Everyone Loved Bernie

Nora hated the winter, but she hated this winter most of all. This winter took Bernie away so this winter she hated more than any of the seventy-eight that had come before. This winter, Bernie turned to her and said “I’m done,” and Nora couldn’t argue about it because she’d promised she wouldn’t. This winter Bernie stopped dialysis and Nora sat by her side and held her hand and let her slip away. Bernie smiled at her one last time toward the end. Right then it felt like spring, but then Bernie closed her eyes.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked.

“No, thank you,” Nora responded. “Just the check.”

“Are you o.k., honey?”

Nora had not realized she was crying. How did that happen? She touched her wet cheek and considered lying, but what would be the point?

“No, I guess I’m not.”

“I’m getting you another drink,” the waiter said and scooted away before Nora could stop him.

Nora sat in the lounge at the Soho Grand. She’d buried Bernie two months ago and was tired of moping around their house, looking at photos and listening to their favorite songs and holding Bernie’s blouses to her face just to smell the faint Chanel #5 scent that still clung to them. So she’d jumped in her car and driven to New York City, someplace far enough away and different enough from everyday to hopefully give her a break from the constant grief. Apparently it wasn’t working.

This had been their favorite place to stay when they visited the city so was likely not the best choice for someone trying to find peace from the constant reminders of her dead wife. They hadn’t been here in years—Bernie really couldn’t travel toward the end—but it was still her favorite place so where else would she have stayed? When your spouse dies do you have to change your whole life so you’re never reminded of her again? Was she not supposed to eat at Boqueria or Balthazar because that’s where she went with Bernie? Even the taste of the Negroni reminded her of Bernie; was she not supposed to ever drink one again? Was it that taste that brought on the waterworks or the feel of the velvet that covered the sofa or the song playing in the background? And would it ever stop happening? And did she want it to?

She pulled the soft flowered hankie from her purse and wiped her eyes then blew her nose. Nora didn’t personally understand the concept of hankies, far preferring the more sanitary throw-away tissue option, but Bernie was devoted to them. Nora found this one peaking out from a snowbank by their front door the day after Bernie died. It had warmed up that day and the snow melted just enough to reveal a corner. She pulled it out then crumbled to her knees. This was one of Bernie’s favorites. Nora remembered her searching for it then deciding that the washing machine must have eaten it. Bernie misplaced things all the time and usually blamed one of their appliances.

“Here you go, honey,” the waiter said, placing a fresh Negroni on the table in front of Nora.

“Thank you. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t you dare be sorry. Whatever is happening is happening to you for real right now and you should not be sorry to me for experiencing it. You just let me know if I can get you anything else.”

With that he swished away and Nora found herself smiling. Bernie would have loved this guy, and by now they’d be exchanging phone numbers and making dinner plans.

“You never know when you’re going to meet your next best friend,” Bernie always said.

“I already met mine,” Nora would answer.

Nora had thought about contacting some of those friends in New York, but then had to remind herself that they were really Bernie’s friends and Nora just happened to tag along most of the time. They’d all come to the funeral and invited her to visit and some emailed daily then weekly, but she still didn’t feel like they were hers. In fact, she really didn’t have anyone who was hers. Bernie was hers; everyone else was theirs, or Bernie’s. Nora didn’t really know how to be with people alone. Bernie was the social one.

Nora still clutched the now damp hankie in her hand. Bernie had purchased this one at a vintage clothing store in Cambridge. The sales person was a six-foot-tall blond trans woman named Molly. Her voice was deep, her smile dazzling, and before Bernie had completed her purchase she’d heard Molly’s entire life story and was inviting her to dinner. That was Bernie.

“Oh, crap,” Nora thought.

Before she could stop she realized she was shaking and making some actual crying noises. Christ, how embarrassing. She’d not even seen her waiter coming but before she could attempt to flee the room he was sitting beside her and she was wrapped in his arms. He smelled really good, though it wasn’t Chanel #5, and his shirt was so soft. Nora leaned into him and just let herself go, right in the middle of the lounge at the Soho Grand, with a complete stranger. Somehow it felt easier knowing he was a stranger, not someone she had to be herself for.

When her sobs finally abated and she took a breath, he released her and she sat back. He handed her the hankie, which had fallen to the floor. Nora looked at it then up at him and did something she’d never done before.

“What’s your name and can I buy you a drink?” she said.

“Omar and my shift just ended.” Omar waved one of the waiters over.

“Nora,” she said, extending her hand toward him.

An hour later Omar and Nora were having dinner at Balthazar and had exchanged phone numbers. Nora hadn’t heard his whole life story yet, but figured there’d be plenty of time for that. Tonight she was sharing hers.

“Everyone loved Bernie,” she began.