“Thank you for dinner.” I stand and reach for my plate.
“Leave it. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I appreciate it.” My words are heavy and oddly formal. The time for pretending that Dorothy and I are ever going to see eye to eye on her son is over.
So is my marriage. There’s nothing Mitchell could say or do that would erase what’s happened. It’s time to find the money to pay Bonnie Traiman’s retainer and file for divorce.
“I’m going to turn in early. I’m beat.” I turn and head to my bedroom.
lu·gu·bri·ous
loo-GOO-bree-əs
adjective
1. sad or gloomy
2. exaggeratedly mournful
Ex: “I am far too lugubrious due to the state of my marriage and my life to sit here a moment longer.”
Judith
I’m curled up in a chair reading Bill Bryson’s The Body: A Guide for Occupants and trying not to picture the bazillions of bacteria that reside in my belly button, many of which modern science has yet to identify, when my phone rings.
The sound is jarring. While I’m used to the daily ding of texts from the kids, it’s been a while since I got a call from anyone not trying to sell me something.
“Hey. What are you doing?” Meena’s voice is even perkier than usual. I’m pathetically happy to hear it.
“Reading our book club book pick and realizing how miraculous our bodies are even though we have a lot of spare parts we don’t really need anymore.” I flush for the thousandth time at the memory of what happened the last time I used my entire body.
“You gotta use it or lose it, girlfriend.” Meena is the only person who knows just how much guilt and anger are mixed in with my sorrow. Not to mention what a horrible comedy of errors Nate’s death was. This makes her the only person I can share my emotional roller coaster self with.
“Use it or lose it? What exactly are you suggesting I do with mine?”
“I’m suggesting you shower it, put clothes on it, and bring it over here so that we can hang out. Frank’s in California,” she says, mentioning the man she met on match.com and is now seeing regularly. “I thought you and I could walk somewhere for dinner.” Her voice drops a bit. “After we drop by the building happy hour.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that last part.”
There’s a pause and then, “My building has happy hours at nearby restaurants every other month. The restaurant puts out appetizers, and we buy our own drinks. This time it’s at Del Frisco’s—it’s just a five-minute walk up the street.”
“Happy hour?” It sounds so far removed from my current reality that it takes me a moment to respond. “First of all, I’m in mourning.” I consider myself in the family room mirror. Ratty pajamas. Wild hair. Luggage-size bags under my eyes. “And even if I weren’t, it would take me hours to get presentable.”
“I doubt it. Come on. It’ll do you good. It’s not healthy to spend so much time alone.”
“Thanks, but I don’t really feel up to it. I don’t think I’m ready for strangers.”
“Jude, seriously. You can’t sit in the house forever.”
At the moment, I’m pretty sure I can. It’s one of the few things I feel capable of.
“Sitting there isn’t going to bring Nate back. And it sure as hell isn’t doing anything positive for you.”
“But it would be disrespectful of his memory. He’s only been gone six and a half weeks.” I have been counting the days. One day, I even used the calculator on my phone to add up the hours and minutes. “People will think I’m . . . that I’ve forgotten him already. No, I don’t want to.” Only, some part of me actually does.
“No one here knew Nate, Judith. And they don’t know you from Adam’s house cat. It’s not a crime to do something that might be fun.”
“Fun?” Surely, this word does not belong in my current vocabulary.
“You’re allowed to have fun. All you have to do is come, have a few drinks, and meet some of my friends from the building.”
Drinking alone takes the edge off and can blur the misery. But it is most definitely not fun.
I could go to Meena’s happy hour and just have one drink so that I can drive home. Only, I’m not sure one drink is enough anymore.
I’ve spent a month and a half just trying to get through each day. My biggest accomplishment has been making it until four o’clock—well, sometimes more like three thirty—before I pour the first glass of wine. As if that’s some sort of badge of courage. Or proof that I am not an alcoholic.
“Or better yet, spend the night,” Meena suggests. “You’ve seen the guest suite. We can have a pajama party. Then tomorrow morning we’ll go to Buttermilk Kitchen for breakfast. They have a pimento cheese omelet that is truly to . . . that I know you’ll love.”
“I don’t know.” I’m dug in so deep that I’m not sure how I’ll handle the bright light of day. The idea of going somewhere new, of being around strangers with no preconceived notions about who I am or how I should act, is both exciting and frightening.
“Just say yes, Judith. Honestly, I really think this will do you good.”
* * *
• • •
I don’t actually feel all that good the next morning when I wake in Meena’s guest room with my face pressed into the mattress and my head buried under a pillow. My mouth is dry and cottony. I drag the pillow off my head, pry open one eye, and see my clothes in a heap on the floor.
A brisk knock sounds on the door. Meena’s voice precedes her into the room.
“I’ve been debating whether to wake you up or not, but I was starting to get worried.” She places a cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand and plops down on a nearby chair.
“Holy shit.” I manage to prop myself up on an elbow and reach for the coffee. My hand shakes slightly as I lift it to my lips. My brain is filled with odd fragments that I can’t quite piece together. “Did I get run over by a truck?”
“Not exactly. But you did have quite a lot of . . . fun.”
I take another sip. But my memory of last night remains sketchy. “So, I didn’t do anything . . . embarrassing?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”