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Here’s another truth when you marry a man who is twenty-five years your senior: he will die before you. Everyone knows it. Not sure why there had to be any questions, any “investigations.” Yet, according to Officer Taylor, that’s what they have been doing since he died. Recreating John’s last day, retracing his steps. It’s absurd and gruesome. Maybe they don’t have much action up here? I assume all of that nonsense stops now that the coroner’s report is in.
I take a sip of tea and rub my tired eyes. Before he dropped me here, Officer Taylor handed me the business card of a company that specializes in cleaning up after deaths in the home. A gruesome way to make a living, but they were there this morning after the scene was cleared to “take care of things.” Cleaned or not, I will never be able to set foot in that condominium again, I know as my stomach lurches at the memory. Not after what I saw.
Because John is dead. Cardiac arrest. Underlying heart disease. Period.
His obituary is in the paper today in Telluride, Ponte Vedra Beach, and Columbus. That all happened seemingly by magic. A single call to handsome, helpful Lance at EventCo, and everything was set in motion. I didn’t have to make any calls. Not to Kate, or Ashlyn, or to the rest of the company. Lance handled all of that. He said I had enough on my plate. He even offered to fly out, help with the arrangements.
The arrangements.
I am in charge of thebody. Just thinking about it, right now, my skin prickles into goose bumps. I mean, it turns out there are a lot of decisions to make when you’re the wife of someone who has died. In Ohio, where we live and where he’ll be buried, the wife has all the rights. It is all up to me, no matter how much Kate and Ashlyn want to make it about them. And they do. They call me, or at least Kate does, every other hour. I’ve taken to sending her to voice mail. She leaves messages saying she just wants to help, blah, blah, blah. That she’ll handle everything. To think of Ashlyn. To have some compassion.
No way. I’m in charge now. John was my husband, not hers. I told them not to fly here, that there was nothing for them to do. They called me again, just this afternoon, together, in a wonderfully overwhelming show of strength and solidarity, and left a long voice mail.
“Please, fly thebodyhome to the family mausoleum. John’s parents are buried there. I know that is what he would have wanted. Let Schoedinger Funeral Home handle this, please. I’ve already talked to them, and they expect his remains. It’s all been prearranged. Tish, please, I know—knew—John better than anyone. Better than you. Please.” Kate sounded firm, but she was desperate. She always wants to be in control.
They don’t know anything. I don’t care what morbid plans John and Kate made when they were married. I’m in charge now. To me, cremation is the answer. It’s good for the environment, and really, you become dust anyway. I found a good guy here. Funeral home directors are so helpful to us grieving widows, even though they pretty much have you at their mercy, don’t they? They know everything, and you’re just trying to clean up a gross mess.
Kate needs to understand what I’ve been through. I am the wife now.
My phone lights up. It’s Kate. Again. She’s such a bother.
I pick up the phone. “Look, I got your messages, but you should know I’ve already lined up the funeral home here to take care of things. I’m in charge of his body.”
“How dare you. John had plans in place for this with the funeral home here in Columbus. You should respect his wishes. I can handle it. For the love of god, it is what he wanted.” Kate’s voice is frosty through the phone.
I hear Ashlyn sobbing. It grates on me.
I’m tired of both of them. Kate is acting like she’s the boss of me or something. I hate that tone. Where’s the compassion for the grievingwidow anyway? “John will be flown home on Saturday. It takes five days to get the official death certificate now that the autopsy is finished.”
I hear her gasp at the word.
So I say it again. “Yes, he had an autopsy because it was sudden, and alcohol was involved, and he’s prominent or something.”
“You didn’t tell me that was happening,” Kate hisses.
“You never asked,” I say. “Besides, it came back all normal. Nothing criminal. Just his poor heart stopping. So Kate, please do as I’ve asked and focus on the memorial service. I know it will be a big deal. You can be onstage, the way you like it.” I’ll admit that was a low-blow comment.
“You’re unbelievable. You know that?” It’s Ashlyn piping in. Aren’t children supposed to be seen and not heard? “My mom and dad picked out the place where he wanted to be buried. They had a plan. Just honor that, why don’t you? Why do you have to be such a bitch?”
Oh, silly Ashlyn. She’s so clueless. I don’t have the time to get her back on my side right now. “That plan was made when your parents were together. They are divorced, and I’m his wife now. You don’t really expect me to bury your dad next to your mom’s slot, or plot, or whatever it’s called, do you? That just doesn’t make sense. I know you’re stressed, though, so I’m not angry with you.”
“I’m pleading with you, please. We’ll give you whatever you want, just send John home. To me. To his family,” Kate says. “At least tell me what you’re planning. I have a right to know.”
I took a breath. We need to be a grieving team once I’m back in Columbus. A unified front, they call it. Just the three of us: John’s women. I dig down deep for my last bit of sympathy for Kate, wife number one.
“I hear you. And I’m so sorry this has happened, for all of us. But you must understand that I’ll need to make the arrangements for John, the way he and I planned. We discussed this, and he had specific instructions.”
“You’re lying.” Ashlyn again. She is on my last nerve.
“You don’t know anything. I’m handling things.”
The only thing I heard on the other end was sobbing, so I hung up.
Of course Ashlyn is right. John and I hadn’t discussed our death plans—I’m the second wife. I’m vitality and youth and light. We had years to settle into that type of morbid rumination. Years of luxury travel, adventurous sex, and second-, third-, and fourth-home shopping.
There’s a knock on the door. Room service. I pull the fluffy white robe tight and answer the door to a handsome young server. He no doubt wonders how a woman his age could afford this suite. I walk to the sitting area of the room and take a seat. He places the silver room service tray on the coffee table in front of me and hands me the bill.
I leave him a big tip, and when I hand him the bill folder, our hands touch. He turns bright red before hurrying out the door.
