We had gone from walking in the park to sitting across from each other in my living room to sitting next to each other on the couch in the family room. It was the pain that attracted us. A year earlier, we had both lost our beloved, vibrant spouses to cancer. Although his wife and I had been in the same women's reading group, I only knew Eric through the ironic complaints we had all made about our husbands.
Now he took my face in his hands. Here it comes, I thought. Was he ready for this? Looking deep into my eyes, he asked, “Do you want to take a nap with me?”
Apparently, that's what dating was like at 60. As he snored amicably, I wondered how he would handle our next progression, whatever it might be. My husband had devotedly cared for me during my own illness, only to suffer a much worse one. We and our two children were the closest family, their father their best friend. As much as I knew I was needed, I was plagued by survivor's guilt: I was still ashamed to be alive. If I was mortified just by breathing, how could I even think about loving another man?
For months, Eric and I lay in wait. Although he didn't have the feeling that I had that we were cheating on our spouses, we both felt that we were somehow cheating on our children. The fact that his only son and my two were often in our respective homes made logistics difficult. So we rent new life to the city.
Guided by Eric, we watched the planes from the Santa Monica Airport observation deck, where he explained Bernoulli's principle to us. We wandered through the Mar Vista Farmers Market, where she introduced me to vendors she had known for decades and taught me how to cover trays of berries with small nets she had made to keep the fruit in place. We saw recording plays from LA Theater Works at UCLA's Melnitz Hall, where the primary narrative of actors reading lines and Foley artists adding sounds captivated me more than a Broadway show. On these outings, I learned not only about flight, farm-to-table, and fabulism, but also about Eric. He was a man fully committed to life.
Guided by me, we took classes at Santa Monica Yoga, Eric then treated himself to a sandwich at Bob's Market from the deservedly self-proclaimed Deli Lama. We toured my book about Los Angeles on foot, from Castellammare and Leimert Park to Pasadena, delighting in the architectural mix that Nathanael West derided in “The Day of the Locust” as “Mexican ranches, Samoan cabins, Mediterranean villas” and “Egyptian and Japanese temples.” Eric especially admired the Witch House in Beverly Hills, the Shakespeare Bridge in Franklin Hills, and the stained glass windows at Carthay Circle. He not only learned about poses, pastrami and breastworks, but also about me. I was a woman fully committed to life.
We also knew that we were both determined to seize the day after watching the rest of our spouses' days be taken away from them. My guilt persisted. But this good man had found a route from the couch to the city and to my heart.
We finally met each other's children. The days we took advantage of turned into weeks, months and years. Our children, though always heartbroken, thrived. Mine had children of their own, all with names beginning with “A” in honor of their father. The oldest, four years old, understands from the photos that another grandfather has, she understands that the man in the photo is her father's father. His parents and I told him about him: his kindness, grace, humor, wisdom. “I wish I could have met him,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, “more than anything.” When the others are old enough, we will tell them about him too. They will feel his essence because their parents are like him. He will remain this way, within and around us.
Always kind, Eric keeps this space for himself, as I try to do for his wife with his son. But becoming a grandmother only increased my guilt. My husband, a consummate family man, was born to be a grandfather. Yet here I was, without him, enjoying the joy of being a grandfather. What could I do besides love my children and grandchildren intensely and be grateful for the privilege?
You could do this: recognize that if it takes a village to raise a child, the more villagers who love the child, the better. My lucky grandchildren will feel their grandfather's love by proxy and Eric's love firsthand. They even get to enjoy the love of Eric's son, who patiently helps them build Lego worlds and makes them their favorite soup.
Although Eric has room for my husband, Eric affectionately fills his. He is a tall man with a deep voice, an easy laugh and a warm hug. He marvels at the latest evidence of the grandchildren's genius, as any grandparent should, and spoils them with treats and toys. He is so handy around his houses that my grandson greets him by saying, “What are you going to fix today?”
Her most recent project involved the crib that my husband and I had saved from our children's childhood in the hopes that one day her grandchildren would use it. Since the distance between the slats was now considered unsafe, Eric converted the crib into blocks. “I wanted to honor the spirit of what they both wanted,” he said.
Then and now. Loss and gain. Selfless love.
For years, Eric and I have lived in my house. There are still naps, but more bustle. Our kids live close enough that we're together a lot and my house tends to be the happy center. The grandchildren play next to photographs of their grandfather. Their “A” names resonate in this home where we raised their parents. Meanwhile, Eric drags them on a mat he prepared as a magic carpet and helps stack the blocks into towers. When the grandchildren leave, he hugs them tight. My guilt remains, like the pain in a phantom limb, but the couch supports us all.
The author is a law professor, researcher, and author of a forthcoming book on the scientifically proven neural superpowers of grandmothers. She lives on the west side. she is on instagram @rondafoxwritesand their website is rondafox.com.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
