The Cruelest Month
* * *
After spending an afternoon at Soho House pool, I stop in the empty billiard room on my way out to draft a Facebook message to Alberto:
I’m here with my cigarette, in the room where I fell in love with
your laugh, listening to the sound memories make. How have I
done so many Saturday nights without you?
I hit send and realize I’m not alone.
A rugged, thirty-something guy in Ugg boots has begun a rather intense game of solo pool behind me. I’ve already put my phone away and slipped on my sandals when he asks if I want to join him.
His Australian accent is charming, but the heat of my sunburn—and the sacredness of this room—compels me to shake my head.
Thanks, really, I say, but I was just leaving.
So stay a while, he says. And have a drink, he nods at a bottle of champagne on ice.
A glass is placed in my hand and a pool cue in the other.
I don’t—play, I say.
Yes you do, he smiles.
I don’t play anymore.
And why the hell not, he asks.
You want the made-for-TV answer, I ask, or the real one?
I want, he says, whichever version you think I’m worthy of, and shoots the 8-ball into a center pocket.
Four hours, five drinks, and one upstairs elevator ride later, I decide which version he’s worthy of. And this scruffy banker who lives in London is smart enough to skip the sympathy: he smiles, flirts, and eventually asks if he can kiss me. Notices my empty glass and raids the mini bar in his suite to refill it. Asks me psychologist questions—if you could be any animal, what would it be and why?—and teaches me poker at dawn, claiming sleepiness when I gleefully win all his chips.
The adventure doesn’t come with an orgasm for me, but over the next thirty-six hours, we order room service twice, misplace my bikini bottoms permanently, and trash the room like a couple of rolling stones. I leave Soho House at 7:30 on Monday morning minus a pearl earring, my nose ring, and one very vital undergarment.
I’m still smiling two hours later when I slide into the office for the weekly team meeting.
* * *
The Aussie momentarily filled the void like only a foreigner staying for the weekend could: with the accent and eagerness of a stranger to experiment on every surface of his hotel room. Now he’s on a plane back to Heathrow and I’m lying in bed, guilty of thinking about someone who’s not Alberto.
* * *
It’s a few days into August, and I’m panicky about my lack of travel reservations for the rough weekends ahead. I’ve been considering Miami for Alberto’s birthday, so I call his mother and ask if she has plans on August 14th.
Just evening mass, she says.
Want to catch some sun and have dinner at Mr. Chow’s?
I would love it, she says.
I book my flight and two rooms at W South Beach and send the reservation number to Tony Papa.
Since Maggie and I decided on the Bahamas for my anniversary, I find an early flight and reserve a suite with a view at The Cove.
I’ve officially handled August when Tony Papa replies.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do Miami, he writes. Gotta have emergency oral surgery.
I’m sorry, I reply. Feel better, man.
So it will just be me and Hilda.
As it should be.
* * *
Despite my dread of August birthdays and anniversaries, today has not been hostile. Maybe it was last night’s travel bookings or that I managed to shine in a meeting today. Or that I skipped the cab and walked home to our clean, well-lit apartment. Whatever the reason, tonight just feels like an ice-cream-kind-of-night.
I turn on the TV and go to the kitchen, approaching the freezer like it doesn’t scare me. I ignore Alberto’s pork chops and frozen waffles and pull out the same pint of coconut ice cream we shared in early March. I do not linger over the crystallization around his scoop marks. I microwave it like he always did, transfer into a glass—ice-cream soup!—and find a long-necked spoon. I step into the living room, where the list of our DVR-d shows is onscreen.
I scroll past House MD.
Lie to Me.
Bones.
Private Practice.
These are all his shows.
Where are my stupid shows?
My Nat Geo Disaster recordings?
My Rob & Big reruns?
My PBS docs?
I put down the ice-cream spoon.
Scroll faster.
When I see Friday Night Lights, I shut off the TV.
Carry the untouched ice-cream soup to the kitchen.
Dump it down the drain.
Proceed to bedroom.
I climb into bed in my work clothes and shut my eyes against a world where even ice cream and television have gotten complicated.
* * *
Usually the background music at my favorite manicure place is badly orchestrated classical.
Tonight it’s all standards.
When I hear Ella singing “Just One of Those Things,” I lower my head and try to focus on a Vanity Fair article. Which works until I hear the first few bars of Nat’s “Unforgettable.” My tears are falling on the magazine like an isolated thunderstorm and when I accidentally release a sniffle, Mona the Manicurist responds by reaching for a paper towel.
You need tissue? she says, handing it to me. She meets my eyes and blinks when she realizes it’s not allergies: I’m on the verge of a meltdown at her station.
When the opening chorus of “Cheek to Cheek” by Fred Astaire starts, I’m no longer on the verge. The sobs are reverberating from my chest to my hands, which no doubt sucks for the person manicuring you.
But God bless Mona, who squeezes my hands and whispers that tears are like a gift from God.
Let it out, she nods, go ahead.
Mona continues massaging my hands until my sobs become deep, dry breaths.
* * *
Today is Alberto’s forty-first birthday, and I’m on a Miami balcony, writing him a card.
I’m also wondering how to affix it to the helium balloons that Hilda and I will release before spreading his ashes in the ocean. If I’d been thinking clearly in New York, I’d have brought a single-hole punch so I could string the balloon ribbons through a hole in the envelope corner. Hell, if I’d been thinking clearly in New York, I wouldn’t have forgotten toothpaste, my iPod charger, and bronzer.
In my hotel bathroom, I cut stems off flowers, dropping the buds into a Ziploc bag. Since the New Hampshire ceremony, I’ve decided that whenever I let his ashes go, I’m scattering flowers too: the surface of the water is just too sad without color.
I checklist my props before heading downstairs: Got the balloons? Bag of flowers? Box of ashes?
Go.
In the crowded elevator, a Midwesterner asks if it’s someone’s birthday.
I wince, but nod.
Well, he says, happy birthday!
I avoid his eyes and take a mental note to refrain from making perky remarks to people holding flowers or balloons.
Seriously.
You don’t know where they’re off to.
A grave, a hospital, an ocean.
* * *
Despite the emotions leading up to tonight—and the thunderstorms predicted for today—his birthday has been peaceful, the weather sunny.
After spreading ashes and flowers—hey, the water looks happy, Hilda had said—we change clothes upstairs and drive to her church in Coral Gables. At the sound of her son’s name read aloud during evening mass, Hilda shakes her head and looks skyward. I reach for her hand and she keeps it until we reach her convertible VW Beetle.
I love this car, she says, pressing the top down button.
It suits you, I agree.
And if it weren’t for Albert, I never would’ve bought this car.
Even though I know the story, I pretend I’ve forgotten.
How so?
I was deciding between this convertible and some boring car, and Albert said, “if it makes you happy, Mumu, go for it.”
I smile at the approaching punch line.
So I went for it.
By the time we reach South Beach, Hilda has shaken off the somber mass and found her usual childlike enthusiasm for new things.
I’m excited, she says, as we walk into the restaurant. I’ve never been to Mr. Chow.
But you’ve been to the original one in New York?
Never.
Sucks that her first Mr. Chow experience is without him, and it especially sucks because he knew what I liked and always ordered for both of us. I’ve never seen a menu at the New York location, but one is placed in my hands tonight. Is it the sea bass that I love? Or the other fish? And where’s the fried seaweed (or whatever that green stuff was)?
Fuck it.
I know Alberto liked the squab lettuce wrap and we always shared the scallion pancakes and vegetable rice. I order these for the table and ask the waiter to come back for our entrée order. When he does, I surprise-order something with tofu and ask for another Kir Royale. Hilda orders the sea bass.
I have a taste from her plate.
It’s what I should’ve ordered.
* * *
It’s the five-month-iversary and the sky has shifted from sun to storm in a matter of minutes. When the wind starts hurling seat cushions and glass lanterns into the pool, I dash indoors with the other guests. From inside the hotel bar, I witness my first monsoon, and watch eagerly for something dramatic to happen.
Ten minutes later, Hilda happens.
Rain-soaked, windblown Hilda.
We hug and order drinks—hers with just a splash of Cachaça because she’s taking medication. The Wellbutrin she’s been taking since It Happened keeps her, as she puts it, even keel. I order mine with more than a splash because my issues may be long and many, but I do grief the old-fashioned way: with a drink in my hand and a song in my heart.
* * *
Miami’s weather follows me back to New York, where the August humidity gathers into an early evening downpour.
Sprinting the two blocks between the train and my building, I remember a night two years ago, when a thunderstorm like this actually rewrote Romeo and Juliet.
It was June 2007, opening night of Shakespeare in the Park.
A downpour in the play’s second act had forced Lauren Ambrose, Camryn Manheim, and the entire audience out of Central Park’s open-air theatre and under the eaves. Everyone’s hair is soaked and all heels are off. Publicists are scrambling to position umbrellas around the likes of Marcia Gay Harden, Debra Messing, and Cynthia Nixon, whose dresses have become see-through.
Tonight I am not one of those scrambling publicists, so the rain has me laughing and huddling with Alberto under an empty concession stand. He recognizes an acquaintance from Palm Bay—the corporate sponsor of the Shakespeare series—and she pulls a bottle of wine from a picnic basket. I’m sipping a glass of Santa Rita when a man’s voice comes over the P.A. system.
Ladies and gentlemen, God has decreed it: Romeo & Juliet shall LIVE. Please join us at Belvedere Castle for the afterparty.
I drop my drink.
I’ve seen this play performed twenty times and the first time I see it with Alberto, it has a happy ending?
I can only speak in half-sentences: Did—did he just say? That they’ll—live? Do you realize how—?
Alberto silences me with a kiss, presses his body against mine. He lifts me and my sundress onto the counter of the concession stand and pulls my legs around his torso. Amid the mad dash of footsteps and fabric around us, we share a movie-kiss moment.
During a thunderstorm.
In Central Park.
I open my eyes when he playfully bites my lower lip.
Let’s have a drink and blow this joint, he winks.
We scale the stone steps to the castle terrace, blazing with strings of lights. Socialites in party dresses are dancing barefoot to a live Brazilian band and between flashes of lightning, Alberto and I exchange silly grins. One drink later, we skip out of the castle, across the flooded grass and into a cab on Central Park West.
Soaking wet, we find each other’s hands and lips.
Tonight, he says, was one of those quintessential New York nights. The kind of night people write songs about.
* * *
On my lunch break today, I pass a man dressed as Elvis.
I’m already humming “Return to Sender” when I see a bus wrapped with an ad for a Broadway musical starring Elvis.
I should stop at Revolución, I think, and play some Elvis. Except their office closes at 3pm for summer Fridays—when I’m still at work.
I duck into a semi-quiet doorway and call Alberto’s office.
One of the girls answers and I ask if she would pull up Elvis on Alberto’s iTunes and press play on my behalf?
Of course, she says. It’s a good day for Elvis.
Alberto would agree.
A few years ago, when I was looking for something in his closet, I’d found a coffee-stained cassette tape of Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits.
What’s the story on this, I asked him.
That was my dad’s, he said, his voice turning low and gravelly. Whenever I feel down, I listen to Elvis. Gets me through the rough stuff.
I decide to play Elvis all weekend.
* * *
Our espresso machine has stopped espresso-ing.
Which means I have to messenger it somewhere in the Bronx for service.
More pressingly, it means I have to find my coffee elsewhere this Saturday morning.
I decide to go downstairs to the coffee shop I used to frequent every weekend after my cardio class. I haven’t been back since March 14th and today there’s no Ashley behind the counter, no art-house music playing, and I’ve forgotten my stupid loyalty card.
I get my latté and get the hell out.
On the street, I take a sip and halt in my flip-flops: the taste transports me back to the chilly air of late winter.
Patagonia jacket zipped to my chin.
Post-workout sweat in my hair.
To the computer where I’d quietly sip my coffee and spend the hour (or three) before Alberto would wake to start our weekend.
It tastes so much like my former life that back upstairs, I have to stop myself from looking toward the bedroom for a glimpse of Alberto’s feet under the duvet.
* * *
In a city of 7 million people, there are a lot of emergencies in a single day.
Every time I hear the wail of a fire truck or ambulance—whether I’m at work or on the street or in the apartment—I’m sucked back to the phone call with Harmony, hearing the sirens approach.
In these five months, I’ve developed a coping mechanism, a Pavlov-esque response to the sound of emergency vehicles: I pray for wisdom for the rescue squad and God’s will for the person they’re rescuing and their families.
By the time I say Amen, the sirens have passed and I’m back in present tense. Back to the conversation I was having, the street I was crossing, the email I was writing.
* * *
I’m shamelessly over-packing for the Bahamas.
I walk around our apartment like the kid in “Home Alone,” announcing what Alberto would disapprove of: I’m bringing FULL-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner! THREE pairs of flip-flops! Two Suitcases!
Our house is silent but for the whirr of the AC.
I add another sundress to the five I’ve already packed and play some Elvis.
* * *
Four years ago today, we stood in a private garden at Paradise Point in San Diego.
We exchanged vows, laughter, and a few happy tears at sunset.
I was, as the florist put it, the calmest bride she’d ever met.
There was a reason.
And it wasn’t Valium.
It was because Alberto planned everything.
While I was busy storing, selling, or shipping everything in my West Hollywood home, he was designing the wedding invitation. Researching jazz trios and photographers. Creating the four-hour song list.
As I wrapped my last chaotic week at work, he chose the cake designer and selected matching shirts and ties for him and my father. Planned the menu from three thousand miles away. Recruited Fico to help him taste and pair wines for each course.
My responsibilities?
Pick the wedding location, find a dress, book the florist, and plan the engagement party. After that? Just write my vows and show up. Only now do I fully appreciate the magnitude of his planning and his attention to detail. Only now do I recognize how rare a groom he was.
I spend the afternoon writing an anniversary card to him and fielding calls from the office. Maggie arrives just before sunset, and we tie my card to eight balloons—remembered the hole-punch this time—and watch them disappear into the ether. Afterward, we dress for dinner at a place Alberto would have liked, order a big bottle of champagne, and finish it in our suite.
* * *
Lounging at the pool today, Maggie and I do our best to ignore the loud, forty-something men with the corner beach cabana. But around sunset, we accept their invitation to join them for a drink and later, in the casino and VIP section of a club.
Gorgeous Bahamian girls refill our glasses and give lap dances to the men, who do not hit on us or drop pills into our drinks. They just cheer as we dance together, alone and with other girls. I’m feeling the music and energy and champagne so I dance for hours. We close the place, not being allowed to pay for a thing, and head back to The Cove.
It’s the kind of night that often happens with Maggie.
It’s the kind of night I’ve needed all summer.
* * *
An afternoon storm postpones our scheduled swim with dolphins so Maggie and I find ourselves in the hotel room watching TV. Since Ted Kennedy died on my wedding anniversary and it’s been four years since Hurricane Katrina, the news channels are a litany of misery. Watching CNN’s broadcast of Kennedy’s funeral at Arlington, I’m surprised that cameras have been granted access to such a deeply personal ritual. I feel like a voyeur, but find myself flippantly observing the details of the service.
Hydrangeas for an August service in D.C.?
Those flowers wilt in five minutes.
But holding the internment at dusk?
So apropos.
I announce to Maggie that if I ever plan another funeral, it will be held at sunset: the somber, shadowed setting is pitch-perfect.
Let’s hope you never have to plan another funeral, she says.
Touché, I agree.
When I realize dusk is falling, I turn off the TV. There are ashes and flowers to spread before the day turns dark, so we head downstairs to the beach. In the shallows of Paradise Island, I synchronize my release of his ashes with Maggie’s sprinkling of flowers on the water.
I reach for the last handful, my arm extending to release it, but my wrist refuses to cooperate.
My fist remains clenched.
I neither want to feel the shards of his bone in my hand nor do I want to let go.
My rational mind negotiates with my grief for a few moments.
I force myself to try again.
I aim for the floating red lilies and this time my hand opens: the gray powder streams out, bits of bone go white as they break the surface and sink through clear saltwater.
Arrrrrgh, I shout. I hate doing this!
Then why are we doing it? Maggie asks quietly.
It’s a fair question.
That takes me a minute to answer.
To acknowledge him, I say, slowly. To bring our past history into my present tense.
* * *
Last night, I flew directly from Nassau to Boston for a new client meeting. Somewhere over the Caribbean, someone hacked Alberto’s Facebook account, initiated chats with his friends, and asked for money. Another asshole—or maybe the same one—stole my banking information and has opened sales accounts in my name for products called Colo Cure, Brite Smile, and Beach Ready body. Via text, I ask my mom to please report the money scam to Facebook. I cancel my bankcard and pray I have enough cash to get back to New York. All this action takes place in my hotel room before I walk into a 10am meeting with four colleagues and two other agencies.
Fuck August already.