Page 4 of Second Edition
Ellen looked around the circle. “That’s one of the hardest parts of this kind of loss. We’re left with questions for which there are no answers. Things left unsaid.”
“Or things said that we wish we could take back,” June said. “I was snippy with Scott that morning, irritated that he was still in bed when I had to get the girls to school and then go to work. I’ll never forgive myself that the last words I said to him were cruel.”
Everett nodded. “I get that.”
I glanced over at Annie, who seemed to be trying very hard to keep herself from crying.
Ellen must have seen the sadness in Annie’s face too, because her voice softened. “Annie, you don’t have to share anything more tonight. But you’re welcome to, if there’s something you want us to know.”
Annie looked at her for a second and then back at her hands twisted in her lap. “I was the one who found him.”
Everyone went still, other than June whose hand flew to her chest before she caught herself.
There was a sense of deliberation in her tone, as if she were stacking blocks, one by one, worried they would fall. “My mom was at work—at her art gallery. She was usually home before I got off the bus but she was late. My dad should have been at work but he’d stopped going months before that, which I know made my mom really stressed. So I figured he’d be there, in bed, like he always was, but I checked on him anyway. Hewasthere. But he wasn’t asleep.” Her eyes shone, but her voice stayed steady. “I don’t remember much after that. Like, the funeral. Not a thing comes to me about it, even though I know I was there. I hate that part.”
This poor kid.
Lorrie set her knitting in her lap. “I know what you mean. I can’t remember the last meal I made for Daniel. It probably sounds silly. He was thirty years old. But, as his mother, I’d spent all his life worried about his nutrition. That’s what I did for a living before I retired. I was a nutritionist. He was born earlyand had trouble nursing. From those first days until the end of his life, I was always coaxing him to eat. I used to make these elaborate meals, full of vitamins and protein. In the end, it didn’t matter at all. ”
Annie’s mouth trembled but she covered it with her hand, taking in deep breaths. She was so brave to be here, but I had to wonder if her mother knew she was here. I had a suspicion she didn’t. Delphine gave off serious independent vibes. Other than her close circle of friends, she seemed to trust no one.
“I haven’t cooked much in the eight years since I lost him,” Lorrie said. “I heat up frozen dinners from the store. Daniel would never have believed it.”
June wiped beneath one eye with the heel of her hand. “Unfortunately, that’s often what I feed my girls. I’m just so tired all the time.”
Lorrie picked up her needles again, but her voice was gentler when she spoke. “You’re doing the best you can, June. Your girls understand.”
“Do they?” June asked. “I’m not sure sometimes.”
“How old are they?” Annie asked.
“Sophie’s eight and Sarah’s ten,” June said. “My younger one told me the other day that she can’t remember what he looked like.”
Annie nodded, seeming to absorb June’s words on a deep level. “I know exactly what she means.”
Ellen glanced at her watch. “Our time’s almost up. Before we close tonight, I’d like to ask if anyone found something this week that helped them get through a difficult moment. A walk. A song. A routine. A book. Anything at all.”
June said she’d taken her girls to see a movie they were excited about. “For the few hours we were in theatre, eating popcorn and watching the movie, it felt like we were just normal family. Enjoying time together. There’s something about thedarkness of the theatre that makes it feel like there’s nothing else in the world except for the story unfolding on the screen.”
Mateo said he’d repaired his mother’s porch railing. “She called crying, saying some kid had crashed into it with his bike and then just sped off. She was fixated on this kid, you know. Thinking of revenge. It was weird. But anyway, I went over there and fixed it for her. After I was done, I teased her about her violent streak and that I really didn’t want her to go to prison over a kid and a broken fence. That got her out of her funk and made her laugh. She made lemonade and sandwiches, and we had lunch outside on the patio. Didn’t talk much but it was nice.”
“I’ve been rereadingThe Year of Magical Thinkingby Joan Didion,” I said. “I find it helpful.”
“How come?” Annie asked.
“It’s about the year after she lost her husband, quite suddenly,” I said. “She doesn’t try to make meaning out of her loss or provide some platitude of comfort, which I find refreshing. Instead she just goes deep on themagical thinkingthe title refers to. This irrational, almost superstitious bargaining the grieving mind does. For example, she couldn't give away her husband’s shoes because he would need them when he came back. She knew it was absurd but somehow her mind refused facts, held contradictory beliefs at the same time. It’s an extraordinary piece of writing.” I stopped, realizing I sounded like a bookstore owner, which made me think of my mother. “I sometimes wonder why I can accept my mother’s death so much easier than Nate’s. They died only a few months apart.”
“But your mother lived a long, satisfying life,” Ellen said.
“And Nate’s was deeply troubled,” I said.
“Therein lies the problem,” Everett said.
“Yep, pretty much,” Mateo said.
“Anyway, if anyone wants to borrow my copy, come by the store,” I said. “Or if you just want to find a good book. I’m your guy. Friends and family discount.”
Ellen closed the group the way she always did, reminding us to be gentle with ourselves and to call someone if the night became too heavy. Then we all prepared to go, collecting purses and knitting and paper cups, to return slowly to the world above us.
