by J. P. Hansen
Brooke returned a half-hearted laugh. “I reread that book you sent me, On Grief and Grieving, for the zillionth time. But, the more I read it, the less I understand.”
“Kessler and Kubler-Ross would be the first to caution you about attempting to simplify grieving. Each person’s grieving varies. In your case, your loss is complicated.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just because you read a book, it doesn’t eradicate your grief, Brooke.”
“You told me the book would solve my problems.”
“No, I most certainly did not. I told you that book would help you understand the grieving process, and allow me to help you through each phase. Grief is a healthy emotion; prolonged grieving is not. I suspect you still suffer from all five phases of grieving—though not as much as when I first met you. Today, you’re struggling with acceptance and that ties your stomach in knots.”
“So basically, you’re saying I’ve made no progress?”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying. Your grief spans three decades and includes complicated dynamics. I’m saying you’ve made tremendous progress, but aren’t there yet.”
Complicated dynamics? Brooke was glad Shane hadn’t used the word setback on her—that’s progress. “What should I be doing differently?”
“Change your thoughts. Said another way, change your perception of your thoughts.”
“Huh?”
“You view the deaths of both your mother and Tanner with the same emotion: guilt—as if you caused it; Tanner’s view of ending his own life was likely one of relief, saving himself from suffering and saving you from suffering by watching him die slowly. In his eyes, he was doing a noble thing, yet you see it differently. Your mother’s death wasn’t self-inflicted and you didn’t cause it. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it, but you do. Clinging to the past rips you apart, just like worrying about the future strikes fear.”
“Here you go again with that live-in-the-now stuff.”
“The past is history, the future’s a mystery, but right now is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.”
“That’s a great quote on paper, and one that I do believe, but I’m having trouble with practicing it.”
“You’re looking through a blindfold rather than rose-colored glasses.”
“Okay, enough about Tanner and my mom. Let’s go to the present. My best friend’s getting married AND having a baby—the two things I wanted so badly, but will never have. To make matters worse, I’m supposed to stand in front of four hundred people as her maid of honor and act normal, like it’s not being flaunted in my face. How can I fool myself into seeing roses with that scenario?”
“Listen to yourself. The answer’s in your own words.”
“Sorry, I flunk this test. You’re gonna have to dispense the answers.”
“How old’s Melissa?”
“What’s that have to do with it?”
“Look, if you want my help, you’re going to have to give me a chance. Just answer my questions, then I’ll make my point.” Brooke pulled into a parking spot at Pharmical and kept the car running for the air conditioning. She studied her gas gauge and grimaced.
“Okay, Melissa’s 33.”
“Great, and is this her first marriage?”
“Yes.”
“How long has she been dating this guy?”
“She’s been dating Eddie for eight years.”
“And she’s pregnant?”
Brooke’s frown blurred her vision. “Yes, I just told you that.”
“Ah ah ah. Just humor me and answer the questions. I’ll make my point soon.”
“God, you sound like my father. Are you sure you don’t have a law degree?”
“Very funny. Final question: do you like Eddie?”
“Not really, and Melissa’s dad thinks he’s a loser. In fact, he calls Eddie his son-out-law.”
“Here’s my point—please have an open mind. And, please don’t interrupt me until I’ve finished.”
“No objections. You have the floor, counselor.”
“Stop it, or I’ll hold you in contempt of court.” They both laughed and it was enough to silence Brooke during Shane’s soliloquy: “Melissa’s thirty-three, never married, dating a loser who wouldn’t commit for eight years until he impregnates her, and feeling societal pressure, they’re getting married.”
“Pretty much.” Brooke rested her chin on her fist.
Shane continued, “And you had the man of your dreams for fourteen years, and yet you still feel an amazing love for him today?”
Brooke’s eyes stung. She struggled, “Yeah.”
“Let me finish before you say anything. My point is: who’s better off? A wise man once said, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ But the wisdom lies beneath that love, for it’s being grateful for the experience of life’s greatest pleasure—to love someone with all your heart—that brings happiness. This ignites a universal law of like attracts like. From that happiness, from that feeling of pure gratitude, comes renewal—the ability to love again.” Shane’s musical tone sounded like a poet performing a dramatic read.
Brooke dabbed her eyes and pondered this for a moment. She wished she took notes, afraid to ask him to repeat it. “That’s beautiful. That’s one of the most profound things you’ve ever said to me.” After a pause, she said, “I think I get it.”
“You’re grasping more than you know. Go easy on yourself. You’re on the upswing—you’re starting to enjoy your job and you’ve forgiven Tanner—and yourself. These are enormous steps. Plus, I haven’t even heard one y’all out of you in a long time,” he chuckled, then said, “Now, just practice gratitude each morning.”
“Thanks.” Hanging up, Brooke’s shoulders and neck relaxed. Shane had an uncanny way of connecting with her. When she felt like a derailed train heading for a crash, he always set her back on the tracks and guided her at the right speed. She did feel gratitude—for having such a great life coach, who appeared magically at her time of greatest need. And, she felt guilty for not sharing her deepest secret.
Chapter 11
Brooke shot straight up. She was there, floating at the foot of the bed. Exquisite radiance illuminated the dark room, casting a welcoming glow. An overwhelming feeling of love emanated from the snowy translucent figure—with a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors sparkling around her outline. Though their communication was instantaneous, Brooke reached out and said, “Mommy?”
Their hands converged in the air; a wave of comfort overflowed Brooke. Her lips were closed, but she was communicating to Brooke. A soft voice was singing, “I love you. I love you. I’ll always love you.” Brooke said I love you in return, and experienced a comprehensive knowing; a serenity with this mystic that extended well beyond her sparkling eyes.
Brooke’s eyes fluttered and as they popped open, she vanished. Brooke flailed her arms and said, “No, come back!” But, her desperate pleas only met emptiness in the bedroom. Brooke attempted to reenact her dream, but the harder she tried, the further the memory faded.
Brooke reached over to her nightstand and grazed Tanner’s picture as she flipped on the lamp. Her pajamas soaked with perspiration, she surveyed the room, and shivered. It looked empty, but she wasn’t sure. The euphoria was replaced by anxiety. “Mother, mother, please come back.” Silence. Her teeth clattered as a chill permeated inside. Leaving the light on, she reached for the comforter at her feet. While lying down, she pulled it up, holding it tightly against her chin. She stretched her peripheral vision with saucer-like eyes and surveyed the room one more time, then asked, “Are you still there?”
Brooke recalled having visions in previous dreams, but never with such clarity. They usually included Tanner and how she imagined her mother. Tanner looked healthy, a vibrant boyish college student; never the feeble man at death’s doorway. Her mother always looked the same: mid twenties, thin, curly strawberry blonde hair, and bright blue eyes—just like the picture in her photo
album.
After lying awake with the light on long enough to settle her nerves, Brooke clicked off the bedside lamp. With wide eyes, she searched the darkness once again. Realizing she was alone, Brooke closed her eyes. Sleep evaded her as she tossed about while replaying the lucid dream.
***
Brooke’s alarm jolted her out of a deep trance. Though it seemed like she was up all night, she slept hard just before the sun peeked up. Although Brooke could have slept till noon, thoughts of her day’s tasks began awakening her. She looked forward to a busy day of interviews—her department was nearing full strength.
Brooke replaced her damp pajamas with a fresh Tar Heels T-shirt and matching shorts, then laced up her running shoes. The jog revived her body but her mind remained fixated on the dream. The more she replayed it, the more ingrained it became, as if possessing her. I wonder where this one fits in the grief book?
She had decided to don the brace and her ankle complained in its familiar way, diverting her attention to the present. When’s this thing going to heal? Her thoughts shifted to Chase, and she picked up her pace. The questions began flooding in: why does Chase want to run with me anyway? Is his interest professional or does he want something more? Does he run every morning? Mmmmm, I’d like to see him in running shorts—especially short ones. God, am I back in high school? Okay, now I’m wide awake. I know where I have to go.
After a quick but vigorous shower, Brooke sipped her Weight Watchers strawberry-vanilla shake—only four points and quite tasty—as she readied herself in the mirror. The drive to Starbucks flew by in spite of the ice bag wrapped to her throbbing left ankle. Thinking about Chase eased the pain, as if in a magnetic pull. Every once in a while, the magnet weakened as the word married flashed in her mind; she wondered if the band would be missing again. It didn’t matter—today, she just had to see him.
Pulling up to Starbucks, this time Brooke parked across the street. She surveyed the area and spotted a few BMWs, but not any red ones. Her watch read 7:34, about ten minutes earlier than the other day. She guessed he always arrived at the same time, thinking, anyone so anal about his coffee temperature had to be OCD about time. Rather than wait like a stalker, she decided to enter.
You could always count on a line at Starbucks. She’d never entered an empty one. This morning was no exception—except no Chase. She considered the bathroom, but opted against knocking. If so, given this procession of snails, he’d emerge before I reached the counter. Miss Piercings wasn’t working; instead, a cute younger girl with a New York Yankees cap held court behind counter. Brooke wondered if she knew Chase also.
The coffee aroma teased her senses even more than last time. At 7:44, and she’d moved up three spots, still no Chase. At 7:50, now second in line and still no Chase, she breathed a sigh of relief—at least he’s not OCD. She wondered if she should knock on that door after all, as an image of him washing his hands in 175 degree water popped up. She giggled.
“Well, you’re in a good mood today.”
Brooke looked startled, and said, “Huh?”
Marcus flashed his golden grills and Brooke said, “Oh, hey Marcus.”
“You want the Chai Tea again?”
“Good memory, I’m impressed.”
“Any friend of A-Man is a friend of mine. You missed him though. He was early…but I was ready for him.” Brooke’s shoulders sunk, contrasting Marcus’s triumphant grin.
Perky Yankee chick said, “What can I getcha?”
Brooke rubbed her temples, then said, “I’ll have what A-Man orders, but only one.”
“A-Man?” Yankee chick’s glare looked like a Red Sox pitcher just beaned her. Marcus said, “You know, Chase Allman.”
“Oh, my bud,” she beamed, then, “I love him. He’s my favorite. Why didn’t you say so?”
My bud? Love him? Favorite? Who is Chase Allman anyway? He’s more interesting by the minute.
Marcus asked, “You gonna drink it right away or take it with you?”
Figuring this meant the difference between 175 and 185 degrees, Brooke said, “Now.”
Marcus said, “Quad Expresso, Extra Dry, Extra Hot,” coming right up for the pretty lady. Brooke smirked and nodded. Though she recognized some of the lingo, she still felt like a foreigner, and grateful for Marcus.
Brooke paid the bill—realizing his two coffees cost more than a movie pass—then headed over to the counter and waited. She completed this step on her own, without having to be scolded by Chase’s bud. Baby steps. I wonder if Shane would call this progress.
“Here you go,” Marcus placed the coffee on the counter like a trophy.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure. I gave you an extra cup and a sleeve. Be careful though—it’s hot.” As Marcus said this, she laughed at the pun that popped in her head.
Setting the scalding cup on the creamer area, Brooke tried to remember what Chase added. As she surveyed the choices, she scratched her head, then added nutmeg, cinnamon, and three Splendas. She stirred like a magic potion and then dipped her finger. “Ouch.” How the hell does he drink this? Not wanting to request an ice cube and look like a rookie, Brooke realized she’d have to let this cool. But, she yearned to taste it, to sample Chase in an odd way.
The guy following her in line at the counter stood behind her again at the condiment stand and stared, until finally grunting a fake cough.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m waiting for this to cool.”
He smiled and while keeping his eyes on her derriere, said, “Take your time.”
Brooke gripped her smoldering cup and bee-lined across the room to the open spot, realizing it was the same table where she and Chase sat. She blew on the coffee, but could still feel the heat through the cups. Still ouch. After blowing on it again, this time for several seconds, she pressed the steaming liquid to her lips and sipped.
Brooke’s expression resembled a kid’s first sip of beer. Like the inviting aroma of coffee, the beer commercials misrepresented the first taste. She sipped again, and wondered, how does he drink this motor oil? I hope he keeps mints on hand.
Brooke winced, looking like a kid who learned Santa was a hoax, then capped the coffee and headed to her car. She considered tossing the whole thing out, but her father’s voice rang in her head. Damn the poor starving people in India—this cup’s hot.
The cup didn’t fit in the Lexus’s cup holder—apparently, the Japanese underestimated American indulgences. Again, she considered dumping it, but instead, pulled a big sip. The temperature had dropped to near human range, but it still tasted like mud. Upscale mud, but mud all the same. She couldn’t part with the Chase memento just yet, but feared the cup would fall and spill at the first turn. She placed the hot cup between her legs, grinned, blushed, and headed to Pharmical’s headquarters. Her ankle didn’t bother her for the entire ride.
After finishing half of the Quad Espresso, Brooke felt a rush. She wondered if it was the caffeine or residual from her thoughts of Chase. Either way, she felt alive, ready to interview the day’s roster of candidates she’d found, without any help from HR or her boss. Why can’t Chase be my boss? I bet he’s a great boss…married.
***
The boardroom felt colder than usual and Chase sensed it had nothing to do with the air conditioning—or his coffee temperature. The youngest board member by sixteen years, Chase felt like a kid who wandered downstairs into a roomful of adult guests at his parents’s party. Today, to make matters worse, the great Marvin Wixfeldt held court, dazzling everyone except Pharmical’s young CEO. Wixfeldt, aka “The Butcher,” had earned his moniker the old-fashioned way: chopping off employees heads—and getting paid for it. But, Marvin’s habit of calling Chase “kid” at these meetings bugged him most.
Beyond Wixfeldt’s Ivy League pedigree—Harvard undergrad, Wharton MBA, the high finance guru and infamous consultant had a penchant for chumming inside the real lifeblood of corporate America—the boardroom. He earned his lofty price tag by convincing key
board members that he could inflate the stock price—and everyone’s wallet—through two magic words: “workforce reductions.” Mere mention of those words made Wall Street sharks salivate, and twenty-four seven media pundits banter. The board sat up like Pavlov’s dogs.
“The Butcher” had spoken with Chase twice via “conference calls” that felt more like courtesy calls. Chase despised lip service and he didn’t trust the information that fell past this man’s lips. Beyond personality conflict, likely from the north/south thing, Chase had fundamental ideological differences. Chase prided himself on building and that ability helped him claw his way up the corporate ladder to what he thought was the top spot at Pharmical. Until, he plunked down at his first board meeting, the kid interrupting the grownups.
Chase believed successful business required two elements: great people and a competitive advantage. The concept of cutting people in order to grow was like cutting off your left hand because it slowed your right. But, the reality was, no matter what Chase thought or said, Pharmical headed toward a workforce reduction. And “The Butcher,” who relished his nickname, was in the back room licking his chops while sharpening his blades.
Chase felt queasy as he listened, knowing “The Butcher’s” recommendation was near. As CEO for three years, the company experienced record profits and even exceeded the lofty revenue targets of outside analysts. For the most part, Pharmical was on pace to deliver their five-year strat plan number, which dangled a big payout carrot in front of Chase and his management team. Most of the burden fell on the laps of the gifted mergers and acquisitions team that Chase had assembled—always the builder. Ironically, the board’s compensation was tied to stock performance. Though you’d think the two went hand in hand, they usually never did. In the corporate turtle versus the hare, the short-term pop squashed the five-year opponent every time. And, now the fashionable buzz words were workforce reduction.
True to form, “The Butcher” rounded the table, handing his fancy packaged pitch to each board member, which Chase hadn’t viewed but feared it was already pre-approved. Chase frowned as he leafed through the tidy stack and stopped on the final page. There it was. He shook his head as if fire ants climbed in his ears. As he reread it, he felt like a human punching bag.