The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “You’re insulting my shoe choices? That’s just going too far.”

  “I’ll show you too far,” I said, pulling my shirt off my shoulder, revealing the frying pan tattoo. “Look what I did for you!”

  “Wow,” he said. “Is that Le Creuset?”

  “Hairy Eddie insisted on going high-end.”

  “It’s sweet,” John said. “It makes me wish I were still alive. I could have prevented you from putting a permanent frying pan on your body.”

  “Even my dead husband can’t appreciate the gesture.” I sighed. “John, unless I figure something out, I’m going to have to sell the only home Ellie’s ever known. It’s just too much for her. It’s not fair, John. It’s not fucking fair.”

  “Hannah, listen to me,” John said. “You are the most resourceful person I know. I mean, short of Jesse James. He’s taken me at poker like eight times.”

  “The outlaw? Shouldn’t he be somewhere south of here, like hell? Or Orange County?”

  “The guys running the show are big on second chances,” John said. “Also, let’s face it, how fun would it be if only the righteous made it up here? We’ve been to those dinner parties, remember—you leave at nine thirty.”

  “John, I forgot to tell you. I found the man. Del Toro. Who stopped to comfort you.”

  “You forgot to tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, I have a lot going on. It’s not like I can just call you up. I can’t just call you up at any time, right?”

  “One of the things I like about this place,” John said. “No cellphones. Although the reception would be excellent. Is he okay? Did he remember?”

  “Of course he remembered,” I said. “He was sad that he couldn’t do more to help. But he’s not okay. He’s in jail, John. They’re going to try to convict him of manslaughter. Maybe worse, because he fled the scene.”

  “Baby, you can’t let that happen. Look, this financial stuff, I know you’re going to pull through,” John said. “You’re going to catch a break. But you need to find that Princess of Darkness in her Range Rover. I have a bad feeling things could turn very ugly for poor Del Toro.”

  John was right. I didn’t trust Detective Ramirez to follow up, even with the show I’d put on for him. After John faded on me, I walked into my kitchen to discover Jay, in a scarf and cap, shaking his head. Jay had his own key to Casa Sugar, and was welcome to come and go as he pleased. Sometimes he just didn’t want to sleep alone.

  “How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

  “Long enough,” Jay said, “to see you having an argument with a hundred-year-old avocado tree. I mean, it can’t even defend itself.”

  “I wasn’t arguing with the tree,” I said. “I was arguing with John. Well, not arguing. More like a fervent discussion.”

  “Hannah, you have to stop this, I beg you,” Jay said, then, “And what, pray tell, did you do to your shoulder?”

  “You have more to answer to than I do,” I said. “Someone here is making a deal at a network. Someone who is supposed to be my partner.”

  “Hannah, I was going to tell you,” Jay said, “when the time was right. I’m working on an HGTV show—it’s just something to tide me over.”

  “And me? What about me?” I couldn’t have sounded more pathetic.

  “I tried, Hannah,” Jay said. He sat down at the chopping block. “I really tried. Honey, people think that you’ve completely lost it.”

  “You don’t believe me,” I said.

  “I think you need to take a year off, get some help, then come back stronger than ever.”

  “I’m going to lose my home,” I said.

  “Hannah, you could lose more than that,” Jay said. “You could lose Ellie—”

  The thought had never occurred to me. Could they take away my daughter? My baby?

  “You think I’m lying?” I asked, voice breaking.

  “I think you’re in pain. So much pain that you’re manifesting … illusions.”

  “How would I know about Todd’s brother, or … or Trish …?”

  “I don’t know. You could have known these things. They could have been in the recesses of your mind—”

  “The police detective’s dead partner?”

  “Babydoll, I’m closer to you than anyone, but you haven’t seen any dead person around me.”

  “Has anyone close to you died? Someone you really loved.”

  “No,” Jay said, after a moment.

  “Well, maybe that’s the reason,” I said with a sigh. “Consider yourself lucky. In the meantime, I’m so over dead people. I have live people problems to deal with. Dead people don’t pay the rent.”

  16

  Coffee-Mates

  I was sitting at my kitchen table, assessing my financial future.

  On one side of the ledger was Casa Sugar. On the other side, economic financial ruin. I had two options: I could rob a bank or get one of those easy-to-find high-paid television jobs. I made some calls.

  “Sony Pictures Television Studios, how may I direct your call?”

  “Hi, is Phil Henry in for Hannah Bernal?”

  “Who?”

  “Phil Henry. He’s president of the TV studio—”

  “Oh. Um. Hold on.” (Muffled voices in the background.)

  “Hi, are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Yeah, he left a while ago.”

  “Oh,” I said, “do you know where he went?”

  “Home,” the operator said. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure. Home.”

  This scenario repeated until my ear went numb. Brandon watched patiently as I crossed out names and phone numbers on my Rolodex.

  “What is that?” he asked, pointing to my Rolodex.

  “It’s a … Rolodex?”

  “Oh.”

  “It has phone numbers in it.”

  “Really?” He picked it up and examined it as though it were a dinosaur bone. I snatched it back.

  “Listen, can you take Ellie to school?” I asked. “I have to make a trip to the bank. Mama has to put on her begging shoes.”

  “Sure,” Brandon said. “I want to talk to you, though.”

  “Are you quitting?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to get paid?” My jaw started to ache.

  “No. I’m good. For now.”

  “Do you have a substance abuse problem?”

  “No!” Brandon laughed.

  “Then please, don’t tell me anything right now. I can’t handle any more news, okay?”

  “I just want advice. I’m thinking about what that lady, your kind-of-friend, said to me—you know, about real estate. I’m thinking about going to one of her seminars.”

  “Brandon, you’ll be great at anything you choose to do,” I said. “You are a hard worker and a good person. Just like me. Wait. No. Things are going to turn out great for you. Not like me. But what you don’t want to do is go to any kind of seminar run by Dee Dee. It could only end in the Santa Monica Mirror. Trust me on this. Just … stay in school. I’ll keep you fed. Just … do that for me.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and geared myself up to get ready.

  Humiliation required the proper wardrobe.

  I assessed myself in the mirror of my neglected closet, dressed in my best hat-in-hand outfit, then headed out to Bank of the West. I would need a lot of luck.

  Would luck even recognize me, at this point? Maybe if I wore a carnation in my lapel or a funny hat.

  But first, coffee.

  * * *

  Lunch is easy. Coffee is hard. Allow me to paraphrase: There are eight million coffee shops in the big city. And by big city, I mean Montana Avenue. I passed three Starbucks in six blocks, then drove slowly past Caffe Luxxe. Was I brave enough to enter? Was I cool enough to order? A slim brunette sipping a latte, her baby in a sling on her chest, was chatting outside with a lean, bearded man in a porkpie hat. Let’s call them Angie and Brad, because that’s probably what they call themselves in the
privacy of their eco-friendly pressed-bamboo NoMo dwelling. Even from my car, with the windows rolled up, their unctuousness seeped through the cracks. I just knew that baby was wearing cloth diapers. Luxxe was the kind of place where people got tired patting themselves on the back.

  I drove a few blocks to Peet’s, land of a thousand waxed cyclists and, I hear from Dee Dee (Montana Avenue’s Perez Hilton), married swingers. All that was missing from Peet’s was a disco ball. The line was nine deep in Lycra and biking caps. (There’re many things I’m not good at: When to stop eating See’s Bordeaux chocolates, guessing women’s ages at the Brentwood Country Mart, and standing in line.)

  It would take me twenty minutes to get to the counter but I had snagged a prime parking spot right in front on Montana, and everyone in L.A. knows: You don’t give up a prime parking spot. Ever. I don’t care if your hair’s on fire or Robert Pattinson is beckoning you from an oceanfront room at Casa Del Mar. A good parking space is like finding a twelve-carat diamond in your dog’s morning pile.

  What I didn’t know was that the Lance Armstrong monkfish in front of me was utterly devoid of decision-making powers. I stood behind his stretch-polyurethane-covered behind (which was not unpleasant to look at, had I been a woman of normal needs, and not a dried-up grieving relic). I still appreciated such wonders, but at a distance. Like the Santa Monica Mountains on a clear day or the blue Pacific. Or Taylor Lautner.

  I waited.

  “Um, let’s see, an Americano to go, one sugar, no make it Splenda, is Splenda okay? Which is the one that makes your heart race?”

  And I waited.

  The biker was tall, over six feet in his cleats. He wore a cap over thick, dark-blond hair that poked out from the sides. I could see a few grays.

  “No, you know what? I’m going to have a vanilla latte.” (BEAT) “Hold on, too sweet? What about this almond bar?” He turned so I could glance at his profile. He was lightly tan, hadn’t shaved that morning, handsome enough to momentarily distract me from my annoyance.

  Still, I waited.

  “I changed my mind. I changed my mind. I’m so sorry. Really. How’s your tea? Will that wake me up? What do you think?”

  The counter girl had a blank stare, as though her bodily functions had shut down one by one. I was waiting for someone to stick a feeding tube down her throat.

  “But … you know, I don’t really like tea … I never did. I don’t think …”

  “Lance Armstrong is going to have coffee,” I interrupted. “Straight up, on me.”

  The barista woke from her coma and smiled. I felt like I’d saved a life.

  “I’m not sure I want—,” Lance started saying to me.

  “I know. You’re not sure what you want. But I know what I want. I want to order and get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

  “I hope you’re faster at biking than you are at ordering.”

  “Let me pay for this,” he said. “Let me pay for your drink. What are you having?”

  I hadn’t thought of what I wanted. I wasn’t ready. I looked at the board. Names jumped out at me—latte this, mocha that—I had no idea. What do you want, Hannah?

  “I want to save my house,” I said. “I want a bailout. But I’m not rich enough to get one.”

  Lance’s eyes were surrounded by lines, and he had bags underneath them. He was probably a couple years younger than he looked. I wondered why he wasn’t sleeping.

  “My friend in need here is going to have a medium vanilla latte,” Lance said.

  “Two percent,” I chirped. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete pig. Why? I don’t know. Lance was the first man who’d noticed me in months, I guess.

  I grabbed my latte as soon as it hit the counter and sprinted (walked rather quickly) out of there. I didn’t look to see if Lance was hanging around outside in the bright and perfect sun, deep in the tight groups of bikers sitting at tiny round tables. My self-loathing was enough to keep me company.

  Minutes later, I found myself in front of a loan officer’s desk at Bank of the West, the one bank on Montana that hadn’t been shut down. I thought of the banks and lending institutions that no longer existed in this neighborhood; at least, I thought, I wouldn’t be alone if I, too, vanished.

  Sort of like John, I guess. One minute, my one love is rushing out the door to the Farmer’s Market. The next, I’m getting the nightmare phone call.

  “Are you currently employed, Mrs.… Miss …?” the banker asked politely. His nametag said Joon Kim.

  “Miss?” I wasn’t married … or was I? If I had to choose, I was definitely amiss. Even remiss.

  “I’m a total miss,” I said. “A miss-hap, if you will.” I was joking. Truly.

  “Miss Bernal,” Kim continued expeditiously. I had a feeling he’d been through a lot of these uncomfortable-as-an-underwire-bra conversations. As he painstakingly revealed valid reasons the bank could not possibly approve a second mortgage, I pictured him doing something fun, like … karaoke. Mr. Kim, drunk on cold sake on Monday eighties night, belting out Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?”

  I started humming.

  “Though we value your patronage,” he said, pushing a brochure across his neat, disturbingly empty desk. I glanced at the title: “Life on a Budget.” “The Bank of the West unfortunately cannot restructure your home loan at this time. Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” I said, then, “Yes, I do. You seem nice. Can my daughter and I come and live with you?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bernal, but you’re in a better position than many. You can sell—”

  “For what? For barely more than I paid. Maybe not even that.”

  “You can take that money, put it away, rent an apartment—I have a card,” he said. “Someone who can help you. She’s very good—”

  He opened his drawer, took a business card from a stack, and slid it across the desk.

  I took a look. “Dee Dee Pickler?”

  “Yes? You know her?” he asked. Did I detect color rising in his cheeks? Is this how Dee Dee secured her loans?

  “I’m familiar with the way she works,” I said. Kim was full-on blushing. Wow. Mustang Dee Dee sure did get around.

  “She’s very good,” he repeated. “She’ll help you—”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll figure something else out. I’ll just … squat. I think I’d be good at that. Thanks for your help.”

  I stood, turned, and bumped straight into Lance Armstrong. He was still holding the coffee that I’d made him order.

  “Oh … hi,” I stammered. “I was just leaving …”

  “Hey, Joon,” Lance said. “I hope you helped out our customer here. Did you tell her about our newest homeowner policy?”

  Kim looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know—”

  “Why don’t you step over here … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Lance said.

  “I never threw it at you,” I said. “It’s Hannah. Hannah Bernal.”

  “Hannah,” he said, “you have a nice smile—that is, when you smile. Follow me.”

  I’m smiling? I asked myself, as I followed Lance. He was still in his biking gear. If he looked ridiculous at Peet’s, he looked like ridiculous times a hundred in a bank, even in Santa Monica. I felt my face as I entered the office, a nameplate on the door—Tom DeCiccio. Yes, I was smiling.

  * * *

  I am excellent at apologizing—like most women, I’ve been doing it all my life. I’m pretty sure “I’m sorry” were my first words. Examples: “I’m sorry I made you cheat on me.” “I’m sorry I bumped you while you were stealing my purse.” “I’m sorry my breathing annoys you.” So, I just dove right in: “I’m really sorry about my Lance Armstrong comment.” I thought about using my widow card.

  He waved. “No worries. I look ridiculous in my biking gear.”

  “You’re in incredible shape,” I blurted out. “Oh, God. I’m sorry for tha
t comment, as well. And I’m sorry for anything else that embarrasses me or you, or the both of us.”

  Tom slipped off his cap and sat down behind his desk. “Now what can I do to help you?”

  “What can you do to help?” I asked. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m sure I can handle it,” Tom said. “It’s been a tough couple years for a lot of people.”

  “Okay,” I said, then, “I lost my husband. I lost my job. I’m going to lose my home.” I bit my lip to keep from crying. Please, please don’t cry in front of cute Tom, I implored myself. Too late. At this point, I could cry at a Jersey Shore rerun. I was as sensitive as a blister, a human blister on the bottom of the foot of humanity.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Tom said. He did look genuinely sorry, not just “I’m sorry I opened my office to this batty woman with the half-combed hair” sorry.

  He handed me a Kleenex box. I pulled out a tissue, then another. I couldn’t keep my tears from running. Nothing worked. Not images of silly dog tricks or fat baby elbows or Dwight Howard’s foot-wide grin.

  “Did he … leave you?” Tom asked.

  “Did who leave me?” I asked, through the sheet of salty, snot membrane covering my mouth. What’s more attractive than a sniveling widow? Try everything.

  “Your husband?” he asked. “Did he leave you?”

  “No. I mean, yes. My husband died. One bright morning, he’s healthy, happy, not a care in the world—so carefree that he forgot to pay off his quarterly life insurance bill—the next minute, he’s dead. And no one wants to talk about it. I mean, grief meetings—they don’t even want me—how many husbands have to die before I qualify?”

  “My wife died,” Tom said. He flipped through his calendar while I composed myself. Did I hear correctly?

  “Let’s see, just passed the five-month anniversary not long ago, that would be the twenty-eighth …” He looked at me. “Yes, so, Patchett left us on August 28 …”

  “Patchett?” I said, before I could stop myself.

  “It was a family name. Her great-grandmother’s last name.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Patchett? I found myself wondering what she looked like: A Patchett would be tall, blond, jumping horses before noon … everything I found hard to relate to in one name. Why was I hating on a dead woman?