Widowish: A Memoir(38)

“Please give Sophie my best, and listen, if there’s anything you guys need, anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate, OK? I mean it, anything.”

I heard that from a lot of people in those days, offers to help with anything I needed. But what I need is so much!

A sense of security.

A sense of well-being.

A sense that I would survive.

In lieu of those elusive things, people genuinely did want to help and were so excited when I gave them something specific: Can you grab some coffee beans for me next time you’re at Costco? Or, Would you mind dropping a package off at UPS for me?

“Actually,” I said to Marcos, “I found a bunch of Joel’s guitars in our garage. There’s a lot of stuff, really. I just . . . I’m not sure what to do with it. Like, if I should try to sell it or maybe your students could use some of it.”

“Yeah, I could help with that. But whatever you do, do not take it to Guitar Center.”

Few things made me laugh in those days. But his response made me smile. It was so random and specific, and totally opposite of what Joel’s friends had advised me to do.

“That’s so funny!” I said. “I was considering taking it to Guitar Center.”

“No. I’ll come take a look at everything. I’m happy to. You have my number?” Marcos asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I know how to you find you.”

I felt awkward standing there with him. I didn’t know if I should hug him, or if he was going to hug me. I was the recipient of a lot of hugs in those days. Grief hugs, support hugs, awkward hugs.

Marcos reached out and squeezed my arm. “I’ll be in touch, OK?” I nodded yes and watched as he climbed back onto the stage to continue with the show.

I got home and just sat in the dark for a while. I thought about Marcos and our conversation. I liked that he and Joel knew each other. I was relieved that he would help with the guitars. But more than my encounter with Marcos, I couldn’t help but question, Is this really my life now?

I am alone. I am single. I am a widow.

Where is Joel?!

I felt empty and sad. I felt lonely.

Everything felt like too much.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages. I found Allison’s voicemail and finally listened to it. I had to give her credit. I don’t know that I could call a stranger-widow and offer any comfort. But I liked what she said, and we had enough people in common. I took a breath and decided to get back to her. It was too late to call so I sent a text.

Hi, it’s Melissa Gould. Thanks for your message, and I’m sorry about your husband. Maybe we can meet for coffee one day.

I startled when the dogs started barking.

“Mom?”

Sophie had come home. She put down her things and turned on the lights. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I hadn’t noticed. How was rehearsal?” I asked.

“Fun,” she said. “But what’s for dinner?”

I looked at the clock. It was after ten. “Dinner?! Didn’t they order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, but there was none left because we were practicing my solo when it got there.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll make you something.”

I shuffled into the kitchen, tired, confused, as always.

Sophie unpacked her things while I started boiling water for pasta.

“How was Marcos’s show?”

“It was nice. I saw some of your friends there. And Marcos. He asked about you.”

“That’s nice.”

“It’s hard,” I said, my voice cracking. “Being out without Daddy. I miss him.”

Sophie nodded. I saw her thinking.

“He’s not going to see me in my play,” she said.

I searched for the right thing to say, when all I wanted to do was collapse on the floor and sob.

Joel won’t be here for her play . . .

Or for middle school graduation, which is just a few months away.

He won’t be here on her first day of high school.

He won’t be here to teach her how to drive in a few years.

He won’t be here when she gets her first job.

Or at her wedding.

And he will never meet his grandchildren.

I swallowed down all of those thoughts and sadness and tried to figure out a response.

“I think he’ll still see you in the play,” I said after a minute. “I’m not sure how. But I know he wouldn’t miss it.”

She thought about that. Then she said, “You know how when Daddy was in the hospital and I would ask you, He’s going to be OK, right? He’s going to be fine? Well, I think he is. I think he’s OK now.”

A mountain of love burst through my heart. I approached Sophie to give her a hug. She put up her hands to stop me.

“Don’t.”

It’s not that she was cold or unaffectionate. She was a teenager. Sophie liked having her space, but this behavior was fairly new. I often asked myself, Is this because she’s a teenager or because her dad died?

So I just stared at her. My beautiful, wise, soulful daughter.

“I think Daddy’s OK now, too,” I said.

I started to heat up some sauce when my phone beeped with an incoming text.