“Cancer … her brain. There was nothing we could do. She was very brave.”
She was brave. Of course. Everything I wasn’t. I suppose she was a doctor, as well.
“She was a pediatrician.”
Who went to Harvard.
“She graduated from Yale.”
I had to chuckle, “I called Harvard.”
“How’d you know?” Tom asked. “She went to Harvard under-grad.”
I was going to walk out of the bank with no bank loan, no second mortgage, and no self-esteem. At least it hadn’t taken longer than thirty minutes.
I focused on the silver-framed photographs on the chest behind him. Exquisite blond girls, hair bands, green eyes, one with braces.
“Your children?”
“Three. Three daughters,” he said. “You?”
“One daughter. She’s three …” My voice caught in my throat. “Oh my God. Her birthday is coming up.” I was crying again.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. We sat there for a few moments. My sobs were like the drunk party guest who wouldn’t shut up.
“I feel like I’m going crazy sometimes,” I finally managed. “I just … you’re really going to think I’ve lost it … I just got this tattoo …”
I pulled my sweater off my shoulder, exposing the frying pan that would live in infamy.
“Wow,” he said. “A frying pan.”
“Yeah, right?”
“That’s pretty terrible.” Tom nodded. “But I think I win.” He pulled up the tight, short sleeve on his biking shirt, exposing a bleached shoulder. And a tattoo. A Gold Amex card. The name PATCHETT MILLER DECICCIO, complete with credit card number and that guy’s head.
“Oh my God. Truly, truly … awful,” I said. Was I flirting? Put the flirt away. Put it away, now!
“No one understands,” he said. “Not even Hairy Eddie.”
“Who’s not even hairy,” I said. “What’s that about?” I was in the presence of the Widower. Dee Dee had gotten her recognizance wrong: He was supposed to hang out at Caffe Luxxe, not Peet’s. And fuck it if he didn’t look like George Clooney, you know, pre-Darfur. Before he was Dar-furrowed.
“Would you like to have coffee sometime?” Tom asked.
“I … I don’t know. I mean, I should probably drink less coffee because you know, heart palpitations, but what’s one latte—”
“It’s just coffee, Hannah,” Tom said, using my first name. “I just don’t meet many people in the same … situation.”
“It’s not like I’m cheating—you can’t cheat on a dead man.” Even if you are still talking to him. “I can do coffee. I mean, why not, right? As long as I do the ordering …” I gathered up my purse, and my used Kleenex. “Oh … but what about my … housing situation?”
“Let me crunch the numbers. I think we can work something out,” Tom said. “At least for the time being, until you get your feet on the ground. I don’t want you to worry. By the way, that’s a truly awful tattoo.”
“Thanks. And yours makes mine look like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”
The Hannah Bernal who walked out of the bank was a different person than the one who’d walked in. For one thing, this new Hannah Bernal felt a tingle she hadn’t felt in … since John.
“I wonder if the tingle police will get me,” I said, as I walked past the window of a real estate office. Dee Dee Pickler’s face was plastered on flyers featuring “awesome condo’s (sic)” in Santa Monica. I saw my reflection in the glass. I barely recognized this girl—smiling eyes, hair blowing in the breeze. My shoulders weren’t pressed against my earlobes. Could bad luck have skipped off to warmer climes? Taken a break poolside in South Beach? I crossed my fingers and headed to my car.
Tom called two days later, and we set a coffee date. It seemed to take hours to decide which coffee shop; the wrong place could set off a whole ugly chain of events.
“What will you be wearing?” I joked. “So that I’ll recognize you.”
“Um, a gray suit, light blue shirt, maybe not the light blue shirt—maybe white—”
“Tom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m kidding.”
“Sorry. Right.” We decided on the Pirates, my hometown favorite; I’d yet to see a set of hemp-wearing triplets in line.
“The Jurassic?” Salvador, one of the baristas, asked, as we got to the front of the line. He was built like a Mayan runner, short and compact, with a black braid to his waist.
“No.” I couldn’t order my usual bran muffin with Tom next to me. I had dubbed it “The Jurassic” because it looked like something dinosaurs left behind after breakfast.
“Just a vanilla latte.” Salvador smiled. I had a flashback of Salvador’s face when I told him John had died. Why had I come here with Tom? I went to pay for my latte.
“Not going to happen,” Tom said. “Let me get that.”
“I barely know him,” I said to Salvador, my upper lip sweating like a bribe-taking senator on 60 Minutes. “He’s my banker. We just both like coffee, as it turns out.”
Salvador watched as Tom helped me to an outside table and pulled my chair out, angling it so the sun wouldn’t be in my face. We sat and talked about our lives, pre- and postapocalypse. We laughed. We paused. Salvador came out several times to check on us.
“Is he giving me a dirty look?” Tom asked. “I think he just tried to kick me.”
“He loved my husband.”
“Ah, I understand,” Tom said, checking his watch. “Oh, hey, look at the time. Do you realize we’ve been here almost two hours?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing, for what, I didn’t know.
“No, no,” Tom said. “I just … I usually don’t talk this much.”
“Misery loves coffee,” I said. He laughed. I liked the wrinkles around his eyes, the hair that was too gray for his age. The polished outside and damaged interior. An interior that I was particularly qualified to understand.
“Will you do this again?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “It was fun … I mean, not fun, like the eighties—you know what I mean.”
As he left, a black Range Rover turned the corner and raced past, just missing a pedestrian in the crosswalk. Reminding me that I needed to call Detective Ramirez. Reminding me that I was still in a relationship, albeit a complicated one. My cellphone rang.
“Are you dating the Widower?” Dee Dee Pickler asked.
“No,” I said. I turned to see if she was following me.
“Two-hour coffee date?” Dee Dee said. “I call that an engagement party.”
“Bye, Dee Dee.”
“The Turk is all fired up and ready to go,” she was saying, as I hung up.
* * *
Aimee was undergoing radiation treatment, and had moved in. She didn’t ask, of course. I insisted, of course. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it work, as Aimee couldn’t be in the same vicinity as Brandon.
“Are you ashamed you have cancer?” I asked. “Is that why you don’t speak to him?”
“No,” she said, “I’m just a snob.” I didn’t buy it. I was feeding Ellie toast points dipped in over-easy egg yolks when Brandon walked in and handed Aimee The New York Times. (Yes, she is the one person still reading newspapers.)
“Hey, all,” he said, as he poured orange juice. Brandon had the sleepy look that a five-year-old gets when he first wakes up. I guess it’s the look we all have, but Brandon’s is missing wrinkles and folds.
“Hey, B,” I said.
He smiled and shuffled out. I looked at Aimee. She hadn’t even raised her head. I was getting a little fed up; like my widow card, her cancer card was almost expired.
“Why didn’t you thank him for bringing you the paper?”
“Didn’t I?” she said.
“C’mon,” I said, as Ellie slurped on her sippy cup. (I know; she should be drinking from a regular cup by now—I know I know—sippy cup = bad bite = lisp = braces = low self-esteem = blow j
obs at twelve = pregnant at sixteen = trailer park in Riverside. Every decision I make for this child has her ending up in a trailer park where the trailers are held together with duct tape and child molesters are at the top of the food chain. It’s a wonder any single mother bothers to wake up in the morning—you can’t win.)
“You treat him like he’s invisible. He’s over six feet of visibility.”
Aimee shrugged. “I don’t know why you all think he’s so cute.”
My front door opened. I heard Chloe, followed by her …
“Don’t bring those things in here,” Aimee said, “I have cancer!”
“What’s cancer?” Ellie asked. I wiped the yolk from her chin.
“Something Auntie Aimee is getting a lot of mileage out of,” I said sweetly.
“Dogs give you cancer?” Chloe asked. “I’ve been taking mine to St. John’s for years—they’re therapy dogs.”
“Therapy dogs,” Aimee said, as they started barking wildly. “For them or you?”
I was helping Ellie down from her seat when I turned to see an elegant gentleman with slicked-back snowy hair, wearing a dark, old-fashioned three-piece suit, seated next to Aimee. His long body was squeezed into the chair and he was holding a pocket watch. I recognized him from my steamed vagina interlude. I almost dropped Ellie.
“Mommy!” she said, looking up at me.
“Are you cold, Ellie?” I asked, shivering. Chloe rushed her barking dogs outside and tried to collar Spice, but he wouldn’t leave. He was circling the man, his head low …
“Why’s Spice acting so strange?” Aimee said. “I wonder if we’re going to have an earthquake.”
“Why are you here?” I said to the man. “You scared me—I almost dropped my kid.”
“Hannah, are you all right?” Chloe asked.
“Quick, hand her a therapy dog,” Aimee said.
“Chloe, take Ellie outside,” I said. “Now.”
“C’mon, El,” Chloe said. “Come on, let’s go play with the puppies—”
Aimee shifted to stand. “Stay there,” I told her. “He’s sitting right next to you. I remember him from the spa.”
“Who?” she asked. “Hannah, please stop this—”
“He’s … related to you.” The fine facial features. The long limbs. He was calmly waiting. Waiting for what?
“What would you like me to say to your granddaughter?” I asked.
Aimee jumped up. Orange juice hit the floor.
“Stay!” I ordered. Her grandfather started fiddling with his pocket watch.
“Okay, come on,” I said, “I have to get Ellie to school.” I was losing my patience with the dead. The living have to get on with it, you know? The dead, what, do they have business meetings? Nail appointments? Looming bankruptcy? No.
“What-what’s he doing?” Aimee asked. I could feel her body shaking from across the table. “Why’s he here? Is he here? Hannah, please, I can’t take this.”
I held my hand up to quiet her as he opened the watch to show me a picture of a young girl, maybe Ellie’s age. She had black bangs, a round face, green eyes with dark lashes. Little Aimee was delighted with the person taking the picture.
“He’s showing me a picture, Aimee. Inside a pocket watch …”
“A pocket watch …”
“A green-eyed little girl with black bangs and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.”
Aimee gasped. “I’m wearing a white dress with a sailor collar,” she said, starting to cry. “Poppy.”
“You look so happy, Aimee.” I’d never seen her look so happy. Or even, rather happy. Maybe not even mildly satisfied.
“My grandfather took that picture,” Aimee said. “A year later, he was dead of a stroke. My family fought over his money. Nothing was ever the same. Ever.”
“What’s his name?” I asked Aimee.
“George,” she said. “George Cannon. I knew him as Poppy. Tell him I miss him. I can’t see him, but I can feel him. I swear I can.”
“Mr. Cannon,” I said, watching him. He’d heard her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, mouthing the words. “I’m sorry.”
“Aimee, your grandfather … he’s sorry.”
There was more. It was difficult for him to get the words out, difficult for me to understand. Aimee reached her hand out to where her grandfather was sitting. He reached back, their fingers interlocking. He was fading quickly. “He wished he could have protected you …,” I told her. “Aimee? He wants you to know that. I’m not sure I understand—”
“My stepfather, Hannah,” Aimee whispered. “He said he’d hurt my mother …”
My hand went to my mouth, as I watched his face. I reached out and touched her. “You were born happy, Aimee.” I repeated his words. “Aimee, you were his little girl, his ray of sunshine. He’s worried that you will never know, never believe … never be happy again.”
He was gone. Spice started barking, as though beckoning him back. Aimee rolled onto the floor and curled up, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. I sank to the ground and held her.
“I didn’t know, honey,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
I stared up toward the ceiling, as I rocked Aimee back and forth. Was I helping people with this “gift”? Or hurting them?
Over the next few weeks, Tom and I set more coffee dates, entirely by text. I felt very modern, and slightly confused.
“Does this say ‘I don’t care if you ever ask me out on a proper date but I want to look hot anyway’?” I asked Jay and Aimee, as I modeled my wares in my kitchen, black tights and a snug white v-neck T-shirt, showing the bit of skin that hadn’t been hit by the blotchy, crepey, saggy trifecta.
“Foresooth, describeth yonder knave.” Jay was feeding Ralph, whose coat had been tie-dyed to resemble a mating seahorse. Jay usually slips into Olde English after attending the Renaissance Faire, but that was months away. Some costume designer’s birthday party at the Shangri-La Hotel rooftop on Ocean over the weekend had affected the knave’s braineth. He was doing everything humanly possible, including speaking dialect that sounded idiotic, to forget Hidalgo.
“Really nice. Single dad. Three daughters, one more beautiful than the next. Banker, frat boy, recovered Republican. He says words like ‘gosh.’ And, he’s sporty.” I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on my chopping block. “In other words, if our spouses hadn’t died, we wouldn’t have looked twice at each other.”
“Sounds romantic,” Aimee said as she ate breakfast, appearing quasi-Parisian in a silk robe, her hair in a loose bun.
“Prithee, m’lady, whither thine coffee-mate moveth from our regal Starbuckeths to handjobeth in backseat of chariot?” Jay asked.
“We’re coffee-mates,” I said, as Aimee daintily ate a piece of toast. Her skin looked translucent. “Radiation is so working for you.”
“Hi, kids,” Chloe said, as she joined us, wearing white cotton yoga pants and top. “Do you really think you should be drinking so much coffee? It’s bad for your prostate.”
“Please tell me you put that on your blog,” Aimee said, without looking up. “How’s Sergeant Billy?”
Should I break it to her? “I think my prostate’s just fine, Chloe.”
“Sergeant Billy is fine. He’s off the Israeli Army kick for now,” Chloe said. “Hannah, make sure the coffee’s organic. And fair-trade.”
“That stuff tastes like melted wax,” Aimee said.
“Everything tastes like melted wax to you, Aimee,” I said. “It’s the aftereffects of the radiation and Russian vodka.”
“Not true,” Brandon said, as he walked in. “Aimee loved my banana oatmeal muffins this morning. She needs the potassium. My mom underwent radiation treatment a few years ago, so I’m up on this stuff. Plus, she hasn’t had a drink in two weeks.”
Aimee turned a deep purple-red found only in sea urchins.
“Maybe I’ll just have green tea,” I said.
“Good choice!” Chloe clapped her hands together. Things li
ke this excited her.
“Have whatever you want,” Aimee said. “It’ll end badly, but you might as well have fun, no matter how brief.” Apparently, the visit from Poppy hadn’t improved her outlook on life.
“Whatsoevereth is your problem, fair maiden?” Jay asked.
“My problem?” Aimee asked, her hair falling around her face. “Besides cancer?”
“Boringeth!” Jay said, waving his hand.
Aimee took another bite of toast. “Well, maybe I’m just an old has-been,” she finally said. “Actually old, never-was, has-been.”
We all stared at her. No one moved a muscle.
“Quit begging,” Brandon said. Instead of cracking Brandon upside the head, Aimee started laughing. The rest of us felt safe enough to follow suit.
“Funny and hot,” a delighted Jay commented. “Who knew our little Branny had it in him?”
* * *
Days later, Aimee and Brandon were in my cramped living room putting up a Christmas tree that had gone missing from Rockefeller Center.
“Stop. No. To the left.” Aimee waved her hands from where she was laid out on the couch as poor Brandon maneuvered the tree around. “No … no … not right. Put it back where it was, I think—”
“The White House called,” I said, leaning against the wall. “They want their tree back.”
“That’s perfect,” Aimee said, ignoring me. “That’s good. Wait. To the right, now. Branford, come on.”
“Branford?”
“I just call him that,” Aimee said.
“Can you tell she’s feeling better?” I said to Brandon.
Brandon groaned and moved the tree. “I think I liked it better when she wasn’t talking to me.”
Ellie had awakened me at six in the morning with the exciting news (according to her advent calendar) that “Turtle Dove Day” was upon us. Meanwhile, Aimee had overdosed on the Christmas decorations. She’d bought nativity crèches, wreaths, tablecloths, indoor/outdoor lights, ornaments, and centerpieces at Michael’s, the crafts store, and nailed seven Christmas stockings to the mantel.
“I don’t know if I even like Noble Fir,” she was saying to Brandon, as my phone started vibrating. “I might prefer the Scotch Pine.” Brandon collapsed on the floor.
The After Wife Page 17
