The Widow's Guide to Dead Bastards

by Jessica Waite

Overview

“You will stay up all night reading this gem” (Christie Tate, New York Times bestselling author) about a widow whose life is turned upside down when she uncovers the truth about her late husband. A lyrical, witty, and deeply moving memoir of betrayal and forgiveness.

While mourning her husband’s sudden death, Jessica Waite discovered shocking secrets that undermined everything she thought she knew about the man she’d loved and trusted. From secret affairs to drug use and a pornography addiction, Waite was overwhelmed reconciling this devastating information with her new reality as a widowed single mom. Then, to further complicate matters, strange, inexplicable coincidences forced her to consider whether her husband was reaching back from beyond the grave.

With unflinching honesty, Waite details her tumultuous love story and the pain of adjusting to the new normal she built for herself and her son. “A candid, raw chronicle of bereavement” (Kirkus Reviews), The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards is also a lyrical exploration of mental health, single parenthood, and betrayal that demonstrates that the most moving love stories aren’t perfect—they’re flawed and poignantly real.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781668044872
Publisher:	Atria Books
Publication date:	07/30/2024
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	320
File size:	7 MB

About the Author

When life handed Jessica Waite a riveting, horrifying and surprisingly beautiful story, she transformed herself into a writer. Her debut memoir, The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards, became an instant bestseller, featured by The Washington Post, Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper, The Toronto Star, and many other outlets. Jessica lives on Treaty 7 territory in the city of Calgary, Alberta. You can find her at JessicaWaite.work.

Read an Excerpt

1. Four Missed Calls FOUR MISSED CALLS
The soup is everything I’d hoped from a homestyle place like Guy’s Café & Bakery in the mountain town of Cochrane, Alberta: translucent onion, garden peas, resolute carrot rounds, hearty golden stock. Earnest, nourishing goodness in a stoneware bowl. My hands have been cold since this morning, waiting with Dash, our nine-year-old son, for the school bus lights to pierce the purplish November morning. I cradle the stoneware, breathing in steamy chicken broth, warming my icy fingers, but the heat intensifies faster than I can—ouch. The bowl clatters onto the table. Soup sloshes over the edge.

I blow on my reddened fingertips. Across the table, my mom, Bonnie, and her friend are planning their golf trip for next summer. Their conversation doesn’t involve me, but I don’t want to be rude, so I peek at my phone under cover of the oak tabletop. The number 4, in a scarlet circle, glares up from the home screen. Shit. My stomach lurches. Something must have happened to Dash. We’re more than an hour’s drive from his elementary school.

But the four missed calls share a Houston area code. Shouldn’t Sean’s flight be wheels up by now?

I tap Mom’s shoulder, in the black-and-white knitted sweater she borrowed from my closet this morning. She only ever packs summer clothes on her way through to warmer climes for the winter. “Sorry to interrupt. Someone from Texas is trying to reach me.”

“Oh, good. They must have found Sean’s jacket,” Mom offers, having overheard me on the phone with Sean, just before we left Calgary for Cochrane.

A sigh of relief. Yes. The security manager of Sean’s hotel, calling to arrange the return of his lost jacket. I button my coat as I slip outside to make the call.

Sean had phoned from the airport shuttle, tetchy that his leather jacket had gone missing from his hotel room. He’d wanted the security manager to question housekeeping about it, but the guy had refused. “Their loss policy guarantees the customer is gone before they investigate the claim,” Sean fumed. “It’s bullshit.”

Odd that he gave the Marriott security guy my number. Sean must have anticipated being in airplane mode. I can already imagine the grin and the pat on the butt I’ll get when I meet him at the airport. He spent a fortune on that black leather bomber. Wearing it with a scarf is one of his favorite things about autumn in Calgary, when the weather turns chilly, like today, November 4, 2015.

I step out in front of the café to listen to the voicemail. A woman, who identifies herself as the ER charge nurse at Memorial Hermann hospital, drawls, “Cawl me back right away. Ms. Wa-ite.”

Oh, no. Sean’s hurt. The Wi-Fi’s not strong enough to scan headlines. Mass shooting. Airport bomb. I sit down on a pine bench near the entrance to the café and, with an unsteady hand, tap the number into my phone. The nurse says, “Ma’am, are you alone right now?” I say I’m with my mom.

The nurse asks if I have a pen. I’m going to need to write some things down. But I’m not really with my mom, am I? Because I’m out here, and Mom’s all the way inside the café, so actually I am alone and this nurse is very, very wrong. She’s emphasizing the Vincent, saying “Sean Vincent Wa-ite.” I mean, she doesn’t even know his name, so what she’s saying can’t be true, and how dare she call and say these lies and demand that I write down the case number, but the numbers are coming so I draw them onto my notepad and repeat them back to her. Then, the call is over.

I tuck my phone, notepad, and pen into the zippered pocket of my black leather purse. The slats of the wooden bench are hard and cold beneath me. I stare at the hood ornament on a red Dodge pickup in this strip-mall parking lot. The noon sun gleams off the ram’s horns and makes my eyes twinge, but I don’t reach for my sunglasses. I don’t look away. I just stare.

When the roar in my head quiets, I stand and walk through the doors, back into the smell of soup and cinnamon and coffee, past the lunching ladies, to the table where my mom and her friend are just finishing up. My chicken soup must have cooled enough to eat, but I don’t sit down.

“They said he died.” A concerned frown behind my mom’s glasses. She doesn’t understand. I say the name to the pinched lines between my mom’s brown eyes. “Sean.” I put my hand on the back of a chair to steady myself. “They said Sean died. A heart attack, they think.”

Someone must have paid the bill because we’re back in my van. I’m in the passenger seat. Mom pulls over to drop off her friend, and then we’re on the highway back to Calgary. I watch the line between the shoulder and the road. I’m not crying.

“Sean was an organ donor. I have to talk to those people. They gave me a case number. I’m supposed to call them right away....”

If Mom answers, I don’t hear her. Thoughts are rushing; I blurt them out as the pavement rolls by.

“Why wouldn’t they let me talk to the doctor? They said he never regained consciousness. Do you think the paramedics will talk to me?....

“Sean’s work people in Denver. I don’t even know them there. I’ll have to look up the number on the website....

“How? How? He just had a full physical, ECG and everything. He was fine. Perfect health....

“So, what, I’m a widow now? No. That’s not right. I’m just a wife.”

Bless my mom for keeping her eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel even when the sharp geyser of pain cuts its way up from my belly to my throat. Tears burst through, and I press my fingertips into my forehead as I choke out my dread, “Oh, God, Mom. How am I going to tell Dash?”

Editorial Reviews

Shockingly forthright...Waite’s journey is consistently riveting as it moves from grief to rage and searches ultimately for acceptance. She holds nothing back...her disclosures will leave readers gobsmacked and empathetic for her righteous fury. Those who have experienced a significant loss either through death or extreme betrayal will glean comfort and courage from her moving account.”
—Booklist

“A complex memoir about mourning, mental illness, and shocking revelations. [...] A candid, raw chronicle of bereavement.”
—Kirkus Reviews

"While grieving the untimely death of her husband, Waite discovered he had been keeping secrets, including infidelity, drug use and a pornography addiction...Each new revelation brings fresh pain, but as her understanding of circumstances surrounding his choices deepens, she learns new definitions of love, strength and forgiveness."
—The Washington Post

"Jessica Waite's The Widow's Guide to Dead Bastards is a hell of a ride. By turns emotional, hilarious, and always very, very human, Waite gives readers access to the secrets that spilled into her lap after her husband's untimely death. Waite masterfully sets an example of how we might honor and cherish departed loved ones who enriched, damaged, and marked our lives forever. You will stay up all night reading this gem."
—Christie Tate, New York Times bestselling author of GROUP

“Essayist Waite debuts with a bracing account of her husband’s sudden death and the secrets she unearthed after he was gone. With startling compassion and surprising wit, Waite shows how such an understanding might be achieved. This stirring study of loss and forgiveness isn’t easily forgotten.”
—Publisher's Weekly, Starred Review

"Jessica Waite masterfully weaves the truth of a life and a marriage, taking the reader on an unflinchingly raw journey of love, loss, betrayal, and re-emergence. She bravely explores the complexities of the relationship contracts that bind us—for better or for worse—and in human and spirit form. The Widow's Guide to Dead Bastards is a gorgeous triumph, a starkly honest and deeply nuanced account of one woman's journey that will inspire all."
—Peggy Fitzsimmons Ph.D., author of Release: Create a Clutter Free and Soul Driven Life

"Propulsive, wild, supernatural and human on the best level, Jessica Waite’s The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards tackles marriage, grief, betrayal and reconciliation with heroic dedication, sharp wit and an indelible spirit. A memoir that tests the limits of the human heart, and elevates the form with rousing success. I couldn’t put it down."
—Ali Bryan, award-winning author of Coq and The Crow Valley Karaoke Championships

"Cracked this open to peek one morning at breakfast...an hour later I was late for so many things, but I COULD NOT STOP READING. It’s got all the emotions: Falling in love....the true kind. Shock. Hope. Rage. Heartbreak. For me, a perfect book about the depths of human love and loss. It is a marvel!"
—Sarah Bamford Seidelmann, author of Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer

"As Jessica Waite uncovers external and internal truths in a world rocked by her dead husband's secrets, we get a front row seat to her winding road of healing and redemption. With dark humor and impressive resolve, Jessica finds her way back from loss and betrayal to forgiveness. A powerful and inspiring story, this one. Don't miss it."
—Martha Jo Atkins, author of Signposts of Dying, founder of Dying School

"For those who've experienced the strange land of intense grief and the crushing revelation of betrayal."
—Lauren Carter, award winning author of This Has Nothing to Do With You

"Jessica Waite is a lavishly gifted writer with a riveting tale to tell. The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards is a page-turning psychological mystery, an inspiring story of endurance, a guide to healing and redemption—and it’s all true. Treat yourself to this book when you’re in the mood for a fascinating, funny, thought-provoking, and inspiring read."
—Martha Beck, bestselling author of The Way of Integrity

“Horrifying and yet compulsive, The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards is a memoir that reads like a whodunnit. Waite’s intelligence and sincerity, as she ricochets between revenge and forgiveness, lifts this book above its sordid details into a compelling guide to re-inventing oneself after the devastating loss of a spouse.”
—Sandra Martin, award winning author of A Good Death

"[A] heart-wrenching memoir."
—Chatelaine

“When Jessica Waite discovers her husband’s secret infidelities after he unexpectedly dies in a foreign country, she’s rocked to her core. Does this mean she wasn’t “enough”? Shock, anger and revenge propel her through all the stages of grief in a rollicking seesaw of raw emotion until she finally arrives at acceptance. Forgiveness is at the heart of this memoir, but the way she gets there—plucking wisdom from the ashes of her revenge fantasies—is deliciously funny. Multi-layered and brilliantly written, this book is a tour de force!”
—Plum Johnson, award-winning author of They Left Us Everything

“The experiences of over-looked women are bigger than ever. Need proof? In this powerful memoir, the author is confronted with evidence that her late husband has been living a secret life. While she grieves his death, Waite tries to come to terms with her spouse’s deceit and find her own way forward.”
—Canadian Living

"Jessica Waite has written a candid, mordantly funny and moving excavation of grief in the wake of sudden death. Waite’s final question is profound: ‘What if the function of grief—in all its wild and uncomfortable expression—is to guide human beings to a deeper understanding of the nature of life?’ Surely that is grief’s greatest gift and one about which Waite writes with aplomb in this affecting debut.”
—Toronto Star

"Part memoir and part self-help manual–with a dash of the paranormal and a heap of humour and heart–Widow’s Guide soars on her candour about a harrowing experience."
—Zoomer Magazine

From the Publisher

2024-05-10
A complex memoir about mourning, mental illness, and shocking revelations.

In her debut, fueled with anger and grief, Waite recounts her husband’s sudden death from a heart attack at age 47; her stunned discovery of his secret past of infidelity, drug use, and credit card debt; and their marriage, which was roiled by the recurring symptoms of his bipolar disorder. Sean had struggled with manic episodes, depression, and OCD, but his symptoms, rather than appearing in long cycles, were "rapid-cycling," seeming more like unpredictable mood swings than an illness that required medical intervention. Without therapy and medication for Sean, she and their son were at the mercy of his volatile eruptions, which sometimes left her wondering if the marriage could last. Waite acknowledges the complexities of grieving when the relationship had been so rocky and after discovering that the husband she loved betrayed her with prostitutes, affairs, and an addiction to online pornography. She sought help from a therapist and grief counselors, went to Camp Widow, met with a death doula and a psychic, and tried drum circling, art journaling, shamanic healing, yoga, and massage, all in an effort “to recalibrate to my new reality.” Grieving was complicated, as well, by recurrences of “unusual-seeming” encounters that convinced her that Sean was trying to contact her from the beyond: lightbulbs in her house burned out; in the library, suddenly feeling faint, she saw through blurred vision only one book, whose plot exactly mirrored her life at that moment. “I wasn’t the only member of the Waite clan whose television turned on by itself,” she admits, “nor the only one whose ‘normal life’ was interrupted by unexplainable phenomena.” Other mourners, she suggests, may find solace in the uncanny possibility of a “reciprocal nurturing relationship between the living and the dead.”

A candid, raw chronicle of bereavement.

Kirkus Reviews