Widowish: A Memoir(55)

“OK, wait a minute, let me absorb that.” She started nodding and turned to face me. “You know,” she said. “I just feel called to tell you something.”

My guard immediately went up. Leigh spoke “universe” and when she felt called, I had to listen. I braced myself for what she was about to say.

“It’s just . . .” She chose her words carefully. “I love the piece you wrote tonight. I love the whole novel you’re writing. But I feel like Joel recently died. You’re raising your daughter on your own. You’re now telling me that you’re seeing Marcos.”

“So?” I said. I couldn’t help but feel defensive.

“So I’d like to suggest that you start writing about what’s going on for you personally. These characters in your novel, they will always be there. You can go back to them at any time.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, wondering where this was going.

“I say this simply for your consideration,” Leigh continued. “If you were to write about the deep and meaningful emotional journey that you’ve been on, and will continue to be on for possibly even your whole life, I think it would not only be good for you, but good for others as well.”

I stood there stunned. I just revealed a secret I had been carrying around, and she didn’t have anything to say about it? Then she had the nerve to comment on my writing and what I should be writing instead? I write fiction. I write make-believe. Why in the world would I ever even consider writing about my personal life?

I got flustered, looking for my words. “Uh-huh. Well, I’ve never written about myself before. I’m not sure I want to.”

“You may think you don’t want to, but those are just thoughts. I’m just asking you to consider it,” she said. “And as a side note, I love Marcos!”

She gave me a tight hug, then got into her car. “There’s so much there, Melissa. Personal stories are powerful.”

I stood there in the middle of the street and watched her drive away. As I turned to open my car door, out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and screamed. I wasn’t expecting to, and it was a scream that was so loud and so fierce that I scared myself. I got in my car, opened up my sunroof, and looked up at the night sky.

I was so angry. Something about what Leigh said triggered me.

Write about my “emotional journey”? What the fuck?!

I rolled down all of the windows and let the cool air in.

Fuck her!

Fuck all of this shit!

Fuck Joel for dying!

Fuck my writing!

Fuck my life!

I felt the breeze on my skin as I drove down the hill. I didn’t want to go home like this. I was too mad. Mad at Leigh for her stupid suggestion, mad at everyone for having an opinion on my life, mad at Joel for leaving me, and mad at Marcos for being so . . . for being so . . . I didn’t know why I was mad at Marcos, but I was suddenly furious with him! So furious that instead of driving down the hill and making a left turn toward home, I made a right and headed straight for his house.

He happened to be outside, unloading his truck from a gig he had that day. He smiled when he saw me. I pulled up on the wrong side of the street, jumped out of my car, and approached him.

“Hey!” he said, his smile quickly fading when he saw me rushing him. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

I was breathing heavily, practically hyperventilating.

“Sweetheart?” he said.

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!” I yelled.

“What happened. Did something happen?”

“I am so mad!” I yelled. “I can’t take it!”

I heard Joel’s voice say, “What can you take?” It stopped me cold.

“What?” I said to the air.

Marcos started to say, “I don’t know what’s happening here but—”

“Shh!” I yelled. I kept turning around, looking for Joel. “Hun?”

“Huh?” Marcos said.

“Who said that?” I demanded.

It was nighttime. The sky was dark. But I swear, in this moment, I was blinded by the sun. Or what I thought was the sun. I know that I was staring at Marcos. I know that we were standing in front of his house. It may have been my headlights that were blinding me, but I felt the need to squint. That’s when I saw Joel standing there, smiling, happy, the way he was when I saw him on the bridge in my dream.

“Oh my God, hun,” he was saying, laughing. “You’re losing it.”

“I really am,” I said.

We stared at each other. I couldn’t believe it.

“You,” he said.

I sighed. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” he said. But I didn’t know if it was Joel saying that. Or Marcos.

I felt my face wet with tears. I was so tired of crying. I was so tired of feeling all of my feelings, all the time.

“Hey,” Marcos said, approaching me, hands up in surrender. “Let’s go inside. I think you need to sit down. Or maybe I should drive you home.”

It was dark out again. Marcos was reaching out for me, and over his shoulder, I saw Joel. He held up his hand in a wave. His eyes were twinkling. He looked healthy. He was smiling.

“Don’t go!” I whispered.

“I’m right here,” he said. That time, I knew it was Marcos.