Chapter 32
Different Ways of Grieving
CORIN
Last night was just Johanna and me. Tonight is all about Max.
Industrial filters cycle air from one end of the long room to the other, sucking out most of the personal scents, but nothing can completely remove the tangs of sweat and tears—or leather and paper.
Johanna and I, along with assorted others of various genders, designations, and cultures, sit in a lightly cushioned chairs arranged around a table at a branch of the city library.
The collections lodged in the room’s glass-fronted bookshelves are old, their bindings gilded, but no one in our group ever scans the titles, even on occasions where one of us gets up and turns away, pretending to examine at them.
We’re here to share our grief and support each other in finding ways forward without those we’ve lost or are in the process of losing.
Most of us come straight from work, so outfits range from uniforms to suits and dresses to jeans and t-shirts.
Business casual for myself, though my collar always feels too tight when I arrive, and my slacks and shoes heavy.
Johanna and I started attending the first Thursday after we realized Max was dying—at his request, though Johanna picked the specific group.
Over the past weeks, only once has more than one of the dozen chairs been left vacant.
So much sorrow is shared in this room, it should drip.
The hint of bitterness and salt always hits me the instant I walk in, as it does the few other alphas and occasional omega who come.
Most regular attendees are betas and don’t notice, though even they often pause in the doorway and steel themselves before entering.
There’s a full crowd tonight, a whopping dozen of us. The group’s facilitator settles into the last empty chair, on the other side of Johanna and starts the meeting in the usual way: introductions.
We share however much or little we feel comfortable with, such as our names, what brings us here, and what, if anything, we wish to discuss.
Everyone here has been before, in the months since Johanna and I first attended.
We know each other but go around the circle, introducing ourselves, anyway.
Nothing particularly new; mostly people sharing good memories, or sniffing as they admit to finding it hard to get up in the morning, or other things.
Until the cycle reaches Johanna.
“It’s been about three months since we started coming here, right?
” Her voice is calm, thoughtful. She glances at me, and I nod.
Close enough. Faint whiffs of tangy but sour cranberry roll off her, hinting at mixed emotions.
“Maybe two months since Max died. When is it still too early to start a new life?”
Cold fills me. I sit, unmoving, barely breathing, as her words echo in my head, each repetition bringing a touch more dread.
Too early? Was she not ready? Did I push her too hard, too fast?
“The thing is,” she continues, sniffing and rubbing her nose as a few tears slip down her face, “I spent years building the company with Max and Corin, and I don’t regret any of it, but it’s not the same without Max.
He was the zest. I don’t know what I want to do next—though I’ve got some ideas—but I also don’t want Corin and me keeping on keeping on at the company just because that’s what we might’ve done if Max were still alive. ”
Her words split me, shred me. So many emotions pour through that I’m left unable to speak or respond, though I note her eyes darting my way time and again.
Relief—that she’s not alluding to regret over loving me, sleeping with me, fucking me. Worry—that she does regret, and she’s merely not addressing it before others. Uncertainty—she wants to leave our company? It’s not just Max’s, but ours—all three of us.
And on and on; my head throbs with a myriad of fears and problems that hadn’t previous occurred to me previously. A roaring in my ears drowns out whatever discussion occurs in the aftermath of her words.
Until Johanna takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are as cold as mine.
“Corin? Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I don’t know what to say.” I swallow, but the new lump in my throat remains. “I hadn’t realized you wanted to leave.”
“It’s new, and it’s not going to happen soon, you know that. There are too many complications to make any change fast, but think about it, Corin.” She grabs my other hand, encouraging me to turn and face her. “When was the last time you saw a doctor for a full check-up?”
I blink at the sudden change of topic, though I can answer this one easily. “About three weeks ago.”
“You made the appointment after Max got sick, right?”
I nod.
“What did the doctor say?”
“I’m fine. All systems go.” Throat tight, I study the shelves behind her.
“Except for signs of stress and high cholesterol and possible high blood pressure.” She lets go of my hand to flick a finger against my forehead. The sting prompts me to glare at her. My left foot starts tapping restlessly, shoe brushing the carpet next to hers.
“Given the circumstances—"
“Losing Max, yes, but it’s not just that.
We took a lot of unplanned time when Max got sick.
We made changes, delegated tasks. The staff stepped up—and keep stepping up—but even so, we both juggled emails and calls those last weeks, and already, work is eating more and more of our time.
Stress levels rising, and even recent developments aren’t helping enough. ”
She blushes, a hand slipping to squeeze my knee—she’s probably trying to still my tapping foot, but it’s also a caress. “I don’t want to lose you, but I want to slow down—us to slow down and take time to relax.”
“Us.” The tension pulsing through my veins eases. My foot rests flat on the carpet and my shoulders relax. I hadn’t even realized I’d tightened my back and chest muscles to the point they ache.
“I can’t decide for you, but I think it’d be good for both of us to build something new.” She squeezes my knee again. “Maybe take a year or more to lay the groundwork. Max was in our lives in every way, work and home, which means there’s no place to go to escape constant reminders.”
There’s a stir across the way from some other group members. One rumbles about not making major changes right after a death. Another shakes their head and mutters about running away not working as a way to avoid things, that you have to face your ghosts.
A third sniffs and says that, if Johanna really mourned Max she’d be holding his memory close.
Johanna’s eyes flash at that. Fists clenched, she leans forward.
“I’ll always love him and think of him, day in and day out.
But I don’t need to live the same life I did before, but with an empty hole in it.
I want to make what’s left of my life into something different that fits the me who lost Max better than the me with Max. ”
“Thank you all for your comments.” The facilitator steps in, clapping her hands. “There’s no one way to grieve. No right, no wrong.” She looks at Johanna and then me. “It does seem the two of you might need a longer conversation about this.”
We don’t put it off long.
The library is close enough to walk home.
Johanna lets me help her put on her coat and does the same for me, bidding me lean down so she can pop a knitted hat on my head to match hers.
The hats were gifts from Max two years ago; he had a third for himself.
All had pompoms when we unwrapped them, but Johanna cut hers off immediately, freeing me to do likewise.
Max loved walking in the snow with his pompom bouncing from side to side.
Johanna’s right that there’s no escaping reminders of him. He’s everywhere: the house, the office, the very clothes we wear.
“Tell me you don’t keep sitting in your office at work handling piddling things, expecting at any moment, Max will burst in with his latest great idea.
” She holds my hand as we leave the warmth and light of the library for the cool, dark gray shadows of an autumnal evening.
No mittens or gloves, just skin to skin, warm despite the chilly breeze blowing us down the street.
I squeeze her hand. “You’ve had some great ideas too.”
“This could be one of them.”
A tram whizzes by, a blur of light and wheels squealing against the rails. After it passes, I ask, “How long have you been thinking about it?”
“A week or so. It started when I realized we were both putting out minor work fires before and after the memorial service.” She sighs as we move to the edge of the sidewalk to skirt the crowd waiting outside a new Mongolian restaurant.
Around the corner, the side street is quieter, a mix of townhouses and apartments over small shops shut up for the night.
“Then, this past week, juggling lunch with you Monday, the trust meeting Tuesday, lunch with Dan Wednesday—”
“You’re supposed to take a lunch break.” Something she too often forgets, especially these days. “Set a good example for others.”
“You mean you don’t usually work through lunch?
” Johanna pauses to level an ironic gaze, clear even in the pooling gloom between street lamps.
“We both used to spend seventy, eighty, ninety hours a week working! If we’re going to form a pack, we need time to spend together—and there’s no place for Nathan or Dan in the company, presuming they’d even want to leave their own jobs. ”
She has a point. Plus, she mentions the possible pack so casually that my heart twists with both hope and unease.
“We set up the company as employee-owned, so our current staff hold forty percent. Why not sell the rest of our shares to them? At a discount, even, to help with the transition—it’s not like we need the money,” she suggests as we move on.
At least being in motion means I don’t have to control my expression as I listen.