by Kate Hewitt
“So, Nathan, feel free to share your story or just what you’ve been feeling this week,” the woman, Monica, who was clearly the leader of the group said in an upbeat voice. “Or just listen to others. There’s never any pressure to speak here.” This was followed by several murmurs of heartfelt assent that made me feel as if I’d joined a cult.
I smiled my understanding and buried my nose in my coffee cup, already counting the minutes, if not the seconds, until I could leave. This was so not my thing. What on earth had I been thinking, coming here?
“So, Ali,” the leader said cheerfully. “You were sharing…?”
“Just that I’m still so angry,” Ali, a middle-aged woman with brown hair and a pinched look, said. She had a tissue balled in one fist, her eyes glittering fiercely. Quickly I looked back down at my coffee, embarrassed by her emotion. “I thought I’d be past this by now. Aren’t you supposed to move on?” Her voice broke, ragged with raw feeling, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair. I wasn’t ready for other people’s pain. I felt the same sense of bewildered discomfort I’d felt when Maria had told me about the loss of her family, in that terrible, flat voice.
“There’s no timeline to grief,” Monica said with an understanding smile. “If only there was.”
“And it’s not even linear,” someone else broke in. “I’ve been angry, I’ve been depressed, I’ve accepted, and then I’m back again, right at the beginning, thinking how can this possibly have happened?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the woman talking—she looked to be in her mid-thirties, with frizzy, sandy hair and an open, friendly face. Most of the people sitting in this circle of sadness were women, I realized. Besides me, there were only three other men, and we were all staring down into our coffee cups.
“That’s true, Sarah,” Monica said with an approving nod, like a teacher telling a student when she got something right. “Grief isn’t linear. It’s cyclical.”
“So there’s no end to it?” It took a stunned second for me to realize I was the one talking. My fingers clenched reflexively around my coffee cup. Why the hell had I spoken?
“It can feel that way, Nathan,” Monica said in that same approving voice I decided I didn’t like.
“It just goes round and round.” Me again. “You never get past it.” This was meant with a heavy silence; even in a grief support group it seemed someone could be the buzzkill.
“It does get better,” someone ventured. “Sort of.”
“Great.” I sounded so bitter. “Something to look forward to, then.” I really needed to just shut up. I was annoying myself as well as everyone else here. Was it possible to be expelled from one of these things?
“How long has it been since you lost someone, Nathan?” Monica asked gently. I could tell she was going to be the sort of person who used people’s names too often.
“Three months tomorrow.” I hadn’t realized the anniversary was looming; now it felt as if it was pressing down on me. “Three fucking hard months.” Now I was being really awkward. People shifted in their seats and I stared down at my coffee, took a defiant sip. Who cared? Wasn’t this what these stupid groups were for? Weren’t you supposed to be honest?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Monica said.
“You must say that a lot around here.” Someone needed to stop me. I had no idea why I was being such a jerk, why the words kept bubbling up and out of me, but they just did. I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I wanted to, which, strangely enough, I didn’t. I was in the angry stage too, it seemed, and I hadn’t even realized it. I thought I’d just been tired.
“Yes, I do,” Monica answered with quiet dignity. I felt as if I’d insulted her. It really was time to shut up. “Would someone else like to share?”
I stayed silent as several people offered their feelings and experiences, still hardly able to believe I’d been such an ass. I listened to a woman who talked about donating all of her husband’s clothes to charity, six months after his death from cancer. I thought of Laura’s things in the closet, all over the house, and I couldn’t imagine getting rid of any of them. Just the thought sent a visceral shudder of horror through me.
A home swept clean of Laura’s things—her scarf not hanging on the hook by the door, her scribbled notes gone from the fridge—no. No way. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
But what if all the reminders were holding me back? And worse, what if they were holding the girls back? When was it right and healthy to move on, even if it was just a few limping steps? Surely not yet. I wasn’t ready. None of us were.
I didn’t speak for the rest of the session, and afterwards Eloise brought out a plastic platter of lurid-looking cookies covered with pink icing and refilled coffee cups while people milled around. Everyone clearly knew each other fairly well, gathering in tight knots, and chit-chat seemed impossible. Where did you start? So who in your family died? Sucks, doesn’t it?
I drained my coffee, deciding I’d get the girls and make a quick getaway.
“Hi, I’m Sarah.” The frizzy-haired woman sat down next to me, sticking out her hand with a friendly smile. “You’re Nathan?”
I nodded and took her hand, releasing it quickly. “Sorry, I think I sounded like a jerk, in the group.” I grimaced. “I didn’t mean to.”
“We’ve all been there. Coming to this group… it opens up something inside of you. You end up saying things you never thought you would.”
“I didn’t even want to come,” I admitted, surprised at my sharing. There was something very open about Sarah’s face.
At my admission, she laughed, a clear sound. “Nathan, none of us want to come. It’s terrifying. It makes your skin crawl. To talk about what happened?” She mock shuddered. “No way. No. way.”
Her understanding gratified me, like something clicking into place. You get it. You really do. “So why do you come, then?” I asked.
She shrugged, her smile fading. “Because the alternative is worse.”
I thought of my self-medicating whisky and sleeping pills, the oblivion of sleep that felt like my only comfort, other than losing myself in work and neglecting my children completely while Maria took over the entirety of my domestic life.
Yes, the alternative was worse, but I still didn’t know if I wanted to come back here. “I don’t know what the protocol is for groups like this,” I said after a moment. “Are you allowed to ask why you’re here, or is that considered rude?”
She laughed again, a soft sound this time, little more than a breath. “No, it’s not rude. I lost my husband nine months ago. Pancreatic cancer, diagnosis to death was only six weeks. He was forty-one.” She went quiet then, her face drawn into lines of sadness.
“I’m sorry.” What else could I say?
“You?” She raised her eyebrows, waiting, as I hesitated. Laura had been on the news, and sometimes still was. I didn’t want to be that guy, and yet I knew there was no escaping it.
“My wife was shot,” I finally said. “By a stranger on the subway. They still haven’t caught him.” Lisa had called me a couple of times to update me on their progress, or lack thereof, but I’d given up hope. Three months was a long time with no leads. Finding the bastard wouldn’t change anything, anyway.
“Oh.” A wealth of meaning in that single syllable, as Sarah’s eyes and mouth both rounded. Yes, I really was that guy. “I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. “Me too. I guess that gets said a lot around here too.”
“Yes, I suppose it does. You have daughters?” She nodded towards the back room where Alexa, Ella, and Ruby still were.
“Three.”
“How are they coping?”
I shrugged. Would Alexa ever stop being angry? How much of that was natural teenaged angst, and how much was something far more troubling? And what about Ella, still upset over coming in third at her swim meet, as if that even mattered, considering everything else we were dealing with? She hadn’t eaten much dinner tonight, even though Maria
and I had both tried to cajole her. And Ruby… pinging between joy and wild grief, cuddling or throwing tantrums with equal amounts of passion. “I don’t really know,” I said. “Coping is the right word, I guess. Just.”
Sarah nodded. “Sometimes that’s enough.” She rested one hand on my mine, no more than a light brush, before removing it. “For now. Give yourself time. I know it sounds trite, but it’s true.”
“You’re six months past where I am,” I said. “Does it really make a difference?” I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but then I heard the disbelieving note in my voice and realized I did. Something flickered across Sarah’s face, that open friendliness morphing into something quiet and struggling to be contained. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay.” She spoke quickly, too quickly. “I understand. And it’s true. There’s no magic pill, no sudden switch and, poof, you’re all better. I wish there was. But six months on from where you are? It is easier, if only a little. It doesn’t always hurt to breathe.” The words were stark and I understood completely what she meant. “Minutes and even hours go by when it’s not dominating my thoughts. I don’t have the urge to walk up to every stranger in the street and grab them by the shoulders, shake them and tell them, do you know my husband is dead? So, yes. It is easier.”
My throat grew tighter and tighter with every word she spoke. “I don’t know whether to say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’,” I admitted with a raw laugh.
“I know.” She smiled, and I smiled back, although it didn’t feel like a smile. It was an acknowledgement of understanding. “Will you come back next week?” she asked.
Part of me still insisted no, even though I knew I would. “I guess I’ll see how the girls did.”
“Here they come now.” The door to the back room had opened, and several children shuffled out, ranging in ages from Ruby’s three to a boy with hunched shoulders and hair sliding in front of his face who had to be at least sixteen.
“They break them up into small groups by age,” Sarah murmured. “And here’s mine.”
I hadn’t realized she had children, but now I watched as the tall, rangy boy came up to her. His hands were jammed in the pockets of his skinny jeans, his chin tucked towards his chest.
“Can we go?” he asked in a barely-audible mumble.
“Yes, we can,” Sarah said with a concerted attempt at cheerfulness; it heartened me that I wasn’t the only one struggling with my children. She fluttered her fingers at me. “See you next week.”
“So how was it?” I asked the girls when we were outside, the air freezing, the sky clear. “Did you have a good time?”
Alexa turned to give me one of her looks. “Seriously? A good time?”
“You know what I meant, Alexa.”
“There was hot chocolate,” Ruby said, skipping ahead. “With marshmallows. But I didn’t get as many as Maria gives me.”
“No one made me talk,” Ella offered.
Alexa didn’t say anything, and I decided to count all three as a win. Limping steps. That was what we were after, wasn’t it?
Out of habit, I reached for my phone to check missed calls or texts, my stomach clenching when I saw the number that flashed up, indicating a voicemail. Lisa’s cell. I recognized it by now.
I listened to the voicemail as we walked along, the girls engaged in a debate about how old the other kids in their group were, and macabrely, which parent had died.
“Nathan, it’s Detective Lisa Worth. I’m calling because we’ve had some new information come in regarding your wife’s assailant, and I’d like you to come into the station so we can update you. Please give me a call back when you can.”
Eighteen
Maria
The morning after Nathan took the girls to the grief support group, just three days after I’d moved into their apartment, I woke up to find Ruby standing about two inches from my nose, her slight form barely visible in the dark.
“Ruby…!” My heart raced and I pressed one hand to my chest as a familiar, icy panic flooded my senses and then started to recede. “You scared me. What are you doing here?”
“Can I sleep with you?” Ruby was hugging her ragged toy elephant, her thumb creeping towards her mouth. “Daddy’s already awake and I don’t like being in his bed by myself.”
“He is awake?” Blearily I saw the clock read half past four. What was Nathan doing up? And should Ruby really be in my room like this? I still felt shy about living here, always making sure to use the bathroom quickly, keeping my little room spotlessly tidy. I’d had no reservation about giving up my apartment in Queens; it had never been a home. But moving in here felt like a bigger step to me than perhaps it was to anyone else. I didn’t want to make anyone regret it.
Now, with Ruby standing so plaintively in front of me, I hesitated, unsure if I would be crossing some unspoken boundary by letting her sleep with me, but then Ruby spoke again, her voice catching a little.
“Please?”
“All right, koka,” I said. The endearment meant little chicken, and Ruby was like a fuzzy little chick, warm and soft next to me as I scooted over in my narrow bed and she scrambled in. She fit her little body close to mine, so I had no choice but to put my arm around her, anchoring her to me. She snuggled closer and after a few seconds she let out a deep, contented sigh, her body already softening in sleep. I closed my eyes, her hair tickling my nose, and breathed in the sweet, sleepy smell of her.
I used to do this, I recalled. I crept into my mother’s bed and snuggled with her after I’d had a bad dream. I could picture it perfectly—the wooden shutters drawn against the city sky, the creak of the old floorboards as I tiptoed across the room. My father’s faint snores, my mother’s sleepy assent. Her solid arms around me, the precious feeling of safety, as if nothing could go wrong as long as I was there, with her.
I felt it now, the comfort of a human being next to me, breath and bone, warmth and love. I pressed my cheek against Ruby’s hair as a newfound peace settled over me and I slept.
When I woke, startling awake as if someone had shaken me, it was half past six and the world seemed muted somehow. It took me a moment to realize why—it was snowing. I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, causing Ruby to curl up into the warm space I’d left behind, and stood at the window, one palm pressed to the cold glass.
The city was cloaked in white, the sidewalks and streets nothing but pillowy drifts, and thick, fat flakes were still gently falling. Not a person or car was in sight; it felt as if the whole world was holding its breath.
“It’s snowing!” Ruby’s joyful cry split the stillness as she stood in the middle of my bed, her hair a wild red tangle around her delighted face. “Look at all the snow! Do you think we’ll have a snow day today?”
I glanced back at the soft sweep of snow of the unploughed street, the lovely emptiness of it. “Almost certainly,” I said. “But we shall have to see.”
Ruby scampered out to find Nathan, and I dressed quickly and followed, plaiting my hair as I went. Nathan was at the dining room table, still in his pyjamas, hunched over his laptop, his eyes bloodshot.
“Good morning,” I said, still feeling shy about being here, and wondering again why he’d been up at such a forsaken hour. Was it just work, always work, or something more?
“Daddy, it’s snowing,” Ruby exclaimed as she hurried over to him. “Maria says we’ll have a snow day.”
“Maybe,” I reminded her. I moved about the kitchen, switching on the coffee I’d prepared last night before starting to empty the dishwasher, tasks that comforted me with their usefulness.
“We’ll all stay home,” Ruby continued joyfully. “We can go sledding. Daddy, can we go sledding?”
“I don’t know, Rubes. Maybe.” He ruffled her hair before shutting his laptop.
Ruby flopped on the sofa, already reaching for the remote; she was allowed one episode of something before breakfast, a rule Nathan had set down weeks ago, although he’d admitt
ed that Laura had never allowed it.
Now he came into the kitchen, running a hand through his rumpled hair. “The police called me last night.”
“What?” Suddenly the peaceful promise of the day, the vague, benevolent feeling that the snow somehow protected us, evaporated like snowflakes on my tongue. I turned to stare at him, one hand resting on the cupboard, unsure why this news made me fearful and yet knowing that it did. “What about?”
“I don’t know exactly. They said they had some new information about Laura’s… killer.” He grimaced, and I tried to order my features as well as my thoughts. This was good news, certainly. A killer needed to be caught. Yes, indeed… and yet I felt anxious. What if it was someone to do with Global Rescue? What if it changed things?
“That is hopeful, surely?” I managed after a moment, knowing it needed to be said. “To find out something…”
“Maybe.” Nathan shrugged. “Maybe they’re just trying to appease me. I’ve given up a bit, with them, after all this time, and it won’t make a difference anyway.”
“Won’t it?”
His face set hard. “She’ll still be dead.”
“Yes.” There was no point denying it. “But knowing… finding justice…” My voice caught, surprising me. There had been no justice for me. Year after year, there had been no justice at all. How could I even believe in such a thing?
“Yes.” Nathan sounded unconvinced. “I suppose. I certainly don’t want this madman to do something like this again. But…” He paused, and I waited, my hand still on the cupboard. “I feel like we’re only just starting to get somewhere, the girls and me. The grief support group last night… it was good. Surprisingly good, because I didn’t want to like it at all. But talking about this stuff… it actually helps.”
I could only imagine, because I never talked about this stuff. Not even once. I pictured my brother’s agonised face. Maria, did they…? “I am glad, Nathan.”
He let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I don’t usually go all emotional like this. It’s just… I don’t want to take any backward steps, you know? When I feel like we’re only just starting to find our balance.”
