You or someone like you, p.4
You or Someone Like You, page 4
As always, death changes a person.
If anything ever happened to my girls, I don’t know what I’d do.
A minute later, I’m changing out of my suit and climbing into my empty bed. The spot beside me is pristine, untouched, and ice cold. Emma’s pillowcase hasn’t been washed since she passed. My housekeeper knows not to touch it when she changes the sheets. Maybe I’m in denial about the way it still smells like her sunflower-scented shampoo, maybe it’s all in my head, but I can’t bring myself to wash it just yet.
Turning to my side, I reach to switch off the bedside lamp, only I stop to stare at the framed wedding photo on my nightstand.
I’ve spent hours, perhaps days, staring at this photo. Every square inch of it is forever embedded in my memory to the point where I could see it with my eyes closed if I tried hard enough.
Sometimes I swear I can still hear her gentle, infectious laugh. It tends to happen in those serene, quiet moments between waking and sleep.
I’d give anything to run my fingers through her sandy-blonde curls one more time, to have one more lazy Sunday morning with her, stealing kisses while the girls watch Sesame Street and the scent of her famous cinnamon rolls fills the air.
A man could have all things money can buy, but it’s the small, priceless moments that make him truly rich. By my own definition, I’d be dirt poor if it weren’t for my girls.
Shortly after Emma and I married, she suffered a bout of insomnia. It came out of the blue, with seemingly no explanation, but she’d work herself up into anxious fits she couldn’t get out of. She hated taking medications for it because they’d only sedate her and never fully address the issue. Whenever she would take something, her insomnia seemed to come back tenfold the following night. She decided she couldn’t go around it, so she was simply going to go through it.
Countless nights I’d lie awake with her, all but forcing my eyelids open with toothpicks so I could keep her company. Some nights she’d entertain us both by asking silly questions—would you rather have Chiclets for teeth or chicken drumsticks for arms? That sort of thing. We’d be rolling in laughter, imagining these absurd little scenarios.
Other times, her questions would take a somber turn.
For a while, she’d get caught up on topics related to death and dying. I’m not sure if it was a premonition of some kind or just her anxiety getting the best of her, but I’ll never forget the time she made me promise that if I ever died, I’d visit her as a blue jay.
“Why a blue jay?” I’d asked. “Of all the birds? I’d much rather be a peregrine falcon or a hawk.”
Rolling to her side, she peered up at me with a tender expression on her beautiful face, and she traced her thumb along my brow as she cupped the side of my cheek.
“Because,” she said, “blue jays are intelligent. And complex. And they can get kind of mean when they feel threatened, but it’s only because they’re fiercely protective. You’re absolutely a blue jay. One hundred percent. End of story. Period.”
I laughed at the time, imagining myself as a little blue bird with a pointy crest on its head.
“What do you want me to come back as?” she asked me next.
“Nothing,” I say, “because I’m going to die first. Husbands always die before their wives. Men don’t live as long as women. It’s science.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “No denying you’re a smart man, but you can’t predict the future. If I die first, how do you want me to visit you?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. But it wasn’t that I didn’t know—it was that I didn’t want to think about it.
“Maybe a flower or a number or a color or an animal . . .” She rattled off a dozen options.
“If you tell me you’re going to come back as a marigold or the number twelve, then that’s all I’m going to see. It’s confirmation bias. I don’t want you to tell me what you’re going to be, and I don’t want to choose what you’re going to be. Surprise me. Make it unmistakably, undeniably you.”
“Hm,” she said as she rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling in deep contemplation. “Okay, then.”
It was the last time we ever discussed that topic.
Not long after, her insomnia passed, and we got pregnant with Adeline. Everything changed after that. Emma practically glowed with happiness, like it was radiating from the inside out, pouring out of her fingertips. She’d wake with a smile on her face, obsessively talk about baby names and family traditions she wanted to implement, and every facet of her being was drenched in sweet contentedness. She hadn’t even had the baby, and already motherhood was suiting her.
Anyone can reproduce, but not everyone appreciates what it means to be a parent.
Pulling out of my pensive reverie, I turn off my bedside lamp and recline against my pillow.
I never knew it was possible to feel numb and to feel everything at the same time, yet here I am. Feeling nothing. Feeling it all. Or maybe I’m somewhere in between those two things, if that even makes sense. Though nothing has really made sense since I lost my wife.
I suppose this is par for the course.
All I know is there’s no denying the fact that Margaux lives in the exact same building Emma lived in when I first met her. The steps outside her apartment—the ones with the black railing—that’s where we had our first kiss. And the streetlamp Margaux and I stood under tonight was where Emma and I had our first fight (which was over almost as soon as it started).
But it isn’t just the building.
It’s the key chain too.
One of only ten in existence . . . What are the odds Margaux has one?
If that wasn’t a sign from Emma, I don’t know what is.
I only wish I knew what it meant.
CHAPTER FIVE
SLOANE
“You survived,” I say when I find Margaux camped out in her bed, right where I left her.
She pauses her TV show, adjusts her blankets, and gifts me her full attention. A plate of half-eaten saltines rests on her nightstand alongside a mostly empty glass of ginger ale.
“I should say the same about you. How was it? Please tell me you bored him to tears.” She checks the time on her phone before tossing it on the bed beside her. “I’m going to assume yes because you’re home way earlier than I expected.”
“I don’t know if boring is the right word to describe tonight,” I say.
Margaux frowns.
“But I think it’s safe to say he won’t be asking for a second date.” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.
“Why are you laughing?” she asks, one brow lifted higher than the other.
“Because he’s weird,” I say. “The whole thing was a shit show. He’s still very much in love with his wife . . . who died years ago, by the way . . . he’s still in mourning. The poor thing had no desire to be out on a date. He was just trying to make his aunt happy. So you guys have that in common, I guess. But it was just . . .”
I struggle to find the right words to convey the incongruity of the evening, from the moment I sat down, to the clunky conversation, to the inadvertent walk home, to the bizarre exchange we shared outside my front steps.
“Do you remember when I worked at Brickhouse Gallery a few years back, and some jerk had me fired?” I ask.
Margaux scrunches her brows. “Yeah. It was a whole ordeal. You came home in tears that day and called out sick the next morning—which you never do. It was traumatic.”
I lift a hand. “Okay, you’re making me sound dramatic, which I’m not, but it was a horrible situation that I have no desire to relive in any way, shape, or form, but anyway . . . Roman Bellisario was the jerk who had me fired.”
Margaux’s jaw falls loose. “No way.”
“Way.” I cross my arms, leaning against her doorframe.
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something when I told you his name earlier?”
“What would it have mattered? You needed me to go on this date so you can get that promotion . . . I wasn’t going to screw you over last minute.”
Margaux exhales, her head tilting. “I owe you big.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, you do. Still waiting on that firstborn child you promised me back in college . . .” Gifting her a wink, I yawn. “I’m going to bed. The sooner this night is over with, the better.”
“It’s barely nine o’clock . . .”
Nine o’clock to me is the equivalent of 1:00 a.m. to my sister.
I can’t remember the last time Margaux was home on a Friday night. For someone who knows everything about me, who shared a womb with me for nine months and a bedroom with me for eighteen years, she seems to have forgotten that I live for my quiet Friday nights. It’s how I unwind after a whirlwind week in a fast-paced city working alongside art hustlers who never sleep. I’m all about balance, and that requires making time to be alone with myself. My biggest fear is burning out doing something I love. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my love of art keeping my soul ablaze.
“Well aware,” I say. “It’s what us boring people do on the weekends.”
With that, I make my way to the hall bath, strip out of Margaux’s frilly fashion, and wash up for bed.
It’s only when I’m lying wide awake a half hour later, replaying the strangeness that was my evening, that I decide to search up Roman’s late wife online. After a fruitless twenty minutes on Google, I run through my contacts and shoot out a dozen text messages to my art-world friends, asking if they know anything about the infamous Roman Bellisario’s late wife.
Almost all the responses I receive are to the tune of I had no idea that guy was ever married.
Except for one.
Her name was Emma, my friend Carina writes. Emma Whitfield. I don’t believe she ever took his last name. She was cousins with my college roommate, believe it or not. I met her a couple of times. So sad about her passing. She was super sweet. Gave me her shoes once when we all went out for New Year’s Eve one year. Mine were giving me blisters, so she traded with me.
No wonder the man can’t get over her.
She sounds like a damn saint.
With that, I run a search on Emma Whitfield + NYC + obituary, and I click on the top result.
Emma Whitfield of Manhattan passed away Sunday, June 28, 2020. Emma was born in Boston, Massachusetts, the only child of Warren and Laurel Whitfield, on January 2, 1990. Growing up, Emma excelled in language arts and broke several girls’ lacrosse records at her high school. She went on to attend the University of Massachusetts on a full lacrosse scholarship, where she majored in English literature with a minor in printmaking. Upon graduation, Emma moved to New York City, where she worked as a private tutor and freelance copywriter. Soon after her move, she met her future husband and soulmate, Roman. They bonded over their love of all things fine art and were inseparable from the moment they met.
Emma and Roman were united in marriage August 15, 2015, in a beautiful ceremony at her grandmother’s summer home off the coast of Narragansett. They exchanged vows in front of over four hundred beloved friends and family members before spending three weeks touring much of Europe for their honeymoon.
Emma is survived by her husband, Roman, and their daughters, Adeline and Marabel, her parents, grandparents, and countless loved ones. She is preceded in death by a cousin, Deirdre Allison, and her beloved rescue cat, Karma.
Please join us in celebrating Emma’s life at the Saint Paul Memorial Center at 2:00 p.m. Wednesday, July 1.
I scroll down to a video at the bottom of her obituary, one filled with assorted photos of a beautiful existence cut short. Every image of her bears three things in common—she looks happy, beautiful, and overflowing with life. A bittersweet song plays along with the slideshow, one that’s somehow both uplifting and sorrowful at the same time.
I watch the whole thing.
Twice.
By the time it’s over, my cheeks are damp with tears, and my heart is full of something that wasn’t there before—compassion for Roman Bellisario.
Darkening my screen, I put my phone aside and close my eyes.
His wife’s death coincides almost perfectly with his campaign to have me fired. Could it be he was simply having a bad time? Grief stricken? Angry at the world? They say hurt people hurt people.
All these years, I thought he was heartless.
Maybe I was wrong.
Perhaps all he was . . . was heartbroken.
CHAPTER SIX
ROMAN
“Who wants fresh doughnuts?” Aunt Theodora lets herself into my apartment Saturday morning, a giant pink box in hand. “Get them while they’re still warm . . .”
Come hell or high water, this has been our weekly tradition since Emma passed. At eight thirty sharp each and every Saturday, she shows up with breakfast—always something from a renowned bakery or local restaurant—and then she takes the girls for a couple of hours. I know she thinks she’s doing me a favor, but I always find myself watching the clock to see how much time is left before they come home or checking my phone for any texted photos or updates.
I know it’s good for the girls to have some “girl time,” but I miss them just the same.
Some weekends they go to a museum. Other weekends they go to a park or a toy store. Today Theodora’s taking them for manicures and pedicures. It’s all the girls have been talking about all week, and they already have their colors picked out.
Sparkly teal for Marabel.
Hot purple with white polka dots for Adeline.
Matching Barbie pink for their toes.
In the early days after our loss, Emma’s mother visited every month. But as time went by, she found it harder to get away from work and carve out a long weekend in New York. Or so she said.
We used to go to Boston, but the last time we went, Emma’s father and I had words over my so-called coddling of the girls. He had the audacity to call me a helicopter parent—whatever the hell that is. I had some choice words for him myself, though I don’t quite remember what I said exactly.
It wasn’t my finest hour.
And we haven’t been back since.
Neither he nor I has picked up the phone and apologized, and I don’t foresee that happening anytime in the near future.
Emma once told me that her parents were always hands off with her. All her accomplishments, all her accolades, she earned them on her own merit. They never pushed her to be an overachiever, and they never went out of their way to help her chase her dreams in any capacity. Despite all that, they never hesitated to take credit for any of her achievements.
Emma told me that a drunken aunt once let it slip that Emma was an “accident,” that her parents were career focused and never wanted to be parents, but they were doing the best they could playing the hand they were dealt. She said everything made sense from then on out.
“Auntie Dora!” Adeline squeals from the next room, and the sound of little feet padding across the hardwood follows. “What did you bring us?”
“I brought you a lovely assortment of pastries,” she says. “Doughnuts, croissants, scones. As the oldest Bellisario daughter, you’ll get first pick.”
Adeline claps her little hands and does a jump.
Sometimes I’m tempted to take an adorable photo or two and send them to Emma’s parents without any explanation or description. Just a little snapshot of what they’re missing. It comes as no surprise to me, now, that two people who didn’t want to be parents also have very little desire to be grandparents. Emma would be heartbroken if she were around to see this. If she were still here, she’d be taking the girls to Boston on a regular basis, no doubt. Not for herself or for her parents but for our daughters. Everything she ever did was for their benefit.
If my father were still around, I have no doubt he’d be involved in their lives, though I’m not sure what kind of a role he’d play. His love language was money. The man couldn’t shed a tear or utter a simple I love you to save his life, but when I came home with a good report card, he never hesitated to slap down his black Amex or schedule some epic vacation filled with unforgettable experiences.
He wasn’t around by the time we had our first child, but I like to imagine grandfather-hood would have softened him a bit. The girls have cracked my ironclad heart wide open, that’s for sure.
My mother visits from France twice a year—Christmas and then the middle of April, during the week between the girls’ birthdays. Occasionally her new husband joins her, though the last few visits he’s stayed back for various convenient reasons.
I’ll never beg someone to be in our life.
If they want to, they will.
It’s that simple.
“And where is Mademoiselle Marabel?” Theodora asks Adeline.
Adeline places a hand on her hip, tucking her chin and leaning in. “Don’t tell Daddy, but she’s watching YouTube.”
Theodora glances up at me, and I shake my head. I blocked YouTube months ago, after I found her watching some questionable content better suited for someone thrice her age. The internet is a minefield of crap, and policing the content my kids have access to feels like a full-time job sometimes.
“She’s watching YouTube Kids,” I say. “Adeline, go get your sister. Tell her it’s time for breakfast.”
Theodora places the box of doughnuts on the kitchen island before rummaging through the cabinets to retrieve plates and juice glasses. I grab a container of freshly cut fruit from the fridge. If she’s going to load them up on pure sugar, I’d at least like them to have some type of real food to go with it. Even if they ignore it, at least it’s there. It’s an option. And it makes me feel like I’m doing something right as a parent.
Marabel meanders in—always a girl operating on her own schedule—gives Theodora a hug, then takes her spot at the head of the table, where she’s insisted on sitting ever since she outgrew her high chair a couple of years ago.
