The Book of Why

by Nicholas Montemarano

  This would mean that the man who looks like me is an illusion, and so is his wife, and so is his dog running through the snow.

  This would mean that the snow isn’t real, and the park bench isn’t real, and the two boys sledding down a hill aren’t real, and the hill isn’t real, and the bare trees bordering a running path, and the woman running along the path, and the freezing rain now, and the dog’s pain when she walks on rock salt, and her cries, and the man who gets up from the bench to rub her paws.

  We could end with the man rubbing the dog’s paws.

  We could end with the moment he turns away from the dog to walk back to the bench.

  We could end with how happy he feels to see her sleeping, her mouth slightly open, her eyes—he can see as he gets closer—tearing from the cold and wind that aren’t real as I write this but were real that day.

  She’s sitting up and her mouth is open and the tears could be from the cold and wind, and the boys sledding down the hill might otherwise be forgotten, and the woman running along the path bordered with bare trees might otherwise be forgotten, and the date might otherwise be forgotten, and we might end one second before he—oh my—before he looks and—oh my, oh my—something about the tears and the mouth open and—oh my my—he sits beside her and removes her gloves and holds her hands and tries to rub warmth into her hands and—

  * * *

  It’s me.

  I shouldn’t keep implying it isn’t when it is.

  I shouldn’t keep saying the man who looks like me as if he isn’t me, as if he doesn’t live inside me, as if I wasn’t there.

  The woman running might otherwise be forgotten had I not called out to her, had she not heard me but continued along the path, her role in this story brief but memorable. The boys sledding down the hill might otherwise be forgotten had I not called them over, too, and had they not come cautiously, and had I not said, “Never mind—I was going to—never mind,” and pulled her close so they wouldn’t see her face. Not that they would have seen anything but a woman sleeping, her eyes tearing from the wind.

  And then for a long while, what felt like a long while, what could have been ten minutes or an hour, no one came close enough to call out to, and I didn’t yet know what to call out, I didn’t want to call out anything at all, I wanted the moment to be, to continue to be, quiet, and yes, hours later and years later I’d have difficult moments when I’d regret not calling out, not doing something, even though nothing could be done, but I decided to wait and bring her closer and keep rubbing her hands, and during all this the dog ran back and forth in the field chasing something I couldn’t see. It looked as if she was playing with someone. She lay down and her tail swept the snow behind her, and then she ran as if someone had thrown something, and she kept doing this, and then I heard someone behind me say, “Beautiful dog,” and I said, “Thank you,” and then I said, “I think I need your help,” and hours later and years later I’d think about that word think and wonder why I’d used it when I knew very well that I needed his help, and this man, too, might otherwise be forgotten.

  Lucy Vincent Beach, Chilmark, 2009

  Put down your pens. Put down your books. Stop taking notes. Please stop writing in the margins. Please stop writing what I say.

  Close your eyes and take a deep breath.

  Let’s begin again. Let’s start over. Please. Let’s have a do-over.

  You are here for a reason. Ask yourself why.

  Maybe you’ve lost your job, your home, your spouse, your child, your dog, your health, your peace, your mind, your way.

  Ask yourself what you’d like to accomplish today. Ask yourself how you expect me to help you.

  Let me be perfectly honest: I can’t help you. Not in the way you might like. I can’t get you your job back. I can’t get you your home back. Or your spouse, your child, your dog, your health, your peace, your mind. I can’t help you find your way.

  Please hear me when I say this: There are certain things about life, too many things, that we simply can’t change.

  You see, our lives are stories that have already, at least in part, been written. I’m not sure who the writer is, or the director, or the editor.

  Try your best to embrace the mystery of not knowing.

  Truth is, we’re not in control. We don’t always get what we want, what we hope for, what we’re expecting. Sometimes, not even close. Sometimes, the opposite.

  With practice, we might control how we react to what happens, but even this is difficult.

  You’re not really giving up control. You can’t give up what you never had. But you can give up your false belief in control.

  You’re afraid that you’ll have to feel something painful, that you won’t be able to handle what happens.

  I understand, believe me.

  Here is the only thing you can do: hold your fear in one hand and your commitment to act fearlessly in the other.

  That we fall, that we fall apart, are givens. Our goal might be to fall with grace, to sit in the dark.

  Don’t shake your fist at heaven; it will do you no good. Truth is, anything can happen to anyone at any time. There’s virtue in loving one’s fate. When you accept the world on its terms, you are living a brave life. Better to greet life with an unconditional yes. Don’t ask why, ask now what.

  Please, put down your pens. Stop taking notes. Don’t write anything that I say. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.

  I’m happy to be here today. I’m happy to get to say these things. Even if only in my mind. Even if only on this page, this lecture I never gave. Even if only a whisper to my reflection in the water’s edge as I walk slowly with my arthritic dog on a cold fall morning on Martha’s Vineyard just after sunrise with not another soul near enough to hear me even if I were to shout.

  AT THE END of some songs you’d go off pitch on purpose. Your voice would break, you’d given all you could and the song had failed, but it was as beautiful in its failure as it might have been in its perfection.

  You’d get excited when a song fell apart as you were writing it. We’d be eating lunch, and I’d ask how your morning went, and you’d say, “The one that was stuck broke open and got messy,” and I knew that was a good thing.

  A few months later, at one of your shows, I’d hear it: a song that abandoned its chorus, that left home never to return, that lost its way on purpose and didn’t care; or a song made up of nothing but choruses, a dozen songs in one.

  Mess was the worst thing for me; uncertainty didn’t work. Each of my books—before this one—was outlined before it was written. There was a plan, and I stuck to it, no matter what. I had lists, bullet points, goals.

  Once, when I was stuck starting The Book of Why, you said, “Just sing it,” and I said, “But I’m writing bullet points,” and you said, “So sing your bullet points.”

  ON YOUR BIRTHDAY this past September—what would have been your fortieth—I was listening to you sing. A recording, I should say. Which is you. Was you, I should say. Evidence that you had been singing, that you had sung. We may use most verb tenses here except the present continuous are singing when _____, and the present perfect continuous have been singing for _____ years when _____, and the future will sing, and the future continuous will be singing when _____, and the future perfect continuous will have been singing for _____ years when _____.

  Let me begin again. It was your birthday, a year and a half after the trip to Lancaster. I was listening to you sing, to a recording of you, when the bell rang. Boxes filled with letters from my readers. I’d told my editor years ago that I didn’t want them, but he was leaving my publisher for another one, so he decided to send them to me. I didn’t open them for a few weeks, and then one day I said just one, no harm in one, and it began, I was so sorry to hear. I decided one a day would be fine. All this time I expected Told you so, but so far they’ve been kind. I was sorry to read about your. My sincere condolences at the loss of your. After all you’ve done for me, I wanted to. Keeping you
in my. I know how you must be feeling, I lost my. Some might say how could something like this happen to him, but it’s not your. I’m so sorry, I was so saddened, I was shocked to hear, I’m keeping you in my thoughts, I’m sending you warm thoughts peaceful thoughts positive thoughts during this difficult what must certainly be a difficult time. I’ve enclosed a book you might. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve enclosed my copy of. The enclosed book was very useful to me when I lost my. Please read the enclosed book, I’m sure it will speak to you the way it spoke to me when.

  Healing after Loss. How to Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies. Finding Your Way after Your Spouse Dies. Living with Grief. Traveling Through Grief. Journey Through Grief. Understanding Your Grief. Awakening from Grief. Surviving Grief and Learning to Live Again. Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul. The Grieving Garden. A Grief Observed. The Courage to Grieve. Getting to the Other Side of Grief. Grieving Mindfully. Grieving God’s Way. God Knows You’re Grieving. Good Grief. Don’t Take My Grief Away. Grieving: A Love Story. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep. Sad Isn’t Bad. The Mourning Handbook. The Widower’s Handbook. For Widowers Only. Widower to Widower. Waking Up Alone. When There Are No Words: Finding Your Way to Cope with Loss and Grief. The Light at the End of the Tunnel: Coming Back to Life after a Spouse Dies. Life after Loss. Life after Death. Death Is Nothing at All. We Don’t Die. Love Never Dies. Talking to Heaven. Hello from Heaven. I Wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye. Help Me Say Goodbye.

  Some books say imagine that the worst has happened. Some books say carry on regardless. Some books say write your own obituary. Some books say make tomorrow today. Some books say try yoga. Some books say run a marathon. Some books say don’t run before you can walk. Some books say no one sees themselves as others do. Some books say grow a beard. Some books say shaving your beard will take years off your face. Some books say visit your parents, sleep in your childhood bed. Some books say don’t wait for a party to blow up balloons. Some books say don’t look in the mirror. Some books say look in the mirror, check your pee, take your pulse, smell your own breath. Some books say never skip breakfast. Some books say eat more kale, more blueberries, more prunes. Some books say drink more green tea. Some books say no alcohol. Some books say alcohol in moderation. Some books say celebrate wrinkles. Some books say be modest. Some books say don’t be too modest. Some books say volunteer. Some books say take charge, stand straight, smile. Some books say take the stairs, not the elevator. Some books say aim high. Some books say be realistic. Some books say avoid risk. Some books say don’t be afraid to take risks. Some books say think big. Some books say be practical. Some books say think before you act. Some books say don’t think too much. Some books say agree to disagree. Some books say don’t try to make a round peg fit into a square hole. Some books say keep your cool. Some books say don’t be afraid to get angry. Some books say turn your enemies into teachers. Some books say don’t blame, don’t judge. Some books say when you have one finger pointed at someone else, you have three pointing back at yourself. Some books say have a firm handshake. Some books say rigid branches break in the first wind. Some books say don’t put rocks in your knapsack. Some books say put the cap back on the toothpaste. Some books say enjoy a traffic jam by listening to music. Some books say take a long bath, take a vacation, go on a cruise. Some books say look up at the stars. Some books say clean your sheets. Some books say focus on the small details. Some books say focus on the big picture. Some books say set your watch five minutes fast. Some books say live in the moment. Some books say plan ahead. Some books say one day at a time. Some books say be here now.

  TODAY IS OCTOBER 1, 2009, the only October 1, 2009, there will ever be, and you are here.

  My high-school history teacher used to begin every class this way. Even though he was simply stating the date and the obvious, I think that he was on to something.

  Today is October 1, 2009, and you are not here.

  Ralph walks stiffly along the water’s edge twenty or thirty yards ahead of me; she keeps looking back to make sure I’m still there. She greets each person walking past; even with hip dysplasia and arthritis, she manages to be happy.

  The vet tried to make a joke. “Her caput is kaput,” he said. He explained that caput is another word for the head of her femur. “It’s supposed to be round,” he said, “but hers isn’t, so it’s causing wear and tear on the joint. Very painful,” he said, and it was way too late to laugh.

  “Her stifle joint is showing signs of damage, too,” he said. “Her stifle is overcompensating because of the caput.”

  Tired, we sit on rocks and look out at the harbor. We doze together to the creaking of boats, my hand resting on her back rising with each breath in rhythm with water lapping against the dock.

  * * *

  You used to say, “I think she’ll get old overnight.”

  One day a squirrel came too close, but she didn’t chase it.

  A few days later she dropped her favorite treat on the floor; it stayed there a week. I tried to give her another one, and her eyes and tail were excited to receive it, but she couldn’t chew it, or didn’t want to, and dropped it beside the other one. Now I give her only wet food and soft treats, which upset her stomach. But I don’t mind taking her out a few times during the night; I’m often awake anyway.

  When she’s not facing me and I call her name, she doesn’t turn. Only if I yell, and I don’t like to, otherwise she might think she’s done something wrong. Her sight’s fine, so I sign to her. Days pass without the sound of my voice, without much sound at all except what you hear only when silent—water dripping from a drainpipe, a fly inside a lampshade, the watch I never wear but leave on the bedside table.

  Martha’s Vineyard is quiet now, the way we like it; the cold is here. In Edgartown and Vineyard Haven window signs say CLOSED FOR THE SEASON SEE YOU NEXT MAY. At the dock in Menemsha boats fill with rainwater; lobster traps lie empty on the sand. NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. Sitting on a bed of small rocks is a push-button phone. I pick up the receiver; there’s a dial tone. I dial my number and wait for someone to answer. I don’t recognize the voice at first: I’m sorry we’re not here right now. I figured it was all right, given Ralph, to keep the plural we.

  Later, at Lucy Vincent, a seal surfaces for a few seconds before going back under. Wind, strong waves, the tide is coming in. A man who looks like me walks beside his dog, her breath visible in short puffs. The man pees on a rock; the dog looks away as if to give him privacy. They walk a quarter mile slowly, then turn back; the tide has come all the way in, the sand is gone. Not gone, it just seems gone. But the man’s footprints, and the dog’s, gone. They should hurry, but don’t. The dog tries to catch a few waves as they break; the man removes his sneakers and socks, rolls up his pants, walks ankle deep in cold water that stings.

  Eventually the body adjusts: the cold feels warm. By the time we reach where we began, the water is at my knees, waves crashing against the rock wall behind me.

  SOME BOOKS SAY a sign is runny eyes. Some books say a sign is twitching or shaking. Some books say a sign is incontinence. Some books say a sign is falling down. Some books say a sign is loss of appetite. Some books say a sign is tail between the legs. Some books say keep her close. Some books say if she cries, the sound of your voice nearby will comfort her. Some books say let her sleep in bed with you. Some books say keep a pad beneath her. Some books say give water through a dropper. Some books say feed her by hand. Some books say gently rub her fur and tell her what a good friend she has been. Some books say every part of a journey is meaningful. Some books say even the saddest times contain beauty and even hidden joy.

  A few years back, the water was rough and cold, but she wanted me to throw. She sat at the water’s edge, and waves broke and foamed around her, and her eyes and tail said throw. “Not so far,” you said, but my arm had already started forward, and it felt good to throw as far as I could, and as soon as the tennis ball left my hand, it was too late to say stay or no or come here, she was gone�
�into the ocean and after what she couldn’t possibly see, what even I couldn’t see, even though I’d followed its arc, a tiny circle of yellow that rose, fell, then disappeared. That’s just a word we sometimes use to mean we can’t see something. It was there, somewhere in the ocean, but it had disappeared to us.

  Too quickly she was out too far—past where I’d seen the ball drop—and we could hardly hear ourselves call her through the wind and breaking waves. She was biting the water, shadows or slants of light she must have thought were what she was looking for. She was the only small thing out there in all that ocean—the only thing we could see, that is. Not even a boat. Not even, thank God, a fin. She was frantic to find what was lost; we knew she’d never give up.

  I had an idea: convince her that she’d found what she had no chance of ever finding. I ran to our car in the parking lot, searched for another ball beneath a seat.

  By the time I returned, Ralph had drifted farther out and you were in the ocean up to your neck, trying to coax Ralph to swim to you.

  I knew I needed a perfect throw—between her and you, where she could see it. Ralph saw the ball and swam for it. She moved closer, only to be pulled out again. But she was young, and her desire to fetch the ball—the new one, the imposter—was stronger than the tide, and she grabbed the ball with her mouth and swam to you, and together you made it to shore.