THE WIDOW

She remembers nothing and yet she remembers everything.

It was mid-March and light snow was falling, staining the pavement with a layer of almost white.

She was a passenger in the brand new 4 Runner he would never get to drive. As the car slushed through the familiar streets of the small town where they lived, her thoughts too were familiar, random. She was on a deserted beach in Puerto Rico, where they made love by the light of the moon. On the airplane where they met and she had not recognized him until he smiled. The moment when their baby daughter was born at exactly 6:20 PM on a sunny Spring Day, his tears more memorable than the birth itself. The many times she had picked him up at the airport and his “Como te quiero!” as he got into her car and they drove home. The infectious laughter rising up from his stomach after he told a joke which only he thought was funny. She recalled the day she learned about the past he had kept well hidden for so many years. She was thinking about how he used to sneak smokes in the backyard when the black Toyota pulled up in front of the funeral home.

She wore black because she was told it was the right thing to do. Earlier that morning, she had dressed the younger kids with great attention to detail. The little boy wore grey slacks, a pink button-down shirt and tie, a blue blazer, and his favorite saddle shoes. The little girl wore a long pearl white taffeta dress and ribbons on her long blond hair. The 14-year old had carefully dressed on his own, finding just the right shirt and tie, and a pair of black shoes - not sneakers. He had insisted on serving mass, ready to lead the procession of altar boys as his father’s casket entered the church. He had become a man overnight, the shy young boy who loved his father as no one will ever love again. He followed his dad around the house like a puppy dog, went on boy scout trips with him, and loved playing catch outside until way past sunset. They had become inseparable, until the other day, when he was not granted the time to say goodbye. 

She doesn't recall who drove the kids to church in her red Audi, a color she loved but which seemed so inappropriate now. It had been her favorite color, a color she would avoid for the rest of her life.

She was told to go to the funeral home to “say her goodbyes”. During those days, she was just following orders. She had been strong. She held it together as the family poured in from everywhere, as friends called on her, as the phone rang incessantly, as the children walked around like zombies.

She believed, after all, that death was nothing and everything. She knew of its absolute finality. She had not shed a tear. Neither when she walked into the ER to find him dead and as handsome as ever, nor when she had to tell the kids that Papi had died, their frozen faces forever etched in her heart, nor when she had to call his family overseas. She had no tears. He was dead. It was final. Unchangeable.

On the day of his death, she had called home from the city, where she was waiting for him to join her for dinner. Arriving early, she called home to check on the kids. When the nanny answered she instantly knew by the tone of her voice that something awful had happened. At that moment her only thought was of the kids, something that has haunted her ever since. “No, es el señor”, she was told. As the nanny passed the phone to her brother, she felt a glimmer of hope. “Massive cardiac arrest”, he said. “Is he alive?”, she asked, ever the realist. Her husband was beyond help. “Too early to tell” he answered, shedding a glint of hope that she didn’t need nor ask for. It was not too early, his lips a pale blue as the EMTs fought to revive him. Had she been told the facts at that moment of truth, her relationship with her brother would have taken a different course. Not telling the truth is a mistake saved for the weak. She never forgave her brother for what may have been, in his view, a tender moment. Hope is the enemy, she knew. She believed that hope only serves to rob us of the present moment. 

She hastily left the restaurant and waved for a cab, smack in the middle of the rush hour. During the long drive home, she repeated a litany of The Lord’s Prayer. She asked God to please make it a bad scare so that he would stop smoking and start taking care of himself. At 46, he had all the time in his life to do better. During the interminable cab ride, it never crossed her mind that he could be dead. If that had been so, she would not be praying for him. Raised a Catholic, she had always refused to believe that the dead can hear your prayers, much to the dismay of the Sisters of Mercy who had trained her in Catechism class.

Arriving home her next-door neighbor stood by her front door. “I am here to take you to the hospital,” he said, stone-faced. “Let’s go, then”, she replied. She should have known when he explained that there was time to check on the children that it was too late. But that was the moment she started following orders. She ran up the stairs and changed from her work clothes to slacks and a sweater. Rushing out of her bedroom, she caught her pants on the door handle, ripping its pocket, but she paid no mind. She went to the playroom where three of the four kids were waiting, afraid, alone, in silence. Her oldest daughter was coincidentally flying in that evening. She had little to say to the children, except that Papi was unwell and that she was going to see him. Months later she found out that they knew for a fact that Papi was dead — if that were a thing that any kid would know for a fact.

For many months after his death, the youngest, only five, visited her in the middle of the night, lying full-bodied on her body, his head on her chest, listening to the comforting sound of her heart beat. He would pry open her eyes. And every night for many months, she would reassure him, telling him she would be there in the morning. 

The fourteen-year-old had earlier tiptoed into the bedroom to get a bag. The moment he walked in, his sleeping dad let out a big snore, his dying breath. The boy never got over that moment. For many years, he regretted that his boy scout training didn’t amount to a hill of beans if he couldn't save his father’s life. She, instead, always felt a sense of comfort that his boy was with him and that he had not died alone. Small comfort for a fourteen-year-old who had lost his heart and his childhood all at once. 

The same boy insisted to go to the hospital. Nothing in her life defined the words “hope springs eternal” as the moment when the too slowly driven car was headed to the hospital. 

Arriving at the ER, a nun asked if she “wanted to see him”. As the curtains were drawn back, there he lay, dead. He looked as peaceful as if he were sleeping. The color of his skin was different, but nothing else made him look dead.

Her son next to her, she was unable to find tears, only anger. Anger at everyone who had hidden the truth, angry at the hope she had felt, angry at the hundreds of Lord’s Prayers, angry at him for not minding his health.

Hope was reinstated as the enemy the moment the curtains were drawn back. There was nothing to do now and much to do still. 

No tears came when she planned every aspect of the funeral, the mass, the music, the readings, the flowers, all with perfect attention to detail. She was not given nor asked for help. She was strong. She wanted that woman who sang on Sundays with the voice of an angel to sing the Ave Maria. Alone, she drove to the church and retrieved a hymnal to find the music she liked. Of all the hymns she had loved, “Be not Afraid” became the one she would never forget and could never hear again without shedding tears. She picked out the pall bearers, those who would give eulogies, white lilies for the altar. She chose the readings - in two languages- though she remembers none of them. She went to the local library, lucky to find a Spanish Bible so his family could follow in their own language. She made sure all the out-of-town relatives had a place to stay. Meals were delivered by friends and neighbors, breakfast lunch, and dinner day after day. The New York Times and bagels were dropped off at her door by an old man who lived down the street and who used to play tennis with her husband.

On the day of the snow, she wore a black mink coat and a black hat. She was incredibly beautiful at 44, although she did not know it. Her long black hair was shinier than the mink. Her nails had been carefully manicured. As she looks back, she cannot remember when on earth she found the time for a manicure. For the life of her, she can’t recall what she was wearing under the coat. She was not a tall woman, just barely over five feet. Her eyes were hazel, the color of honey. She had a perfect Irish nose, and high cheekbones inherited from the Italian side. She never wore much makeup, just eyeliner and always black mascara. She didn’t need more than that. 

She thought it ridiculous to have to go back to the funeral parlor-she hated the aroma of dying flowers-to say good bye to a dead person who was no longer the person she had loved since she was 11. To a man who could not hear her and would never hear her again. She wanted all this to be over. She had held off on the funeral for three days, waiting for his family and friends to arrive from overseas.

She was just going to say her goodbyes because she was told it was the right thing to do. 

His only brother drove the 4Runner on a blanket of soft snow which made the sadness that much harder to bear. 

The silence of the snow.

For the rest of her life, she would remember the exact moment she walked into the funeral home, the casket ready to be closed for eternity. She sees the place as a Cathedral, the weak light filtering through stained glass windows. She knows that it was just one room in the funeral parlor, but always sees a Cathedral in her heart. 

Her brother-in-law stayed back. Firemen in their blue dress uniforms leaned against the wall, waiting to escort her husband on his last trip. She recalls the brass buttons of their coats, but neither their faces nor how many firemen were there. 

She approached the casket, still angry at this senseless detour. 

He wore a blue shirt the color of his eyes, his favorite striped tie, and a navy blue cashmere blazer. She knelt in front of the coffin and said a prayer, holding on to the side of the casket. She slowly moved her hand toward the body, averting her eyes. Touched his freshly starched shirt, the tie. Let her hand rest there. Removed her black leather glove in a daze. Snuck two fingers inside his shirt. Felt his hairy chest —“mi guanaco” she used to call it, her fingers resting on it, slowly caressing his lifeless body which felt so full of life in that single moment when life touches eternity. Despite the funeral home smell, she could sense his unique aroma, one that thirty years later she could easily conjure up out of nowhere. He was there, next to her. She imagined her head on his heartbeat after the kids were asleep, how she caressed his chest and how one thing led to another and how they never got enough sleep. 

She moved her fingers inside his shirt and sobs began to build within her. She tried to hold them back but out of nowhere a torrent of tears filled the Cathedral of Pain. She sobbed loudly, more like a scream, for a long time. An eternity. Unable to move her fingers which were still glued to his chest. Unwilling to let him go.

There was so much left unsaid. So many things left to do.

Someone must have taken her hand away. 

The coffin was placed atop the fire truck wrapped in an American flag soon covered with puffs of snow. A just moment for someone whose dream was to live in the USA but whose destiny was to die a young death wrapped in the star-spangled banner.

She walked into the church to “Be Not Afraid” behind the coffin holding the little one's hands, following the heartbroken altar boy. The aroma of incense brought her back to her Primera Comunión. Smoke floated upwards creating small rainbows on its path, then held steady, hovering above the small group of pallbearers, priests, altar boys, and widow. The familiar sound of the chains against the incense burner accompanied her steps. She noticed the church was jam-packed and in her eternal optimism saw it as the positive side of young death. She walked up the aisle looking to the right, where she knew the family was waiting.

The longest walk. 

She held her head high, wondering if her mascara was running. Found a seat. Sat down, holding little hands in hers.

She never cried again.