Widowish: A Memoir(54)

“I do, too,” I said. “So much.”

I held her tight.

“You know, I will always love Daddy. Always. No matter what.”

She pulled away to look at me. “But what if you get married again?”

Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind.

“That won’t be happening anytime soon,” I assured her. “For real. And even if it does one day in the far, far, far away future, Daddy was there first. He’s still my husband. He’ll always be my husband. Even if I do get married again one day, Daddy is my forever husband.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” I said. “And whoever I end up with, if I end up with anyone, will just have to accept it.”

The woman at Mimi’s party was waiting for me to answer her questions—You’re here on a date? Wait, when did your husband die again?

“Are you here on a date?” I asked.

She gave me a curious look. “Um . . . no.”

“And how long ago was your divorce?”

She stammered, her face turning red. “Well . . . um . . . I mean . . .”

“Uh-huh,” I said as I poured myself a drink. “So nice seeing you.”

I walked away, knowing that behind me, she was reeling.

Actually, that’s not what happened. Not at all. But in hindsight, I wish I had said those things.

In real life, I’m the one who stammered. I didn’t even think to be snarky. I simply answered her question: “Almost nine months ago.” I saw her considering this information. I then told her she looked great and walked away, self-conscious and nervous. I figured that she just said out loud what a lot of people were probably thinking.

There was an expectation about The Widow.

Am I sad enough?

Is it OK to see me smile?

Am I allowed to feel happy?

I felt like I was failing at widowhood. I missed my husband, but no one knew that when they looked at me. They just saw a mom with blonde highlights going to yoga, picking up her daughter from school, buying groceries at Trader Joe’s. And now I was at a party with a date when I should have been home, grieving, all alone.

I didn’t look like a widow. I wasn’t acting like a widow. But I felt like a widow.

I guess I was just widowish.

I looked for Marcos and found him in the center of a small crowd. They were all listening to him tell a story. He looked handsome in his brown corduroy blazer, holding a cocktail. He was smiling, and when he saw me, he lifted his arm and said, “There she is. There’s my girl.”

I was mortified. I was his girl?

It felt like a dream; I saw all of these faces turn toward me. They were the faces of people I knew casually for years. As I approached, someone reached out, touched my arm. “We’re so happy for you!”

Another said, “He’s adorable!”

One came close and whispered in my ear, “He looks like Joel.”

I reached Marcos, and he put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. Everyone laughed and smiled.

Marcos kissed my cheek. I turned pink and there was an audible “Awwww” from the people surrounding us.

This is too much. I can’t.

I excused myself and went outside to the bar. I poured myself some vodka and drank it down. As I poured myself another, Marcos appeared by my side.

“Hey,” he said. “You OK?”

I nodded yes. “It’s just a lot.”

“You want to stay, have another drink? Or if you want to leave, just let me know. I’m good either way. Whatever you want to do.”

I looked at him. Like Joel, he was so good.

How did I get so lucky?

“Sweetheart?” Marcos said, eyebrows raised.

I put down my drink and put my hands on his face. I couldn’t help it. It could have been the vodka, it could have been the moment. I kissed him, right on the lips, standing there in the backyard, in front of everyone.

Marcos may have sung “Uptown Girl” to me when I picked him up that night, but the song that was going through my mind was Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About.”

Marcos didn’t mind one bit.





NINETEEN

Getting Personal

In my writing group that week, I wrote a scene in my novel where one of the main characters goes on a horrible date with a guy she meets online. It was well received, and I decided that I would read it in our upcoming writer’s salon.

As Leigh and I were walking to our cars that night, we talked about class and the things we were writing. Leigh and I were close, but we didn’t have a lot of friends in common and I realized I hadn’t told her about Marcos yet. I felt compelled to, especially since half the neighborhood saw us together at Mimi’s party over the weekend.

“So how are you doing, sweetie?” Leigh asked.

“I’m seeing Marcos!” I blurted out.

She stopped walking and looked at me. “What?” she asked.

It was almost as clumsy as when I used the word date with Sophie.

“Marcos and I have been seeing each other,” I said.

“Marcos . . . the musician Marcos?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Like everyone in our neighborhood, her kids had also taken guitar lessons from him.