Read Online The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer - Free Book Online
Authors: Gigi Levangie Grazer
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Roger and Degen.
JOHN: Who are they?
ME: Your balls.
Pause.
JOHN: We’re never breaking up.
Now, I look older than my “lying up” age. My Grief Team tells me I look great. They’re lying. I look like a hard forty-four, a forty-four who’s had a few too many, too many times. A forty-four who steals her kid’s Adderall. I can’t sit on my newly bony ass more than a few minutes at a time, and yet, that’s all I want to do. Sit, and lie down. My breasts, proudly established since the mid-eighties, are deflated. I look like what I am. A grieving widow. All I need is prayer beads and a black lace scarf over my head and I get to be an extra in Godfather 12 .
John’s toothbrush tortures me. What do I do with his toothbrush? There’s no handbook for this stuff. I would trade all the frozen 3 Musketeers bars in the world, the entire eighties music oeuvre—George Michael, Madonna, Duran Duran, even INXS—vanilla lattes, the Oakland Raiders, and that good European butter, to hold John’s hand one more time .
“And dear God, dear, dear effing God,” I say. I’m sobbing. “What I wouldn’t do for our Saturday morning quickie …”
* * *
The first ghostly “conversation” happened when I was drunk; the next, I was crazy. I hadn’t mentioned what I wasn’t sure was real to anyone, not even the Grief Team. Now, I felt (relatively) sane, but then again, maybe not: I was raking Casa Sugar’s backyard one evening when its poltergeist returned to lecture me on home décor.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, the blue tile in the kitchen—you think that’s too much?” the old woman said.
Exactly when did it became apparent to me that I was speaking to a ghost? Well, generally speaking people stand on the ground, the floor, or steps. This woman was floating. Plus, she had a translucent quality. Floating, translucence —dead giveaways, if you will .
“I like blue,” I croaked. “I’m just going to …” I had to sit. Sit or faint. These were the choices.
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “But, why so crazy with the blue, I wonder.”
“Um … who are you?” I asked.
“Trish, of course,” she said. “This is home sweet home. I mean, before you moved in and brought the whole blue thing.” I could see her more clearly, now that I was no longer blinded by fear. Her black hair was braided, accented by silver streaks. I recognized the beauty queen in her cupid’s bow mouth.
“Do you mind?” I asked, motioning toward the wine bottle on the small patio table. She shrugged. I was planning on having a glass when I’d finished raking, but now I picked up the bottle, sat back down, and drank right from the source.
“It must be a shock,” she said.
“Well, kinda, yeah,” I said.
“Losing your husband. So young.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a shame.”
“It’s all kind of a shock,” I said. “I’m talking to a dead person. That’s kind of surprising.”
“I’ve talked to you before,” she said. “You asked a question that needed an answer.”
I thought about it. “My God. You’re Mrs. Why Not.”
“Why not,” she said, nodding her head. “I thought you might appreciate that.”
“Why me?” I asked. “Why are you contacting me?”
“It’s obvious. You need me,” she said. “Look, you wouldn’t hear me, or see me if you didn’t want me here. We’re around all the time—but no one pays attention, past, you know, like age two.”
“I’m surrounded by dead people?”
“Spirits. Sounds better, no?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this—”
“A gust of cold air. That’s a sign. You know, they keep it freezing up here. The ones in charge, they’ve got the AC on full blast. Or, you walk into a room and smell vanilla. But no one’s in there, the stove isn’t on. How many times have you misplaced your car keys?”
“Those are all signs?”
“Sure. We used to use
JOHN: Who are they?
ME: Your balls.
Pause.
JOHN: We’re never breaking up.
Now, I look older than my “lying up” age. My Grief Team tells me I look great. They’re lying. I look like a hard forty-four, a forty-four who’s had a few too many, too many times. A forty-four who steals her kid’s Adderall. I can’t sit on my newly bony ass more than a few minutes at a time, and yet, that’s all I want to do. Sit, and lie down. My breasts, proudly established since the mid-eighties, are deflated. I look like what I am. A grieving widow. All I need is prayer beads and a black lace scarf over my head and I get to be an extra in Godfather 12 .
John’s toothbrush tortures me. What do I do with his toothbrush? There’s no handbook for this stuff. I would trade all the frozen 3 Musketeers bars in the world, the entire eighties music oeuvre—George Michael, Madonna, Duran Duran, even INXS—vanilla lattes, the Oakland Raiders, and that good European butter, to hold John’s hand one more time .
“And dear God, dear, dear effing God,” I say. I’m sobbing. “What I wouldn’t do for our Saturday morning quickie …”
* * *
The first ghostly “conversation” happened when I was drunk; the next, I was crazy. I hadn’t mentioned what I wasn’t sure was real to anyone, not even the Grief Team. Now, I felt (relatively) sane, but then again, maybe not: I was raking Casa Sugar’s backyard one evening when its poltergeist returned to lecture me on home décor.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, the blue tile in the kitchen—you think that’s too much?” the old woman said.
Exactly when did it became apparent to me that I was speaking to a ghost? Well, generally speaking people stand on the ground, the floor, or steps. This woman was floating. Plus, she had a translucent quality. Floating, translucence —dead giveaways, if you will .
“I like blue,” I croaked. “I’m just going to …” I had to sit. Sit or faint. These were the choices.
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “But, why so crazy with the blue, I wonder.”
“Um … who are you?” I asked.
“Trish, of course,” she said. “This is home sweet home. I mean, before you moved in and brought the whole blue thing.” I could see her more clearly, now that I was no longer blinded by fear. Her black hair was braided, accented by silver streaks. I recognized the beauty queen in her cupid’s bow mouth.
“Do you mind?” I asked, motioning toward the wine bottle on the small patio table. She shrugged. I was planning on having a glass when I’d finished raking, but now I picked up the bottle, sat back down, and drank right from the source.
“It must be a shock,” she said.
“Well, kinda, yeah,” I said.
“Losing your husband. So young.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a shame.”
“It’s all kind of a shock,” I said. “I’m talking to a dead person. That’s kind of surprising.”
“I’ve talked to you before,” she said. “You asked a question that needed an answer.”
I thought about it. “My God. You’re Mrs. Why Not.”
“Why not,” she said, nodding her head. “I thought you might appreciate that.”
“Why me?” I asked. “Why are you contacting me?”
“It’s obvious. You need me,” she said. “Look, you wouldn’t hear me, or see me if you didn’t want me here. We’re around all the time—but no one pays attention, past, you know, like age two.”
“I’m surrounded by dead people?”
“Spirits. Sounds better, no?”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this—”
“A gust of cold air. That’s a sign. You know, they keep it freezing up here. The ones in charge, they’ve got the AC on full blast. Or, you walk into a room and smell vanilla. But no one’s in there, the stove isn’t on. How many times have you misplaced your car keys?”
“Those are all signs?”
“Sure. We used to use
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