid-driving, liberal-voting, yoga mat–toting bourgeoise. The flip side of the coin was not so flippin’ far.
Meanwhile, I was still in love with my dead, though conversational, husband. How would I recover from my grief if we never stopped dating? Detective Ramirez was right. It was time to call in the professionals.
“I’m getting help,” I said to the laughing homeless woman. “Okay? I’m getting help.”
Widows and Widowers of Santa Monica met at a stately Tudor built over two lots on Georgina, just west of Casa Sugar. I parked in front, admiring the huge lawn, manicured coral trees, and ocean views, and navigated the brick walkway. I heard soft voices, silverware tapping good china, classical music playing in the background.
I rapped the antique knocker on the large wooden door, waited, then pushed it open. There was a sea of gray heads, bobbing up and down in conversation. Everyone wore a nametag. Women were walking in behind me with Pyrex dishes, heavy with casseroles. I was empty-handed.
An elegant woman in her sixties, with a silver bob, wearing a suit and a silk scarf, waved to me from the other side of the room, then weaved through the crowd, and took me by the arm. “You must be Hannah,” she said, smiling, “I’m Amelia. Welcome. Let me introduce you around—”
“I forgot a casserole,” I said. “Should I go out and get one?”
“Oh, don’t worry.” She laughed. “Only the gals who’ve been here awhile know to bring food.”
“They all look so happy,” I said, focusing on the crowd’s smiles and laughter. No frowns or sad faces; I would have settled for a yawn. “Are you sure they’re widows?”
“Time heals all things, dear.”
“Oh. They must have been widowed a long time ago, then.”
“No,” Amelia said. “The more time you’re married, the less healing you need. Come on, let’s get this party started. Every Tuesday, we have a Zumba class …”
A few minutes later, I was having a conversation with Lilith (who wore a tennis skirt cut short above her wrinkled knees) about her dear, departed husband, Millford.
“You were married how long?” I asked.
“Forty-two years,” Lilith said, tearing up. The widow I was looking for. “Wonderful years.”
“You’re so lucky.” I sighed. “I wish I had even ten years with John. I’d settle for ten.”
An eerie quiet descended over the room. A tall gentleman with thick silver hair, still wearing his confident handsomeness from decades past, was making his way to the buffet table. Just as he reached the deviled eggs, he was widow-rushed.
“Horace,” I heard. “Horace, over here …”
“Lilith,” I said, “who’s that?”
“Why? Are you interested?” she asked, her gaze narrowing.
“Not at all,” I said, “I’m just curious.”
“You get near him, missy,” she hissed, lipstick marking her teeth, “and I’ll cut you.”
Lilith ran off toward Widower Number One. “Horace! Horace, dear! I made your favorite! Lemon meringue pie!”
Time to go, but I wasn’t leaving empty-handed. I fought my way through the granny rave, snatched a few homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, and made my escape.
Widowed Partners in Transition’s homepage described themselves as a healing group for women under forty-five who’d recently lost a loved one.
Hello, target audience. I headed to the Urth Café on Main on a bright, crisp winter morning that Packers fans would kill for. While Urth Café was hardly the ideal setting to grieve (surrounded by lululemon asses and Gaiam yoga mats) I liked their quart-sized lattes and their street parking.
(L.A. sidenote: There’s a lot you can overcome in your search for the perfect mate in L.A.—including a rap sheet or pan-sexuality—but if you can’t find a parking spot on a Tuesday afternoon, you’ll be single the rest of your life.)
I stood in line, waited for my two-ton latte, and looked for the group on the back patio. There were several women and one guy crowded around a small circular table. They looked worried. They looked depressed. They looked like they’d forgotten to brush their hair. My people.
I caught the eye of the woman leading the group. She was wearing a stretchy top, had wiry black hair, and a prominent nose with a diamond piercing. “Hi … you joining the group?” she asked.
“Is this the … for widows?” I asked.
“You could say that. Have a seat,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” Yoga Instructor-Grief Counselor, I guessed. L.A. was the Hyphenate Capital of the world.
“I’m not much of a joiner,” I said. I squeezed between an Asian lady with a boy cut, and a large-boned Scandinavian woman, and placed my latte on the tiled table. “But I figure, hey, I qualify.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the leader said. “I’m Shalimar. We’re all … dealing with our special form of grief.”
The All-American brown-haired girl was crying into her napkin. A guy with a crew cut, wearing a down vest that made him seem even more bulky, pulled her in for a hug, muting her sobs.
“What’s your name?” Shalimar asked, snapping me out of my trance.
“Hannah Marsh … Bernal.”
“How long ago did you lose your partner?” Shalimar asked.
“September. It feels like this morning, and like … years …”
Their sad, knowing eyes were upon me. Maybe this would work, after all. Shalimar put her hand on mine as a lone tear drifted down the side of my nose.
“I cry at the weirdest times,” I said.
They nodded.
“In line at Whole Foods,” I continued. “Ron Artest was there, in his Laker uniform, ordering vegan food—and I lost it. I think he felt bad.”
The After Wife Page 14
