By the time she’s done talking, my margarita is gone. I’m not sure how that happened. Our fajitas come, sizzling and ostentatious, if fajitas can be ostentatious. They are just so big and require so many plates and people to bring them. There is the plate for the side dishes, the pans of chicken and vegetables, the case for tortillas, both corn and flour, and the condiments of guacamole, cheese, salsa, and lettuce. Our table looks like a feast fit for a king, and the chicken is frying so loudly on the skillets that I feel like the whole restaurant is looking.
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Susan asks demurely. “I think it’s great though, the way they bring it to you like it’s a presentation. There’s absolutely no need for them to have the chicken still grilling on the table. None at all.”
The waiter comes back to check on us. Susan orders us each another margarita. “Watermelon for me,” I interject. Susan agrees. “That sounds good; watermelon for me too.”
We talk over our steaming lunches about politics and families; we talk about traffic and movies, news and funny stories. I want to be able to talk to Susan about things other than life and death, other than Ben and Steven. It seems possible. It seems like I could know her regardless of the tragedy between us. But Ben is what we have in common, and so the conversation will always come back to Ben. I wonder if it’s unhealthy to fixate out loud. If being obsessed with Ben’s death is something I’m only supposed to do in my own head. I also wonder how much I can truly rely on her.
“Do you have a plan for when you’re going to stop his mail?” she asks me casually, while she is picking at what’s left off the hot plate in front of her with her fork.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I don’t even know really how to do that.” That’s not all of the truth. The other fact is that I’m scared that would cause the post office to hold the marriage certificate too since it will have his name on it. I don’t want to have his mail stopped until I have it.
“Oh, it’s easy. We can do it today if you want,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, trying to think of a way to stop her and realizing I have no real excuse but the truth. “Well, I’m still waiting for the marriage certificate,” I say. “I don’t want to stop the mail in case they try to hold that too.”
“What do you mean?” she says, peeling an onion off the plate and putting it in her mouth with her hands.
“It hasn’t come yet and since both of our names will be on it, I’m worried they might keep it with his old bills and stuff instead of sending it through to me.”
“It hasn’t come yet?” Her voice indicates that there must be some misunderstanding. For so long, I’ve been worried to tell anyone that it hadn’t come yet. I’ve thought they’d think I was lying about our marriage. I was afraid they would use it to convince themselves of the one thing I’m scared to be: not relevant. But Susan’s voice doesn’t convey a moment of doubt. She sounds only concerned about a clerical error or logistical mistake. It doesn’t even occur to her to question whether I’ve been completely full of shit. I have to admit that she’s come so far since I met her. She must move so quickly through emotional turmoil.
“No, I don’t have it yet. I’ve been checking the mail every day, opening up even the most innocuous of envelopes. It’s nowhere.”
“Well, we need to start calling people, figuring out where it is. Have you called the county to check and see if it’s at least in their records?”
“No,” I say and shake my head. Honestly, I hadn’t thought it was that big of a deal until I said it out loud. I hadn’t wanted to face the logistical nightmare of figuring this out.
“Well, that’s got to be the first step. You need to find out if the original license made it to the county.”