Widowish: A Memoir(58)

“I know you’re a good person or Melissa wouldn’t be spending time with you.”

“Thank you,” Marcos said. “I think she’s a good person, too.”

“Of course she is!” Nancy said. “It’s very nice to meet you, Marcos. Really nice.”

My in-laws have embraced Marcos fully. I went from being their daughter-in-law to something even closer. A daughter-in-feeling. Hal and Rita invite Marcos to family dinners. Nancy shows up for his gigs, usually in the front row, and oftentimes she’ll bring her friends.

I don’t know that we’re a modern family, but we’re a unique family. A motley crew kind of family. The kind of family that people, when they meet us, can’t quite figure out who belongs to who, unless Sophie is with us, and then it’s an easy: “These are Sophie’s grandparents, I’m her mother, and Marcos is my boyfriend.” It still seems complicated, but for us, we are simply family.

I threw myself a birthday party that first year. It was a birthday celebration and a let’s-get-together-and-remember-Joel party. I wanted to celebrate life, knowing that it can sometimes be cut short. I bought a new dress, ordered food from my favorite restaurant, stocked up with plenty of booze, and gave Marcos the job of bartender. I could tell he was nervous. Marcos is a confident man, but there was some unspoken pressure about this gathering. It would be the first time that many of my friends, and Joel’s, would be meeting him. In my house, the one I shared with Joel, in the same kitchen where Joel and I had hosted so many events.

“Sweetheart,” Marcos said when he arrived with ice and limes. “Just put me where you need me, and I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

I took him in. He was not the man I thought he was those few years ago when I met him outside his house for Sophie’s guitar lesson. He was so much more.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you.” I kissed him.

“For what?” he asked.

“For being here. It can’t be easy for you, and I appreciate it. Thank you. I love you.”

I half expected him to say you. But that wasn’t our thing, or my thing anymore.

We kissed and he said, “It’s all good, baby. Love. L-O-V-E. Love.”

“Love?” I said.

“Yes, sweetheart. Love.”

And that’s how love became our shorthand. Our call and response.

The doorbell rang, Jillian was the first to arrive. She saw Marcos in the kitchen and did a double take.

“I thought he was Joel for a second,” she said, pulling me aside.

“I know,” I said. “I think that’s going to happen a lot tonight.”

She looked around. “Does the dog like him?”

“She’s not barking,” I said.

“Then it’s fine. I’m happy for you. Happy birthday!”

And that’s how the night went. It was weird. We were all doing double takes. But Marcos went with it. Friends were curious about him. Some interviewed him over cocktails; others made small talk. He lit the birthday candles on my cake and carried it over to me to make a wish. My friends stood around and sang. My wishes were so different this year than last. When Joel was in a coma, I wished for him to be free. That year, and every year since, I wished for Joel to stay close.

Five days later, on the day that marked one year since Joel’s death, Sophie and I sat on the beach in Malibu and ate his favorite candy. We shared some funny memories of him and reflected on the year. We cried looking at photos in an album I had made, amazed that we made it this far without him.

“I don’t know how I should feel,” Sophie said. “It’s like I miss Daddy, but I don’t feel sad all the time. Sometimes I think I should.”

“I don’t think Daddy would want you to be sad all the time. In fact, I don’t think he’d want you to be sad at all.”

“Of course, I’m going to be sad, Mom. My dad died!”

“I know!” I said. “And he loved you so much!” I tried to formulate another sentence, but I didn’t know what to say. So I went to my usual. “I think you just need to feel your feelings, whenever you have them, you know? And whatever you feel, even if it’s not sad, that’s OK. Even on a day like today.”

People kept asking me what Sophie and I were going to do that day, on the anniversary. It put pressure on us. Like with Father’s Day and Joel’s birthday and our wedding anniversary. I’ve come to learn that my feelings are unpredictable. It could be a Tuesday in January, and I’ll feel inconsolable. But when Joel’s birthday comes around in August, I could be feeling cheerful. There’s no rhyme or reason to grief. It hits you when it hits you. I tried to convey this to Sophie, although that day at the beach, at year one, I was still learning this myself.

“I think we just need to honor Daddy every day. However we can. And however we feel, we feel.”

“I feel lucky,” Sophie said.

“About what?”

“That you and Daddy . . . you loved each other. So many of my friends’ parents don’t anymore. But that’s a memory I’ll always have. That you and Daddy were happy together.”

“Yup,” I said. “We were. We were a happy little family, all of us.”

“We still are,” she said.