Widowish: A Memoir(46)

Lastly, I suggested that we drive separately. But with all of my planning for what was starting to feel like an illicit affair, I did not count on seeing Marcos standing outside the restaurant by the valet parking area. We agreed we would meet inside, at the bar. I had the irrational thought that he must be canceling. I rolled down my window. He smiled and said, “Best-laid plans. They don’t open until dinner. Three more hours.”

I exhaled, relieved that he wasn’t backing out, but seeing him standing there, talking to me through the open window, made me panic.

“Get in!” I ordered. Marcos got in the passenger seat. “I don’t want anyone to see us!” I said as I sped down the street toward the residential area.

Marcos started laughing. “What’s happening? Where are you taking me?”

I pulled over, my hands gripping the steering wheel. My mind was racing. This is crazy! I’m crazy! What am I doing? My husband just died! Joel . . . Joel . . . Where are you? Is this OK? That I’m with Marcos? Oh my God! I’m a bad person, I thought. I’m a bad wife and a bad mother, and I shouldn’t be here!

I looked at Marcos. I had tears in my eyes. He nodded, patiently.

“You know,” he said. “It’s OK. Whatever you’re thinking. Whatever’s going through your head right now? I’ll just sit right here.”

He was killing me. Who is this man? This church-living, feed-the-homeless musician/teacher/do-gooder?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel like I’m making this into such a big deal, and it’s just a drink. I mean it’s nothing; this is nothing! And now we’re not even getting a drink! I’m just a little nervous about all this. Maybe it’s too soon, or too much?”

Marcos looked at me. He appeared comfortable sitting there. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. “I mean . . .” He tried to find some words but after a minute, he just shrugged. I felt a need and desire to touch him, so I did. I gently placed my hand on his arm.

“It’s just, I love Joel. He’s my husband, and we’re still married.”

“I get that,” Marcos said.

“How do you get that?” I asked. “Does it even make sense? It sounds crazy but also, not crazy. I think I’m going crazy.”

Marcos looked into my eyes. “Look. I think it’s all pretty normal. I think you’ve been through a lot. You and Joel were solid. You were.”

I nodded. He was making sense. My mind may have been slowing down but my heart was still racing.

“I think you have a lot going on, especially up here.” He tapped his temple, then reached over and tapped mine. I smiled. “So I’m thinking that maybe you need to just relax a little bit. Does that sound OK? Like you just need to . . . relax.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said, considering how exactly to do that.

“So,” he said, “if it’s OK with you, I’m going to give you a kiss. I think that might help.”

He leaned toward me, and I let him kiss me. It was soft and tender and exactly what I needed to calm down. I kissed him back. We stayed like that, kissing in the front seat of my Toyota Prius for over an hour. It was a good, old-fashioned make-out session that as a married woman of over sixteen years, I hadn’t experienced in quite a while.

If I didn’t see Marcos again after that day, it would be OK because that particular moment was so excruciatingly perfect, it would forever be enough. It was exactly what I needed. While I had experienced some levity and happiness in the aftermath of Joel’s death, this was a feeling that managed to touch a part of me I forgot existed.

It was desire.

I wanted this to happen; I had wished for this to happen. Marcos fulfilled that desire. It was everything.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said when we parted. We both seemed drunk with kisses, silly smiles on our faces.

“Me, too.”

He went through his weekly schedule, counting off each task on a finger. “I’m teaching most of tomorrow into tomorrow night and the next day. I also have to be at the hospital in the afternoon. I have a board meeting this week, and I’ll be at the pantry Friday and Monday. I have a gig next—”

“Wait.” I stopped him. “What hospital?” Is he sick? Dying? Or just visiting a friend?

“The children’s hospital. I go once a month.”

I gave him a look. “Why?”

“I volunteer,” he said. “I bring my guitar and sing to the kids.”

“What kids?” I asked.

“The sick and dying children.”

My mouth must have dropped open.

“For real?”

“It’s meaningful work. The families appreciate it. I like doing it. Going on almost ten years.”

“So, wait,” I said. “In addition to running the food pantry, you also volunteer at the children’s hospital? So you can sing to the dying children?”

My mind flashed to the ICU where Joel spent the last weeks of his life. I couldn’t imagine a musician coming in to perform in those corridors. But the nurses and doctors and entire ICU staff appreciated Joel’s music playlist that flowed out of the small portable speakers I brought over. So I got it . . . sort of.

“So anyway, got a full schedule these next few weeks, but I want to make sure you’re in it. Sound good?”