The After Wife

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “My sixth-grade teacher. She believed I could be anything. I never said goodbye to her.”

  “I’ll never forget Oscar,” said a man with gray hair and a sad smile.

  Because he was attractive, had a penis, and wore Italian shoes, Jay paid more attention to him than the NoMo and SoMo momsters.

  “Oscar?” Jay asked.

  “My childhood dog,” the man said. While waiting politely in line, he showed Jay a picture in his wallet of a Scottie.

  “Do you want to get married?” Jay asked.

  “Jay,” Aimee said, making her way down the line, clipboard in her hand, jotting down names, “this is not a groom pool. Keep this line moving.” She’d started waddling just recently, even though she was only about four months pregnant. I call it Method Waddling.

  “This medium stuff is wiping me out,” I told Chloe, when she came out back with a glass of iced tea and lemon cookies. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You have to pace yourself,” she said.

  “I miss funemployment,” I said.

  “Lilo just called,” Jay said, heading outside, phone in hand. “She’ll be here any minute. The place is crawling with paparazzi. If you channel Brittany Murphy, you better tell me what the hell happened to my girl. Love her.”

  Jay had taken control of our burgeoning business, herding the grieving masses into my tiny living room and soothing their spirits with madeleines, peppermint tea, and fashion tips.

  “You’ll have to start booking appointments in advance,” he said. “And by you, I mean, me. And by me, I mean commission.”

  “You’ve already helped me so much,” I said. “I can’t ask you to do more.”

  “You can if you’re paying me,” Jay said, “which you’re going to start doing after you pay off your taxes and mortgage payments. Which, at this point, is about a week away.”

  I’d been doing so many readings, all paid in cash or check. I hadn’t kept track of the total. That was Jay’s job. All he said to me after a few days was that we were in “Kenneth Cole territory.”

  We had moved up, apparently, to “Louboutin studded moccasin territory.”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Jay checked his watch, which he wore solely for fashion reasons.

  “I think it’s two—”

  “Is it two, or not?”

  “Well, my watch is always fast. I think.”

  “Didn’t that watch cost—”

  “Yes,” he said. “But the more expensive the watch, the worse it tells time. Everyone knows that.”

  “I’d better pick up Ellie.”

  “Brandon’s got her—he’s taking her for a haircut afterward.”

  “A haircut?” I asked. “But I just took her a week ago, to Supercuts.”

  “Yeah,” Jay said, shaking his head. “No. That didn’t work for me. I called Andy LeCompte. He made Nicole Richie into a movie star without a movie, that’s how good he is. She’s going in at three o’clock. And we’re going to pretend that Orphan Annie bob thingie never happened.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. If it takes a village, our village chief was Tim Gunn.

  “Who’s next on the docket?” I asked. I put down my iced tea and rubbed my palms together. “Mama needs a new pair of Havaianas.”

  Jay and Chloe exchanged a look. I knew better than to ask Jay what that meant. Chloe, on the other hand, was incapable of lying. She’d crack like a spoiled egg.

  “Chloe, spill,” I said.

  “That nice man Tom is here, and he wants to talk to you,” she said. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Nice work, Chloe,” Jay said. “Good job keeping it all together.”

  “Tom’s here?” I asked. “What does he want?” I sucked in my stomach.

  “He wouldn’t say,” Jay said.

  “He wants to talk to his wife,” Chloe said.

  “Dear God,” Jay said.

  “Go get him,” I told them. “This should be interesting.”

  Jay took a long look at me, appraising his subject. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to tell him to come back another night when the light’s better. You’re a little sallow right now, I hate to tell you.”

  “Jay, the man wants to speak to his dead wife,” I said. “This isn’t speed-dating.”

  “Honey,” Jay said, “on the Westside, even marriage is speed-dating.”

  Tom returned to Casa Sugar the next night at around 7:00. By that time, Jay had had his way with me. I was moisturized, manicured, and made-up. I looked perilously close to desirable. Jay had even managed to defrizz my hair, with product found only in Jet magazine ads.

  “Hi,” I said to Tom, who wore a lightweight sweater and jeans. He looked handsome as ever. As I came in for a hug, I sniffed his cologne. I felt wistful. Without even realizing, I had missed him.

  “You look radiant,” Tom said, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”

  “If you mean it, you have to say it,” I joked. “It’s a sin, otherwise. Come on in.”

  Tom entered the living room, and I took his hand and walked him through the house into my backyard. I motioned for him to sit across from me.

  “Are you okay?” I said. “I don’t want you to be nervous.”

  “I’m nervous, and frankly, you look great,” he said. “Oh, is she going to hear that?”

  “Who?”

  “My wife.”

  I smiled. “No, don’t worry,” I said. “Give me a second. I’m getting pretty good at this, I have to say. Close your eyes, okay?”

  He did. I pretended I was closing mine, too, but left one eye open. Tom looked as edible as ever. The perfect amount of scruff, and just the right dose of grief.

  He was pretty much irresistible. I sighed and closed my eyes. “Patchett, right?”

  “Who? Oh, yes, Patchett. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid she’ll be angry with me.”

  “For what?” I opened my eyes. I wanted to hear it from him. For your penis being the boss of you?

  “Hair. I can’t do hair,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’m really trying to do my daughter Livia’s hair the way Patchett did. It never works.”

  His lip trembled. He started to cry.

  Of course, I did, too.

  “Patchett used to comb it, braid it,” he said. “It never tangled. Never. And I can’t seem to …” He held up his hands, staring at his fingers, those instruments of betrayal.

  I grabbed his hands. “I’m sure you’re doing fine, Tom,” I said. “She’s not going to be mad at you. She’ll understand. Maybe she’ll even have a tip. Something she didn’t think of telling you, before she passed.”

  “Maybe?” he said plaintively.

  “Hey, if anything,” I said, “I’m mad at John—he’s the one who died, right?”

  Tom smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. Why’d Patchett have to do that to me? Why?”

  Why not? Trish’s voice echoed in my head.

  “There are no reasons,” I said. “There’s just right now. Do I sound like a very special guest on Oprah?”

  Tom looked at me. “I think I like it.”

  I smiled. “Ready to start?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready. Do you think she misses me?”

  “She misses you, Tom,” I said. Of that, I was sure.

  I closed my eyes.

  Patchett is, in a word, lovely. I smelled her before I even saw her. Her scent was like Downy fabric softener mixed with baby powder, of everything that is fresh and clean. I didn’t get that “dead” feeling from her, like I get with most of my “clientele.”

  Patchett was surprised to hear from Tom. “You know,” she told me, “he’s not really one to ask for help. He keeps it all bottled up inside. I’m not even sure he cried at my funeral.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve known Tom since college—I know he loved me. He’s just … well, he’s a banker. Does he miss me?”


  “With everything he is …,” I said. “He misses you in ways he can’t even articulate. Do you miss him?”

  “Oh, yes … oh, yes …,” Patchett said. “Please … my babies …”

  “Tom,” I said, “Patchett wants to know how the babies are doing …”

  Tom sat up straight, as though he was about to give a presentation.

  “They’re great,” he said. “Livia just turned five; I mean, Patchett knows her birthday, of course. I had a party, a Dora the Explorer party—”

  “He’s doing this all himself?” Patchett asked.

  “All by himself,” I said, choking back more tears.

  “You know what the worst part of being dead is?” Patchett asked me. “It isn’t missing my girls’ weddings or graduations. It’s the walks home from school, the car rides, looking in the rearview mirror and seeing my sleeping baby, rushing to soccer practice … having my first disagreement with Chelsea, my oldest, over something stupid, and realizing that she’s no longer my little girl …”

  I thought of Ellie, who wouldn’t be little forever. How can that be?

  “Someday, someday soon … she’s going to step outside into the bigger world. The worst part is that … I’m not a part of that world. I’m not even on the sidelines. I’m so pissed at fate.”

  “I thought being dead meant being free from regret,” I said. “I was so wrong.”

  “Can we keep in touch?” Patchett asked. “I’m afraid it’s the only way he’ll communicate with me.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I wish I could give you my card.”

  “Listen,” Patchett said, “I know we just met—and you have no reason to trust me. But Tom’s a good man. He really is. I’m not saying he’s perfect. He’s a neat freak, and he says the wrong thing trying to do the right thing, but he’s willing to learn.”

  “Wait—are you trying to …?”

  “Set you up with my husband?” she asked. “Well … I’ve seen the women in this town. My best friend was after him two seconds after I was buried. I don’t think she even waited for the service to be over before she asked him to feel her new boobs.”

  “This is a first for me, Patchett,” I said, “and thank you. I appreciate the gesture. As a mother, I know how much that means, coming from you.”

  “What gesture?” Tom asked.

  “Oh,” I said to her, “you might look up John Bernal. He’s my … he was my … husband. He’s the reason for my … gift, I guess.”

  “Thanks,” Patchett said, “but you know, we don’t date here. It kinda sucks, because there’s a lot of really interesting dead men.”

  “All the best ones are dead, huh?” I said.

  I heard her warm laugh … and then, she was gone.

  Tom and I sat in the backyard as Patchett faded away. I could hear his sniffling, felt his hands move over his face. NoMo was pitch-black at night—the streetlights came on only intermittently, but his emotional state was undeniable.

  “Come on,” I said, my hand finding his knee, “I’ll walk you out.”

  I shivered as we made our way to the front door. SaMo nights were cold, even in spring.

  “Does it always have to be so cold here?” I asked. “What does Santa Monica think it is, Chicago?”

  “… hates California,” Tom said, “it’s cold and it’s damp.”

  “That’s why the lady is a tramp …,” I said, trying to rub the cold from my arms.

  Tom put his arm around my shoulders, and hugged me on my doorstep. I hugged him back. When he kissed me, I pushed him away, gently.

  “Too soon,” I said. “I feel like I’m betraying Patchett. I liked her. I didn’t know I could like a perfect person.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I don’t know, I’m just confused. The whole thing’s overwhelming. I’m just very grateful to you.”

  “So that was a gratitude kiss? With tongue?” I said, teasing him. “Just … give me another hug. I miss hugs.”

  He opened his arms and grabbed me, pulling me to his chest. I inhaled, deeply. Why do men smell so much like … men? I loved that. I missed that. Why can’t they smell like … paper?

  “Oh,” I said, “I have something to show you.”

  I went back inside, and came out with a ledger.

  “I was going to come in Monday. Take a look,” I said, as I handed Tom the ledger. He ran his eyes over it. I saw his expression change.

  “You’re paying off the note,” he said. “Hannah, I’m so happy for you.”

  “I’ll be all paid up, at least through this month, and then we’ll take it a month at a time—”

  “That’s fantastic,” Tom said. “Well done, Hannah.”

  We hesitated, our bodies inches apart, our minds hovering around what damage we could inflict upon each other and the furniture—at least, that’s what I was thinking. Financial security is my aphrodisiac.

  “You should go,” I said.

  “Right,” Tom said. “I’ll call you. Tomorrow morning. We’ll start with coffee.”

  I waved as every NoMo mom’s wet dream got into his silver BMW and drove away.

  Seven A.M. The doorbell was ringing. Casa Sugar was crawling with ghosts. I stepped around the pill-popping producer who’d been watching me sleep, the Hollywood wife complaining in my hallway, and the character with the beer gut lying on my couch with a remote in his hand.

  I looked out the peephole. Detective Ramirez held up his badge. What the neighbors must think! I had more police cars outside my house than the SMPD parking lot.

  I sighed and opened the door.

  “Good morning, Rude Awakening,” I said. I was barefoot, wearing my favorite robe, which is a mess, as all favorite robes are. Ellie and Brandon were still asleep.

  “Ms. Bernal,” he said. Under his arm was a stack of files.

  “I’m about to make coffee. Do you want any?”

  “No,” Detective Ramirez said.

  “You turn down coffee? Is coffee so hard? Is everything about you gruff?” Why was I suddenly thinking about his kissing skills?

  “What do you mean by that?” he said, sounding hurt. “I’m here on official business.”

  “You found the Range Rover?” My heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

  “No. Ms. Bernal, are you running a business out of your home?”

  “A business?” I asked, stalling.

  “Yes, a business,” he said. “Are you being paid in cash?”

  “I’m not running that kind of business.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “But I could if I wanted to,” I said. “Someone would surely pay for my services after seeing me in this ten-year-old fleece robe with the coffee and formula stains.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared at me.

  “You’re here to harass a middle-aged working girl?” I asked. “Really?”

  “I’m not harassing you,” Ramirez said. “The Santa Monica Police Department does not harass. We encourage.”

  “You nudge.”

  “Yes. That’s right. And I’m asking a simple question. Maybe you’ll give me a simple answer. Are you running a business out of your home?”

  “No. Well. Maybe.” I was never a good liar. “Detective, I’m trying to pay off my mortgage. I was on the verge of losing my house.”

  He handed me a card. It was my business card. The Happy Medium was suddenly less happy.

  “What you’re doing is illegal,” he said. “You need a business license.”

  “Did someone complain?”

  “We’ve had complaints.”

  “Complaints plural? Or complaint singular?”

  “You’re too much, you know that?”

  “Who was it? Tell me or I’ll just keep asking.”

  “I can’t tell you that, Ms. Bernal,” Ramirez said. “I don’t care how many times you ask me, there’s no magic number.”

  “Was it Dee Dee Pickler?” It had to be Dee Dee. Who else? She’d lost her commission.
Labial bling doesn’t come cheap.

  “I’m prepared to make a deal,” he said.

  “Oh, great,” I said. “I hate deals. Anytime anyone wants to make a deal, I get dealt.” I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever he was going to sell me. But I also knew I had to buy.

  “You help me, I help you,” he said, handing over the files.

  “I’ve watched enough TV, I know how this goes,” I said. “I’m the plain housewife with the special gift, and you’re the detective who needs my help.”

  “That’s right,” Detective Ramirez said, “we need each other, but can’t stand each other, but want each other. In the TV version, of course.”

  “At the very least, I want Benjamin Bratt to play the detective.”

  “And I get Elizabeth Montgomery,” he said.

  “She’s dead.”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “She was the best.”

  “She was.” I had to agree. I found myself getting jealous over a forty-year-old character from Bewitched.

  “Cold cases,” he said, regarding the files. “Maybe you have a gift. Maybe not. But if you do, the City of Santa Monica needs your help.”

  “What do you mean, maybe?” I asked. “People are paying good money for my services.”

  “Great. Be sure to let the IRS know,” he said. “Take a look. See what you see. Or hear, or whatever you do.”

  “How many unsolved mysteries do you have in here?” I asked. “Santa Monica’s a vast, crime-ridden metropolis? Since when?”

  “You’d be surprised. We have an unsolved murder just a few blocks west of here.”

  “I feel like Angela Lansbury, only older,” I said.

  “I loved that show,” Ramirez said. “I think she’s a very good-looking woman; I’m not ashamed.”

  “Ever thought of getting a life?”

  “Never. What would I do with it?”

  Ellie ambled into the living room, took one look at Detective Ramirez, and went for my leg, clinging to me, thumb in her mouth.

  “Hi, there,” he said, taking off his sunglasses.

  “Can I touch your head?” she asked.

  “Ellie,” I said, “that’s inappropriate.”

  Ramirez smiled and knelt to her level, so that they were looking at each other, eye-to-eye. He bent his bald head down. “Give it a try,” he said.