Widowish: A Memoir(37)



When I asked Joel’s friend Greg what to do with all of it, he suggested that I take it to Guitar Center and that they’d help me out. Another one of Joel’s friends agreed. I was in a spring-cleaning mindset and just wanted to be done with this stuff, but with the thought of getting it all in my car, schlepping it across town, not really speaking the “language” of what I had, I decided to just keep it in the garage. I felt overwhelmed by it.

But one night, Jillian asked if I wanted to join her at a concert that one of her friend’s sons was playing in. She wanted me to leave my house. To do things for myself. She also knew that I loved music, and this was a low-key event that Sophie’s former guitar teacher was putting on with some of his students. I really didn’t want to go. I had already been to my writing group that week, and one night out was typically my limit.

Sophie had a starring role in the school musical and was at rehearsals late into the night all week. I had no excuse (other than my husband had died) to say no.

Sophie had taken guitar lessons in seventh grade and stopped a few months before her bat mitzvah. Guitar fell under Joel’s jurisdiction. He did all the vetting, set up the schedule, and took her to all of her lessons, which were taught on the other side of our neighborhood.

One day he couldn’t make it, so I took her. I parked the car down the street and saw a guy standing in front of a little bungalow, in a T-shirt and jeans with a black beanie on his head and his dark hair sticking out from under it. His face had a strong five o’clock shadow. He was on the phone and waved to Sophie.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Marcos,” she said.

“That’s the guitar teacher?”

“Yeah.”

Marcos was around my age. He was handsome and had a cool, casual musician vibe.

“Have we met before?” he asked as he stuffed his phone into his front pocket. He shook my hand. “You look familiar.”

“It’s because Sophie and I look so much alike,” I answered. I think I may have been blushing.

“You do, but she’s got those green eyes like her dad!” he said animatedly. “But yeah, anyway. Thought maybe I knew you.”

He opened the front door. “Come on in, Soph. Get yourself set up.” Then he turned to me. “Mom, you can have a seat right there.” He pointed to his kitchen table, which was just on the other side of the room.

He turned away from me and focused all of his attention on Sophie.

“OK, Soph. You been practicing?”

Sophie nodded as she took her guitar out of her case. In amazement, I watched as my twelve-year-old set up her guitar, plugged herself in, and stood in front of the microphone. Marcos took a seat behind the drums, and for the next half hour I watched my daughter have her guitar lesson. They played a few songs, as if they were in a band and had been playing together a long time.

Marcos was a gifted teacher. He treated his students as if they were equals, as if they already knew how to play. It was empowering. I understood why all the kids in the neighborhood who took guitar lessons took them from Marcos.

That night I called our friend who had recommended him, another mom. “No one told me the guitar teacher is so hot!” I said.

She laughed. “Get in line. We all have crushes on Marcos.”

The gig Jillian invited me to was in a little club where Joel and I had seen Marcos play, back when he was teaching Sophie. There was a stage and tables; it was set up like a nightclub. It was open to all ages because Marcos wanted kids and their parents to come together to see a rock show, even if the show consisted of Marcos playing with his students. Marcos was a single parent, and his young teenage son would often play these gigs with him.

I remember feeling sad that night, and lonely. I knew almost all of the parents there. They, of course, knew me and Joel. They knew that I was grieving. They were also happy to see me out and about, acting as if I had a life. One of the moms gave me a hug. She mentioned her friend Allison, the woman who had left a voicemail for me weeks ago.

“Call her back,” said this mom, encouragingly. “Even if you just go for coffee or something, she’s great! And she’s been through what you’re experiencing.”

No, she hasn’t, I thought. I still held exclusive rights to grief.

“You OK?” Jillian asked.

I nodded my head and looked at the stage as Marcos introduced the eighth grade band. I still found Marcos attractive but was surprised I was capable of noticing.

Jillian and I watched and clapped, and I acted as if I was enjoying myself, but after a little while, I turned to her.

“I think I need to go home.”

“OK, let’s go then,” she said a little too fast. This wasn’t her scene either, and she understood how hard it was for me.

As we stood up, we noticed Marcos, who was now standing below the stage looking in my direction. “I think he wants to talk to you . . . but he probably doesn’t know what to say,” Jillian said.

So I approached him. I didn’t want to leave without saying hi first.

“Hey there,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

Before I could answer, Marcos said, “I just want you to know I’m really sorry about Joel. He was a good man. A good father. I saw him in action and . . .” Marcos tapped his heart, emotional.

“Thank you. Yes, we’re doing OK,” I said.

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