The Ride Home

When Mark was alive we had a pretty active social life. We both had our own jobs and relationships there, we had combined friends as a couple, and individual friends through our own interests. We also liked to go out often, just the two of us, for dinner or a movie. Many of those friends have stayed around since Mark’s death and included me in their gatherings. In the beginning, it felt like people needed to see me, to see that I was okay. I was so numb at the time that going to those events was easier than the ones that came later when the shock had worn off. For those I would make an appearance but before long could feel the wheels coming off, and so I’d say quick goodbyes and then sprint to the car afterwards where I could sob without dozens of pitying eyes looking at me.

How different from our before life when we would walk into a party and be greeted with, “The Fishers are here!!” Mark was far more comfortable in those social situations than I ever was. I’d always want him to walk in first and he’d say something funny and everyone would laugh and I preferred at parties to stick pretty close to him. Sometimes I’d even say on the way there, “Please don’t abandon me,” which now sounds like foreshadowing.

The best part of any party, wedding, work event…. we went to was the ride home where we would gossip about everything. The food, the couples, who showed up, the ones who didn’t, who clearly looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. Nothing and nobody was off limits as we dragged on it all. One time we went to the summer party of a guy Mark knew via his career and couldn’t stand. I asked him why we were going, if it was something he felt he had to go to for appearance sake and he said, “No, he makes $300K a year and does nothing. Totally worthless, can’t believe he keeps his job. I just want to go to his house and eat as much food as possible until I leave there looking like Jabba the Hutt.” “Oh,” I said, “so we’re going as revenge guests. Got it.” It did not disappoint. The host had a high opinion of himself with a devoted herd of groupies that followed him from room to room. When we wandered into his office where he was holding a presser about the Green Bay Packers, Mark said, “I hate the Packers,” and walked out. I told Mark that was a little over the top and he said, “I said nothing untrue. I hate the Packers.” All the way home he railed about “that son of a bitch.” Not to be left out, I said, “Did you notice all those rabbits around the house? They were everywhere. Who does a whole house in rabbit?”

When the med center was rolling in money, there were parties all the time. Big, expensive parties with hundreds of people at hotels all dressed up, speeches and bands and plenty of food and drinks. There was also his annual department party that included the whole family. We never missed a single year of that party, dragging the kids to it every December where they’d be told how much they had grown and asked the same questions as the year before and the year before that. As they got older they hated it, and one by one they peeled off from their Dad’s work commitment until it was just Mark and I going by ourselves. The department provided food and drinks and then everyone signed up for an appetizer, a side dish, or dessert. The same people bitched every year about how other departments had far nicer parties than the lame Biochemistry Department did, so some of those dishes were heavily seasoned with bitter.

After an extended happy hour the jockeying for a table would begin. There was a distinct pecking order to that. Students in the back, faculty with big egos in the front, the rest of you losers fend for yourself. Mark and I always sat in the back with one of his colleagues and his wife where we could watch the show.

It was at one of those parties a few years ago that I got up to check out the dessert table. Before long one of the professors in the department stood beside me and asked me what I thought looked good. “That cake looks pretty fantastic,” I said, “but nobody has cut into it yet so maybe I’ll pass on that.” He put his hand on my lower back, bent down, and in his very heavy accent said, “Shall we deflower this cake together, Mrs. Fisher?” And I could feel my head nod up and down while my eyes screamed, “Holy shit.”

I went back to the table with a piece of the Non-Virgin Cake and told those guys what had happened. Mark and Joe were laughing so hard they were crying and decided they needed a piece of that deflowered cake too. As they walked away from the table, Joe’s wife leaned over to me and said, “I’ve heard he’s so virile you can get pregnant just standing next to him so you might want to get yourself a pregnancy test in a few weeks,” and there was never another ride home from a party that ever compared to that one.