The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

“You were a salesgirl at Alaia,” I said. “That’s not exactly a vocation.”

  “I was good, though. I had passion,” Chloe said. “I had choices and I gave them up for him.”

  “Nice try,” Aimee said after a moment. “I almost believed you.”

  “I’m pretty sure I meant it,” Chloe said, shrugging. A nurse, or a young man dressed to look like a nurse, came out and regarded our little group. “I’m looking for Jay Oleson—are you ready for your procedure?”

  “I’m first,” Jay said and clapped his hands together. “Could you die?”

  “We might,” I said. “The day is young, and so aren’t we.”

  Soon after, Martha, a soft-spoken Ecuadorian lady with small hands, was poking a tube up my butt.

  “Let me know if you find anything up there, like the keys to my ’85 Scirocco or those white Gucci sunglasses I bought on a whim, before the crash.”

  “The tip of the hose is now entering your rectum,” she said.

  (“Wrecked ’em?” the voice in my head said, “I nearly killed ’em!”)

  “But we’ve just met, Martha,” I said. “Shouldn’t you at least buy me coffee?”

  Martha smiled as she worked in the hose. I tried to remain calm as she turned on the water, which fed into the coiled hose. “When the water moves up into your colon, it may cramp a little,” she warned, sounding like Latina GPS—soothing and efficient. I was not soothed, gentle reader.

  “Cramp!” I yelled. “Holy Mother of God Cramp!”

  “But … the water has not even moved inside yet,” Martha said.

  “I’m practicing,” I said sheepishly. Our Palm Desert vacation was making me sheepish. I had sheepishly made out with a quack doctor, I had sheepishly disrobed. I had sheepishly consented to a hose being stuck up my butt.

  I was living my entire life sheepishly. What was I afraid of? What wasn’t I afraid of?

  Water splashed my colon.

  “I’m drowning from the wrong end!” I said.

  “Relax for a moment. Let the water flush out your toxins and impurities.”

  “But there’ll be nothing left,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got. My toxins keep me alive.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was limping back to my room.

  “Chloe,” I said. “Chloe!” I heard water running. She was taking a shower.

  “I just pooped myself!” Chloe shouted from the bathroom.

  “Oh my God,” I said. I grabbed my belly. I had an urge … I ran for the bathroom, flipped up the toilet seat, and expelled an organ. “I think I just lost a kidney,” I said. Chloe jumped out of the shower.

  The doorbell rang. “Hey, kids,” Jay said, in a singsong voice.

  “My body is folding in on itself,” I shouted from the bathroom. Pulling up my sweats, I shuffled ever so gingerly into the bedroom.

  Aimee, in her robe, was seated on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth and mumbling. “I’d love a cigarette,” she said. “I feel like toxing all over again.”

  “Girls, I had the most amazing experience,” Jay said, sitting on the bed. “I know this year is going to be different. I had a vision of love. Not the Mariah Carey version—this one doesn’t shatter glass. Hidalgo is THE ONE. All caps.”

  “Not the Next One?” I managed. “Or the One Before That? Or the One That Will Do In a Pinch?”

  “I had a vision, too,” Aimee said. “That I would get the role of a lifetime. It’s the Mamet role, I know it.”

  “I had a vision,” I said. “A vision of … a sausage and egg McMuffin.”

  Jay smiled. “Last one to the Caddie’s a rotten piece of last season’s gladiator look.”

  We passed the reception desk, where Dr. Manheim was bidding adieu to Joker Lips. He caught my eye as he patted her old-man ass. As I waved goodbye, the temperature in the lobby dropped. Wind chimes sang. I stopped in my tracks.

  “Hannah,” Aimee said, turning around. “Come on. Our final drive-thru awaits.”

  Jay regarded me. “Oh no. Don’t tell me.”

  “What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

  “The cold. Wind chimes. There are no wind chimes here. I don’t see wind chimes.” I looked up and saw a slim, blond teenaged girl, her hand on her hip, watching Dr. Manheim and Jack(ie) Nicholson with obvious disdain.

  “That is so frikkin’ gross,” the girl said to me. “Like, what’s wrong with her face?”

  “It’s a cultural thing,” I responded. “I’m really sorry, but I must run. My friends and I, we’re kind of in a hurry.”

  “Ooh, well, so sorry to hold you up,” she said. “I’m only, like, dead. God.”

  “I know. You have my sympathy. Truly. Did you want me to convey something?”

  “Hannah,” Jay said, checking his watch. “How long is this going to take? Should we wait in the car?”

  “Yeah, I totally want you to say something,” the girl said, agitated. “Tell that asshole that he can run but he can’t, like, hide. Tell him Courtney Eubanks is not amused.”

  “Tell Dr. Manheim? Karl?”

  “Manheim? Excuse me? The last time I saw him, he was Jimmy from Dallas and he was my boyfriend and he was giving me mouth-to-mouth while my car blew the fuck up.”

  “Oh, no. You died in a car crash? That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. We hit this stupid old pine tree. Oh my God, my dad had just bought me that BMW. Orange-red 325i convertible for my Sweet Sixteen. It was to die for. And I did!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re so young.”

  “Well, yeah. Hi. Look at me. How are you? Living? I’m dead. I had everything. The hair, the nails … the shoes.” She let out a loud sigh that only I could hear. I shivered. “… the boyfriend. Everything.”

  “Dr. Manheim, Jimmy, I mean—was he driving?”

  “Yeah. We were fighting over some girl, and you know, we had a few drinks. Whatevs.”

  “Is Dr. Manheim a fugitive?”

  “Well, duh. He freaked and fled to Mexico like the next day.” She rolled her big eyes. “My sister wore my Calvin Klein slip dress to the funeral. I was so pissed. I lost Jimmy, my Beemer, and my favorite dress.”

  “You loved him.”

  “Well, of course,” she said. “He was the nicest, cutest boy in school. Everybody loved Jimmy.”

  Dr. Manheim was about to greet new recruits. I had to grab him, quickly.

  “Karl,” I said.

  He turned and smiled. Oh, those blue eyes. Oh, the secret behind them.

  “Jimmy, Courtney Eubanks is not a happy girl,” I said. “It’s time to get your meridians in order.”

  He stood there, his eyes registering panic. “Jimmy … Did you say Courtney … Eubanks?” he asked.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. I could tell he was in shock.

  “It’s time for you to go home, Jimmy,” I said. “You need to face up to the past. You can’t run anymore.”

  He looked at me, suddenly small and vulnerable. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  As I looked at him, I thought about his question.

  “I’m a hyphenate. I’m a mom, a widow,” I said, “and … a medium. Take care.”

  I grabbed my bag and walked out.

  19

  Growing Pains

  After John died, I had put my sex drive in the drawer with all those business cards I can’t seem to throw out. Like, someday I’ll need a cab ride in Phoenix with Mazur. Or a haircut in Brooklyn by a woman I met on a plane five years ago.

  I remember liking men, vaguely, like the Italian waiter at Toscana who treated me like a queen in the days when I had an expense account. Someday we will look back at expense accounts as we do dinosaurs. We’ll stroll through museums, like the Credit Card Museum, where we’ll visit rainbow-colored cards with unlimited balances. At the What We Used to Care About Wing (adjacent to the What Were We Thinking? Wing), we’ll don headphones and listen to Anna Wintour describing “seasons,” when socialites would buy designer clothes t
hat would be deigned obsolete months later. And we’ll sit there, on those hard benches in the middle of the “Never Wear White After Labor Day” room and laugh our food-stamps-and-unemployment-just-ran-out asses off.

  I’m digressing. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of sex. I’m uncomfortable with the idea that I miss it. I’m uncomfortable that my friends are fucking like rabbits on Viagra and Red Bull.

  Enter, Jay. In the last week, Hidalgo had been kicked out by his long-suffering wife, had moved in with Jay, and had tearfully accepted Jay’s proposal. His vision had come true.

  “The date’s set. June 20th,” Jay announced, using his manic bridal energy to slice peppers on my chopping block. He’d brought over enough groceries to feed the Westside (which doesn’t require much, granted) and set about making a mess of my kitchen, jostling my vague plans for Poquito Mas takeout.

  “That’s when my parents got married,” he continued.

  Ellie and Brandon had headed over to Douglas Park to hit the monkey bars before dinnertime. I knew my only job was to listen and be supportive, but I had already failed. You’ve heard of a Bridezilla? How about a Gay Groomosaurus?

  “How romantic is that?” I asked. “Your parents haven’t spoken to each other in thirty years.”

  “The ceremony will be on the Vineyard,” he said, sliding the peppers into a pan before drizzling olive oil on them.

  “Why the Vineyard?” I said.

  “There’s a delightful bed-and-breakfast.”

  “You don’t eat breakfast.”

  “You’ve got to help me with the rehearsal dinner choreography,” Jay said.

  “Choreography? Jay, you make fun of people like you.”

  “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Jay turned, waving a kitchen knife.

  “Because you’re making a huge mistake?”

  “You used to be nicer,” Jay said, “when John was alive.”

  “Death is a downer. Try walking in my shoes sometime.”

  “First of all, I’d never walk in Uggs, hello. Second, you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” I said, feeling sorry for myself. Someone knocked at the front door, then let themselves in. “Hello?” I called out.

  “Hey, peeps,” Chloe said, sauntering into the kitchen, then opening my candy drawer. “I’m starving. Chocolate, come to Mommy.” Chloe grabbed the two-pound See’s box. See’s is a staple in my house. Take my TV, take my car, take my grandmother’s earrings—but do NOT take my See’s.

  Chloe tore through the box and shoved a chocolate into her mouth.

  “My last Bordeaux? You know that’s not organic,” I said.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “That’s so fucking good.”

  “Why are you swearing?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I had a heart attack last night,” Chloe said, her mouth full. Yet she was smiling.

  “What?” I said. “Are you kidding? I mean, are you okay?”

  “Billy’s on his way to Camp Pendleton. He left me alone.”

  “Camp Pendleton?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “He joined the Marines?” Jay asked. “He’s going to be all brave and few?”

  “Yesterday, Billy went to the recruitment center on Wilshire,” Chloe said, as she disemboweled my See’s box. “You know him—he talked his way in. Billy can talk his way into anything.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I said. “A forty-year-old man joining the Marines.”

  “Yeah. So I’m alone with the kids—I’ve never been alone,” Chloe said. “I can’t do it. I’m in constant fear that someone’s going to knock on my door and ask me to balance a checkbook. Anyway, something amazing happened.”

  “Get to the good part,” Jay said. “We’re planning a wedding on a time crunch.”

  “It was dinnertime,” she began, way too slowly. “I was just taking my tempeh casserole out of the oven. My heart started racing. You know I don’t do caffeine. Ever. Long story short, I fainted.”

  “My God, Chloe. Why didn’t you call me?” I asked.

  “Tyler, my big boy,” Chloe said. “He’s really sweet. He’s like, almost grown up …”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Jay said. “Can we scroll down to the bottom?”

  “He’s kind of small for his age, no?” Chloe asked, concerned.

  “You feed him twigs and berries,” I said. “Has he ever had a glass of milk?”

  “Milk causes diarrhea and mood swings,” Chloe said. “Do you have any? It’d go perfectly with the chocolate.”

  “Can we skip to the punch line?” Jay pleaded.

  Chloe opened the refrigerator. “Tyler called the paramedics while I lay passed out on the cold red Spanish tile.”

  “Now you’re Steinbeck?” Jay said.

  “When I awoke—” Chloe paused to chug milk right from the carton. She put it down and burped. “—there was a beautiful angel bent over me.”

  “An angel?” I asked. I had yet to see a real angel, only dead people with issues.

  “His name was Cody,” Chloe said.

  “Angels have biblical names—there’s no Book of Cody,” Jay said.

  “He held me in his arms and kissed me,” Chloe said. “I mean, gave me mouth-to-mouth.”

  Jay rested his chin on his hands. He read homo-romos—homosexual romances—in his spare time. He had a library full of titles like Land of the Forbidden Men.

  “I’m in love,” Chloe said. “I haven’t felt this way … I don’t remember if I ever felt this way.”

  “Does Cody know?” I asked, hearing the front door open again.

  “Is someone talking about Cody the Paramedic?” Aimee asked as she walked in. “He’s famous in these parts. Or should I say, infamous. NoMo moms love him.”

  “Him, I’ve never met,” Jay said. “How is this possible?”

  “Cody feels the same way I do,” Chloe continued, unperturbed by Jay’s and Aimee’s commentary. “I could tell by the way he checked my pupils, and took my blood pressure. And when he asked me what day it was, he was so gentle. Do you have Ben and Jerry’s?” She opened the freezer.

  “Wait. What am I missing about the Santa Monica paramedics?” I asked.

  “They’re aggressively gorgeous,” Aimee said. “There’s a lot of pressure to look pretty when you’re trying to recover from an audition-induced panic attack.”

  “Hannah, they recruit them,” Jay said. “Surfers, skateboarders, beach volleyball players. Not that I’ve done my research, not that I’ve called nine-one-one when I overcooked my broccoli rabe.”

  “I need to see Cody again,” Chloe said. “Is that so wrong? I am still a married woman.”

  “Well, that’s true,” I said, my tone deliberately even, “but you are separated from a middle-aged ex-banker on his way to Marine boot camp.”

  “That sounds crazy,” Chloe said, “when you put it like that.”

  “Call him,” Aimee said. “Call Cody. Why not? What do you have to lose?”

  “Why, thank you, Aimee,” Chloe said. “Okay. I’ll put meat loaf in the oven at seven—I’ve decided to start eating meat again—I’ll check my hair, get dizzy around 7:45, Tyler calls the paramedics. By the time the meat loaf is done, Cody is giving me mouth-to-mouth.”

  “It’s not like a radio station,” Jay said. “You can’t request your favorite paramedic.”

  “Honestly, Chloe,” I said. “Who cares which one you get? They sound like they’re all the same.”

  “Wait a minute. What if it’s true love?” Aimee said, looking at us. “Love is the only thing that really matters, right?”

  “Hi, my name’s Hannah,” I said, holding out my hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Stop kidding around,” Aimee said, before glancing at her phone. “Ooh, I’ve got to run. We’ll continue this conversation another time.”

  We stared as Aimee waved and glided out of the kitchen.

  Jay
waited until we heard the door slam. “We have to call someone right away,” he said. “How about that MoonGlow place on Wilshire?”

  “The psychiatric facility in Santa Monica backed by a reclusive billionaire?” asked Chloe.

  “What about straight-up, no-frills?” I said. “UCLA Psych Ward might be perfect.”

  “God, Aimee seemed so … sweet,” Chloe said. “She’s really not well, is she?”

  “Maybe she’s overdoing the self-love again,” Jay said. “Remember when she landed at the emergency room on 15th? I love that place—it’s like a Williams-Sonoma. She put her shoulder out.”

  I thought about the look on Aimee’s face: She’d been bitten by the love bug. Hopefully the love bug that doesn’t carry Hep C. Damn it, I was jealous.

  I wondered if Tom thought about me at all. I missed our friendship, or relationship, or … coffeeship. Whatever ship it was, I wanted to be sailing on it.

  Ellie, Uncle Jay, and I strolled the Promenade on a bright Saturday afternoon, killing time before heading over to the latest Pixar movie. Ellie walked between us, holding our hands, skipping and jumping and pretty much guaranteeing a shoulder injury. Third Street was filled with teenagers on the prowl, German tourists, homeless men with cardboard signs stating varying and creative infirmities and needs. At Ellie’s insistence, we stopped to watch a family of sinewy adolescent boys performing frightening gymnastic feats. We slipped through the necklace of people surrounding them, Ellie pulling us through to the front.

  We watched for a few minutes, and Ellie pointed at the pile of dollar bills peeking out of an open box placed in front of the boys. Jay slipped a five into her hands, and she held it high as she walked over, and dropped it in the box. One of the boys, shirtless and sinuous, made a big show of Ellie’s generosity.

  I was thinking about that box of money. And all the boxes up and down the Third Street Promenade—the guitar cases, shoeboxes, cartons—all filled with dollar bills.

  “I want that cash,” I said to Jay. “What could I sell on the Promenade?”

  “Grains of rice with someone’s name on them?” Jay suggested. “Because there’s not enough of that in the world.”

  “I have to find a job, Jay,” I said. “When the going’s tough …”