Finding Ms. Write Read online

  “No worries,” Jo answered. “There’s more to come.”

  Ginny awoke to the gentle ticking of the large round clock hanging on the wall across from her bed. She looked over at her laptop to read the last paragraph of her new story. When she read Jo’s name, she smiled. Today would be the day she would inquire about contractors to help update her late grandmother’s house. With any luck, maybe she could find the right female contractor to help make her new story come true.

  KINDRED SPIRITS

  BY LEA DALEY

  I was alphabetizing books at Literary Lesbians when I noticed a stranger browsing through a copy of How We Die. She was average everything—height, weight, build. Her thick, silver-streaked hair was ragged, as if she normally wore it very short but had missed more than one appointment at the salon. I could only see her profile. Still I’d bet my house that she’d suffered a recent loss, because the newly bereaved all looked alike. Pained. Shrunken. Bruised. After a moment, I decided to step closer. “I found that book incredibly helpful when I lost my partner.”

  The woman snapped the cover shut, raised wounded eyes. In a voice that sounded rusty from disuse she said, “Excuse me?”

  I gestured at the section on death and mourning. “There’s a lot of repetitive information here, but that particular book really mattered to me.”

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry.”

  I knew what she meant. She was sorry about my beloved Erin. Sorry I was already traveling a path that she’d just set foot on.

  “I’ve had five years to get used to it,” I replied. “Not that it’s ever over. Or easy.”

  She shook her head. “Hardest thing in the world.”

  I gestured at the tiny café in a far corner of the shop. “Want to talk about it?”

  She looked hesitant, then nodded. “Let me check out first. I’ll meet you over there.”

  As I lounged against a wall in the café waiting for my order, I watched her at the register. What in hell did I think I could do for that woman? But I knew firsthand how isolating loss was. A compassionate encounter, no matter how brief, could sometimes ease the unrelenting loneliness of early grief. The server shoved a tray toward me, and I carried it to a booth.

  Moments later, the stranger slid in across from me and set a Styrofoam cup of plain black coffee on the table. No surprise—even a modest menu could overwhelm a new mourner. She didn’t meet my eyes as she smoothed a paper napkin over her sweats. Maybe she was sorry she’d agreed to chat with me, yet was too honorable to duck out.

  Hoping my small frame and rapidly graying hair made me look like the harmless dyke I was, I offered a hand. “Natalie Schneider.”

  She countered with, “Meg Vickerson.” Her grip was firm and hinted at normalcy, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. I could guess she was trying to deflect pity. After an awkward pause, she asked, “Have we met?”

  I stirred my chai, trying to remember. “Depending on how long you’ve shopped here, you might have seen me around. I was part of the co-op that founded Literary Lesbians. Five years ago, I stepped back to simplify my life. Now I’m thinking I might be ready to return—I’m finally missing it. I stopped in today for a trial run.”

  “That would explain why you seem familiar.”

  Since she was rapidly reducing that napkin to shreds, I smiled reassuringly. “I almost never pick up women in bookstores—not even ones I helped establish. But since I’ve read virtually everything in print about death, I might be able to save you time and money.”

  “I appreciate that,” Meg replied, glancing at my ring—the ring I still couldn’t remove. “You lost your wife?”

  I swallowed my distaste for the label, an artifact of the patriarchy that neither Erin nor I had embraced. “A car crash. Drunk driver. Dead at the scene. You?”

  “My wife, as well—four months ago. Leukemia. Beyond brutal.”

  I shoved my plate of biscotti toward Meg, motioning for her to eat a slice. “What are you doing to take care of yourself?”

  “Writing. Marathon journaling. And I’m just beginning to read about grief.”

  She and Barbara had been partners for twenty-five years. They’d traveled to Boston to marry in 2004, right after Massachusetts legalized same-sex unions. Like Erin and me, they’d expected to grow old together, to die naturally—preferably in one another’s arms. Barbara’s death was the first in Meg’s social group, and none of her well-intentioned friends understood the depth of her distress. And her boss was like most people, nominally sympathetic, but sending a clear message to buck up. Because there was work to be done at the law firm. At my prompting, Meg confessed that she’d taken a pass on the support group at Barbara’s hospital and hadn’t pursued individual grief counseling.

  “It’s not too late,” I said. “For either.”

  Staring into her cup, she muttered, “Seems like I should be able to handle this solo.”

  Ah, a stalwart butch type, an island unto herself. But going it alone wouldn’t serve her well.

  As if she’d read my mind, Meg lifted her head defiantly. “I just want to be done with this mess—and the sooner, the better.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “Personally, I belong to the Robert Frost school of mourning.”

  “Meaning?”

  “After losing two children, Frost famously wrote, ‘The best way out is always through.’”

  “You believe that?”

  “Let’s say there were no shortcuts for me. And over time, I found a lot to value in group meetings, although my first attempt was a nightmare.”

  “How so?”

  I moaned. “When I entered the room, it felt like I’d stumbled into a jolly cocktail party—lots of lively conversation and laughter—at a time when I couldn’t imagine ever laughing again. I fled and didn’t return for a year. But then the process worked for me. Still, I’ve known people who are determined to leapfrog over loss. I guess the key words in the Frost quote are ‘best’ and ‘always.’ Some might settle for less in an effort to travel faster.”

  Meg thrust a hand through her shaggy hair. “What’s the point of spending a single extra second in this swamp?”

  After tossing a crumpled napkin on my plate, I reached for my jacket. “I guess I thought of mourning as my last chance to spend time with Erin—to totally understand what she meant to me and why. To extract every bit of insight from the grieving process. But maybe that’s not for everyone.”

  “It sounds exhausting.”

  “So is suppressing your feelings.”

  By the time Meg and I parted that afternoon, we’d exchanged cautious hugs and e-mail addresses. Still I wondered whether I’d hear from her again. I tried, with limited success, to put those sorrow-filled eyes out of my mind. I knew their light wouldn’t return for a very long time.

  When I’d almost forgotten our conversation, Meg e-mailed me.

  You were right about that book. It explained so much about the decisions Barb’s doctors made and why they couldn’t save her. Thanks for the recommendation.

  I meant to pound out a quick reply, but instead launched into a literary review.

  You might try Joan Didion’s memoir about her husband. And some people get a lot out of C. S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed. But fair warning: those books only describe the first year of widowhood. Which reinforces the popular delusion that mourning’s a short-term process, while leaving readers ignorant about later challenges. Also, in order for Lewis to recover his Christian faith in such a short time frame, he had to twist himself into a pretzel—not pleasant to witness. I suppose piety was his default setting. Still I got some benefit from reading his reflections. When he wrote about the way his wife’s death consumed his every waking thought, I knew exactly what he meant.

  Meg responded immediately, saying she’d gladly try both of my sugge
stions.

  I could use targeted material right now, rather than more general discussions about loss.

  Then she suggested meeting at a local park the following weekend.

  Maybe we could walk our dogs while we talk?

  On the designated morning, the air was soft; the sky was cloudless, and the trees were just going green. In short, it was exactly the kind of day that felt like a violent assault on the tender sensibilities of the recently bereaved. I’d despised my first springtime without Erin and resented everyone’s rising spirits, their cheery greetings, and their inexcusable cluelessness. The sun should have gone dark with Erin’s death. The flowers should have failed. The season should have reverted to endless, bitter winter.

  In the park, Meg was waiting by the bandstand just as we’d planned, her golden retriever dozing in new grass. I dropped down beside her on the bench and reined in Alpha, my opinionated little Westie. “Hey. How’s it going?”

  Her obligatory smile looked more like a grimace. “About like you’d expect—lousy. But it’s such a relief to be able to tell the truth to someone. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  I nodded. “I always hated pretending to feel better than I did. It was like wearing a mask. Worse, it felt like a betrayal.”

  “Yeah. It’s not five months since Barb died, but even our best friends think I should be back to normal.”

  “It’s a far longer process than they realize. And, to quote Shakespeare, himself, ‘Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.’”

  “Bingo!” Meg said. “I’m fed up with unsolicited counsel from people who’ve never suffered a major loss. I don’t understand why they feel qualified to advise me.”

  “This is the moment where I’m supposed to point out that you probably made the same mistake with someone else before Barb’s death—”

  “Tell me you won’t!”

  “Nope. Because even if it’s true—and it was for me—it’s not helpful.”

  “Is anything?”

  I sighed. “That’s a personal matter. The first thing I did after Erin’s death was scatter photos around our house so her face was everywhere. Yet I’ve met dozens of people who can’t bear to look at snapshots of the person they lost. And grief books saved my life, but lots of mourners can’t concentrate on reading long enough to discover they have kindred spirits the world over.”

  “You’re saying it’s an inside job?”

  “The ultimate one—though some people really profit from a bit of therapy.”

  “Not my kind of thing.” Meg rose, so I followed suit. Pointing to her dog, she said, “This is Brinx, by the way.”

  We let our critters work through the usual canine greeting rituals before we began to stroll under those burgeoning trees. But I knew Meg wasn’t really with me in that lovely setting. She was in some hellish hospital room, replaying scenes from the final, fatal period of Barb’s life, revisiting them again and again, as mourners must. Because only through tireless repetition would she grasp the unthinkable—Barbara was truly gone. Forever beyond her reach.

  We were leaving the park, saying our farewells, when I caught Meg’s eye. “Grief sucks,” I said.

  “Grief sucks big time,” she agreed. And I swear she almost smiled.

  After that day, Meg and I fell into a pattern of meeting for weekly walks where we talked about life, love, loss, and books. The way books could take you away from yourself, shielding you from despair. The way books could connect you with others mired in the same deep pit. The way books could assure you that your reactions to death are normal—even when the most primitive impulses rose up, shocking you to your core.

  Though I realized Meg Vickerson was an attractive woman, I wasn’t attracted to her. At least, not in the beginning. Grief had stripped away all her individuality, and it was hard to tell whether we had anything in common beyond shared trauma. For me, those excursions were just paying kindness forward, something I would have done with nearly any mourner. I hardly noticed when our walks morphed from an obligation to a pleasure, to the highlight of my week. July was advancing—the park teeming with carefree children, the lotus ponds riotous with blooms—before I realized that Meg had helped me as much as I’d meant to help her. Because, while I’d long since escaped the leaden gravity of grief, I’d merely slipped into undifferentiated boredom, mistaking melancholy for normal life. But that summer, in her presence, I began to reclaim the skies.

  When I first invited Meg to my house for lunch, the trees had dropped most of their leaves. The graying landscape was a reminder that long, grim months stretched ahead. Which made me wonder how Meg planned to survive the coming holidays. Over bowls of chicken chili, I said, “The first Thanksgiving without Barb will be tough, you know. What are you doing that day?”

  “Taking to my bed and pulling up the covers?”

  I put a friendly arm around her shoulders. “I recognize the impulse.”

  “God, Nat! I can’t imagine getting through the holidays without Barbara. She loved all the fuss. Our house was the hub for our social group, but I damn well don’t have the energy—or the skills—to replicate the extravaganza.”

  Certain that my sister Jana would understand if I bailed on our annual gathering, I said, “If you like, we could huddle together on the dreaded day. I know my way around a turkey, and I bake a mean pumpkin pie. We’d keep everything very quiet and low-key. Maybe watch a few movies after dinner?”

  “Perfect! That would be such a relief! I could tell everyone that I’ve accepted another invitation this year.”

  “Then we’re on. And don’t hesitate to bring Brinx—you know Alpha adores her.”

  “I owe you, Nat. More than I can say.”

  “We’ll get through it, my friend. Trust me.”

  Nodding solemnly, Meg said, “From first to last.”

  That night, sleep eluded me. Perhaps our conversation had stirred up too many poignant memories. Finally, hours after lying down, I fell into a troubled dream. I’m in my living room, one hand on the doorknob, the other dragging an unwieldy suitcase behind. Adventure awaits but I’m paralyzed by a heaviness of spirit—almost a dead weight. I want to take off; I’m reluctant to go. My departure feels premature. Besides, I have a nagging sense that I’m abandoning something vital. Just what, I can’t say…

  Even though there would only be two of us at Thanksgiving dinner, Meg insisted on providing wine and a vegetable tray. I suggested that she bring family photos as well. She arrived in early afternoon, laden with grocery bags. Then she and Brinx hung out in my kitchen while the turkey roasted, the potatoes simmered, and the pie cooled. Meg ate sparingly at dinner but agreed to take a plate of leftovers home.

  “And half of the remaining pie,” I insisted. “You can’t leave me alone with that many calories!”

  After we loaded the dishwasher, I struck a match to kindling and blew hopefully. We made ourselves comfortable near the struggling fire, dogs lounging at our ankles, before I said, “Tell me more about Barb.”

  “Words simply can’t do her justice, Nat. I could talk myself blue, and you still wouldn’t understand Barbara in all her infinite complexity. Knowing that almost silences me.”

  “Give me five adjectives anyway. Then I’ll do the same for Erin.”

  Meg closed her eyes. In the stillness, she conjured Barb into being again. “Here goes: whimsical, witty, warm, generous, unpredictable. Your turn.”

  I ticked off a few of Erin’s best qualities on my fingers. “Bright, idealistic, uncompromising, patient, empathetic—plus the woman knew how to build a decent fire. But you’re right. Words don’t come close to capturing her. A lesson you learned long before I did.”

  The fire finally flared while we pored over cherished snapshots, sharing stories about Barbara and Erin. About lives cut short and futures derailed. Debating
an eternal, insoluble question: Was a sudden end like Erin’s preferable to a drawn-out death like Barb’s? Or was Meg lucky to have had time to say good-bye? There were no good answers; we reached no firm conclusions. The fire was dying when I asked about Meg’s plans for Christmas.

  “I’m heartsick every time I think about it,” she said. “Normally, I’d spend a week in California with my family. But I cringe at the thought of all the noise and chaos at my sister’s house. Even buying gifts for her kids seems beyond me.”

  “Care for my opinion?”

  “I’d pay you for your thoughts—and way more than the proverbial penny.”

  “Internet shopping is your friend. I’d be happy to hold your hand through the process. How many kids are we talking?”

  “Three. Two nephews, eight and ten. One niece, fourteen.”

  “The boys are a piece of cake—they’re still young enough to like anything battery-operated. Your real challenge is the teenager.”

  “You’ve got that right. She’s a real girly-girl. Barb was a femme, so she always chose Ashlyn’s gifts, and they were always spot-on.”

  “Could you consider something like a magazine subscription?”

  Meg high-fived me. “She’d love to get Glamour or Teen Vogue in the mail—even if the thought makes me want to retch. And no doubt she’d appreciate a gift card for some stupid store at the mall.”

  “Okay. So we can easily manage the presents. Here’s a concept about travel: Could you handle two days of festivities?”

  “I could probably gut that out…”

  “Then tell your sister you’ll be there on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—or whatever the big events are for your family. After that, come back to rend your garments and tear your hair in the privacy of your own home.”