Splitting the Difference Read online

  There was no time last week to be sick.

  But there is now.

  And there’s nothing that requires me to get out of this bed, wash my hair, or make awful decisions.

  Can I bring you some tea, some toast? my mom asks softly.

  I could do a tea, I answer. Thank you.

  I shiver into the covers, close my eyes, and pull out my memories from last night.

  The iPod playing at Gusto, the prosecco that flowed, the groups of people who invited me to dinners I refused at various restaurants—including Mr. Chow, another Alberto favorite. Our friend Naumann escorting me to Speakeasy, a favorite off-the-grid bar, where the owner, Vito, handed me a beer the minute I walked in.

  The rest of the night is defined by tears.

  At home afterward, my dad had handed me an envelope that the CFO of my PR firm gave him at the funeral. Inside was a card signed by my colleagues and a gracious amount of money. It is an unexpectedly kind gesture from an office I can hardly fathom going back to.

  * * *

  Lost my prescription sunglasses the day of the funeral so my mom accompanies me to a shop in the Flatiron for a replacement pair. As we’re ordering them, another customer asks my opinion on the frames she’s considering. I guide her away from round frames—she has an oval face—and toward a few angular pairs.

  I learn that she’s a rabbi who has an interview this week at a synagogue in Colorado.

  How exciting, I say. Best of luck.

  Since you were so great with the glasses, can you recommend a shoe store nearby? I need a pair of black flats.

  Nine West is a few blocks south, I say. But I can’t recall the cross street. Let me grab my mom and we’ll take you there.

  I help her choose between three pairs of sensible shoes as we all talk Torah and Jewish mysticism. Even though she asks, we don’t tell her why I’m not at work on a Tuesday or why my mom is in town from California.

  She keeps prying but I wait until she’s bought her shoes and we’re about to part ways before telling her my husband’s funeral was two days ago. Her eyes and mouth respond with exactly the horror and pity that I wanted to avoid.

  * * *

  Just found a picture of Alberto and me at a gala last March: he’s wearing the exact suit and tie I chose for his viewing. With a white shirt. Can’t see his feet in the photo but I’m willing to bet black Ferragamos were involved.

  I email the photo to my Dad, who flew home the day after the funeral.

  Look at Alberto’s outfit, I write, and tell me if this ain’t a stamp of approval and a punch in the gut all in the same breath?

  * * *

  It’s been thirteen days since It Happened, and I should throw away what’s left in the rice cooker: his last spoon-carved batch of rice. Yesterday, before my mom went back to California, she asked me if it might be time to toss the rice? Watching it go moldy might be worse?

  I had walked to the rice cooker, carried it a few feet, and stared at the yellow rice, tears falling on the glass lid.

  Can’t do it, Mom. Not ready. But the mold—you’re right. I don’t want to see it happen. Why can’t it just stay like this forever?

  It.

  Can.

  (If I take a picture of it.)

  Using Alberto’s red Casio, I had staged a photo shoot on our kitchen floor. After uploading the images, I created an iPhoto folder called “How to Throw Things Away.” I don’t know it now, but this split-second decision to photograph an object before discarding it will become a fixture in my grieving process. It will serve as a way to acknowledge the memories—and the man—behind the objects that I need to part with.

  But, Mom asked, what are you going to do with the actual rice?

  I’m waiting until Hilda gets here.

  Hilda is now here.

  Thin, white bacterial webs have appeared on the greasy surface of the rice.

  It’s time.

  * * *

  I have something awkward to bring up, Barby says. I know it’s only been two weeks since the funeral, but there’s something Albert will kill me if I don’t say.

  So I should sit down, I say.

  You should, she says. Given the fact you’re inheriting 50 percent of Albert’s ad agency, it would be prudent if you got a lawyer, Tré.

  A lawyer, I repeat.

  Listen, I’m sure everyone will be noble about this, but Revolución has a lawyer on retainer so you should have one looking out for you too.

  Of course, I say.

  This is what Alberto would do.

  This is what I will do.

  Since I’m co-beneficiary to his estate, I can’t legally represent you—plus my specialty is immigration law—but listen, I am here if you want to bounce anything off me. As a lawyer and as a sister.

  As a sister.

  She’s right.

  We are sisters. Who have each lost brothers.

  I have a sister.

  Thank you, Barb, I say. For bringing up the awkward stuff. It’s exactly what Albert would do.

  When we hang up, I stare at Alberto’s pictures.

  And pray that God will direct me to the right person.

  I’m scrolling through my phone’s address book, looking for friends who are attorneys in New York, when a text from Mariana comes in.

  Just checking on you, angel. Need anything?

  I call Mariana and sum up Barby’s conversation. Mariana reminds me that her mother and late father were partners at a Manhattan law firm.

  Don’t worry, she promises. Agnes will find you a proper attorney,

  A few hours later, I’m on the phone with a midtown lawyer who lost her own husband a few years ago. We make an appointment for Monday, which is when I’m scheduled to meet the insurance investigator.

  Meet him at our office, the lawyer says. It’s best to have an attorney present at those sorts of meetings.

  * * *

  Fico’s wife, Nikki, has arranged noon massages for me and Hilda at Soho Sanctuary, a downtown spa. But once we’re settled in the “quiet area,” I quickly realize that spas are not a safe neighborhood for my mind. The Zen music and scent of essential oils is jolting my memory back to couples’ massages at the Shore Club in Miami, the Fairmont in Tremblant, the W Montreal.

  Unless they come for us in the next sixty seconds, Hilda, I’m not sure I can be here.

  I was just thinking the same thing, she says.

  It’s too soon for us to be somewhere like this, I say.

  It just reminds us of him, she sighs.

  A woman appears in the doorway.

  Hilda? I’m Jana. Please follow me.

  Hilda looks at me. You okay?

  I do my best I’m-okay nod and say I’ll see her afterward.

  Five minutes into my own massage, the therapist stops.

  Am I hurting you? she asks, handing me a tissue.

  I shake my head and blow my nose.

  The pain is on the inside, I choke out. But my body needs this. So if you don’t mind the sound effects, I could use the therapy.

  I do not mind sound effects, she says. Let your body cry as much it needs.

  * * *

  Our freezer is a minefield.

  His pork chops, Swedish meatball Lean Cuisines, boneless chicken thighs: proof of intended meals that I can’t bring myself to throw away. I don’t want to cry over frozen meat or individually packaged waffles, but every time I fill the ice tray, I’m confronted by these casual remnants of human intention preserved in plastic and cardboard.

  The freezer must be avoided.

  I move the liquor into the fridge and decide to order daily cups of ice for Hilda from the downstairs deli.

  The rest of it can stay frozen in time.

  * * *

  My CFO calls today rega
rding my biggest account, an online search engine.

  We’ve been asked to re-pitch the client on strategy and ROI because the old CEO has been ousted and the new one needs to be sold on us. The office held a brainstorm last week and everyone’s rallying to create the presentation.

  He pauses, waiting for my response.

  I don’t have one.

  I don’t understand why he’s telling me all this. I just want him to get on with it so I can go back to Hilda and the couch and the funny childhood stories she’s been telling about Alberto.

  We thought it would be great, he explains, if you could take a look before we present, maybe offer—

  I stop listening and start concentrating on not saying the first thing that comes to mind: that my husband’s funeral was seventeen days ago and I don’t give two shits about a client presentation.

  The CFO has stopped talking.

  I’m supposed to say something appropriate.

  Something professional.

  I start slowly, filtering each word before giving it voice.

  I’m sorry, I say, but I’m not sure what I could even bring to the table right now. My head still can’t wrap itself around the fact Alberto isn’t walking through our front door again. I have a meeting with the insurance investigator this afternoon. My mother-in-law is staying with me. I’m not really in the headspace for client strategy. Can we trust the team to do a kick-ass presentation and take it from there?

  Of course, Tré, of course. You understand, he says in a lower, kinder tone, that I had to ask.

  His phrasing implies that the request came from above and he’s just doing as he’s told.

  And you understand, I echo, why I’m unable to say yes?

  I do, he answers.

  * * *

  Hilda accompanies me to the lawyer’s office, where I meet with Ian the Insurance Investigator: a retired NYPD officer who immediately directs a stream of questions toward me.

  Did Alberto have a gym membership (yes), when was his last check-up (two days before he died, you jerk, do some research), what medications was he taking (have you even read the coroner’s report?), whether he was smoking (on and off).

  He assures me this will not be a quick process: there are ten years of medical records to subpoena.

  How delightful, I say.

  What exactly is this asshole looking for? Something that allows him to deny the policy settlement? Proof that Alberto neglected his health? That his doctor is responsible for his death? Or cigarettes are?

  I stare past Ian the Investigator and out the conference room window, where gray sheets of rain pound the pane. I feel myself disconnecting from this scene, wishing I were somewhere less bleak, somewhere warm and sunny. Maybe I should take Nikki’s family up on their recent invitation to spend Easter in West Palm Beach.

  The thought of going south carries me through the meeting and into a cab with Hilda, who thinks Florida would be a good change of pace. So this afternoon, I book my flight, inform my lawyer, and email the CFO to extend my leave of absence. His long-winded reply mentions my paid leave running out and can I meet with him and HR before I go to West Palm?

  I’d rather eat glass than do this meeting, but it doesn’t seem negotiable.

  I tell him I can do Thursday evening—maybe at the bar near the office?—and he agrees.

  * * *

  Is that bag on the counter what I think it is? I ask.

  Yes, Fico answers.

  The bag on Fico and Nikki’s counter contains Alberto’s urn, and it’s going home with me and Hilda after tonight’s dinner.

  Can I see it?

  The carved teak box is more handsome than I remember, and I turn to my mother-in-law, reading her reaction.

  It’s perfect, she says in a low voice, not unlike Alberto’s.

  So you think he would . . . approve?

  Yes, she nods, vigorously.

  I turn the box upside down and see the four screws on the bottom.

  You have a Phillips head, Fico?

  Uh-uh, you’re not doing that here.

  No?

  No.

  Okay, no worries. We’ll do it at the apartment. Getting late though, so we should probably—

  Of course, Nikki says. I’ll drive you.

  Are you sure? I say. We can just take a cab—

  Don’t be silly, she says. I’ll just get the keys.

  As we’re pulling on coats, Nikki’s sister, Mary, comes through the front door. Mary is in advertising and lives on the same Connecticut property as her brother Greg, where Alberto and I spent countless summer weekends.

  Alberto adored Mary, so when she offers to drive us home, it seems apropos. And when I climb inside her car, it occurs that he would appreciate being delivered to our apartment in a Porsche Cayenne.

  I say this aloud.

  Everyone laughs.

  When we get home, a movie with Hilary Swank is playing on mute. I offer everyone drinks—some refused, some accepted—and turn on Alberto’s music. Into the living room I bring a Phillips head and a box of Kleenex. As I’m removing the final screw in the urn base, I look at Hilda.

  I’m sorry—do you mind that I’m doing this? I just need . . . proof? Need to see there’s not a bag of sawdust or stones in this box.

  You need proof. I understand that. Do what you need to do, Tré.

  I do what I need to do.

  When I lift the clear bag out of the box, it requires more upper-body strength than I want to admit.

  I set it on the floor in front of me.

  So this is you, I say.

  I do not say that I thought the grain would be finer, that I wasn’t expecting to see actual bone shards mixed with the gray dust.

  I start crying and the room starts crying with me.

  But I am outside the moment. It’s as if someone else is saying my words, shedding my tears, holding the love of her life in a plastic bag with an industrial twist-tie.

  But now I’m the girl putting the bag back in its box, walking people to the door, and wanting to know if the movie that’s been playing in the background is the same one I’ve been avoiding. I find the remote and press buttons.

  Confirmed.

  What movie is it? Hilda says, finding her glasses.

  I find the couch.

  It’s called “P.S. I Love You,” I sigh. It’s about a widow who receives posthumous letters from her husband. So, naturally, this would be playing in the apartment. The night we bring him home.

  Did we leave the TV on, she asks.

  Yeah, we left it on all day.

  She shakes her head. Meets my eyes.

  Do you want to watch it, she offers.

  Nope, I say, changing the channel. I live that movie every day.

  * * *

  With a stiff drink and my best face-brightening lipstick, I meet with HR and the CFO.

  Their unblinking gazes confirm my hunch that they were dispatched to observe my condition and report back to the powers that be.

  I give them a current rundown of my world: lawyers, insurance people, accountants, tracking down doctors to provide Alberto’s medical records, receiving his ashes, and remembering to eat once a day.

  They grant me an extended leave of absence.

  * * *

  Unable to reverse the loss of him, I try to control any further collateral damage.

  I constantly spot-check-slash-feel-myself-up in elevators, in cabs, before I leave a restaurant, a bathroom.

  Got his pen with the bite marks? Check.

  The smartphone he gave you last summer? Check.

  The glasses he chose for you? Check.

  I know that one day, I will check a pocket or a purse and something will be lost. But right now, I need that day to be light years away.

  *
* *

  My friend Maggie has flown in from L.A. to bridge the four days between my mother-in-law leaving and me heading to Florida. Maggie is gorgeous, Middle Eastern, and someone who doesn’t flee from crisis. She’s also a CPA and has agreed to begin closing certain accounts and transferring others into my name. I’ve given her postage and passwords and an envelope full of death certificates.

  By nightfall, she’s typed a spreadsheet of where my finances stand. I comprehend very little, but in the coming months, it will be a gesture for which I am deeply grateful.

  How about we get out of the house tonight, she suggests. Music, dancing, a bottle. Like old times.

  I try to imagine dressing for a night out, conversing like a normal person.

  What about going to Sway?

  I try to imagine going to Alberto’s favorite bar without him: the narrow West Village spot where we celebrated birthdays, job promotions, or new-client wins.

  Could be rough, I answer. There might be a meltdown. Sure you’re up for this?

  Tré, I’m up for everything. It’s about what you’re up for.

  I stand up and open the closet, still unconvinced.

  Wear this, she says, pulling out a grey-and-blue striped dress. With boots and a belt: it’s perfect.

  Well, at least getting dressed will be easy.

  I make a reservation with Linda, Alberto’s contact at Sway, but when we arrive, the bouncer at the velvet rope asks where Alberto is.

  Seriously, I say, you don’t know?

  Know what, he asks.

  That Linda came to his funeral three weeks ago?

  I give him the picture of Alberto we printed for the viewing—which is now in every purse I own—and we share a stunned hug before he leads us inside.

  But the low lighting, the incense, the music: it’s too much familiar in too little time.

  Gonna need a minute, Mags, I choke.

  We have plenty of minutes, she says. Or we can leave if we need to.

  I take a breath and say no: I’m here and that’s half the battle.

  Big lie. At every turn—from leather banquette to basement bathroom to our favorite hostess—I’m chasing shadows of him, of us.

  I cry my way through the first glass of champagne and slip outside. Over a cigarette, I begin drafting a Facebook message to Alberto. I reference some of our Sway memories, explain that Mags and I came back tonight, and how very much this all sucks.