Starting from Square Two (4 page)

“T
his girl, Erika, told me she's just like me, but we're really very different,” Gert told her support group on Long Island.

The group was for young widows. Until a few years ago, most of the “young widows” in Gert's area had been in their forties and fifties. Now there was a handful in their twenties and thirties, too. Gert found it worth the forty-five-minute rail jaunt each Saturday morning to talk to people who could understand what she was going through.

She hadn't gone to the group right away. In the weeks after Marc had died, she'd been surrounded by close friends and relatives. They were at the funeral, at Marc's parents' house, stopping by Gert's apartment. Gert needed to be squeezed among a crushing throng of people who knew Marc so well that they understood the profoundness of the loss; people who knew his interests, his kindness, the expressions on his bespectacled face. Only people who knew him as well as she did could understand the depth of the void.

Right after the accident, Gert's mother temporarily moved into Gert's condo in Queens. She had already tried to convince
Gert to move back to L.A., but failed. Gert's best friend from childhood, Nancy, had tried, too. But Gert wasn't sure she wanted to go back yet. All the experts said that you shouldn't make major changes in your life within a year after a death. Besides, deep inside her, she feared that going back home would make her feel even lonelier. At least in New York, there were people like her. Alone.

For a while, relatives stopped by her condo to visit. Co-workers of Marc's from the brokerage firm sent cards and flowers.

Then, slowly, the comforters tapered off. That meant that entire days yawned open with emptiness. Gert would pull herself out of bed, slog to work, get the occasional call from a friend who'd emit platitudes about taking things one step at a time, come home and, if she could stand to do something normal for two hours, watch a movie. In the past, no matter what happened to her, she knew he would be at the end—the end of the phone line, the end of a rough day, the end of the long commute home. Now, only she was there. All she had left to cling to were the vestiges of old routines.

Gert's parents found her a therapist on Fifth Avenue. For the first six months, she went every week and talked to an overly clinical woman who was nevertheless a good listener. But she realized that she would have rather stayed home. What she really needed, she decided, was to interact with people her own age who'd lost a spouse.

Gert knew she wouldn't have found such a support network if not for September 11. Most of the young widows' support groups in the area had sprung up because of that day. Marc had died only four days before that, on the seventh. The funeral was two days later. If it had been two days after that, it probably would have had to be postponed. She'd lost him, buried him and forty-eight hours later the world had exploded.

She found several groups advertising on the back page of the
Voice.
The first day, she had felt intense self-loathing as she walked into the room. All of the women were strangers, and they
looked
strange, too. Strange and sad. They were women
who had absolutely nothing in common with her—except for one horrible event. But she had forced herself to hold back her tears. She sat down in a hard school chair in the circle. She listened. And she talked. She found out they all had similar experiences to hers. The other women in the group were prone to dazing out for five minutes at a time for no reason, too. They, too, were still getting sales calls for their husbands and not knowing how to respond. They, too, were incessantly told by well-meaning people that they would feel better soon. They, too, had assumed they would be married to one person for the rest of their lives—and suddenly had had that person yanked away forever.

The only time Gert felt unburdened was when she was in the group. Normally she struggled under the weight of knowing that if she bumped into someone and had to explain that her husband had died, it'd be an uphill battle to deal with their awkward responses, to make them understand how she felt and all of the challenges she faced. The women in the group just knew.

 

“Where were you when Erika said this?” asked Brenda, a heavyset thirty-five-year-old nurse. Brenda, who had the voice of an evangelist, had become the group's de facto leader. Their group had been started by a social worker from a local hospital, but the social worker eventually had found they were able to run it on their own.

“We were staying at Hallie's apartment Friday night,” Gert said. “Hallie was my roommate in college. Erika is her friend from high school. Anyway, Hallie was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, and Erika and I were smoothing out our blankets on the floor, and Erika got serious. She turned to me and said, ‘I know you think no one understands what you're going through. But every day when I wake up, I still want to say hi to Ben. He was in my life for so long, and then he was gone. I love him and I never get to see him anymore. So believe me, I know how you feel.'” Gert paused to take a deep breath. “And I know she was trying to be helpful, but having your husband
die in a car accident is
not
the same thing as breaking up with him because you weren't sure you loved him and then he ends up with someone else. I wanted to tell her this—”

She broke off.

“But you didn't,” said Leslie, a short owl-eyed girl who had been married to a man thirty years older than she. Gert felt sorry for her, imagining she'd taken the first guy to be smitten with her—and then Gert felt bad for being judgmental.

Brenda said to Gert, “You could have told her.”

“But she was only trying to help,” Gert said.

Michele shook her head. She was thirty-four, a paralegal. “They all are,” she said. “But don't you ever want to say, no, this is how it really feels? Losing your husband feels like nothing, dead, like you want to jump back into that week when you had him back, and all you
can
do is look back because there aren't things to look ahead to anymore.”

“I can't say all that,” Gert said.

“Honey, you need to let someone in,” Brenda said. “Don't be afraid of being
real
with people.”

If I was real with people,
Gert thought,
I'd lose all of them.

 

The other topics at the meeting were standard: How they'd gotten through special occasions, how they filled their free time, how they were managing their financial affairs. Marc hadn't had any life insurance, except for the $1,000 policy he'd gotten—along with a free Discman—for signing up for a Sony Mastercard. Who would ever have thought to get life insurance for a twenty-seven-year-old? Marc's parents, luckily, paid for the burial and for a year of the mortgage on the condo. Some of the women in the group had had to sell their homes.

“The problem with moving isn't necessarily about money,” a woman named Arden said. “I can't pack up his things. Some of them, I haven't touched since he died.”

Gert thought of the extra bedroom in the condo, the one Marc had used as a workroom. It held a computer, trophies going back to his high school soccer championships, even Boy
Scout patches. She had barely touched these things since he'd died. Sometimes she wandered into the room and stood there for a while, in a comfortable haze.

“Don't push yourself,” Brenda told Arden. “Everything has a time.”

“It feels like you're putting him away when you put something aside,” Leslie said. “A pipe exploded last year and it poured all over Jesse's Yankees cap, and I had to throw it away. Then I started crying.”

Everyone was quiet for a minute.

“But see, they got to the Series,” Brenda said. “So he was watching over them.”

Leslie laughed. “I don't think he did that.”

“See?” Michele said. “We can smile when we remember, not just cry.”

Gert's mind started drifting. She found herself wishing that Chase were there. Chase was a quiet girl with short hair and a shy smile who had come to several meetings and then stopped. Chase was twenty-nine, too, and she had lost her fiancé around the time that Gert had lost Marc. She seemed like a nice person, and Gert had hoped they would become friends. But Gert hadn't gotten to the point where she felt comfortable asking for Chase's home number or inviting her to do anything. And then, suddenly, Chase had stopped coming. Gert wasn't sure why. As much as she liked the women in the group, most of them were a few years older than she. She hoped Chase would come back.

People like Chase—fiancées—had it worse than everyone, Gert thought. They hadn't even married their loved one yet. They had had to lose someone they loved before they'd officially become related. They didn't even get to call themselves widows. What
should
they be called? In this day and age, there needed to be a less clunky term than Bereaved Significant Other.

Gert noticed that the people in the group were getting up, and she realized the session was over. She'd been dazing again.

She had to stop doing that.

 

Todd called that afternoon.

Gert was scrubbing the house. When they'd first moved in, they had used a maid service once a week. She'd felt a little spoiled, but all of the neighbors in the condo building used the service, and it was something good to spend their money on when they were making more than enough of it. One day, Marc had been on the phone with his mother and had mentioned something about the maid coming, and his mother had had a fit, saying they were being lazy. Gert knew it was aimed at her. Marc's mother liked Gert, but she could also be hard on her. Gert had, after all, taken over the duty of raising her little boy. Marc's father was a big bear of a man who made bad jokes and always greeted everyone with a new dopey nickname. Marc had picked up this habit, with his own litany of nicknames. He and his father competed over who could make up the worst one. Gert missed Mr. Healy's cheerful face.

Gert had always felt much more comfortable around Marc's father than Marc's mother. Mrs. Healy was overbearing. Everything had to be the best. Marc and his older brothers were driven, all in finance and real estate, all hustling tirelessly. That's how they'd been raised. That's what they got praised for.

Gert pushed thoughts of the Healys out of her mind and moved the mop slowly across the kitchen floor. There was a tiny rainbow near a corner where the sunlight bent through a glass candy dish, and she mopped the spot.

A shrill sound startled Gert. The phone. She stared at it for two rings, then picked it up.

“Is Gert there?” a voice asked.

Gert knew instantly who it was. She smiled. If nothing else, Todd was disarming. Even if she wasn't going to date him, or anyone else right now, she certainly could be friends with him. She had felt incredibly comfortable talking to him at the bar. He was completely different from Marc, though. Marc was sure of himself, maybe even a little cocky. Todd was just Todd.

“It's the Sober Guy,” Todd said.

“Ah,” Gert said. “Is that what your friends call you?”

“Sometimes,” Todd said. “They're always saying, ‘Come on, just have one little drink.' They don't care that I'd lose my job. My company is like the CIA. They do drug tests when they hire you that can track marijuana you smoked two months ago.”

“Better stick to crack,” Gert joked, then winced, wondering if it was too sharp a comment to make to someone she barely knew. It would have made Marc smile, if he were there.

Todd laughed. “So how are you doing?”

Gert hadn't had anyone ask her that in weeks, except her parents, who were still trying to convince her to move back to the West Coast. She'd confirmed their worst fears right after college when she'd married a guy from Boston and moved to Queens.

“Not bad,” Gert said.

“What are you doing today?”

“Just cleaning my place.”

“I need to do that,” Todd said. “My roommate's a slob. Do you live alone?”

“Yes,” Gert said, balancing the phone on her shoulder so she could keep mopping.
Yes,
she thought.
I live in a condo with two bedrooms. The second one eventually would have been the baby's room. It's ridiculous that I live here, but I don't want to move.

“How was your day?” Gert asked.

“Great,” Todd said. “I ate lunch at this bar by my old job. And I just had tea, and the bartender looked at me like I was crazy, but I told her I'm not allowed to drink because of work, and you know what she guessed I must be? A brain surgeon. Do I look like a brain surgeon?”

“Anyone can look like a brain surgeon,” Gert said.

“Wow. I feel so important now.”

“What's your old job?”

“Oh. For a little while after college I was a courier in the diamond district. My friend's family owned a jewelry store.
They needed people they trusted to do those jobs, so we both worked there for a while, walking around the city transporting jewelry and hoping not to get mugged. It was kind of fun, and I got to hang out with my friend's family, who have this old-fashioned business that not a lot of people have anymore. One time, on a Friday after work, they took us to their apartment on the Lower East Side and they had a zillion relatives over and cooked Romanian food. It was incredible.”

Gert realized that Todd liked long answers, long explanations. He wasn't concerned about boring her. It didn't mean he was full of himself—just that he wasn't constantly checking to see if he was saying and doing the right thing. He had no affectations, no pretensions.

She liked it.

The other line beeped, and Gert ignored it.

“Do you have to go?” Todd asked.

“No. But I am cleaning….”

“Okay. Well, what I wanted to ask was…do you want to have dinner some night?”