Widowish: A Memoir(45)

“Hello?” I answered.

“Melissa! It’s Marcos,” he said. He sounded happy. “So listen. I realized you asked me a question the other day that I didn’t answer.”

I did a quick inventory of my inquisition. AA, check. Drugs, check. Do-gooder, check. So what’s my unanswered question?

“Oh-kay,” I said. Now I was smiling.

“Do you remember what it was you asked me?”

“Um . . . not specifically.”

“Well the answer is no, I don’t have any tattoos,” he said.

My face almost hurt from smiling. “Ha, well, that’s . . .” I couldn’t think of what to say.

“Are you surprised?” he asked.

“That I got everything I thought I knew about you wrong? Yes, that’s a surprise.”

“It’s kind of funny,” he said. “That you were thinking about me at all.”

“Well.” I tried to cover. “I put some thought into who spends time with my daughter, so . . .”

“You’re a good mom, Melissa. Joel was a good father. Sophie’s lucky.”

“Really? Her dad just died, so I don’t know how lucky that makes her,” I said, cringing at what had just come out of my mouth.

“Well yeah, yes. That’s . . . It’s just sad. But she’ll be OK. She knows that both her parents loved her,” he said.

“Thank you. Thanks for saying that, for recognizing that.” I noticed the time. My class was starting soon.

“So were you just calling to tell me about the tattoos?” I asked.

“I thought maybe we could get a drink one night. If you’re OK with that. Casual, easy. No problem.”

I noticed the awkwardness of his phrasing, but it didn’t bother me.

“Yes,” I said. “That would be nice.”

“Good,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

We hung up, and I got out of my car. I fumbled to find my car keys to lock the doors. I was excited and nervous. And while I was also happy, I had to hold back tears. I miss Joel. Most of my memories were still of him in the hospital. I got in the habit of looking at pictures of him to remind me that he wasn’t always in a coma, that he once lived a life. A life where he wasn’t compromised by disease. A life that was full and for the most part, happy.

I had become obsessed with one particular photo. In it, Joel takes up the whole frame and he is smiling and looking down because five-year-old Sophie was the photographer. Joel has a sincere smile, and there’s so much love in his face. It’s because, I’m convinced, he’s staring into his daughter’s eyes. She was able to capture that moment in a way that is authentic to their relationship. That is the Joel I wanted to remember. That is the Joel who wouldn’t want his youngish wife to continue suffering where and when his life left off. That is the Joel who exudes love.

Joel Osteen has a sermon in which he speaks of there being a season of mourning as opposed to a lifetime of mourning. That resonated for me. I could see where losing Joel could also cost me my livelihood. I wanted to get to the other side of grief, not stay in it forever.

It had been over six months since Joel had died. I didn’t know if I was ready to move on with someone new. Not that I was really moving on with anyone. I didn’t think I could let myself do that yet. But I did know that my feelings were stirred up a bit. I was ready for . . . something.





SIXTEEN

Man of My Dreams

If it’s OK with you, I’m going to give you a kiss,” Marcos said, leaning toward me in the front seat of my car. He smiled, waiting for my consent. He had shaved, and for the first time I noticed he had dimples. I was a sucker for a good dimple. I leaned toward him and as our lips touched, the floor fell out from under me. I felt light as air, which was unnerving—I had felt so heavy since Joel died. It felt like Marcos and I were wrapped in bubbles, weightless and buoyant.

We never made it to drinks. Here’s why:

I was terrified.

Unlike our impromptu lunch, this was unequivocally a date. I lacked grown-up dating experience. I lacked confidence. I was still married to the man I loved even though he died.

“Yes, do it!” Jillian said when I called her the next day to tell her that Marcos had asked me out.

“I’m scared, though,” I admitted.

“That’s OK. This will be good for you. It will be great, no matter what happens.”

I wanted to tell all of my friends. And my sister! And the mailman! But I kept it to myself because first and foremost, I didn’t want Sophie to know, and I didn’t want anyone to accidentally let the information slip. I had already made up my mind that no matter who I dated (because I thought that I would eventually), I wouldn’t tell Sophie about it unless it was serious because, why would I? It wouldn’t be worth the stress and upset it would cause.

Going out “for a drink” had me feeling self-conscious, too. I was afraid we’d run into someone I knew, and they’d be suspicious or judgy or overly excited. So to avoid all of these things—we agreed that we would meet at a restaurant with a full bar, at 2:00 p.m. On a Wednesday. I couldn’t make plans for an evening because I was still building my schedule around Sophie’s.

I also insisted that we meet in downtown Burbank. It was close but not so close that we would risk running into anyone familiar. I hoped.