Posted 12 August, 2008 in Epilogue (posted 12 August 2008)

My mother called me on my birthday this year. She left a message on my cell phone. I picked it up while Gary and I were driving through Topanga Canyon. We had just driven past my mother’s street and I instinctively looked up toward her house and said a little prayer like I always do. The car’s top was down and we were headed for a day of shopping and lunch, followed by dinner with friends and a two-night stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The sky was blue, the fresh air felt great and the birds were singing. It was a lovely beginning to what would have been a fabulous weekend. Then I picked up my mother’s message:

“Hi Gilena. I suggest you go buy immediately The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout and it will totally benefit you because it totally describes your personality, your total deception, and false perceptions. I read your so-called memoir and it’s really sad. It’s not really a memoir unless it’s true, is it? Remember how that James Frey got into trouble? I suggest you change my name and your father’s name or I will get my own website and let the world know about you and your lies. Too bad you didn’t mention how I paid for your Honda and college abroad. I will tell them I have been a teacher for 35 years…”

It rambled on from there. I swore I would not let it ruin my day. I was turning 39. I was over it. She couldn’t hurt me anymore. Gary listened to the message at lunch. He took my hands in his and said, “I am so sorry. Please don’t give her power.” I smiled bravely and continued to push the message and her hurtful words from my thoughts, but every now and again, I’d temporarily lose the battle and Gary would notice the pain on my face and say, “I’m going to call your mother and leave her a message!”

Of course we won’t. Why bother? I suppose my secret fear she would read my book was tempered by the hope she would read it – and maybe understand some things from my perspective. Certainly I thought she’d recognize that I had been listening all those years to the stories she told about our family. All the parts about her past, and my dad’s past, were taken directly from the stories they had both repeated through the years. And the negative parts about my mother comprise but a fraction of the whole book. I hoped she could see what I saw and maybe see her part in it all. But no.

Still, after a couple of cocktails on Saturday, Gary and I made notes on what we would say, if we were to call her back. Mine came out like this:

“Hi Mom. My husband tells me 85 times a day how beautiful I am and how much he loves me. I am the luckiest, happiest, most grateful woman on the planet and I pinch myself everyday on what good fortune has befallen me and my family. We literally pull back the curtains in our bedroom each morning and thank God for the day ahead. Our children are healthy, happy and thriving. Our ninth anniversary is in August and we are more in love now than ever and couldn’t feel more blessed. I am sorry you are not in a similar place and have such a skewed vision of reality. My memoir has been both a joy and a catharsis for me to write and I am always happy to hear from readers who love it. Despite your angry message, I spent my birthday surrounded by friends and family who love me.”

That’s what I would say, were I to call her. And my birthday weekend was great, actually. I continue to feel blessed and lucky.

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Posted 7 August, 2008 in 162 A Lot of People (posted 7 August 2008)

A LOT OF PEOPLE FELT THAT IT WAS TOO SOON for me to fall in love again, certainly too soon to marry again. No one can truly understand another’s process of grieving, of releasing. It’s an experiential thing. Putting it into words it is similar to translating a book into a movie. Certain things are lost in the translation process. Each is a unique and whole thing unto itself.

My relationship with Barry was something unique and whole that was born out of a need to learn to love ourselves by loving one another. I now realize it was as complete and perfect as if we had decades together. It was a gift we were both ready to receive the moment we met.
As devastating and heart-wrenching as it was when he died, I was guided, somehow, to move through the searing pain and extraordinary anguish in a compressed amount of time. Don’t get me wrong—I still grieve for Barry. Grieving doesn’t stop, but if you’re lucky, neither does your life.

I knew—even before meeting Gary—I wanted to have love in my life again. Soon. And I knew that it was okay to feel that—that was part of Barry’s legacy. The love we created was so pure, it had healed something deep in my soul. I wanted to experience that kind of pure love again. I wanted to share that kind of love with someone.

Meeting Gary was a healing experience for me. For him. We truly believe Barry and Robyn helped us find each other. They were our angels. And we helped each other experience our grief in a way that couldn’t happen unless we both understood how much was lost when they died. We helped each other open our hearts again and are so happy we did.

And I’ll never stop grieving for my mother. There is so much pressure from society to stay connected with the woman who gave birth to you. People don’t always understand or hide their belief that daughters should love their mothers, regardless of the circumstances. Trust me, I’d love to have a mother in my life, but my mother…no. Especially now with children, I just can’t open myself up to ongoing hurt and dysfunction. And as a mother myself, I believe we earn our relationships with our children. They are not obligated to stand by us if we continuously create unnecessary drama and guilt.

But just as one is able to begin again to remember the good times after the death of a loved one, so, too, have I been able to remember the good in my mother, the funny things she’d say, the wisdom she passed on. It was she who first introduced me to spirituality, positive affirmations, a love of books.

I’ve come to believe that God intends for us to grow from the events in our lives. We go from the womb out into the world on a personal scavenger hunt, learning lessons and collecting experiences along the way. While each person has their own set of challenges to deal with, it’s our response to those challenges that determines our future. And if we’re on a true path, a wake of love follows us everywhere, and we can live the life we’ve imagined.

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Posted 3 August, 2008 in 161 Dear Mom (posted 3 August 2008)

August 8, 2006

Dear Mom,

I hope this letter finds you well. Marina told me you saw her today, and Gary did tell me you called a few weeks ago. My life has been very pleasant and peaceful, and it’s been my choice not to get in contact with you.

It is not that I am sitting here holding on to past hurts. I have come to accept that you are very unpredictable and that even when things are “going fine” between us, I experience a heightened level of anxiety knowing that, at any moment, the winds may change, and you will become aggravated/enraged/accusatory of something I have done or failed to do. And time seems to make no difference to you. What may upset you today may have happened last week, last month, several years ago or is something that you worry might happen in the future.

I have tried to go to counseling with you, to disastrous results. The session ended with you screaming and crying and accusing the therapist of driving a wedge between you and your daughter (me).

Ours has not been a peaceful relationship. The times we are not speaking are so very peaceful as to draw a spotlight on just how tumultuous the times we have spent together were.

I do not believe you can change, and I know I can only change myself. I choose a life without you rather than one filled with anxiety and turmoil.

This is my decision, and I hope you can accept it.

May you find peace.

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Posted 2 August, 2008 in 160 I'd Love To Say (posted 2 August 2008)

I’D LOVE TO SAY this time was different, that my mother changed, became unconditional in her love and a joy to be around. Ah, but the therapists are right when they say you can change your own behavior, but not others. This time, my mother stayed in our lives eighteen months before once again finding something she didn’t like and storming out. I was surprised I was once again affected by it and cried for my mother’s love as if I’d lost it for the first time.

But as our children grew older, I began to see how absolute a child’s love is for his or her mother, regardless of if that love is deserved and healthy. I began to realize how lovely my life was in every area except for my relationship with my mother. I wasn’t tense or nervous around other people, only with her. It was only with her that I experienced a low level dread that I could do something wrong at any moment and be again in some kind of terrible trouble.

So nearly three years later, when I heard from Gary that my mother had called from the bank to ask for the kids’ social security numbers so she could set up accounts for them, I didn’t call her back. But when she ran into our housekeeper, Marina, waiting for her ride at RiteAid and wrote me a note, accusing Gary of not giving me the phone message, I knew a response was needed.

I had recently started taking meditation classes and it was this practice that helped me to sit in my fourth chakra – the heart chakra – and write from a place of love and peace:

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Posted 30 July, 2008 in 159 So I Was (posted 30 July 2008)

So I was a little nervous when I called my mother up four months later to inquire about skin diseases in our family, but I did it for our daughter. I was happy to hear that there were none that she knew of. Elodie’s skin eventually cleared up on its own, and today no one would ever guess she hadn’t always had a peaches-and-cream complexion.

But after I made contact with my mother, she wanted to see the baby. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Gary asked when I told him who was coming for a visit the next day. “Sure,” I said. And I was. All the therapy I’d had over the years had driven one point home: you can’t change anyone but yourself, and you can’t control anyone else’s behavior. I’d learned to be clearer with my boundaries, and I was ready for the ultimate test: resuming our mother-daughter relationship.

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Posted 28 July, 2008 in 158 Several Months (posted 28 July 2008)

Several months before, when I knew I was going to have a girl, I contacted my mother. Even though she hadn’t seen her grandson, I knew she would love to know that she was going to have a granddaughter. Besides, I really wanted my Barbies® and all the Fisher-Price® toys my mother had saved from my childhood. I went over to her house sometime during my fifth month to collect them. “I would like you to be a part of your grandchildren’s lives,” I told her. “I would too,” she replied. “But I think we need to see a counselor first,” I suggested.

Miraculously, she agreed, and I set up an appointment for the following week. When I stepped into the waiting room, my mother was already there. I took a seat next to her and picked up a magazine. We exchanged pleasantries, and my mother made a comment about a cute baby sweater she had seen on one of the pages of Parents magazine. “Elodie will look so cute in a sweater like that,” I commented. “Elodie?” my mother said, wrinkling her nose. “What kind of name is that?” I tried to hide the surprise I felt at my mother’s choice to criticize my selection of baby names just as we were entering our first therapy session together. A few minutes later, Dr. Carol came to the door.

The session started out calmly enough. Dr. Carol asked us each to sum up our thoughts about our lives together—in ten-year chunks. We were in agreement about my first ten years: my mother was loving, and I was a good girl. We ran into some problems talking about the chunk from ten to twenty. To hear my mother tell it, those years were as uneventful as the first ten.

When it came my turn to talk, I tried to gently set the record straight. “Uh, I think that’s where we ran into some problems,” I began. My mother shot me a look, both hurt and amazed. And the session deteriorated from there. I sat stone-faced, belly swollen, and pictured myself far away while my mother screamed and screamed about all the things I had done to her that were bad, hurtful, and wrong.

It was great that I didn’t have to describe my mother or our problems to the therapist; my mother was demonstrating them without any prompting. At some point, she whipped out the letter from Adella and waved it around like a burning torch. She didn’t acknowledge what had led up to it being written in the first place, but used it merely as proof that I was an ungrateful, mean-spirited child.

She ended the session trying to tell the therapist a thing or two about her profession and then accused her of driving a wedge between mother and daughter. Poor Dr. Carol tried to calm my mother down several times so she could end the session on time, but my mother just kept going on. Like the contents of Pandora’s box, her rage kept spewing forth. As I was leaving the building and hurrying to my car, I could still hear her yelling down the hall after me, “And another thing…!”

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Posted 25 July, 2008 in 157 You Would Think (posted 25 July 2008)

YOU WOULD THINK THAT that would have been it, right? How could I possibly speak to my mother again after that? But such is the power mothers have over their children—even after all that had happened, even as an adult, I was still blaming myself and wishing my mother and I could get along.

I gave it another shot after the birth of our son Graydon in January 2001. A birth announcement from me was followed with a baby gift from her, but a subsequent thank you note in return met with silence on her end.

But I had to call my mother after our daughter was born in July 2002. Within hours after her birth, Elodie’s hands and feet began to curl up. The skin was frighteningly stretched tight and appeared red and blotchy in places. The doctors had never seen anything like it and asked if Gary or I knew of any skin diseases in our families. Gary quickly called his mom who confirmed that there were no such diseases on his side. Finding out my family history required that I call my mother.

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Posted 1 July, 2008 in 016 Chapter 16 (posted 1 - 23 July 2008)

I HADN’T SEEN MY DAD since before our wedding, but still called him every Sunday evening. He didn’t sound so good, his voice weak and speech slow. He told me he had lost another twenty pounds and was down to about 120, his lowest weight ever since reaching the height of five foot nine. He had gone on a cross-country train trip by himself just after we returned from our honeymoon, and he told me how he had trouble walking from the train station to a nearby hotel. I invited him to dinner a couple of times, but he always said, “I don’t feel comfortable.” I was never sure if he meant because of the way he now looked, or because I hadn’t invited my mother to my wedding.

Two Sundays in a row in late December, I got my dad’s answering machine when I made my weekly call. He didn’t call back even though I had left messages. Although never proactive, my father always returned my calls. I left another message on Monday saying I was worried and wanted to hear from him as soon as possible. He called later that evening, and his voice sounded a lot like Richard’s did toward the end—raspy and faint.

He said he’d been in the hospital but was home now. I asked if there was anything I could do, anything he needed, but he said no. When I called the next week, a young woman with a Filipino accent answered and identified herself as his nurse. I asked to speak to my father and heard her tell him it was his daughter. When he came on the line, his voice was almost inaudible. “Laura?” he said, sounding hopeful. “No Dad. It’s Gilena.” “Oh.” Pause. “How you doing?” “Oh, I’m all right.” Can I come see you?” “No, I don’t want you to see me.” “I want to see you.” “No, you’ve got things to do. You don’t have to see me.” “Dad, I’m your daughter. I’m coming to see you.”

The next day I drove to his house with flowers and a greeting card. The hospice nurse opened the front door. She showed me in before retaking her seat on the sofa in the living room, paperback book in hand. He was in a rented hospital bed in the den, and while I thought I had prepared myself for the worst, he looked like death itself.

My dad was now little more than a skeleton covered with skin. I could see the outline of his bones. His kneecaps were wider than his thighs. He saw me glance down at him, and he lifted up the blanket to show me just how thin he’d become. He was wearing diapers, and I saw a tube running out of them and into a urine-filled bag hooked to the side of the bed. I kissed the top of his head and blinked back the tears. Taking his hand, I struggled to think of something—anything—to say, but whatever small talk came to mind felt inappropriate under the circumstances. Instead I said, “I love you.” My father nodded and looked away.

I sat down in a chair next to him and looked around the room. On the table were a collection of prescription bottles, baby wipes, and a box of rubber gloves. On the tray next to the bed was a small cup of water with a bendable plastic straw poking out. There was a folded wheelchair propped against the wall. I took his hand again, but he pulled it back, remarking how cold I felt. We sat in silence, father and daughter, inches away and miles apart.

After thirty minutes, I got up to leave. I hadn’t planned on visiting again soon, but I intuitively knew he didn’t have much time left and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “What? Tomorrow?” “Yes, Daddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Driving home, I let the tears run freely down my cheeks, although I was unsure as to what I was feeling. When Barry died, I lost my partner—a twenty-eight-year-old vibrant man just starting out in life. He had died so suddenly, without warning. My father had been diagnosed with this terminal illness more than ten years ago. Never close, we were emotionally farther apart now than ever. I suppose, then, I was crying for myself, for the husband taken from me, and for the father I never had.

JUST AFTER THAT FIRST VISIT with my dad, I started seeing another spiritual healer. Kerry lived in Venice, and the way I met her was yet another indication of just how mysterious Life can be. Months before, while waiting for Staci and Chuck in a restaurant on Main Street in Santa Monica, I had started a casual conversation with a large group of British guys. This was during my “Simon obsession.” Overhearing their accents led me to strike up a conversation, hopeful as I was that one of them might be from Darlington and, perhaps, had known my long-lost architecture student when they were both in kindergarten. Of course, none of them did, but I ended up telling my story to one of them who mentioned that his girlfriend was a Reiki healer, and I looked like someone who might benefit from having her energy shifted.

When Barry died, Mike had done some Reiki on me, shifting invisible energy through my chakras—or energy centers within my body. I knew Reiki was an ancient spiritual healing art and that the Reiki practitioner calls on the energy from Source and allows it to be passed through his or her hands to the person being worked on. I didn’t know what to expect, but after Mike had finished, I did feel peaceful and calm for several days, despite the trauma I had just experienced.

I held on to Kerry’s business card a long time before calling her, unsure—after what had happened with Jen—if I was ready to enlist the support of another spiritual healer. But the stress of not speaking to my mother and my dad’s deteriorating condition made me think it might be a good time for an appointment.

I arrived at her apartment around noon, and she led me into a room with candles and a padded table. She told me to lie on my back on the table and think of an intention, something I wanted the Universe to help me with. I closed my eyes, pictured my dad lying in his bed, and asked Source to help him return home. Kerry worked on me for an hour, lightly touching the seven charkas—the top of my head, forehead, throat, heart, solar plexus, groin, and base of my spine. Afterward, she made me some tea, and we talked about the experience.

It’s common for a Reiki healer to intuitively sense things about their clients, and Kerry could feel I was in need of a lot of spiritual energy. She said it felt as though my body was like a wind tunnel, sucking the energy from her hands. She suggested I come back for a total of four sessions.

I told her what was going on with my dad, and she told me how she had visited AIDS patients in a local hospice and practiced Reiki on them. Some of the patients were skeptical, but all were willing to try anything, knowing they had nothing to lose. Even the most resistant patients seemed to grow calmer and more peaceful after a few visits. Kerry told me that even though I wasn’t a practicing healer, I could send energy to my dad by meditating and placing my hands on the crown of his head or over his heart. I said I would try this the next time I visited him.

I BEGAN VISITING MY FATHER every weekday but stayed away Saturdays and Sundays, figuring that my mother probably took care of him then. Some days, he was awake and alert but would gaze out the window, uncommunicative. Other days, he was asleep or fell asleep shortly after I got there. Each day, I’d ask the nurse how he was doing. Most of the time she’d say, “About the same,” but more and more often she’d shake her head and say sadly, “Not good.” I’d ask if the doctor had come by that day, and she’d give me a quick recap and the latest prognosis. According to the doctor, my dad could “go at any time,” so I wrote my home and cell phone numbers on a Post-it note and stuck it next to the phone in the kitchen. I made the nurse promise to call me if anything happened, and she said she would. She didn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure she knew I was doubtful that my mother would make such a call.

I was curious about so many things but hesitated asking the nurse too many questions, unsure of her relationship with my mother. What time did my mother get there every day? What time did she leave? Did she have any other help with my father? Was she okay? Did my father have any other visitors? Had Laura been to see him? I saw that the flowers I had brought him were still sitting in their wrapper on the windowsill, but there were no other plants or stuffed animals, no other signs that anyone else had been to visit to my father. One afternoon I asked the nurse about other visitors. “Has Laura been here?” “Who?” the nurse asked. “My sister. Gil’s other daughter. Has she been to visit?” “No,” she replied. “No other visitors. Just your mom.”

The call came on Sunday, February 8, 2000. Gary and I had spent the day together reading the paper and puttering in the backyard. We’d just come back from a long walk and were trying to decide what to eat for dinner when the phone rang. “Hello?” I answered. “Hi, I’m calling for Gilena Simons.” The woman’s voice sounded unfamiliar, but somehow I knew why she was calling. “Yes?” “My name is Susan, and I’m a home-health provider from St. Luke’s hospital. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father passed away at 3:30 this afternoon.” I glanced at the clock. It was 5:30. My father had died two hours ago, and the black sheep was just being notified. “He went peacefully. Your mom and your sister are here, and they want to know if you’d like to view the body before it is picked up.”

Gary and I drove the short distance in silence. When we got there, he waited in the car, uncomfortable about meeting my mother and sister for the first time under such circumstances. Inside, the house was dimly lit. I walked in and found my mother and sister sitting on either side of my father, clutching his hands. He looked pretty much the same as when I had seen him on Friday, except now he was ghostly white. His eyes were closed, and he wore a peaceful expression. I kissed his forehead and instinctively hugged my mother and sister. They hugged me stiffly in return. I pulled up a chair, and we sat in awkward silence as Nurse Susan busied herself in the kitchen.

I have to admit I was surprised to see Laura and my mom together and on such seemingly good terms. I couldn’t remember the last time they had gotten along with each other, but here they sat, recalling their favorite stories about my dad in between their tears. I struggled to come up with any emotion, knowing it was what was expected. Instead, I felt mostly relieved rather than sad at his passing. It was so clear to me, during the weeks I had been visiting, that it was time for him to go. His was no longer a happy existence. It was nothing like when Barry had died so unexpectedly.

Yet there was some déjà vu to the whole thing. I asked my mother, the widow here now, if there was anything I could do for her, remembering how so many people had asked me the same thing after Barry died. She said, “No.” I asked her if she needed me to stay with her that night, remembering how so many people had stayed with me after Barry died. She said, “No,” adding, “Gil is here. I’ll be fine.” After that, it was pretty clear there was no reason for me to stay. My father wasn’t really there, and anything my mother needed, I couldn’t provide. I reminded her that my phone numbers were next to the telephone in the kitchen and rose to leave.

The funeral was on Wednesday. Tiffany—who was now living in Long Beach— drove up, and Rachel came with me and Gary. Staci and Adella asked me if they could come, but I didn’t want to expose them to too much dysfunction. My mother had said something about not inviting anyone to the funeral, that there would only be family at the church. But when we arrived, there were about thirty people—past and present employees of my father’s printing company, along with some neighbors. Still, it was quite a difference from the hoards that had flooded Orcutt Park almost two years ago.

While Gary went inside the church, I found my mother out back, looking very pretty in a floral skirt and dark-colored blouse. She strode toward me with a smile, and for a second I was able to pretend she was a normal, loving mother looking to console her bereaved daughter. However, she stopped short of contact and handed me a manila envelope. I opened it to find all my essays from grammar school, all the things she deemed worthy of saving until now. “Here. I thought you might like to have these. I have no use for them anymore,” she casually said. I’m not sure why I expected anything else at that point, and yet her behavior stunned me once again.

I walked back inside, holding my envelope and found Laura and Lizbeth introducing themselves to Gary; I hugged them both. The church coordinator then told us it was time for the mass to begin. All the emotion I couldn’t seem to find on Sunday poured out of me as Laura, my mother, and I accompanied my father’s coffin down the aisle toward the altar. It was so surreal. Barry had been cremated; not even his ashes were at his service. My father’s body was in that coffin. I felt weak as I took my seat in the front pew next to Gary. My mother was seated on the opposite side, next to the aisle, and Laura and Lizbeth were in between us.

The priest began the service. I hadn’t been to a Catholic Church in over twenty years, but the Lord’s Prayer rolled out of me, unbidden. At one point, I looked over and saw my sister holding my mother’s hand, but a few minutes later my mother pulled it away. It was obvious she was nervous about her eulogy, and she fiddled with her notes endlessly while the priest droned on. When it was her time to speak, my mother rose and walked robotically to the podium, having been introduced by the priest as my father’s wife. She read aloud from her prepared notes, tears welling in her eyes, smile plastered on her face. The man she spoke of bore little resemblance to the father I knew. It was as if she had sifted through his sixty-five years and chosen to talk about his most shallow traits. I didn’t expect her to expose the skeletons in his closet, but she didn’t even mention Laura or me, his two daughters. She chose, instead, to focus on the trips she and my father had taken before he became too ill to travel.

After the service, the priest announced that it was time to proceed to the burial site a few miles away. We all went out to the front of the church, and I shook hands with the people I recognized from my dad’s company. I looked over to see my mother walking toward Tiffany, Rachel, and Gary, but after a brief hello to my friends, she strode off. Gary said later that he tried to introduce himself, but she ignored his proffered hand and looked past him as she walked away.

On the way to the cemetery, my mother drove alone; Laura and Lizbeth followed behind in their Chevy Suburban. I said goodbye to Tiffany, who had to get back to work, and drove to the cemetery with Gary and Rachel. When we got there, we saw six chairs lined up next to the grave. Whoever was in charge of setting up knew there wouldn’t be a need for more.

This time, my mother sat in between Laura and me, without speaking. The priest said some words and sprinkled holy water on my father’s shiny blue coffin. I put my hand on my mother’s knee as a gesture of comfort. It sat there a while before she put her hand over mine and gave it a small squeeze.

When this final part of the service was over, my mother announced to no one in particular that she’d like to be alone. I kissed the top of her head as we all rose to go, but when we got to the car, I saw my sister leave Lizbeth and go back to sit with my mother. As we drove away, I watched the two of them sitting there in silence.

A couple of weeks after the funeral, I sent my mother a sympathy card. Inside I wrote a note about how I had thought I could get through Barry’s death alone, but that it had been very helpful to go to group counseling. I enclosed the telephone number for OUR HOUSE and offered to go with her if she decided to get help. I told myself not to expect anything in return, but that didn’t stop me from checking the mail for weeks.

MONTHS BEFORE, WITHOUT THINKING about the significance of the date, I made plans with Karen for Mackenzie to come and visit. Karen and Mackenzie flew down on Wednesday, April 26th—the day before the second anniversary of Barry’s death—and Gary and I picked her up from the airport while Karen went off to attend business meetings in Los Angeles.

Barry’s niece had grown into a beautiful, articulate seven-year-old, and although it had been two years since her uncle’s death, she still loved to hear stories about him. Gary and I took her to Universal Studios and then out to dinner. She slept over, and in the morning, Gary made us pancakes. Then it was “Girl’s Day,” and Mackenzie and I went shopping and had our nails done before stopping at a café for lunch.

I drove her back to the airport Thursday afternoon where she met up with Karen. I was thinking to myself that Mackenzie’s visit had been a great way to celebrate Barry’s life. Seeing her and enjoying her budding personality was the perfect antidote for the blues I knew I would otherwise be feeling all day. Still, I cried a little on the drive home from the airport, sad that Barry wasn’t here to spend time with his niece and hear her infectious laughter.

I was still a little teary when I arrived home and picked up the mail. I opened the front door and saw a box wrapped in blue paper sitting on the welcome mat. It was addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting, her return address in the corner. I froze in the threshold before bending down to pick it up. It was fairly heavy, and I wondered what it could be. I actually debated about whether or not to wait and have Gary open it, premonitions of emotional pain floating through my head. But he was in a meeting all afternoon, and I knew curiosity would not let me wait for his return. Instead, I reached for a pair of scissors and opened the box.

Fresh tears poured from my eyes as soon as I saw what was inside. Three albums containing all my baby photos stared back at me. Crying harder, I flipped through each one, noting my birth certificate, first lock of hair, birth announcement. My hand involuntarily found my mouth and covered it, stifling a wail. There was no explanatory note enclosed. I reached for the phone to call Rachel and told her, in a rush, what had happened. I was still on the phone when Gary arrived home, his meeting having ended unexpectedly early. He saw my face and the excess of tears still coursing down my cheeks. I motioned for him to look in the box on the counter.

Gary studied the contents before reaching into the bottom and retrieving a manila envelope. He opened it and pulled out a legal-looking document. After flipping through it, his face turned ashen. He looked at me and mouthed the words. “Get off the phone.”

Inside the envelope was a copy of my parent’s trust. Most estate planners strongly recommend that wealthy families create a trust to avoid heavy inheritance taxes, and my father had gone to an attorney to have one drawn up soon after he became HIV positive. His total estate was worth a few million dollars, and, over the years, my mother had talked about the way it would be distributed. She alternated between swearing she wouldn’t leave anything to Laura and grudgingly telling me, “Daddy wants her to have something.” The last I heard, Laura and I were each to receive a small, but significant, sum when he died. Where my mother would direct the rest when she died was anyone’s guess.

The first pages of the trust contained the usual legalese, and I was familiar with its standard layout. Gary, having a significant estate himself, had his trust amended just before we were married to add me as co-trustee. I knew the distribution pages came last and flipped to the back of the document. An amendment had been attached stating that, upon my father’s death, all proceeds passed to my mother Deanna. Given the turbulent relationship she had with both her daughters, I wasn’t surprised to find there would be no distribution at this time.

But there was another amendment to the trust dated December 23, 1999, just after my father was released from the hospital for the last time and sent home to die. The amendment, signed by both my mother and my father, stated that, upon my mother’s death, a sum of $10,000 would be distributed to their daughter Gilena, with the balance of the estate distributed to their daughter Laura.

Shock does not completely describe what I felt at that moment. That my mother was leaving nearly all of the estate to my sister was one thing. That she had gone to an attorney to have the amendment drawn up during my father’s final days on earth was another. That she chose to send a copy of it along with my baby photos was yet another. That the box arrived on my doorstep two years to the day that my late husband died was altogether the cruelest act I could imagine. At that moment, I knew I no longer had a mother.

I called Dr. Turner to see if she had an available appointment that afternoon. She told me she was booked but, sensing the emotion in my voice, said that she had some time for a phone appointment and asked what was going on. In a flood of words, I told her about my happy time with Mackenzie despite the anniversary of Barry’s death, and how I had come home to find the box of my baby photos on the front porch, along with a copy of the amended trust. Dr. Turner audibly gasped. “Your mother is very ill,” she said. “But I was going to send her a Mother’s Day card…” “Well, you’re not now.”

I started to cry again, overcome by everything and unable to believe any of it. I couldn’t believe my mother, any mother, could be so heartless. What had I done to deserve this? Was I really so disposable to her? I asked Dr. Turner, “Do other mothers treat their daughters like this?” “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied. “Maybe not in the same way, but, in my profession, I see a lot of unhealthy behavior.” “Do the daughters keep talking to them?” “The sick ones do,” she said. “The sick ones do.”

I HAVE TO ADMIT I’m glad to have my baby photos. As Dr. Turner said, “They are very precious, and your mother doesn’t deserve to have them.” If only my mother knew it wasn’t the amended trust that had made me cry the hardest. It was the photos—all my baby photos—and the day on which she chose to send them to me.

My dear girlfriends were outraged on my behalf. Rachel, first to find out about the incident, told the other girls, and they rallied in support. Staci , mother of ten-year-old Alexandra, was shocked beyond belief. “I don’t care if my daughter were to rob a bank someday,” she said. “I will never, ever send her back her baby photos!” Tiffany, at a complete loss for what to say, just kept repeating, “Oh, Gilena. I’m so sorry.” Adella, in a total act of both passion and compassion, looked up my mother’s address in the phonebook and immediately sent her a letter.

Dear Deanna,

Hi. I hope that this letter finds you in good health and positive spirits. You don’t know me, but I was one of Barry Nelson’s good friends. It is through Barry that I had the opportunity to meet your daughter Gilena. Since Barry’s untimely passing, I have attached myself to Gilena’s side. I knew that Barry wanted me to take care of her. It has been two years. In those two years, Gilena has shown signs of mental exhaustion; she’s wailed and kicked and screamed. She’s been overly sensitive, she’s been hysterical, but she has NEVER been mean.

Yesterday was the anniversary of Barry’s death. Gilena was having a pretty rough day already, and then she returned home from taking Barry’s niece to the airport to find your package.

I am not writing to tell you that the contents of the package were inappropriate. I am not writing to find out why you have chosen to write her out of the trust. Those things do not concern me, and I could not possibly know what has transpired between the two of you in the last 30 years to warrant this. I am, however, writing to tell you that the timing of your package was UGLY-MEAN. The kind of UGLY-MEAN that is embarrassing.

I know that, on some level, you must worry about the traits that were passed on to you by your mother and which of those traits you will also pass along to your daughters. Please absolve yourself of any guilt. Do it now. You may have passed on some crazy traits to Gilena, but you did not pass along the MEAN trait.

As crazy as she can be sometimes, Gilena is kind and loving. Thank you for bringing her into this world. She has brought love and light and miracles to many people. Speaking on behalf of all her friends, we bless you and hope that you will pat yourself on the back for a job well done.

May God bring you peace.
Adella

MY POOR MOTHER. So misguided and angry. She reminds me of the lyrics to that Eagle’s song, “Already Gone:” “So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains and we never even know we have the key.” My mother locked herself up for good. If she could only have understood that I was never concerned about the money. All I ever wanted was a normal mother, a loving mother. She started out that way and did a pretty good job there for a while. What happened to her? What made her turn into such a vindictive person?

My mother will never know how happy my life has become. After all the pain I went through with my dysfunctional childhood and Barry’s death, everything is now falling into place. Gary and I just celebrated our one-year anniversary and are finishing construction on our dream house. And I’m expecting our first child this January.

Sometimes I still wish I could share all my joy with my mother. She lives so close. Every time we pass her street, I reflexively look toward her house and wonder how she is. I have flashbacks—glimpses really—of the good in her, her sense of humor, her love of gardening, her ability to teach. I know she would love taking walks with me through the neighborhood, sitting in on design meetings for our new house, and anticipating the baby’s arrival. After all, she was waiting for me to have children. This could be one of the happiest times in her life.

But then all the bad memories come crashing in, and I know I can’t change her, and I can’t have her in my life the way she is now. If only she could see how destructive she’s been. If only she hadn’t welded herself inside her pain. If only I could get through to her somehow. So many new beginnings she won’t be a part of.

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Posted 5 June, 2008 in 015 Chapter 15 (posted June 5 - 27 2008)

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
—Anonymous

GARY PICKED ME UP Friday night for our date. He had gotten dressed up, and I had dressed down (although it took five wardrobe changes for me to get just the right I’m-not-really-trying look). This was only fair—a reversal from our other “date,” which wasn’t really a date, when I had dressed up, and he had worn jeans.

The plan was to go to dinner and then a movie. I don’t even remember what movie we were planning on seeing. Probably What Dreams May Come, or something else in current release in the fall of 1998. But we never made it to the movies. We were having a really good time during dinner, and when we finished, he said, “You don’t really want to see a movie after this, do you?” And I said, “Not really.” And he said, “How about us going back to my house and continuing our conversation?”

So we did. Gary served me a sliced Fuji apple from one of his trees. Then he made us Cosmopolitans, and we took them out to the patio so I could smoke a cigarette. We were sitting at a beautiful table, and I complimented him on it. “Thanks,” he said. “Robyn and I bought it in Italy last summer and had it shipped back to Los Angeles. It got stuck in customs and took months to arrive. By that time, she was already sick again. She never got to eat at this table.”

I nodded with a widow’s understanding. “Someday, maybe I could bring over Barry’s and my wedding china. We never took it out of the box. It was supposed to be for special occasions. We could eat off the dishes Barry never got to eat off of on the table Robyn never got to sit at.” We looked at each other right then, tears streaming down our cheeks, and laughed a little laugh. “I bet if our friends were here…” “They’d be staring at us thinking we’d lost it for sure.” “They’d be calling for the men in the white coats to take us away.”

I finished my cigarette, and we went back inside and sat on his sofa. We talked and talked, and I asked him if it would be okay to call him from Hong Kong if I needed to. He said that I’d better. When we finally looked at the clock, it was very late. He suggested I sleep over. I assumed he meant in the guest room, but when I headed that way, he took my hand and led me down the hallway to his bedroom. We slept, curled against each other like two sleeping mice.

When I was little, I saw mice sleeping all curled up like that in the pet store near my house. Then, one day, a little boy came in, and he and the store clerk walked over to the sleeping mice. “How many do you want?” the clerk asked the boy. “Well, my snake eats about two a week,” the boy answered. I watched, horrified, as the clerk reached in and randomly plucked two mice from their innocent slumber.

That’s how Gary and I felt when our spouses died. First they were there, then they weren’t—as if God had reached down as we slept and plucked them away. In the morning, I told Gary my story about the mice.

Although I was leaving for Hong Kong on Sunday and had a million things to do, I had a really hard time saying goodbye to Gary in the morning. He had a birthday party to go to that night, but called later and asked if he could stop by afterward. We slept again Saturday night like two little mice, and in the morning, he drove me to the airport in his slept-in clothes.

We were early, so we stopped for coffee at the Starbuck’s in the airport. Amazingly, we talked about marriage and kids. (Kids!) It was, of course, couched in terms such as, “If I were to get married again, I wouldn’t want to wait a long time…” Robyn had never wanted any children, but it was clear Gary always had. We sat on the plastic chairs facing the boarding gate and held hands. Strangers probably thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and certainly no one could have imagined the losses we shared.

Having confirmed my business-class seat, I boarded the plane as late as I could. We hugged for a long time, and I turned around to wave as I entered the doorway. Gary stood there in his rumpled shirt, hands shoved in his pockets, smiling a smile big enough for both of us.

OCTOBER 18, 1998
DEAR ROBYN,

I JUST REREAD MY ENTRY from the 14th. What a difference a few days can make! I am feeling better, in many ways, and it has a lot to do with Gilena. She has really affected me. She is a lot like you in a lot of ways—intelligent, fun, considerate, funny—and also completely different.

I also feel like I am getting some kind of message from you. I keep feeling you saying, “It’s a good thing.” Like when I was out walking tonight, and I looked up at your star. I thought about how I have been feeling, ran through the emotions without even attaching words to them, and I got back something good. It was a new feeling of calm and correctness.

She is approaching this more rationally than I am. You know how I would analyze things to death, but all big decisions would come from the gut? Here, I feel I have to go with my heart. Her heart may not be in it to the same extent, but mine is, well…pretty far along.

She says I should date at least ten other women to get more experience, or something. She (and her friends) is afraid I might be damaged goods, or that she could be the “rebound girl,” or just that I need more time to get over a relationship of 20 years.

On the other hand, your oncologist, Dr. Oberman, told me that in her experience, the surviving spouses from the marriages she perceived to be the closest and strongest and most loving are often the ones who find another love the soonest—surprising themselves and certainly those around them, in many cases. I had already met Gilena and was already thinking about her when Dr. Oberman told me this, so maybe I am just hearing what I want to hear. Then I heard on the news that Sonny Bono’s wife is getting remarried only 10½ months after his death. Maybe, again, it’s just what I want to believe, but I thought what the news anchor doesn’t know is that this probably means she was really in love with Sonny. All that from one little comment by Dr. Oberman! It’s a little too much emphasis on one small comment, isn’t it?

Gilena slept over here on Friday night, in our bed. It felt right. I don’t think it would have, if I didn’t care for her so much. I am right on the verge of thinking I love her, but it is too soon to know for sure. What do you think? Right now, I don’t feel any feedback from you. Maybe the whole subject is bothering you.

Gilena took me to my first yoga class last week, and I went alone this week because she is on her way to Korea, Hong Kong, and China for business. All by herself! Now that is something you never would have done! You proved to be so strong and so courageous during the bouts of illness, but before, you liked the comfort of proven things and places.

I think Gilena’s trip sounds exciting, but I think she will miss me now. (I hope.) Maybe I shouldn’t hope, because although missing someone is a good thing, an indication of love or maybe a precursor, it is also painful. Why does so much in life have to be mixed up like that?

Why can’t I look at photos of you or think of the good times without missing you so much that I can’t stand the pain, so that I break down crying and have to think about something else? We had a lot of good times. Really good times, filled with the best that life has to offer—filled with love.

It actually helps me to talk to Gilena about all this. She understands. I mean, she’s there herself. So when I talk to her, sometimes I tell her about our past, about the good times, and it feels like a good thing, because the past helped make me who I am now—a good person. You and I grew together so much.

When I looked up at your star tonight, I thanked you (but I guess you already know this) for leaving me in such good shape. I am still capable of loving. I am intact. Torn, bleeding internally, but on the mend and, perhaps, discovering new strengths.

I love you, Robyn. I always will. Watch over me, okay? Feel free to keep giving me more signs. They definitely feel like they are leading me in the right direction. Time for bed again, my love. Good night.

Gary

I swear they’re out there, I swear. Maybe angels.
—Sheryl Crow, “Maybe Angels”

GARY TOOK ME TO SAN FRANCISCO just after Christmas. One morning, we hiked to the top of Green Street and turned left, climbing to a park overlooking the Palace of Fine Arts and the entire San Francisco Bay. Still a little out of breath, Gary dropped to one knee and
handed me a wax-sealed envelope containing a poem.

A New Story

I wanted to write you poetry
To match my feelings
With your beauty
Soaring words to show
The depth of my desire

I wanted to sing you a song
With lyrics to express
A melody to impress
Planting its hook deep in your heart
My artistry undeniable

But I am not an artist
I do not have the skills
To paint your picture with mine

But I can build us a house
Where we can live
I can plant us a garden
To be our sanctuary
I can love you like no other
Be best friends and lovers

Are you willing
To listen to the rain with me
Pay the bills with me
Sweat the details
Feel the cool night air
See the lights of the city
Share our fears
Shed our tears
Err on the side of Togetherness
Plant the flowers
Pull the weeds
Hire the pool man
Clean up after parties
Hold each other whenever needed
Need each other above all others
Learn to love each other’s friends
(Most of them anyway)
Take a vacation
Look for lost stuff

Love like few have ever known
Set an example
Make mistakes
Make a grocery list
Buy a new car
Clean up broken glass
Forgive easily
Start all over again once in a while

Wonder is it a girl or a boy with me
(Maybe a couple of times)
Deal with things as well as we can
Watch my hair turn gray
Plan our daughter’s wedding day

Can I be your partner
And will you be mine
Can we sit back
And watch the sun shine
Write each other long poems
With no meter or rhyme

Can we share it all
The good and the bad
The wins and the losses
Happiness and sadness
Sickness and health
Pain and joy

Can we each be a part of each other’s life?
Can I be your husband?
Will you be my wife?

With tears in my eyes, I hugged him tightly and whispered into his ear, “Of course.” Joggers on the fitness trail clapped in honor of the love displayed before them. An elderly couple approached, mistaking us for first-timers. “Congratulations!” they said. “We’ve been married 40 years now. You’ll love being married. We do.”

PEOPLE ASKED ME (or maybe I asked myself) how I could be so ready to love again, so soon after such trauma. I like to think of it much the same as a woman who, after experiencing excruciating birthing pains, forgets the depth of her agony and remembers only the high of pure love when she sees her infant for the first time. Soon after, she is ready to go through it again, knowing full well how loudly she’ll scream when a new little head crowns between her legs.

How could I not wish for the pleasure of love again? The pain of loss pales against the consequence of joy derived from loving another. Besides, I have to believe God had a hand in this. How else were two grieving people able to stop crying long enough to rediscover Life?

And what about all the little signs? Sloan Drive. The octopus painting. Is it a coincidence that Barry rhymes with Gary or that his last name—Simons—is almost the same as the English boyfriend I had been obsessed with finding? And the real kicker, which we just discovered, is that Gary’s sister Judy and Barry’s sister, Karen, knew each other in college; they used to have coffee together before class. These can’t all be coincidences, can they? They’re too much like signposts lighting the way: “Hey, you two. Over here…” Even if they are all coincidences, don’t tell me. I prefer to believe.

AFTER GARY’S PROPOSAL, I expected to be blissfully happy, basking in the glow of all that was good. But it wasn’t entirely blissful. Sure, I quit my job at Applause even before the wedding, and, aside from planning the event and managing the household, I led a life of leisure: eyebrow-shaping appointments, bikini waxes, manicure and pedicure appointments. All that and yoga classes in the middle of the day!
But I got sick a lot at first. Nothing life-threatening: backaches, migraines, bladder infections, cold sores, even a root canal. My happiness was laced with a heavy dose of guilt. Here I was, alive and happy, and Barry was…

A memory kept flashing through my mind: I was working late one night, and I came home to find Barry and his boss Jamie on the back patio smoking cigars and drinking Scotch. Barry’s raise had come through, and it was the biggest in Prudential’s history: 37% above his current salary. He would now be making $1,000 a year more than me. I hugged and kissed him, and then turned to Jamie and said, “Now double it, so I can stay home and have babies.” That’s what I said ten days before he died. He dies, and I get to stay home and have babies. How could I be happy about that? No wonder my body was acting out.

It wasn’t as if everyone was happy for us. Robyn’s friends in particular made it clear they hoped their husbands would “wait longer” than Gary did to find new love should they die, as if there was some death etiquette timeline to follow. And although Barry’s parents told me they expected me to go on, they too were a little shocked by how quickly love showed up at my door.

So I went to dinner with Andrea, and she did her best to help me sort through my feelings and understand everything that was going on. She asked me to imagine if all this had happened to her. She asked me if I would want her to be happy. Of course I said yes. She saw that I was finally getting some relief from all that I’d been through, and she just wanted me to be happy. She told me that she also wants to get married one day and quit work, but because she sees me so sad and sick all the time, she wonders if it’s all it’s cracked up to be. I gently reminded her that it will be easier for her because she won’t have a dead husband to feel guilty about. She then suggested I write Barry to ask his permission to be happy.

It had been a long time since I’d reached out to Barry and, frankly, I didn’t know if he was “there” anymore. I put on Odelay, his favorite Beck CD, and “Lord Only Knows” began to play:

‘Cause Lord only knows it’s getting late
Your senses are gone, so don’t you hesitate
Give yourself a call
Let your bottom dollar swallow
Throwin’ your two-bit cares down the drain.

Barry? Is that you? Did you mean those lyrics for me? Are you happy? Am I allowed to be happy? I’d like to believe that you had it right with your tremendous efforts to stay in the Now and be as happy as possible. I learned so much from you. I am so grateful to you. I’m even grateful to you for dying, and that’s what makes me feel so bad.

See, I’ve changed since you’ve gone. I’m not as crabby anymore. I’m patient in traffic and in lines at the post office. I’m nicer to people. I’m even nicer when I’m really hungry. I have better friendships. I don’t fight all the time. I say I’m sorry more often. I don’t have to be right. I can be vulnerable. This is all because of you. Because you existed, and because you died. Because you died, it’s okay to be thirty. It’s okay that my hair is turning gray. It’s okay that someone cut me off on the freeway. Because I’m alive and unhurt.

I bless people. I meditate. I breathe. I am so thankful to you, and I have trouble being truly happy, truly peaceful. Does this make sense? I’ve gotten everything I’ve always wanted, and I love my new fiancé fiercely, but I’m scared this might all be temporary. Is this my lesson?

Maybe it is. Maybe I have to live with all of this as well as with the fear that it could all go away. I have to, once again, “make the pain my friend.” I have to stay truly unattached. I have to believe I am connected to Source and trust that Source knows what’s best for me. Is that the lesson? If it is, it’s a double black diamond, like the warning signs on those killer slopes in Tahoe. It’s hard work believing I’ll be okay, even if all this were to go away, too. Even if the nightmare was to happen again.

Can all this last? I never thought life with you would end. Can I be naïve enough to think that this will be permanent? I struggle with this on a daily basis. To live in this world but not be of it.

I’ll make you a deal. I’m willing to be happy today, if you promise that whatever happens, I’ll be okay. You see, I couldn’t imagine a better life than ours, but now I find I can’t imagine a better life than this one. I’ll live it as harmlessly as possible. I’ll hopefully shepherd some new souls through childhood on earth. I will practice loving kindness, be generous and grateful. I will do all this in honor of you and trusting that you are a partner forever. I will be happy for you and for me—for both of us.

Don’t be a stranger. I still think about you around thirty-five times a day. Stay in touch. I like the signs.

AFTER I WROTE THAT LETTER, I did begin to feel happier. I began to accept the love Gary showered upon me each day, and I told myself I deserved every ounce of happiness I could find. The only dark cloud that remained on my flawless horizon was my relationship with my mother.

I hadn’t spoken to her since that day at the Mazda dealership, two weeks before Gary and I had even met, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to resuscitate our relationship. Over the years, she and I had made up so many times, I always assumed we’d see each other again; it was just a matter of when. And I knew what it would take. She’d expect me to apologize and tell her how sorry I was for hurting her, how life without her just wasn’t the same—but I just couldn’t do it this time.

Sure, life wasn’t the same without her, and there were times when I missed being able to call her up, missed having my mother in my life. On the other hand, I had to admit I enjoyed not feeling like I was in trouble all the time. Life without her was also life without guilt and acrimony.

Still, in the face of all the dramatic changes in my life, I felt I should at least make her aware of what was going on. I wanted to tell her about Gary and about our plans. I wanted to tell her that she would have grandchildren someday soon after all, but every time I thought about picking up the phone or sitting across from her in a restaurant, my hands started to shake. I felt nauseous when I remembered the scene she had made at Houston’s a year and a half ago. I didn’t want to go through that again.

Instead, I decided on a letter, revised several times to make sure the message was as benign and loving as possible. I had bought her Christmas presents in Hong Kong in anticipation of some sort of reunion before the holidays —ever the optimist I am—but it hadn’t happened and I dropped them off on her porch with the letter.

January 1, 1999
Dear Mom,

A lot has happened in my life over the past few months. I met a wonderful man named Gary Simons. We met at a widow/widower support group. He lost his wife to breast cancer last June. They were married for fifteen years and had known each other for twenty. He’s thirty-eight years old.

Knowing him has been very healing in many ways. We’ve gotten to know each other very well, very quickly, mostly from talking about our spouses and how much we love them. He is very dear, sweet, and kind, and I love him very much.

On December 27th, in San Francisco, he asked me to marry him. I said yes. We’re planning our wedding for August or September. Although Gary’s late wife Robyn never wanted children, he does very much, and we are planning on at least two. To the outside world, this may all seem sudden, but to us, it feels very natural and very right.

I think our time apart has been beneficial. I’m not sure when I will be able to resume our relationship, but please know that I send you sincere thoughts of love and peace.

Your daughter,
Gilena

I didn’t hear from her for several weeks. Then one day, I came home to find a card in the mail. I recognized her handwriting on the envelope. Inside was a greeting card with a beautiful lacey heart on the front with two doves, wings intertwined. Inside, the printed greeting read, “Congratulations on your engagement and best wishes for all the joyful days ahead!” Underneath, my mother had added: “Thank you for the gifts and your letter. It seems we are in agreement about our time apart being beneficial. Let us have no more contact. Wishing the best for you in everything.”

The card fell from my hands as the color drained from my face. That night, I showed it to Gary. He couldn’t believe it and suddenly understood my reluctance in arranging an introduction. I took the card with me to my next therapy appointment. Dr. Turner studied the card for several minutes, rereading the inscription to herself a few times before looking up at me. “Well,” she said, “You’re mother is proving how unwell she is.”

Nevertheless, I struggled with whether or not to invite her to the wedding, I knew if I didn’t, she’d be madder still and reconnecting with her later would be even more difficult. Although I felt no obligation to invite Laura and was fully reconciled to the fact that she and I would never be close, I was haunted by images of my mother alone in her house, hoping I’d call to release her from her self-imposed exile. What would happen when Gary and I were ready to start our family? She always told me how much she wanted grandchildren. I couldn’t not invite her. She would be so mad. I was overcome with guilt, but Dr. Turner was adamant. I was not to invite her. In fact, I was to call up my father and make sure he wasn’t going to bring her as a surprise guest.

“Really?” I said, unsure of my strength to set such harsh, yet necessary, boundaries. “How many times has she made a scene in public?” I thought about the Mother’s Day lunch, the dinner at Houston’s, the Mazda dealership. “Three,” I said. “And you want to take a chance on your wedding day? After all you’ve been through? After what she did when you and Barry were married? No. She doesn’t get another chance.” Empowered with the advice of a paid professional, I brought it up with my father the Sunday after the invitations went out.

When I sold my house in Canoga Park that January and moved in with Gary, my father didn’t hesitate to remind me that I still owed him the balance of the $7,000 he felt was rightly his, which he had graciously suspended after Barry died. He knew I had broken even and may have made a profit from the sale of the house. Now that I was planning on marrying Gary and my life seemed to be back on track, he felt I no longer warranted a financial or emotional grace period. I wrote him a check for the full amount as soon as escrow closed, and he cashed it within two business days. Gary couldn’t believe my father had asked for the money in the first place. He couldn’t believe my father hadn’t forgiven me the “debt” and ripped up my check upon receipt, considering all that I’d been through. But I knew if I didn’t pay him in full, my dad would never forget it, and things would feel unsettled between us. When it came down to it, he was all I had left in terms of a biological family.

I had continued to call my dad weekly, but we rarely talked about anything deeper than the weather or what old movie was on TV that night. We never discussed my mother or my sister or anything to do with either of them. He’d tell me about his latest trip to the doctor’s office, what kind of medication he was on, and how low his T-cell count had dropped. He’d tell me about his upcoming cruises, which he now went on alone, and sometimes he’d tell me how well his business was doing, especially if it was a good month, and he’d made a lot of money. Anytime I tried to tell him about Gary or what was happening in my life, he’d grow quiet and then make sounds like he wanted to get off the phone.

In June, Gary and I invited him to go to dinner, and he met us at the barbecue restaurant looking frailer and thinner than I’d ever seen him. He’d let his beard grow in to hide how skeletal his jawline had become and no longer wore contacts, so his eyes looked huge behind his thick, heavy glasses. He was polite and personable, joking with us and with the waiter. Overall, it was a pleasant evening.

After I was certain he’d received our wedding invitation, I called to make sure he understood that only he had been invited. “Are you going to come to our wedding? We really want you there,” I said. “Oh, honey, I don’t know if I’ll feel up to it. Can I let you know later?” “Sure Dad…there’s just one thing.” I paused before going on. “Mom’s not invited.” “I figured on that,” he said. “You just have to know, you’re not the only one who’s mad.” I could hear a little anger creep into his voice.

I’ll always wish I would have asked him what he meant by that, but at the time, I really didn’t want to upset him. I knew his loyalty lay with my mother. It always had, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what it was that she had convinced him to be mad about. “Well,” I said, remembering what Dr. Turner had encouraged me to say. “We really want you there, but if you can’t make it, we’ll understand.”

INSTEAD OF A TRADITIONAL BACHELORETTE PARTY, the girls threw me a “Goddess Weekend” a week before the wedding, complete with bartender, manicurist, and masseuse. As I lounged around in the pool with the women who were closest to me, sipping blended drinks in between bouts of pampering, I thought about all I’d experienced in the past year and a half and felt infinitely grateful. I was so appreciative that Life saw fit to rescue me from so much pain so quickly. It was as if I had been drowning in a sea of agony and despair, and Gary showed up in a life raft to save me. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could have survived and was happy I’d never have to find out.

Gary and I were married on August 29, 1999 at the Hotel Bel Air in Beverly Hills. It was a beautiful, perfect evening, and everything went smoothly from start to finish. Tiffany and Rachel were bridesmaids again, along with Staci and Adella. At the reception, the centerpieces on all the tables were potted orchids that looked a lot like the one Gary had sent me in Hong Kong. The band was great, and the food was delicious. It felt so good to be surrounded by such wonderful friends and Gary’s loving family.

And although it wasn’t emotionally easy considering he had watched Barry and I marry just over two years before, Barry’s dad Bill attended the ceremony, wanting to show his support. Jackie really wanted to be there as well, but didn’t feel up to it, so Bill made it clear that he was representing both of them. Karen was there, too, and stayed for the reception. Their presence meant so much to me, given that no one from my family was there. In fact, the only time I cried was when the photographer looked over at me after taking all the groom’s family pictures and asked, “And the bride’s family?” “There is none,” I said, shaking my head and looking away to hide my tears.

Yet it was hard to dwell on my family’s absence given that, once again, I was marrying an incredibly loving man with no doubts or any sign of cold feet. I thought back to Mackenzie’s innocent question about when I would marry again and said to myself, “God must want me to now.” It really seemed as if we belonged together, that somehow Barry and Robyn had arranged our marriage in heaven. Who were we to question Life? We considered ourselves the luckiest unlucky people in the world.

The day after the wedding, we left for our honeymoon. Gary and I spent a week in London and a week in Spain before traveling to France, where we stayed for a month in Provence. We rented a little cottage in the middle of nothing but vineyards. We spent our last few days in Paris, but after six and a half weeks, we were ready to come home.

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Posted 5 May, 2008 in 014 Chapter 14 (posted 5 May - 2 June 2008)

SEPTEMBER 28, 1998
I WOKE UP CRYING TODAY. I hate that. Plus, I didn’t feel I could function at work so called in sick. Rachel rescued me around 9:00 a.m. and took me hiking in the most amazing place in Topanga Canyon. We had lunch at the Inn at the Seventh Ray, and I really enjoyed it. But by the time she dropped me off at home, I was back in the depths. Why? Maybe because I have to go to the widows’ group tonight. My second meeting. Now there’s a cheery group…

I found a parking spot across the street, right in front of a wedding-dress shop. I had a mind to go in there and tell them my story. Yell at them for presenting white wedding dreams directly across from where a bunch of widowed people get together and cry every other Tuesday. Lucky for them, they’re closed.

We took our seats. I’m always amazed at how people are creatures of habit. We were all pretty much sitting in the same seats as last time. Some were crying openly, some merely holding it together. One of the moderators passed out a sheet with our phone numbers on it. We were encouraged to call each other between meetings, a sort of buddy system. Great. Just what I want—a bereavement buddy. There’s only one phone number with a Valley prefix, and it’s one of the Garys. Damn these Westsiders. If I’m ever in trouble, I’ll have to pay for my call. I scan the room, attempting to put names with faces.

One woman began talking about how other people are always fascinated with the final moments we share with our spouses. They always want to know what divine revelations were unveiled in their final moments. Her husband had died of a heart attack in his sleep. They had been watching television in bed and, to the best of her knowledge, his final words were, “Honey, can you pass me the remote?”

I thought back to when Barry woke me at 1:30 in the morning, scared and anxious. I wonder if he knew what was going on, knew his body was giving out on him permanently. I hope he never did, that he slipped into semi-consciousness believing he would be able to talk to me again.
The Gary who came in late last time talked about how meaningless his life is now without his wife. He’s thinking about selling his business and moving to France. He would work at some vineyard somewhere and scatter her ashes in the Loire Valley where they had vacationed before her cancer came back for good. The rest of us nodded in understanding, and someone talked about how many bittersweet memories her house now holds.

At 9:00 p.m., we began to file out. As we headed for the elevators, I noticed that the Gary standing in front of me, the vineyard Gary, is the one who lives in the Valley. This was his second meeting, too, and he seemed just as broken up as he did in our first meeting. I handed him my business card and mumbled something about being in the same area code. He politely took my card.

OCTOBER 1, 1998
IT’S 5:45 IN THE MORNING, and I’m ready for work. I can’t sleep anymore, so I’ll go in at the crack of dawn and work and work and impress everyone with my fine attitude and strong management skills. My Bear In the Big Blue House presentation is due today. Okay, gotta go. Bye…

I got home around 5:00 p.m., pulled on my sweats, did a quick set of pushups (I’m up to three sets of 25) and sit-ups (300), and headed out for my run. I focused on the trees lining the sidewalk and really looked at my surroundings as if I’d never seen them before. I do this a lot now. I do it so I won’t think about the pain in my heart or, for that matter, in my right shin.

I crossed the street at Nita Avenue and, all of a sudden, a blue Celica came barreling toward me. The driver, a heavyset woman, slammed on her breaks, leaned out the window, and yelled, “Fuck you!” or “Get the fuck out of the way!” or something loud involving the F-word, before angrily turning the corner and zooming off. As if I wasn’t already just barely hanging on…I mean, if she only knew…“Fuck you, too, you fat bitch!”

I was horrified at my behavior. I looked around to see if anyone had heard me. Months of spiritual growth and meditation shot to hell! The anger at having to be extra spiritual in the first place, in order to cope with so much pain, spilled forth, pissing me off. I kept running as the tears blinded my sight. I didn’t even see the upheaval of cement where the tree roots had pushed through. My toe caught it, and I went down hard, a sharp burst of pain engulfing my knee. My sweatpants were torn, and my knee was bleeding. “God damn it, Barry! Why, oh why, oh why did you leave me here? I didn’t want you to go! I didn’t want you to leave me!” I yelled all of this out loud, and not at all quietly, as I limped home.

When I reached the house, I was in the middle of a full-fledged emotional breakdown—my second one today. Names of friends I could call for help ran through my head, names I quickly rejected. I’d already called them all (or most of them) today. I was supposed to be getting better. I had taken thirty fucking days off from work. I was in therapy and group counseling. But I felt beyond help, yet not ready to share that fact with my friends, lest I shatter their hopes that I am healing. I reached for the list of names from my bereavement group. I dialed the home phone number for Gary Simons, the guy in my area code.

“Hello?” “Why did he have to die?” I wailed. “I can’t believe it really happened. And at the same time, I wonder if he was ever really here. I mean, I had a husband, didn’t I? I know I did. I’m not making this up. I was his wife, and we had a house, and we loved each other. Where did he go?” “God. You sound like me, speaking in a female voice.” His simple validation calmed me down. This is someone who knows what it’s like, a fellow soldier fighting the same war.

We ended up talking for over three hours about everything from what our spouse’s favorite movie was, to how we met them, to how they died. He told me how much he missed picking out CDs with his wife, Robyn, before taking a drive up the coast to Santa Barbara or Carmel. I told him how my husband would come home every day and kiss me, first thing. Both Gary and I were the same ages as our spouses, and both wives (Robyn and I) were older than our husbands by a few months. We cried and laughed and cried some more. And although our experiences were vastly different in the length of time we had with our spouses before they died, we were both in shock when it happened.

We talked about how there will always be a “before” and an “after,” as in, “That movie came out before s/he died; that one came out after.” Also, about how there will always be a lot of “lasts” and “firsts,” as in, “The last time we went to…” and “The fist time I went to Virginia alone…” We told each other about our favorite memories, and I was struck by how similar our interests as couples were; we would have made a great double date. We talked about music and about how much Barry and Robyn both loved the Beatles. We talked about how hearing certain songs could make us burst into tears. We talked about finding love again, although I suppose it was mostly me talking, since he was convinced he could never love again. He had met Robyn when they were both eighteen, married five years later at twenty-three, and had been married almost fifteen years when she died of breast cancer in June.

Gary asked me if I was afraid to date again. “Not afraid, exactly,” I said. “More like frustrated that I have to date at all. I mean, Barry was the one, you know? I had hung up my dating shoes for good. At least I thought it was for good. Still, this time will be easier.”

“How’s that?” “Well, it’s like waterskiing,” I said. “Before you learn to ski, you don’t know what it will feel like to be pulled behind the boat. There are more and less favorable conditions that determine when you will have a better or worse chance to get up on that ski. Before you get the hang of it, you take every chance, and sometimes you take a really bad fall. But once you’ve skied successfully, you know what it feels like, so you don’t try to get up on the ski every time that boat pulls away. You wait for certain conditions, a certain feeling in your bones that lets you know you’ll have a good chance of getting up and skiing. I think dating will be a little like that now. I know what it feels like to fall in love. I don’t think I’ll spend much time with the ones who don’t make me feel as if it would work out. It makes the whole process easier if you can weed them out quickly.” “You’ve got this all worked out, don’t you.” “I wish I didn’t have to.”

OCTOBER 3, 1998
THE GRAND OPENING OF RACHEL’S new business is tonight. I’m so proud of her, and I really want to go, but I’m not sure if I’m entirely up to meeting Bert, the latest guy who gets to go out with the widow. Rachel met him at the hardware store down the street while buying a clock for her fitness studio. She thought he was pretty cute but only thought about fixing him up with me after she found out that he owns the hardware store. He’s supposed to be there tonight, this Bert…

I really miss just staying home with Barry. Or going out with Barry. I guess the Barry part of it is key. It’s hard mustering up a look that says I’m having a good time, while I’m secretly jealous of every married woman with a living husband and every single woman without a dead one. Maybe that guy at the Peninsula Hotel was right. Maybe dating a widow is morbid. It can certainly take the fun out of an evening. When exactly do you bring it up? Plus, I feel like I’m being monitored. Either I’m having too much fun to be truly grieving, or I’m not yet over my pain. The whole topic definitely casts a shadow across an evening.

That’s why I think hanging out with Gary would be good for me. He knows the pain never goes away, but that there are moments when laughter is appropriate, even for the widowed. I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about talking too much about Barry and if that would hurt Gary’s feelings.

I got home from Rachel’s opening around 11:00 p.m. Luckily, Bert was a no-show. Rachel’s rescheduling for us, and I’m too tired to complain. Gary called me last night to see how I was doing. He’s such a husband. Neither one of us wants to be unmarried.

OCTOBER 6, 1998
WORK WAS A BREEZE TODAY, for some reason. I do believe my thirty days off has made me stronger. And guess what? I’m going to Hong Kong! For two weeks…

Jonathan stopped me in the hallway to make sure I was feeling up to the trip. That would be Jonathan Mather, President of Applause. He feels a real connection to me because his father died when he was eight; his mother, only thirty-eight at the time, had never remarried. He remembers her pain. Maybe that’s why he offered me a business-class upgrade certificate. Everyone in the office who’s been to Hong Kong says flying coach for fifteen hours is a bitch. Widowhood has to be good for something, I guess. Even if it’s just a pity upgrade.

I’m going to Korea first to check on samples for my new Bear in the Big Blue House line. We’re talking about product that management wants to release by next June—and it’s already October. It’s still in the sampling stage, so if I can approve it in person, we can shorten the time to market. Then I’ll be in Hong Kong for ten days. I may go to China the last two days, so I can check on our Teletubby product for Dee Dee. It’s her brand, but obviously the more I do while I’m there, the better.

The fact that management thinks I’m up to this is a real confidence booster. It’s certain to take my mind off things. I’ll be so distracted by all of Asia that I won’t be able to concentrate so much on everything that’s happened. And maybe I can get some reading done on the plane. It will take fifteen hours or so to get to Korea. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much uninterrupted time in my life.

When I spoke with my dad last Sunday, he told me I should tell my mom I’m leaving the country. We still talk once a week, but only because I call him. I told him I couldn’t speak to her right now, but that I’d send her a note. Ever the dutiful daughter.

Gary left a message on my voicemail. I called him back and asked if he’d go chair shopping with me on Saturday. I kind of know which one I want at Restoration Hardware, but it’s so hard choosing furniture alone. He’ll be good moral support.

OCTOBER 6, 1998
DEAR ROBYN,

I’VE SPOKEN TO A YOUNG WOMAN (Is it okay to call a 29-year-old a “girl,” or is that sexist rather than complimentary?) from my bereavement group a couple of times. She lost her husband in April, before you had gone. It’s nice to talk to her, but I think that she may be “attracted” to me. Not necessarily to me, but to the idea of a good, sensitive man, which I probably am. I really don’t know why I am analyzing all this, maybe it’s just me. I am so unused to the idea, and I am uncomfortable with it. I would like a friend, but what if she wants more? What if I am attracted to her? I don’t know how to deal with such things. I never put myself in a position to have to deal with them in the last twenty
years, and if I ever felt someone could be attracted to me, I had the comfort of having the perfect excuse—a life-long love, a happy marriage, a wife, a partner, a best friend, you.

Is the fact that I’m still here without you in itself a betrayal? Am I a “coward” to keep going on, rather than “strong” as everyone seems to want to describe me? I have no answers.

I just love you.
Gary

OCTOBER 9, 1998
GARY AND I WENT TO DINNER tonight at that Italian place on Ventura Boulevard, Il Teatro. It wasn’t a date or anything. Just two widowed people sharing a meal…

The phone rang as I was headed out the door for my run. I almost didn’t answer it but thought it might be Tiff telling me what time to expect her tonight. It was Gary. We had spoken again at work today, and I told him to call me if he wanted to have dinner or something, but he was very noncommittal, and I assumed that meant no. “Still free for dinner?” he asked. I considered my intended dinner, a sandwich left over from lunch, lounging in its mayo in the fridge. “Sure,” I said, “but I’m headed out for my run. Can I call you when I get back?” “No problem.”

I practically skipped the whole three miles around my neighborhood. Why did I feel so giddy? It’s not like we were going on a date or anything. Still, I had trouble deciding what to wear for my non-date. Tiffany arrived just in time to approve my burgundy-sweater-and-black-pants combo. I apologized to her for this sudden change in plans, but she waved me away saying there was plenty of time to talk when I got back.

The doorbell rang, and there was Gary in blue jeans and a T-shirt. He obviously hadn’t fretted about what to wear. I felt overdressed, and my face felt hot. “Did you find the house okay?” I asked as he opened the door on the passenger side of his black Porsche. “I went to the elementary school next door to you when I was little,” he said.

We drove to the restaurant in near silence. He seemed down, and I asked if he wanted to talk about it during dinner. He told me about Robyn’s first illness, her recovery, their hope that the worst was over, and her heartbreaking relapse. He told me in great detail about her final hours; his description of the hospital room and equipment was so vivid, it seemed he was reliving it all as we spoke. I thought that if it was this painful for me to hear, I couldn’t imagine what Gary had felt when it happened. I also thought it was a good thing he had no plans to date. No other woman would be able to sit and listen to his story without running, screaming, from the restaurant.

It became obvious that Gary had replayed Robyn’s final moments over and over in his head, like a giant video loop. I became an expert on hospital procedure during the dying days of a breast-cancer patient. It was heart wrenching. Barry had only been in the hospital a total of ninety-six hours—four quick days from diagnosis of any problem to the end of his life. Robyn had been sick on and off for nearly four years.

Some part of me knew that Gary had to get it all out, had to tell me so I could know the depth of his sorrow. I breathed deeply as he neared the end of his story, hoping he wouldn’t need to retell it anytime soon.

October 9, 1998
Dear Robyn,

You were the love of my life. Does that mean there will never, or should never, be another? Does that mean the next, were there to be one, would not be as strong and pure and good? Or does it mean I deluded myself? That, in fact, you were just the love of my life so far? I don’t know and don’t even know why I wonder, except that everything confuses me now. Maybe I am starting to visit the issue of the guilt I know I will feel if I am to be “with” someone else.

I love you, and I always will.
Gary

OCTOBER 10, 1998
GARY JUST LEFT. He was on his way to his sister Lynn’s house to spend time with his niece Torie and nephew Hunter at a neighborhood party. He has three sisters and a brother, and he’s very close with all of them. Lynn lives in Hidden Hills, less than a mile from his house…

I wondered if he’d even want to spend the day with me today, after our impromptu dinner last night. But then again, the social calendar of the widowed is rarely booked.

When he got to my house, I was in the back, sanding down the steel dresser I had picked up for three hundred bucks at the Pasadena Swap Meet. We went to Restoration Hardware, and he tried out the chair I liked, actually moved the price tent and sat down. He rested his legs on the ottoman and looked very comfortable. This was helpful as I was worried the chair might be too small for a man, should I someday have a man in my life again. Unfortunately, they were out of stock, so I had to order one; it won’t arrive until after my return from Asia.

When we got back to my house, we stood in the front yard for a long time saying goodbye. Every time he was about to leave, we would end up starting a new conversation. He told me about the time he and his brother-in-law went to racing school in Napa Valley. “Wasn’t Robyn scared when you were speeding around those laps?” “Nah, it’s really hard to crash, and almost no one ever dies.” “Geesh. I’m glad Barry never wanted to go to racing school. It was bad enough he wanted a Porsche. There was a big part of me that wasn’t looking forward to the day we could afford it.”

From there we started a whole conversation about cars. I told him how I had written my senior thesis on the automotive industry. He told me he was only driving the Porsche because the lease was up on his Ford Explorer, and the new Mercedes SUV he had ordered hadn’t come in yet. We got to talking about the whole SUV craze and how they just seem to make them bigger and bigger these days. He told me about his sister’s Chevrolet Suburban. “She’s not that tall, and it’s an enormous car. It’s like this: you put the kids in the car seats over here,” he said, miming the activity and pretending to close a large, heavy car door. “And then you walk…” he solemnly walked about twelve paces forward, “…and get in the front seat over here.” I laughed, and he grinned sheepishly. “I’m taking this new yoga class tomorrow evening…” I said. “Cool. What time?” “5:30.”

It feels so natural and so good to be with him. I like how easy it is to talk to him. I like his sense of humor. I like that I didn’t really have to invite him to yoga—that he just assumed I’d want him to go with me. I think I might like him to stick around.

October 11, 1998
Gary and I went to yoga together at Rachel’s fitness studio tonight. I think Rachel was shocked when I told her I was bringing someone to yoga, someone I found on my own…

“He’s just a friend,” I said to Rachel that afternoon. “We’re in group together. Remember how badly you wanted me to go?” “You’re thanking me now, I bet.”

I picked Gary up at his house, by far the largest, most impressive house I’d ever actually been inside. It was in the gated community of Mountain View. Just driving through the gates, I knew I wasn’t in Canoga Park anymore. When I stopped at the intersection before his street, I suddenly had a feeling of déjà vu as I read the street sign—Sloan Drive. I remembered this was the name on Barry’s birth certificate and did a double take.

Gary greeted me at the door in sweats and took me on a tour of his orchard, pointing out the varieties of apples and pears and lemons and limes. It was obvious how much he loved his garden, and I was impressed with his knowledge of plants.

Once inside his house, I immediately noticed an octopus print hanging in the foyer. “Did you get that in Maui?” I asked. When Barry and I were in Hawaii on our honeymoon, we had stopped in an art gallery in Maui and admired some prints the artist made by retrieving octopus and fish from the sea, rolling them in ink, and imprinting them onto rice paper. They were beautiful one-of-a-kind prints, but out of our price range. I took a business card anyway, in case we ever decided to get one in remembrance of our trip.

“How did you know?” Gary asked. I filed this away as another sign from Barry. I didn’t think I’d been getting any signs lately, but maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention. I made a note to myself to be on the lookout.

After class, we went to dinner with Rachel and her husband, John. As John and Gary talked about whatever it is men talk about when they don’t know each other very well, I tried to fill Rachel in on the details of the past forty-eight hours. “I picked him up today, and you should have seen his house. It’s huge,” I whispered. Rachel looked at me, “Do you think he likes you?” she whispered back. “Sure he likes me. I mean, I don’t think he likes me, likes me. He was married for fifteen years, and she just died in June. Besides, I’m not sure if I like him.”

But in my heart, I knew I was beginning to like him, and it was scaring me. His love of gardening, his willingness to take yoga, his happily married-ness, not to mention all the signs Barry kept throwing at me—Sloan Drive, the octopus print, the black Porsche, even Gary attending the elementary school next door to my house—it was so obvious, it was almost corny. Or am I just crazy? Yet, if I liked him, and whatever it was that hadn’t happened yet didn’t work out, I’d be hurt. And I didn’t want him to think I liked him because his house was huge or because he drove a Porsche. So when I dropped him off after dinner, and he invited me in, I feigned exhaustion and arrived home in time to watch The X-Files.

October 14, 1998
Dear Robyn,

You know I’ve been looking for you, for signs, don’t you? I don’t know if I’ll ever see something or feel something so outstanding that I’ll know, but a few things have, very softly, left an impression.

This morning, as I went out to put water in the fountain and saw (another) incredibly beautiful morning, words came to me unbidden:

You must be there
In the bloom of the flower
In the green of the grass
In the whisper of the breeze
You must be there

Not much for poetry, but there it is, and it feels good to me. Pretty slim sign, too, I would say, but it feels like one, the way the words just arrived.

A couple of weeks before, I was out for my walk at night, and when I looked at the sky, I saw a really bright star or planet (it’s probably a planet to be so bright, but I still think of it as a star). It was just south of being overhead and stood out clearly from the other celestial bodies.

Somehow, that felt like “something,” like the light was being sent by you, or that I had been made to notice it. Each time I have walked at night since then, I have stopped to look up at the star, and it makes me feel better somehow.

Then a few nights ago, on Saturday, I was up pretty late (again). I had the satellite music channel on as I was reading a book I’d been given called Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. I am not sure why I am reading the book exactly, because although you were definitely a good person, you weren’t religious, and this book is all about “good believers,” and how it is not a statement by God when something bad happens, and I am not a believer either and probably not a very good person, to boot. But that is another subject. The music station was on in the background, when a guitar line began to play, which grabbed my attention, and I slipped on my glasses to see what the song was.

First the song title popped up, and it was called “Following a Star.” I immediately thought about the star I’ve been looking at during my walks. Then the title of the CD came up, and it was Help Is On the Way. That, too, felt like it meant something. The artist’s name was Duke Daniels, which means nothing to me, but maybe I’ll get his disc. A chorus in the song went something like, “…how the hell you ever made it this far must be a testament to who you are…” and that made it feel like the whole thing was sent for me (I so want to believe, I’ll even take the compliment!).
The next song was “Change,” off the Flaming Red CD by Patty Griffin. The only thing that meant something to me here was the song title, “Change.” It seemed like you were telling me that it was OK to change, or maybe even that I needed to. I couldn’t make out many of the words to that song.

The next song was “A Long December” by Counting Crows. I really don’t think the band name meant anything. But the song, which we listened to together many times before you got sick, did feel like it was still part of the sign, with its haunting melody and powerful vocal. Some of the lyrics, “…it’s been a long December, and there is reason to believe, that maybe this year will be better than the last…” Another line seemed meaningful, symbolically, “…it’s been so long since I’ve seen the ocean. I guess I should…” which seemed to mean that I should look for something that is nearby, but that I haven’t considered in a while.

I think the signs were over then, because the next song was “Strawberry Blonde” by Ron Sexsmith, and it didn’t feel like I was being told to find a blonde and have sex, but maybe I should have taken it that way. Right?

After writing all this down, I am not sure whether it feels more like these things were signs or less. The thread is there in a way that is very visible to me, and even if I am finding meaning in ordinary events, it doesn’t mean they didn’t happen. At least I found a meaning, right? I normally just wouldn’t have noticed. On the other hand, I re-read what I wrote, and it seems like a stretch. But I choose to believe they were signs.

I’ve been kind of obsessing over this girl (woman) Gilena from my bereavement group. I mean, I don’t know how I feel about her, really, but I do know I like her and the way she thinks. She may just see me as a friend or group buddy, but, at the very least, she has opened my eyes to the idea of finding someone again.

It seems too soon to me, so I feel guilty. But I also can see now that I need someone, or that I will. You told me that would happen, that I should find someone and have kids. I think you were trying to be brave at the time, and we weren’t staring down the barrel of the gun when we had that conversation (at least we didn’t know that we were), so it could have been totally theoretical. (Easy to say, but maybe not fully considered?)
I don’t know about the kid thing, either. I so wanted to have your daughter, a little reflection of you, but you never wanted kids. And then after you got sick again, I couldn’t save your eggs, could I? Even though I mentioned it to you, it was way too late. Anyway, I don’t know how I would feel about having a child that didn’t involve you.

You are the love of my life. Would it somehow diminish the “us” that once was if I find another? Or, would it diminish the other, if I can’t say to her, as I did to you, that she is the love of my life? Maybe there can be another true love, even an equal love. I guess that wouldn’t have to diminish either one. You will always be there, and you will always be a part of me, and if I can love again, it will be a testament to who you were, and to what we had together. That I know I believe. I love you.

Goodbye for now,
Gary

OCTOBER 14, 1998
I’M REALLY NOT INSPIRED to write about Bert, my date from last night. That’s a sign for sure—when you don’t even think about the person, not even for one second. He was another NO. The real news is that Gary told me he thinks about me…

We were at our third group meeting. I couldn’t concentrate. I was distracted. I was wondering what Gary was thinking about. We’d spent all of four days together, and there had been no physical contact, no attempt on either side. But we had lingered through our good-byes. And he called me every day.

At 9:00 p.m., everyone began to disassemble. I tried to stay behind without looking obvious, but instead got stuck in a small group that was moving quickly toward the door. I couldn’t break away to say hello to Gary. There had been a witness to the passing of the business card from the previous meeting, and I didn’t want anyone to think I liked him or anything. It would have been totally inappropriate.

But then, by complete chance—I swear—I pulled up behind him at the light as we were waiting to turn left onto Santa Monica Blvd. We both had our tops down in the warm evening air. We headed to the 405 North toward the Valley. I’d like to say that my Miata gave good chase against his Porsche, but I eventually saw that he was on his cell phone and so, obviously, wasn’t challenging me very much. Still, I pulled ahead of him. He saw me, pulled ahead, and sped away. My exit came up before I could see him again. I waited a respectful amount of time—long enough, I believed, for him to get home to Calabasas, park, unlock his door, and be within phone-ringing earshot. He picked up after two rings. “Hello?” “Fancy driving, Simons. You learn that at racing school?” “It’s you.”

I couldn’t tell you what we talked about. Probably about the group meeting or what we were each doing the next day. But then he said, “I want to see you before you leave for Hong Kong. What are you doing Thursday?”

I was having the girls over on Thursday, and I was not going to break plans with my women. Certainly not for some guy I met in a bereavement group. “I’m busy Thursday. How about Friday?” He paused. “I have a dinner with friends, but maybe I can move it to Thursday.” “You don’t have to do that for me,” I added quickly. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

I might have gasped audibly. I had to sit down. My heart was beating fast. “I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I want to take you out before you go away. Like, on a date. Is that okay?”

I started rambling. “How would I know? I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot about you, too, but I really like having you around, and if we start something, and it doesn’t work out, then, things would be awkward, and we probably wouldn’t hang out with each other anymore, and that would be a bad thing, so I think maybe you should date other women. You were with Robyn for twenty years, so you really should see other people before we go out.” “I don’t think I’m ready to date” he interrupted. “I mean, I don’t want to start dating; I want to date you.”

Ah, abundance! You shower me with love and kindness. Thank you, my highest good, for showing me attention and sweetness. I am so very lucky. I will try to remember this feeling and let it permeate my tomorrow.

October 15, 1998
Gary just left here. We didn’t have plans or anything, but he called around 8:00 p.m. and got here in time for Frasier at 9:00…

I thought it might be awkward, given his admission the evening before, but he sat on one end of the sofa, and I sat on the other, an invisible lump of widowhood between us. We laughed at the same time and glanced over at each other before looking back at the television. He stayed through the show after Frasier, the one the networks hope you’ll watch because of inertia or because you just don’t want Frasier to be over, don’t want to get up yet and turn the TV off.

We stood in my front doorway for a long time, confirming our plans for Friday night and making idle chitchat. He was just about to leave when I said, “You know, you gave Rachel a hug when you met her, but we’ve hung out several times now, and you haven’t hugged me.” “I gave Rachel a hug because you gave her a hug first, and I felt like I should.” “So, are you going to give me one or not?” I said, and we both smiled.

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