Still, she has so much she wants to tell him. If he were there, she would thank him for his unconditional friendship. For speaking openly with her in their shared language of loss. For helping her understand the depth of her grief was inseparable from the depth of her love. For showing her it was possible to survive unspeakable trauma and loss. Not only survive, but live, meaningfully.
She reaches into her purse again and unfolds her notes. Then, of course, there’s you, Bear. My reason for doing any of this at all. Hawthorn would have called this speech my tombstone. My way of testifying to your life. What is a person’s life if not a collection of stories held together by a worn spine? And what is the purpose of these stories if not to be shared, another word for given, and perhaps, by some gentle miracle, heard, another word for received.
“Hello,” says a familiar voice, snapping her out of her reflections. Nirav stands in front of her with a plastic grocery bag in either hand, smiling, as he looks down on her. It was their turn to fetch the refreshments for the meeting.
“Hi,” she grins. “They’re waiting for you in the kitchen.”
“Well, we’re in for a treat tonight, let me tell you. ’Tis the season of gaining a stone, isn’t it? I splashed out for gingerbread and a chocolate Yule log, if you can believe that. I was this close to giving in to the mince pies.”
“I’ll take gingerbread over mince pies every time.”
“I suppose I could let you sneak one before the break but only because you’re my missus.” He gives her a sly wink.
“I wish I could, but my stomach’s doing flips.”
“Nervous, love?”
She drops her gaze to the sign-in sheet. She still feels strange when he calls her love or darling or sweetheart. Patience, their therapist told them last session. It takes ten times as long to rebuild a house as it does to pull it apart.
“You know,” he says, suddenly serious. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m really proud of you. Thank you for including me. I can’t imagine missing any of this.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she smiles. “Now, you better get to the kitchen. Barbie has no qualms about scolding youngsters.”
“One last thing.” He leans over the table and kisses her. A sweet little kiss that touches the corner of her mouth. Then he scuttles off to the kitchen.
She savours a private moment of her old affection for Nirav returning, then rearranges her piles again, and plays with her retractable pen, anything to distract away from her mounting nerves. She is about to run through her speech one last time, when out of the curve of her eye, a shadow moves. She turns to look and finds a young woman dressed in a long black coat hovering at the bottom of the stairs. The young woman is holding her elbows across her stomach in a shielding way as she scans the basement with nervous flits. Kavita notices she has come to the meeting alone. It isn’t hard to tell, by the young woman’s reluctant body language, she hasn’t committed to staying, yet.
“Hi there,” Kavita calls out, brightly. “Are you here for the bereavement group?”
Their eyes meet. The squint of the young woman’s eyes widens to surprise, as though she rues being discovered, as though Kavita has ruined her plan of scouting the place out and then slipping away undetected.
“If you are,” Kavita continues, “then you’re in the right place.” She smiles even more brightly than her cheerful tone. She thinks of Hawthorn. Is this how he felt on the night she slipped away? This strange combination of hopeful and helpless. “Come in,” she waves.
Cautiously, the young woman approaches the sign-in table as if treading over an old suspension bridge with untrustworthy slats underfoot.
“Hi,” she says. She speaks with a softness that contradicts her apprehensive demeanour. “I’m Emily. It’s my first meeting.”
For a moment, Kavita peers into Emily’s pale, red-rimmed eyes. The alertness they glinted with earlier has dimmed to a tender sadness. In those eyes, Kavita glimpses a part of herself, as if Emily’s pupils are cut of mirrors. She remembers something Hawthorn told her at her first meeting. How he recognized the pain in her eyes.
Never breaking the bridge of their gaze, Kavita rises to her feet, and reaches out her hand in welcome. “I’m Kavita,” she says.
As they shake, Sunil’s rakhi balances on her wrist, alive with light.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest appreciation goes to Inanna Publications for championing this novel, and to my talented editor, Luciana Ricciutelli, for her careful attention and insights throughout the editorial process. Heartfelt thanks also to Renée Knapp for supporting the promotion and publicity of the book, as well as never being too busy to answer a question or two. Working with Inanna has been a pleasure and an honour. Sincerely, thank you.
Many thanks to Sherrill Wark, Sonia Saikaley, and Allan Briesmaster for taking the time to read and share their impressions, as well as encouragement.
Thanks to Shyam Selvadurai for being a thoughtful and challenging mentor during my time with Humber. Thanks also to the Humber School for Writers and their support through the Bluma and Bram Appel Scholarship.
To my friends and family, thank you for supporting me throughout the years, and understanding my need to tell a difficult story. And to my writer friends, in particular, thank you for sharing this journey as only you can.
Thanks to Noodles, the orange version of Coal.
Last but never least, to Daniel, thank you for believing in this novel before a word was written, and for standing by my side.
Photo : Kathy Youssef
Anita Kushwaha grew up in Aylmer, Quebec. She holds an M.A. and Ph.D. in Human Geography from Carleton University, and is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at the Humber School for Writers. She is the author of a novella, The Escape Artist , which was published in 2015. She lives in Ottawa.
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