Chapter 2 #3
But normal never returned. One afternoon, while we were in my snug two-bedroom house, Jacob reading the paper as I busied myself making dinner, he suddenly fell off the kitchen stool and screamed.
It was the kind of scream that makes every hair on your body stand up, the kind of scream that you feel right through your bones.
I had never driven so fast in all my life, but the ride to the hospital felt as though it took decades, Jacob agonizing in the front seat, begging me to go faster, repeating that something was wrong.
After a battery of tests and days of stress, my emotions rocking me every which way, we discovered that my twin, the person I had entered the world with, and whom I had always counted on, had advanced stage IV pancreatic cancer.
After our dad had suffered a minor heart attack a few years earlier, our parents had retired to Hawaii, determined to embrace a slower pace of life.
Without them here, I slipped into caregiver mode without hesitation.
It felt as though our small world had suddenly shrunk to just the two of us.
Jacob moved in with me, leaving behind his apartment across town, so I could support him.
I remember those final months as though it were a grim songbook—I can recall every dirge, every sour note.
The doctor’s appointments, the failed treatments, the arguments between Jacob and me.
He had wanted to savor every last minute and I wanted him to keep fighting.
When Jacob died, I did what any librarian would do: I tried to find the answers.
Why did he have to go? What else could I have done?
When will my heart stop feeling as though it’s buried under twenty million tons of rubble?
The only problem was that, at the same time, I just wanted the world to end.
I prayed for an asteroid, an explosion, every natural disaster I could think of, anything to turn the lights out.
Jacob was my brother, my twin; in what world could I possibly exist without my other half?
Grief is a shadow and the world prefers the light.
When you are grieving, people give comfort for a short amount of time and then expect you to return to normal, but they don’t understand that things will never be normal again.
Old habits need to be undone and new habits need to be formed—all while there is a hole in your heart completely consuming you, every hour of every day.
I buried myself in my work to forget the pain.
I made finding answers for others the most important priority in my life, especially when I had none for myself.
I told everyone who asked that I was fine, I was coping, I was moving on.
People told me all the time, You are so strong, Henry Briggs.
Jacob would be proud. Look at you, such an example to this town.
I suppose the only one that knew the truth was the library itself.
It kept me company when I couldn’t find the strength within me to go home.
Instead, I’d sit in the middle of the history aisle, accompanied by a bottle of Glenfiddich—a gift from Mayor Ashcroft for helping to write her campaign speech—staring blankly at half a row of Van Gogh biographies.
On our thirty-sixth birthday, as I sat in that same spot, my vision blurring and my chest aching, I noticed a book on the shelf that was out of place. I reached for it and cracked its spine, flipping to a random page, settling my gaze onto a poem:
This is not the end, not at all.
I have only ventured to the place
between night and day—
I still hear you when you call.
I still listen to all you have to say.
Cry for me if you need to, but laugh;
hold my name in your heart.
the way you have always done so.
Think of me often, but do not allow
these thoughts to consume you.
Live as I have always wanted
you to live.
For I will see you again.
somewhere, one day.
and we will smile.
My eyes welled up with hot tears that threatened to spill over.
I forgot my whiskey, and for a moment I even forgot my grief.
Or maybe it’s not accurate to say that; rather, I realized that grief didn’t have to rule over me.
I could sit with it and we could talk to one another, grief and me, but it wasn’t the only conversation partner I had to limit myself to.
That’s not to say that I didn’t still feel despondent—how could I not at times?
My other half was gone. But I found that poetry could drag me out of the dark hole I was in; it could remind me to look at the sky, to go home and sleep in my bed instead of on the library floor.
I wondered if others might feel like me.
I had no idea how my little idea might be received, so I started small. I put up a simple sign at the library desk: Grief Support Group.
First, one person inquired, then two more, and then another. I contacted Max Turner, a semiretired therapist who lived only a few blocks away, to see if he might be interested in joining us. Turned out he was.
Over the last four months, we’d settled into a steady routine.
We met every other Tuesday evening, mostly to share how we were feeling.
There were tears and jokes and snacks. And, as corny as it might sound, there was comfort.
We were all looking for answers to our grief, and it seemed—even if our little group wasn’t an answer itself—that we were on the path to finding them.
“I’m heading home, Henry,” Lana said, putting on her cardigan. “Anna is supervising the study group and Dev is on desk. You need anything from me before I leave?”
“All good here. Do you have the spread list to give to the school?”
She nodded. “Emailed it to the principal this afternoon. There are no allergies to report, so I think your lemon poppy seed cupcakes are a go.”
I laughed.
“I think they’re more likely to go through the marshmallow squares than the cupcakes.”
“Imagination Week is going to be great. Try not to lose sleep over it.”
I raised my eyebrows. “We’re librarians, Lana; we lose sleep over everything.”
She just smiled and waved, heading out the door into the night, car keys in hand.
I went to the sink to wash my mug, leaving it on the dish rack to dry overnight.
Sometimes I still felt the urge to sleep in the library, wishing I never had to leave.
Things would be easier if I could stay hidden in the history aisle, rather than face the darkness that kept me up at night, but Kyle was right—I knew these meetings were important, not just for the members, but for me too.
I was still tallying how many lemon poppy seed cupcakes I would need to impress an entire class of middle schoolers when I got to Brandy’s.
I wanted to show the kids there was more to the world of confections than just sugar, that there was a particular kind of joy that came with picking poppy seeds out of your teeth.
“Henry,” a voice called out. I looked up to see Gill standing outside the entrance.
“Hey, Gill, glad you’re here. I brought you a little present.” I handed over a Twix chocolate bar, the kind that Edith used to keep in the house to appease Gill’s sweet tooth.
Gill smiled at me, the creases in his face deepening.
“You’re a good boy, Henry. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with such a mess. When will the library be back up and running? Kyle get back to you yet?”
I sighed. I didn’t want to think about it right now.
“Yeah, hopefully next week or the week after. We’ll just have to see.”
“Brandy’s is a nice replacement, though. Do you think Max will notice if I pop over for a whiskey?”
“He may.” I grinned and held the door open for him. Let the old man have his nightcap.
Brandy’s was the oldest bar in Everston.
It was originally owned by a Brandy Johnson and then passed on through the family.
The original Brandy was said to have been a firebrand, one of very few female business owners at the time.
She could drink plenty of men under the table, and long after she retired, she coached her granddaughter through Prohibition.
Now, it was run by Sasha, Brandy’s great-great-great-granddaughter.
There were photos of bar patrons plastered on every inch of the walls, moose and deer heads keeping watch, old license plates tacked behind the bar.
A neon Budweiser sign welcomed customers, flickering in the night, a constant beacon for those looking to drink.
Floating shelves ran along the walls, with rickety bar stools placed underneath, coasters scattered everywhere, and rows and rows of bottles suspended on glass shelves behind the ancient oak-slab bar.
It hadn’t really changed in decades, but it was warm and inviting, and that’s really all anyone asked for in this town.
As Gill crinkled open his chocolate, I gathered some barstools and set them up in a circle at the farthest end of the bar.
Sasha emerged from the back to oversee, folding her arms and smiling warmly.
In the time after Jacob’s death, I really appreciated that Sasha didn’t try to avoid me, as some did, and also didn’t go overboard with pity, holding my hand and whispering platitudes.
She was just Sasha, the same as she was before Jacob passed.
“Everything okay, got what you need?”
“I think we are all set. I appreciate this, truly.”
“It’s not a problem, I’ll be floating around, just trying to unclog the dishwasher in the back, so yell if you need anything.” She wiped her hands on a towel and swung it over her shoulder, disappearing behind the bar.
The door opened and, one by one, our group members filtered in, waving and chatting, excited to be at our new meeting place.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,” Rita said to the bartender on duty, hanging her coat on the rack just by the door.
“Oh, that does sound nice,” Bobby said behind her, ordering one as well.