The After Wife
Authors: Gigi Levangie Grazer
The After Wife
is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters and entities with the exception of some well-known public figures and locations, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where public figures appear or are alluded to, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, refer to actual locations, or change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Last Punch Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grazer, Gigi Levangie.
The after wife : a novel / Gigi Levangie Grazer.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52401-0
1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.R2913A68 2012
813′.54—dc23 2012007064
Cover design: Jamie S. Warren
Cover image (woman): © Image Source / Getty Images (woman)
v3.1
Contents
6: How to Tell Your Kid: (Pour yourself a drink, first.)
7: Dead Men Tell No Tales; Dead Women, Either
10: Social (Paranormal) Networking
23: Raising the Dead: (It Helps if You Are a Good Listener.)
Prologue
“Hi, my name is Hannah … and I’m a widow.”
Three in the morning. Again. Like any good therapist, my bathroom mirror has infinite patience.
“Before I was widowed,” I say, “I was born. Then I had boobs. Then I had relationships. My relationships were all in L.A., a magical place where the men have less body hair than the women. Then, I fell in love. Then I was pregnant. Then I was married. I do things backward, it’s my way.”
I haven’t slept in weeks. Tears come to my eyes. Eyes I no longer recognize. “Then, I was the happiest woman on earth,” I whisper.
Being a widow in Los Angeles is not as easy as it sounds (
I kid
.). I found out the hard way. No one talks about death. A dead “civilian” is as unpopular here as crow’s-feet and fat kids. But if a celebrity dies, you must literally beg people to shut up. You won’t find Top Ten Non-Celeb Deaths on TMZ. Civilians don’t die from a phenobarbital injection administered by a personal anesthesiologist, or from ingesting Vicodin and champagne with a crack chaser. When our time comes, it’s without bells and whistles, pomp and circumstance, vodka baskets and tranny hookers.
Try this L.A. party trick. At your next soiree on a Malibu deck—or in a Los Feliz garden next to a koi pond, or like me, attempting a downward dog at a Santa Monica hip-hop yoga class saturated in
tramp stamps—drop the line: “My husband just died, thank you,” when someone asks how you’ve been.
Then watch them scatter.
“And now,” I tell my reflection, my captive audience, the one who listens. “Now, I’m at a loss.”
1
The Last Time
September. Saturday. Time?
Frikkin’ early
.
“Now? Really?” I said. “But, I’m so tired …” I pulled the covers over my head.
“I just want to sleep in,” I said, my voice muffled. Work had been brutal this week. My producing partner-in-crime, Jay Oleson, and I had shot a reality show pilot in five days, watched helplessly as our director stormed off, were at the root of a possible lawsuit from a competing production company, and had been fired and rehired twice in three hours by the network head.
But who was I kidding? My acting chops are on par with Snooki’s.
“That’s what all the girls say at six in the morning,” John, my husband, said, in his hoarse morning voice as he tried to slide my pajama bottoms off without untying them. Well, guess what, my hips are actually bigger than my waist. This is where we consistently run into trouble.
“I hate you,” I said, as I frantically slipped the pants to my ankles. I was already wet. My hands grabbed the headboard and held steady.
“I hate you, too,” John said, his unshaven cheek against mine, his breathing heavy. He was already inside me. Our routine had been going on for a good … how old was Ellie? Our daughter, our curly-haired, chubby, nearsighted daughter. Born Valentine’s Day three years ago. So, over four years.
“Ouch,” I said, shifting my hips. Pain and pleasure brought me back to the bed, which hadn’t known a quiet moment since John moved in. My hands were still holding on to that headboard. We’d cracked it long ago. There was no plan to fix it. What would be the point?
John wrapped his arm around me, squeezing me tight and grinding his hips against my rump, the one he encouraged to grow by throwing things like linguini with duck sausage and truffles at it.
“You could gain a few,” he’d say, slapping my bottom. There are no sexier words in the English language. “You could gain a few.” And to me, not a small person. Not a person who looked like she missed a meal. Ever.
“No,” I said, “no, no, no …” I liked to protest, though I wouldn’t go so far as a painted sign or a bullhorn. Just enough so he wouldn’t think I was easy. I mean, even though we were married and all.
On Saturday mornings, John liked to be at the Farmer’s Market on the Third Street Promenade early—before the regular customers, the crowds, the crazies—to show off Ellie to his old chef buddies, smell the fresh produce, bag some grapes, pears, figs, haggle over the price of bison, down oysters perfumed by the Pacific, and grab an espresso.
We’d be eating something amazing tonight. Something with figs. Figs, a brown sauce, a roast guinea hen? Of course, we usually ate something amazing for dinner—even if it were a simple, perfect omelet. John had been a chef until he retired to stay home, raise our daughter, and write his cookbooks. I encouraged him. He’d mesmerized me from the get-go, using his powers of mind control, his slight pooch, his manly forearms, and his penis-wand.
Goddamn, my husband’s hot. I bit his shoulder. Like biting into a ham
.
You’ve probably heard of them—John’s books, I mean—the Cooking for Bachelors series. He’d been a busboy, waiter, sous chef, head chef, then private chef for various celebrities before
Mexican for Bachelors
,
Italian for Bachelors
, and
French for Bachelors
took off. No, no. John’s not a bachelor. If he were a bachelor, I’d know about it. But he had spent a long time—forty years—being a bachelor
… so he’d done his research. That is, before I pinned him down one sunny afternoon in my front yard at Casa Sugar.
Back to the marital bed … I came, a small shudder and release, then again, a deeper orgasm. Not like when I’m on top, rubbing my body against the arc of his belly. Those orgasms go back centuries. They’re my favorite, even though I complain that I’m doing all the work. I’m gyrating, rocking, whipping my hair like Tina Turner. It’s a whole show. You’d think I was getting paid.
God, I love a belly on a man. I didn’t know how much until I met John. Not a huge Budweiser gut, but not one of those manorexic 18,000-packs atop android legs running on San Vicente. That nice, warm tummy on my man tells me a couple of important things:
a. That he’s enjoyed food and wine.
b. That he’s not in an unhealthy relationship with a Bowflex.
John came inside me, with my leg over his shoulder. How it got there, I have no idea. I loved watching him. His bright hazel eyes glazed over, like he was in a dream state. And me, Hannah Marsh Bernal, I was making it happen for him. We were still trying for the next baby. We’d probably still be trying well into our nineties. I had read a study that stated women who used condoms with their longtime mates were more depressed than women who didn’t. Sperm, apparently, was human Prozac. Good news for me. We’d gotten a baby and years of me walking around in a drugged stupor out of it. I truly believed there was something stored up in his body that settled me. If we hadn’t had sex in a few days, I would tell him people’s lives were at stake.
I would tell him the angels would cry if we didn’t make love.
Close to two hundred pounds of masculinity slowly rolled off my body. And there I remained, breathless. I closed my eyes. “Let that be a lesson to you,” I said, barely above a whisper.
John kissed my cheek and nuzzled my neck. I felt him swing his legs over the bed, humming all the way to the bathroom. He was still humming when he came out of the shower. Good God, it was ABBA.
“I’m fucking starving!” he yelled, giddy. He stood over the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist. He would stay there, staring at me, until I opened my eyes. Finally, I looked up, and thanked the gods for his chest hair. L.A. was full of men who looked like giant-sized infants with the advent of the hairless package.
Ellie hadn’t awakened.
“I love you, Hannah Banana,” he said, his eyes wide, as though making a discovery. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I thought the same thing. “How did I wind up here? How did I wind up with this person who makes me so happy? How did I get this beautiful life? This beautiful daughter?” And I would add: “How am I the best fed woman on the planet?” Sometimes, I thought, just sometimes … good things happen to good people, or at least people who don’t engage in road rage.
“You’re staring,” I said, as I opened my eyes.
“I want to remember you, just like this,” he said.
“You see me like this every single day,” I said, closing my eyes again. “I love you … but we have to do something about our sex life.”
“Remember,” John said, “listen for the doorbell. We’re supposed to get our new patio chairs today. Remember, baby, okay? Tell Ellie I didn’t want to wake her up—I love you!”
And he was off. The Farmer’s Market beckoned.
I woke with a start. I reached for John’s pillow, and breathed in his scent. On the side table was a cappuccino, with blocks of brown sugar on the side. And a note.
I am one lucky bastard.
xxxxxx J
The doorbell rang. The chairs. Our dog, Spice, barking at the front door.
Then, the phone rang.
2
Bad News Has Its Own Ring
A Timeline:
Doorbell ringing. The delivery of the patio chairs. Disoriented. The phone next to our bed ringing. I grab it, hoping it doesn’t wake Ellie.
