I GOT UP AT 4 AM to catch the first flight from LA to San Francisco. Now it’s 9:30, and I’ve finally arrived at the Stanford University campus. I’ve been here before, of course, but under infinitely more pleasant circumstances. It’s not every day that you attend the funeral of your husband as organized by his other wife. Or, rather, the funeral of the man you’ve been calling husband for six months. Who was John Taylor? I no longer have a clue.
John’s obituary hadn’t mentioned a wake, or “viewing,” just a time and date for the funeral service: 10 AM, Tuesday, May 14, 2013, Stanford Memorial Church. As you would expect for a successful professional, a prominent member of his community, the turnout is impressive. A large throng is milling around the church entrance, and the atmosphere is almost festive, people shaking hands and hugging and chatting. If not for the preponderance of black you might mistake the gathering for a wedding or christening.
It has been three days of shocks. Multiple shocks, one after the other. That first bewildering call from my friend Annie who works at the university, followed by her email containing the link to the news article in the campus paper. And of course, denial kicked in immediately after I read it. No. No. Not my John. Not my Dr. John Taylor. But the facts—I couldn’t ignore the facts. A prominent plastic surgeon at Stanford. A thriving private practice that did pro bono work for children with birth defects. Proof. Whatever John had lied to me about, it wasn’t his professional achievements. John was dead. First I had to absorb that. And then, this Deborah. This other wife. One who apparently superseded me. And the children. The children.
I had thought of calling this wife. I should be honest, I more than thought of it. I tried to find her number, an email address, anything. All unlisted. The only things that my Googling turned up were some clubs and associations she belonged to: The South Penninsula Garden Club, where she was the longtime secretary. Mrs. John Taylor Hosts a Tea Party in Beaufort Park. The Women’s Guild of Santa Clara County, where she had been elected president twice. A number of medical charities. Some out-of-focus photos of a woman with gray hair, stiff shoulders. A general air of rigidity. No other data available. No photos of the two of them together. John was either very cagey, or she was a very private albeit civic-minded person.
I even called Stanford Memorial Church, where the service was going to be held. They refused to give me any information, referred me to the funeral home managing the arrangements. But the funeral home also declined to release her data. God knows what I would have said if I had actually gotten this Deborah on the phone. I was distraught, not a word I use lightly. Not a state I’m used to being in.
That’s when I bought my ticket to San Francisco.
I push through the throng in the vestibule and enter the church. Inside, people are quieter, have put on their serious faces. The casket is already there, on a platform at the front. I am a little puzzled by this, I thought the traditional way was to carry it in at the start of the service. It isn’t open, thank God. That would have devastated me. No. Despite the size of the church, the seats are filling up. I wonder if I should feel proud of this, that my John commanded such devotion. I feel nothing. I have yet to feel anything at all.
I dressed carefully this morning, spending more time than I usually would. Given my personal taste in clothing, I’d had no trouble finding something black to pack in my overnight bag. I surveyed myself in the mirror of my room. I happen to be staying at the hotel John died in, according to the newspaper article, which also happens to be closest to the church on campus. I keep my hair neat, a dull brown shoulder-length bob that I pull back into a ponytail when I’m working. A little gray has started to creep in, not surprisingly, at age thirty-six. Let it. I’m not ashamed to be the age I am, to have earned the gray at my temples, the slight crows’ feet at the corners of my eyes. I don’t yet have to wear glasses. I wear no jewelry other than my wedding ring, and I had even protested against that when we got married. But John had insisted. And since he made few demands, I agreed. It was a small thing, but it mattered to him. Had mattered. It still feels so foreign, six months later, the cold metal against my finger.