Chapter 2
Despite the gathering clouds, Riva decided to walk the six blocks to the public library.
No, she was not going to get more books.
That would be ridiculous. She had promised her good friend Laurel Wright that she would attend the grief support group that had started a few months ago.
But seriously, Paul had been gone for more than a year.
Did Riva really need a grief group now? Laurel seemed to think so.
Maybe Laurel was the one in need of a support group.
She wasn’t technically a widow. But she was a retired divorcée who seemed to be grieving her failed marriage.
Or to be more accurate, she was grieving the loss of her lovely home after the settlement.
Now Laurel lived in a dismal downtown apartment with an aging cat named Fred, and she spent most of her time solving crosswords and watching network TV.
Poor Laurel probably had need for some support.
Riva blew out a sigh as she wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck.
Sure, it was mid-May, but the fickle Oregon weather hadn’t received notification it was spring.
She probably should’ve driven the short distance to the library, but the gloomy weather seemed to fit her mood as she trudged down the hill toward downtown.
And perhaps her mood was just perfect for attending her first grief group meeting.
She paused in front of the big brick building, one hand on the door.
Really, it wasn’t too late to turn back.
She didn’t belong in a group like this. She was beyond the five stages of grief.
Or to be more specific, she was in stage five now—acceptance.
It had been more than a year. She was ready to move on.
“Riva darling, you came!” Laurel came trotting up to stand alongside her and slapped her on the back. “Good girl.”
“Do you attend these meetings?” Riva studied her friend, wondering if the group had more appeal to Laurel than herself.
Laurel firmly shook her head. “No. But I’m friends with Margaret, the moderator.
I told my friend Windy Brewer about this group, and she’s been faithfully coming since it started up in January.
” She held up a white bag. “And I promised Windy I’d drop off cookies.
Apparently, it was her turn to bring treats and she totally forgot. ”
“You hate cooking.”
Laurel looked skyward where raindrops were starting to splat down, then she propped open the door and waited for Riva to pass. “Yes, but I do live above a bakery.” She winked. “Pretty convenient.”
“Right.”
“Here.” She shoved the cookie bag toward Riva. “You can take these to Windy. I have to go.”
“Why don’t you come to the group too?” Riva asked hopefully.
“No thanks. Tell Windy and Margaret hi. Have a good meeting.” She held up a forefinger. “And call me when you get home. I want to hear how it goes.”
“If you went with me, you’d already know how it goes.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.” Laurel made a sly smile.
“Have fun, darling.” And then she whooshed off.
Probably to do a new crossword puzzle in front of one of her soap operas.
Did they still make soaps? Riva didn’t know.
Unless she was deathly ill, she’d always preferred books to TV.
She unpeeled her scarf and proceeded into the warm library, gazing around with satisfaction.
At least the grief group was meeting in a respectable location.
Perhaps she’d simply hand off the bag of treats, excuse herself to peruse the new books section, and then quietly slip out the door and make a beeline for home before those dark clouds really started to open.
She tentatively approached the meeting room.
A couple of women lingered at a table by the door.
Maybe, like her, they were planning a fast break.
She stared intently at the new titles rack and considered bolting, but before she could get away, the women were greeting her, forcing her to fill out a name tag and sign in to a guest book.
And suddenly the taller woman whose name tag read Helene practically shoved her into the meeting room.
“That’s Windy over there.” Helene pointed to a short redhead arranging things on a refreshment table. Dressed in a long bohemian skirt, red cowboy boots, and a purple fringed scarf, the woman appeared to be a unique individual.
Riva cautiously approached the refreshment table, keeping a wary eye on the small group now taking their seats in a circle of chairs.
She noticed it was mostly women, but there were a couple of men, all in a wide range of ages.
“Are you Wendy?” she asked the woman, then glanced at her name tag and saw that the name was spelled Windy, like the weather.
Interesting. Despite her rather youthful ensemble, the woman’s face bore the traces of years of living and perhaps too much sun.
But her smile came easy and looked genuine.
“Yes, I’m Windy Brewer.” She looked at Riva’s name tag, then stuck out her hand. “Hello, Riva Owen. Pleased to meet you.”
Instead of shaking the offered hand, Riva clumsily pushed the bakery bag into it. Realizing her faux pas and regretting her bad manners, she forced a nervous smile. “Laurel asked me to give you these, uh, cookies.”
“Bless that dear woman. You know Laurel, then?”
“She’s a good friend. In fact, it was her idea for me to come today. I tried to talk her into coming with me.”
“You and me both. If you ask me, Laurel needs this group more than I do.” Windy opened the bag, then let out a happy squeal. “Lemon bars. My fave.”
“Your name has an interesting spelling.” Riva tipped her head to one side.
“Well, my parents named me September Wind.” Windy grimaced, then smiled.
“They were a bit . . . unconventional, to say the least.” She artfully arranged the yellow bars on a flowery paper plate.
“I was actually raised on a hippie commune in Northern California.” She shrugged.
“Used to embarrass me to admit that to anyone, but I’ve pretty much gotten over it since losing my husband. I’ve realized there are worse things.”
Windy paused as a woman called out, announcing it was time to get seated and start their meeting. Windy quietly thanked Riva for bringing the bars. “Go ahead and get your seat.” She fanned out some colorful napkins. “I’ll just finish up here.”
Feeling somewhat trapped, Riva made her way to the circle of folding chairs that were quickly filling.
Was it too late to make a graceful escape?
But the woman in front was smiling directly at her.
“We’re happy to see a new face today. Welcome.
” She squinted as if trying to read her name tag.
“Can you share your name and what brings you here today?”
“Well, my name is Riva Owen, and I guess my feet brought me here.” To her relief this stirred some nervous laughter.
“I guess that’s not what you meant,” she apologized and sat.
“I’m here because, well, my husband . . .
he died.” And suddenly the words began to pour out.
“Paul was an attorney in town. Not really well known. But he was a good man who helped a lot of people. Anyway, Paul fought a brave two-year battle against lung cancer. Not that he was a smoker. He never smoked. But, well, he lost that battle more than a year ago, and I still really miss him. But I do believe I’ve moved past it.
I’ve accepted that it is what it is. At least, I think I have.
But a good friend kept urging me to try out your group here.
Laurel’s a friend of Margaret and Windy too.
” She nodded as Windy took the last empty chair next to the woman in front.
“But I don’t think I need group therapy at this point.
Maybe a year ago. I mean, like I said, I sort of feel like I’ve moved beyond .
. .” She felt embarrassed now. Why had she rambled on like that?
These people probably thought she was loose-lipped.
“We’re glad you joined us anyway, Riva,” the woman said.
“Perhaps someone in this group needs your help. Or perhaps you still have some hidden issues that you’re unaware of.
That happens to a lot of us.” The gray-haired woman smiled a bit sadly.
“I’m Margaret, and I do know your friend Laurel.
And I moderate our group sessions. Now we’ll go around the circle like we usually do.
This time I’ll ask members to share their names and give a little update as to where they all are on this interesting life journey. ”
As they progressed around the room, Margaret didn’t intervene much, other than to ask an occasional follow-up question from their previous meeting. The sharing steadily grew more spontaneous and appeared to be sincerely heartfelt.
Riva was amazed at how quickly she got pulled into the various stories being relayed. A couple of members got emotional, and a Kleenex box was passed about. When it came to a nervous-looking younger member named Blair, he sat silently for a long moment.
“How has your week been going?” Margaret asked gently.
Scowling, Blair pounded a fist into his palm again and again. “I’m stuck,” he declared. “I can’t stop being angry. I know it’s a normal stage of grief. But I can’t get out of it. I just get angrier and angrier.”
For another long moment, no one spoke. Finally, the woman next to Riva asked a rather probing question about Blair’s deceased brother.
After pondering it a moment, the frustrated young man began to share more openly, admitting to feeling a total loss of control in all areas of his life.
“Loss of control can cause feelings of anger,” Margaret suggested. “And losing your brother like that probably feels like you lost control. You said he was your twin?”