Widowish: A Memoir(49)
He loved talking about movies from any genre and era and believed that his film tidbits and comments were common knowledge. He would also refer to actors and directors by their last names.
When I mentioned that I had seen Juliette Lewis at the gas station, he commented that her father was a character actor frequently seen in “Eastwood movies,” but he didn’t know that she was rumored to be a Scientologist, which to me was far more interesting.
Marcos was hard to follow at times, and he seemed to say things that didn’t necessarily pertain to anything he and I would be discussing. If I read him something from the novel I was working on, and I told him that my writing group seemed to like it, he would offer, “If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn’t thinking.”
“Huh?” I’d say.
“Patton. Famous saying of his. Just read his biography.”
Our trysts were brief, but meaningful. It was hard to leave him sometimes, and regardless of our differences, our connection felt magnetic. But he always had a student about to show up, or a board meeting to attend, or a gig to get to. And I always had something that needed to get done. I was an only parent now. I was responsible for everything.
Everything.
In between the work I was doing for Joel’s company and my writing, I walked the dogs, took the trash bins in and out, changed the lightbulbs. I did all the driving, and shopping, and laundry. I found tutors and doctors and attended parent-teacher conferences alone because I had no choice. I made sure the grandparents—all four sets!—received their birthday cards on time and phone calls from their granddaughter. I made appointments with the electrician to fix the backyard lights, and the painter about the fence repair, and the tree trimmer when a huge tree branch fell down and cracked our driveway. I attended school board meetings and community meetings, and took the dogs to the vet, and planned every breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner. I cancelled subscriptions, made sure we had health coverage, tried to get some writing jobs. I made sure the car was clean and had gas in the tank and air in the tires. I changed the batteries in the smoke detectors, usually in the middle of the night because that’s when they would unnervingly beep. I had to manage when the air conditioner needed repair and when the washing machine wouldn’t spin. When we found a giant bug in the house. When one of the dogs got sprayed by a skunk. When the refrigerator started leaking. And every thought, feeling, emotional outburst, and mood, both mine and Sophie’s, were mine to manage.
I ordered copies of death certificates and birth certificates and marriage licenses and was put on hold for hours and transferred from department to department every time I changed a utility bill from Joel’s name to mine and had to explain every single time that the reason for the transfer was because my husband had died.
I was responsible for every everything, and I cherished my time with Marcos, because when I was with him, it was a reprieve from the every.
While I was Responsible Mom, I also wanted to be Fun Mom, but Sophie’s idea of fun was shopping, something I can’t bear. I would feel so old, taking her to the mall and not being able to tolerate the loud music in Forever 21. I’d last two minutes; she could last two hours.
She liked getting manicures, me not so much.
“Come on, let’s get our nails done together. It will be nice,” she’d say on a Sunday morning.
“Total waste of money,” I’d counter. “The nail polish will start chipping the minute you dig into your backpack for your notebook.”
“Fine!” she’d say, crossing her arms.
“What if we do Clooney?” I’d suggest.
“I don’t like hiking,” she’d say, considering. “I’d go horseback riding!”
“Horseback riding?! No. You know I’m not an animal person.”
“Bowling?” she’d ask. I’d roll my eyes.
We’d go back and forth like this all the time, until one of us would give in, usually me, and we’d end up either back at the mall or out to dinner somewhere.
I wanted to give her the world. I had Joel for twenty-five years; she only had him for thirteen and a half. She deserves everything and anything she wants. But then I’d hear Joel’s voice telling me, You’re spoiling her, hun. If I was, I couldn’t help it. Sophie didn’t act spoiled, because like Joel, she was good to her core.
Her middle school graduation was upon us. Tickets were limited. I couldn’t accommodate all of the grandparents, or Jillian, who also wanted to be there. I wanted Sophie to have a father’s presence, so I invited Hal to sit with me in the audience.
It was hard to smile through the ceremony when Joel’s absence was felt so overwhelmingly. I could picture him there, sitting right next to me in the folding chairs on that warm summer morning on the PE field, balloons adorning the stage. Joel would have stood up, elated, applauding wildly as Sophie’s name was called to receive her diploma. He’d look over at me, a tear in his eyes, saying, She did it, hun! Look at our beautiful girl! And afterward, he would have given her flowers and posed for pictures with her, never taking his eyes off her, proud dad that he was.
I don’t know how Sophie did it. How she walked across the field in her sweet summer dress, diploma in hand, big smile on her face, while everyone in attendance knew her as “the girl whose father died.” I kept waiting for her to break down or have a tantrum that year; it never came.