Asking the one person I really wanted to talk to, the one person who could tell me the most about my husband, was too painful. If I were honest with myself, I would admit that I could not move on without knowing the truth about Joel and Monica, which is why I couldn't put it off much longer.
I only know what he was willing to give, which was precisely six weeks, two days, and one hour before his death: We're history. A long, complicated history I don't care to recount if that's okay with you.
It wasn't okay with me, which is why I had bugged him to death about it, right up until his death. In fact, our final argument had been about Monica, the night before he'd died. He was exhausted from a long day at the office; having passed on his work for her law firm to another partner, he was knee-deep in a new hospital project. He'd just gotten back from running and had clutched at his chest, telling me he felt winded, but I hadn't worried. He was athletic and young, always pushing himself to the limit. I wasn't a runner, wasn't even a fast walker, so I knew nothing of a runner's high or why people would push their bodies to the pain limit. I let him catch his breath, but only for a moment, before I'd gingerly asked him if he would tell me honestly and completely if he was over her.
He had looked at me like a stranger might, someone you think you recognize from across the street, only to find out that no, you don't know them at all. I cringed inside that I'd get that look-as he continued to pant and left me for a shower without an answer. I took this as a no. No, I'm not over Monica Blevins. After I saw her at the funeral, I realized she was the type of woman that no man could ever truly get over. She was someone babies to old men wanted to get to know and once you did, you came back for more. I was no exception.
My obsession with Monica Blevins had not died along with Joel but had been buried underneath the weight of grief. Now that I was digging myself out of it, there she was again, waiting, taunting.
I wished I'd been more trusting, had more faith in our marriage, but Joel's act of passing on the account did not pacify me. A cloud of suspicion hung over our marriage those last weeks and it had not dissipated even in his death. Did I really think he'd pack his bags and go back to her? Truthfully that's what I'd feared ever since our second date when he'd told me that he couldn't get in a relationship because I would just be a rebound and I deserved better than that. My heart's just mush, he'd told me, and though I teased Joel time and again for his comment after we were committed and then long married, I wondered if a piece of it was true. If after eight years of marriage I was still a rebound girl: the one you go to after the one you love has just destroyed you.
“Alrighty then. That's him?” Michael asked as we sat on the bleachers, looking out at da Vinci warming up with his new teammates.
I acted as though I didn't catch the surprise in his voice. “He starts at UT next week. Coming in late because he had some problems with his visa.”
Michael, attractive even with a receding hairline, loosened his tie. “At least you're giving him a break. You always were the nice one.”
I noted the hint of bitterness, but let it slide when Anh, wearing a business suit and Vi on her hip like an adorable accessory, awkwardly climbed the bleachers in her heels. I grabbed Vi and planted a kiss on her round cheek. Anh sat next to Michael and flipped her hair. She denied that she flirted with him and he with her, but only someone as out of touch with romance as me could identify it in others. Anh firmly believed that opposites only attract out of boredom and she was far from bored. She hated that Michael drove a gas-guzzling SUV and Michael hated that Anh wouldn't eat meat. (Hey, this is Texas! Cattle country!) Don't even get them started on the war and political agendas-he the flag-waving Republican, and she the die-hard Dem. Nonetheless, I thought they would be perfect together. But what did I know?
“I retract my last statement,” Anh said as she stared at da Vinci with her mouth agape. “You don't have a chance in hell with a specimen like that. Even if he is a living statue in your backyard.”
Michael squinted his eyes. “You like da Vinci?”
“Not in that way.”
“Hell, yes, in that way,” Anh retorted. “Any woman with a pair of… ovaries would like him in that way.”
Michael shook his head and crossed his arms, knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
Anh handed Vi some Cheerios from her oversized black leather purse (she wouldn't dare carry a diaper bag). “So did you call the yogi yet?”
“A yogi,” Michael said, shaking his head again. “Don't go getting her involved in your Eastern mumbo-jumbo.”
Anh ignored him. “Tell the Repub a little yoga might remove that massive stick up his ass.”
“Stop it, you two. You're worse than my boys.” Anh claimed that I was like a pipe with massive clogged drains keeping “flow” from happening. It all sounded drippy to me, but I'd promised myself I would try new things and that included the possibility that my body did need some spiritual plumbing.
One thing I knew for certain: the Cheetos/Oreos/sad movies method I had prescribed for myself had done zilch for my grief and even less for my body image. I had always considered myself an open person until my loss sealed the door shut. With the help of- what? – I could open it again. I would plow through the ideas in the grief binder like Columbus searching for his New World. Where I would find me again, only God, or Buddha, knew.
Then there was da Vinci, whose coming was both timely and oddly welcome. We began our journeys at the same juncture, side by side as we ventured into the unknown; he trying to start a new life in America, me trying to find the meaning of it again. Anh said we were entering our Renaissance period (Renaissance: a revival of or renewed interest in something). The original da Vinci had been a key figure in the sixteenth-century Renaissance, and I had no idea if my da Vinci would play a key role in mine.
With one hard kick, da Vinci scored a goal, and raising his arms in the air, searched me out in the bleachers. I cheered for him and felt the deadbolt unlock, the sound echoing through my soul.
Chapter 4
soul \sol\ n 1: the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being regarded as immortal 2: a person's moral or emotional nature or sense of identity (Origin: Old English)
I GAWKED AT DA VINCI'S naked chest a full three minutes before turning the engine off to retrieve him and regretfully see him slide his T-shirt back on his sweaty, dirt-streaked frame. No shock; I wasn't the only spellbound, jaw-slacked female enjoying the view. When I took my eyes off of him for a split second, I saw a woman walking her dog (more like standing still) staring at him, and another just pull over at the side of the road to take a long peek. I thought, Is this what my life has come to? Getting my thrills watching a well-built guy planting pansies? Am I so desperate that just watching McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy isn't cutting it for me anymore? And wasn't I going to visit my neighbor Gabriella's deacon this afternoon to talk about the very essence of our being: the soul? To prep for it, I should be waxing existential, not staring at eye candy all afternoon.
It wasn't my fault da Vinci got overheated and took off his shirt. It's not like I asked him to. (Would I dare?) I was just an innocent bystander, giving him a ride back home before I hoofed it to the deacon. So if a girl just happens upon a thing of beauty, it would be rude not to appreciate the artistry of a well-sculpted creation. And it somehow calmed my nerves about meeting with a theologian. Because as open-minded as I am about life, culture, differences, I haven't firmly grasped any one belief about Heaven, God or that mystery that is the soul. I only knew that I hoped we had one and that I would be reunited with Joel someday and that I would recognize him. Hopefully he wouldn't look thirty-eight and me, eighty-eight, because well, that would just be a cruel joke, now, wouldn't it?