The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer Read Free Book Online Page B

and Me—in every class, there were a dozen young moms and John. The few classes I attended scared me back into my jar of Ponds. How did I miss the middle-aged-mommy wave?
    “I blame the latest wave of starlets,” Jay had said one day after I cried to him sitting in our favorite coffee shop. “Instead of normal young starlet activities—smoking meth, driving the wrong way on the 405, flashing their baldies, screwing bad manager/boyfriends—”
    “There must be a bad manager/boyfriend outlet store. There’s so many of them.”
    “Starlets are popping out babies,” Jay said.
    “One after another,” I said. “Babies are the new drug of choice. And the Mommy and Me girls are following in their pedicured, heroin-pricked footsteps.”
    I took Ellie to her ballet class after John had passed away. A new Mommy asked me, in my desiccated, elderly state, “So, are you Ellie’s grandmother?”
    New word for me and my kind: Grammommy .
    If I had been the one to die, Ellie’s life would continue relatively smoothly. But I wasn’t. I was left here to pick up the pieces. And endure Mommy and Me classes.
    Life is cruel.
    Ellie attends Bunny Hill Preschool, in an old two-story just south of Sunset. Remember when there were “nursery schools”? Perhaps they still exist out in the Valley, but not here. Oh, no. Here there are “preschools.” “Preschool” sounds much more important than “nursery school.” In preschool, your toddler learns “pre-reading” and “pre-math.” Don’t get me started on pre-K. I just like my K straight, thank you.
    Why are we in Bunny Hill? Every big life decision I make is basedon a quotient: Time + Distance divided by Parking. Thus, Ellie’s pediatrician, Dr. Bob, located seven minutes from Casa Sugar, has ample parking; Dr. Jim (the “surfing doc” who’s always on CNN hating on vaccines, because, like, “science” is, like, not “cool”) is closer, but parking is impossible. Bunny Hill is 8.2 minutes from Casa Sugar. Parking is great. Done and done. Also, Chloe had insisted on Bunny Hill.
    “I don’t want to be an alarmist, but like my blog says, preschool is the new college. You don’t want Ellie going to prison, do you?” Chloe had said.
    Our interview with Rhoda, Bunny Hill’s seventy-year-old matriarch (matriarch is to Bunny Hill as Castro is to Cuba) went something like this:
          1. Have you ever spent quality time with any of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills?
(I thought this was a trick question. It wasn’t. The right answer was “yes,” not my answer, which was snort, laugh, cough.)
          2. Can you offer a Four Seasons Maui cabana for our Spring Auction?
          3. Can you get letters of recommendation from Bill Clinton or Whoopi Goldberg?
    By the time John and I were ready to turn tail and run, Ellie was emotionally attached to Fred, the school mascot, a tired old bunny kept in a cage in the dusty backyard.
    “Did you realize,” Rhoda whispered, her eyes wide, across her crowded desk, “Ellie is already a pre-learner?” Of course, we signed over our life savings.
    Now, guess what? Bet you can’t. I’m the only widow at Bunny Hill, including elderly Rhoda, who’s vacationing in Greece this summer with her husband, Abe. I feel about that how I feel about everything that’s unfair—wars, poverty, starvation, the price of almonds, John dying, Nic Cage’s hairline—there is no God.
    Oh, and none of the moms of the other Mommies are widows, yet, either.
    So. My child.
    They sell grief books for parents. Well, when bad stuff happens, the last thing you want to do is drive to Barnes & Noble, and ask an English Lit major working minimum wage for a how-to-tell-your-kid-dad-is-dead book.
    A week went by. Almost two weeks. Aimee and I were sharing a bottle of pinot noir as I tried to roast chicken à la John. Crispy skin, juicy breast. Truckloads of garlic.
    Ellie danced through, then stopped as I sweated over the