Then, feeling as exposed as if he is standing in the room, she remembers Sunil, and all he must have seen too. Slowly, she veils her eyes. “Don’t look at me, Bear,” she whispers to him. “Please.”
No matter how she wants to hide in shame, she can’t turn away from the parts of herself that have been revealed tonight. Or pretend she has been handling things well on her own, or that she isn’t desperately lonely, or that she knows how help herself. As she hugs her knees, shaking, she prays the still, small voice won’t abandon her. Maybe it knows a way out of the darkness. Maybe if she listens to it closely, she will be able to hear its whisper ahead of her, a sound like the soft glow of a candle, she can follow, up and out of this place.
PART III: RISE
You save yourself or you remain unsaved.
—Alice Sebold, Lucky
32.
KAVITA’S BOOTS SQUEAK as she descends the stairs to the church basement. Yet again, she has the vague sense that she is back in high school, just as she had last fall when she had only made it as far as the bottom of the staircase.
She hovers to one side of the doorway and peers around. At the front of the large room, close to the stage, there are several rows of metal folding chairs arranged to face a tv and VCR that are set up on a trolley—yet another feature that reminds her of high school and watching outdated videos in Social Studies. A dozen or so people are scattered among the rows—couples, small groups, and some who are alone like she is. Adjacent to the seating there are a few long tables piled with reading material, photocopied sheets of white and blue and yellow, punctuated by several boxes of Kleenex. A couple of people peruse the literature.
At the back of the room there is a small kitchen where people are busy preparing snacks. Already, a juice station—a few cartons and a tower of clear plastic cups—has been set up along the service window. In front of the service window sits a small table with refreshments: a fruit tray, a cheese plate, a box of Ritz crackers, and what looks to be sliced pound cake.
“Can I help you, miss?” asks a cheerful voice. Kavita looks to her right. The woman seated behind the table appears to be in her late sixties. Or perhaps her seventies—it’s hard to tell these days. Her short white hair is coiffed in soft curls. She wears a peach sweater. “Come in, dear. We don’t bite.”
Kavita’s stomach kicks, as though urging her to run back up the stairs, like last time. Squashing the impulse, she waits a beat, then approaches the table.
“Hi,” she says with a dim smile.
“Well, hello there,” says the woman. “I take it this is your first meeting?”
Kavita nods.
“I can always spot a newbie. They always have that deer-in-the-headlights look about them. No offence, dear. I’m sure I looked the same at my first meeting. But there’s nothing to be nervous about. My name’s Barbara, by the way. But everyone calls me Barbie.” She reaches out a thin, wrinkled hand in greeting.
“I’m Kavita.” She clasps the woman’s fingers, a gentle shake.
“Oh now, what a lovely name. Very exotic. Now do me a favour, dear, and write it out on this sticker.” Barbie winks, playful.
Grinning despite her nerves, Kavita grabs a blue Sharpie and does as instructed.
“When you’re finished with that, I’ll have you fill out your contact information on this sheet. Now, we keep everything confidential. Some people worry about their personal details being leaked or something like that. It’s mostly for funding purposes. We need to show our that people actually come out to our little meetings.”
“Not so little.” Kavita peels away the rectangular sticker and pastes it on the outside of her coat over her heart. “Looks like a good turnout to me.”
“We always expect a crowd before and after the holidays. It’s a hard time of the year when you’re nursing grief. Especially fresh grief. Fresh grief makes infants of us all.”
“I used to love Christmastime. Now I’m just glad it’s over,” Kavita admits, surprised by her candour.
“Aren’t we all, dear?” says Barbie with a knowing smile. “It’s never all bad, I suppose. But it’s never quite the same either, is it?”
As Kavita fills in her contact information, Barbie explains that the meetings usually begin with a video about bereavement, followed by a ten-minute break. After the break, she continues, people split into groups specific to their loss. “It shouldn’t be much longer,” she says. “Feel free to help yourself to a glass of juice or any of the handouts while you wait. Or if you’re like me, a fistful of Kleenex!” She smiles. “I know it might not seem like it yet, dear, but trust me, it’s good that you’re here. Welcome again.”
Kavita smiles, insecure. Facing the room, she pauses, reluctant to abandon the safety of the sign-in table and Barbie, the only person she knows.
Cutting across the room, she marches over to the chairs. Her boots squeak with every step. So much for slipping in quietly. As she takes a seat in the back row, she hears an unexpected sound emerging from the kitchen, a sound that surprises her the way springtime birdsong does after a long, mute winter: laughter. Real laughter. The kind that pops from the belly without warning, loud and embarrassing. The kind that throws back heads. Those must be the regulars, she thinks, prickled by their light-heartedness, which to her, feels out of place. Then again, maybe she’s the one who doesn’t belong.
Glancing around, she notices that she is among the youngest of the mourners. While a few appear to be about her age, most are older, she guesses middle-aged or more.
A young man who is sitting at the end of her row draws her eye, maybe because he seems as out of place among the aged crowd as she does. He looks to be about Sunil’s age, thirty-something. His longish, dark hair is half-up in a ponytail, and she guesses, he probably shaves slightly more often than he goes in for a trim. His outfit looks as if it has been pulled from a MEC catalogue: teal Gore-Tex jacket, cords, hiking boots. He is staring at a point on the floor, meditatively, with a gaze that is more inward than outward. She has an itchy sense that she knows him from somewhere, but she doesn’t recall from where.
Her eyes must have lingered for a moment too long. He turns to look at her. As he grins widely—disarmingly—the outer edges of his dark eyes wrinkle. He has the artless look of someone who is always open to conversation, the kind of relaxed person who can talk without expectation in the shampoo aisle, at the bus stop, in line at the bank.
She looks away without smiling back. Out of the curve of her eye, she sees him return to his original position, his unaffected yogic-like pose.
What does he have to smile about? she wonders. What do any of them? She thought this was supposed to be a bereavement group, full of people missing parts, like her. What was with all the laughing and smiling and let’s be friends pretence?
She takes a deep breath. Clearly, she isn’t prepared for the openness of the place. She has habituated to people shutting her down. To secrecy and silence and judgment. Dealing with things alone. Now, she feels like her cave might fracture at the slightest kind gesture—a laugh, a smile. Then everything she has been trying to hold together will instantly crumble. Everything she has been trying to hold in will flood the church basement. She wonders if bears feel the same way after spending months in their winter dens. Do they grunt hello to the first bear they encounter in the bush, or simply growl, suspiciously?
After several uneasy minutes, a slender, auburn-haired woman walks up to the podium. She is dressed in a brown leather skirt, a cream-coloured turtleneck, and black leather knee boots. Her hair is twisted up in a clip. By now, nearly every chair has been filled, about forty people in all.
Smiling, the woman welcomes them. Her name is Brenda. She is the lead program coordinator of the bereavement group.
She thanks them for coming despite the snow, and is happy to see familiar faces in the crowd, as well as some new ones, too. She offers a special welcome
to the newcomers. It’s never easy to come to a meeting, especially the first one, so they should pat themselves on the back, because they’ve done something really good for themselves tonight. She says they always joke that their group is the kind no one wants to be a part of but everybody joins, sooner or later. A light chuckle ripples through the crowd. If that doesn’t seem funny yet, she goes on, hang in there, bereavement humour can take some time to get.
Her tone changes slightly, as does her expression. Although grief is a natural part of life, she explains, most people aren’t prepared for it. The expectation is to put on a brave face and have the mettle to move on. People say life goes on. But it’s never that simple.
Ten years ago, Brenda tells them, her mother passed away, unexpectedly. Suddenly, the world was a different place and she didn’t know where she belonged anymore.
Fortunately, she smiles, she found this group and started coming to meetings every month. Little by little, she began processing her grief and understanding what grief actually was. By being among her peers, she learned that what she was going through, no matter how strange it seemed, was normal. She made friends and realized she wasn’t alone. That was when she really started healing. When she reached out for support and found what she needed. When she opened up, shared, and also received.
The group had such a profound impact on her that after about a year of attending meetings, she started volunteering. Later, she decided to train as a grief counsellor. Now, she helps others the way she was helped.
The purpose of the group, she tells them, is to create a network for those living with grief, so they can learn from one another and support each other through this natural, yet challenging, part of life. She encourages them to view their time here as an opportunity to talk and laugh and cry, or even just listen. Whatever they need. They are in a safe place.
She goes on to tell them about the movie they are going to watch tonight. The people interviewed each represent a particular type of loss, so hopefully they will be able to find something to relate to in at least one of the grief stories. After the movie, they will take a quick break, no longer than ten minutes, please. Then they will split up into groups. She points as she speaks. In the back right corner, the loss of parent group. In the back left corner, the loss of spouse group. By the right of the stage, the loss of child and loss of sibling groups. And by the left of the stage, the loss by suicide group.
Kavita clutches inside when she hears the word. Her eyes dart among the rows, nervously, as she tries to read the reactions of the other mourners. Then she looks back at Brenda, who appears unfazed. There’s no hint of shame in her demeanour, as if she has nothing to be ashamed about, and more incredibly to Kavita, she isn’t afraid of what anyone might say or do.
Brenda finishes by saying she will be facilitating the loss by suicide group tonight, thanks them, and takes her seat in the front row.
Kavita stares at Brenda’s twisted bun with wide eyes. She wonders if Brenda is a suicide survivor too. Although they are still strangers, and have yet to meet officially, Kavita can’t deny she feels a kinship with the facilitator. This woman, Brenda, who has transformed her pain into so much good. Who lives a meaningful life. Is such a thing truly possible? Kavita dares to wonder. Even for her? The room goes dark and the video begins to play.
After the movie, the lights flick back on, and people start milling about. She goes to the washroom and considers spending the rest of the break in the stall, but there are only two, and a line-up is forming already.
Back in the room, she pours herself a glass of apple juice and tries to rehydrate.
Plastic cup in hand, she walks along the tables displaying bereavement literature and picks up a couple of handouts, pretending to read them, for the sake of appearing occupied.
“They definitely need to get some new videos,” says a deep voice to her left. Surprised, she looks over with raised eyebrows. It is the young man with the half ponytail, smiling as widely—as disarmingly—as before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that one.”
“The puffy hairstyles and synthesizer were pretty funny,” she offers.
“It’s the mullets that really did it for me. But then again, I’m a sucker for a good mullet.”
“True,” she nods. “It’s hard to deny a good mullet. If indeed such a thing exists.”
“Oh, it does. Trust me. My Dad had one for most of my childhood.” He pauses for a moment. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”
She blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Didn’t you come to a meeting last fall?”
“Not really. I kind of lost my nerve at the last minute.”
“I thought that was you. I was running the sign-in table that night. You’re the one that got away.”
“That’s where I know you from.” Her cheeks warm. “This is embarrassing.”
“Don’t worry about it. But I have to say, it’s never happened to me before, or since, come to think of it. Usually I’m able to draw them in with my big brown eyes.” He bats his lashes.
She can’t help but smile.
“You know, I almost ran after you that night.”
“You did?”
“I should warn you, I have a pretty substantial saviour complex to contend with, but I’ve been trying to tone it down. Anyway, if you wanted to leave, I figured you knew best. But I’ve looked for since then, hoping you’d come back someday. And here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“So, what changed your mind?”
She pauses. “I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
He nods, solemn for a moment. “I’m Hawthorn, by the way. But everyone calls me Hawk.”
“I’m Kavita.” After a brief pause, she says, “Why Hawk, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s a nickname my twin, Sequoia, gave me. She always said I was a free spirit. I guess she pictured me soaring above the trees instead of being rooted in the ground.”
Kavita thinks of Sunil and his favourite spot at Champlain Lookout where he would watch the hawks ride the thermals.
He pushes up his right sleeve, turns out his inner forearm, and says, “I got this tattoo a few months after Sequoia took her life.”
Kavita’s stomach spasms, the way it does whenever she encounters suicide, as though her whole self is howling: No. She remembers to breathe and tries to smooth out her startled expression, as she gazes at the tattoo, admiring the interconnected teardrops of the yin/yang drawn in black ink.
“Sequoia was always more yin than me,” he goes on. “Quiet, private. I’m more yang, I guess. More of an extrovert. But we’re parts of the same whole, if that makes sense.”
“It’s a lovely tribute.” She swallows. “And I’m sorry about your sister.”
“You look uncomfortable. Did I shock you?”
“I just wasn’t expecting you to be so forthcoming. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about, especially with a stranger.”
“Actually, sometimes talking about it with strangers is easier than talking about it with people I know. I guess that’s part of the appeal of group. At the beginning, you don’t know anyone, and yet you have something so deep in common that draws you all together. It’s the one place where I don’t feel like I have to hide anything. But I guess coming to meetings for so long has turned me into a bit of an over-sharer. Sorry if I caught you off guard.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Sharing’s the point of being here. I’m just not used to it yet.”
“Who did you lose?”
Kavita stalls, taking a sip of juice. She feels the impulse to clench her fist, to divert away from her emotional pain, to punish herself. But she resists reaction, lets the impulse build and taper. She has promised to let those wounds heal.
“My brother,” she says at last. “His name was Sunil.”
“Was he older or young
er?”
“Older.”
“Were the two of you close?”
“We were.”
“How long has it been?”
“Six months.” Two weeks and five days.
“That’s not long at all.”
“What about you?”
“Two years, just.”
Kavita wonders what her grief might look like two years from now. Will she be as comfortable as Brenda and Hawthorn, able to talk about her loss with relative ease, as if it is an everyday topic?
“He must’ve been young.”
“He was.”
“My sister, too.” Hawthorn eyes Kavita, closely. “So, I guess you’ll be headed over to the sibling loss group.” The way he says this is as much question as it is statement.
Wordlessly, she shakes her head, no.
A moment passes, and he says, “How about we grab a couple of chairs and start the circle. The loss by suicide group is over there tonight.”
Kavita gazes up at him. His eyes are dark and soft and open. “I recognize the pain in your eyes,” he says, anticipating her question. “I remember feeling the same way. Or at least my version of it, anyway. Survivors develop a kind of sixth sense about these things. Almost like we’re able to pick up on a pattern most of the world can’t see. It’s hard to explain. You just know.”
Kavita’s eyes sting. She blinks quickly. She doesn’t want to cry in front of a stranger, no matter how kind he is.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s okay.”
Kavita grabs her chair and carries it alongside Hawthorn. Already she feels comfortable by his side. Something about him feels familiar. But how is that possible? She doesn’t even know him.
Then she feels it. A subtle connection threaded between them, like a figure eight looping from his middle to hers. A connection through pain. Their loss, like no other, is what links them. Their pain is what makes them the same.
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