Chapter 5
Henry
We were told that metastatic pancreatic cancer was the hardest to detect.
Jacob’s was so advanced, they gave him less than a year.
It didn’t matter how many times doctors, nurses, or friends told me I couldn’t have known—I still felt like I should have.
He was my twin. I could always sense when he was sad or angry or excited.
Why hadn’t I sensed this? But tragedy often arrives in the middle of an ordinary day.
One moment, life is just as you’ve always known it.
The next, it leaves you gasping for air.
I straightened the picture frames along the windowsill, pruning the daisies a nurse had delivered earlier. “What about skydiving?” I asked. “You always said you’d love it. When we get you out of here, we should go together.”
Jacob smiled weakly. “You know I’m not leaving here, Henry.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. “What about Australia? We could go somewhere far away, anywhere you want.”
Jacob huffed a small laugh. “Henry, you hate leaving Everston. You won’t even go visit Mom and Dad in Hawaii.”
“But I could,” I insisted. “We could go to Iceland, or Egypt, or—”
“Think you could get me a coffee?” he interrupted.
Jacob loved coffee. He tried for years to convert me.
He would offer me lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, macchiatos, iced coffee, drip coffee, even Irish coffee.
He tried ordering different flavored beans, pairing the coffee with pastries, adding sweetener and syrups, you name it.
But I refused them all. I was a tea drinker.
There was nothing about that bitter, acrid, nauseating stuff that I would ever enjoy.
“You’re not supposed to have…” But I trailed off when I saw the look on his face.
I smiled. “Of course. I think there’s a travel magazine in the waiting room; we can pick a destination while you sip.”
Jacob coughed, his whole body shaking with the effort. “Henry,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. “I’m not leaving this room. I’m dying. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
“For who?” My voice cracked. “It’s never going to be easy.”
“It doesn’t mean I won’t be with you.”
“You can’t say that like it makes any of this okay,” I said, my eyes burning.
He gave a tiny shrug.
“It’s not over yet. You have to keep fighting.”
Jacob sighed, wincing as he shifted. “I’m tired, Henry. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up. It just means I’m ready.”
“Well, I’m not,” I whispered, tears spilling over. “I still need you.”
He held my gaze, something in his eyes softer than I’d ever seen—acceptance, maybe. Or goodbye.
I slipped out of the room and found the vending machine at the end of the hall. It was out of coffee. I pressed my forehead against the glass, listening to the hum of machines down the palliative care ward. I had failed Jacob again. I couldn’t even bring him the one thing he’d asked for.
And there was nothing I could do to fix what was happening to him, no matter how desperately I wanted to.
If I couldn’t change what had happened to Jacob, I could at least try to create something good in the space he left behind. The library became an anchor. Something to pour myself into. The steady routine of the library became the foundation that kept me from crumbling completely.
Sunday became my second-favorite day. It used to be the first, but Tuesday claimed that honor after I started the grief group.
I liked Sundays because the library was usually quiet and it gave me more time to restock shelves, catalog new materials and books, refill the stationery supplies, and prepare new displays for popular genres and books.
Once I papier-machéd a large Saphira for our Eragon display and strung it up above the YA fantasy section.
But the main reason I loved Sundays so much was because I had time to sneak out for an almond croissant from Brew Haven, the café across the road.
Kyle was tinkering with the ceiling again, and I’d been hovering next to him for the last twenty minutes.
“Henry,” he said, without looking down. “It’s hard to fix things with someone watching.”
“Sorry,” I replied sheepishly. “I’m just really anxious to have our reading corner back.”
“I should be done this week, and you’ll be back to normal next week.”
I clapped my hands triumphantly, a little too loudly, causing a nearby patron to jump and scowl at me.
“Oh, that’s great news! I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well,” Kyle said. “Don’t thank me until you see the final bill.”
“Can I get you a coffee or a tea, Kyle?”
“Double shot espresso with chocolate syrup and three sugars would be amazing, Henry,” he replied. I felt myself grimace and couldn’t help but think of the way Jacob would have laughed at this.
I popped my head into the staff room. “Lana,” I said, catching her with half a sandwich raised to her lips. “Coffee?”
She smiled. “I’d love one.”
“Maybe a cookie too?” I offered.
She sighed. “Oh, go on then. Ask them if they have any of those macadamia and pine nut ones.”
I laughed. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
The day was crisp, with the sun casting a gentle warmth across Main Street as I stepped out into the light.
A smattering of people were strolling about, enjoying the mild early autumn weather.
Brew Haven was buzzing with customers, many of whom were savoring the sunshine at tables and chairs in the adjoining courtyard.
As I ordered the coffees, I glanced momentarily to the back of the café and saw Max sitting in the far corner.
I’d met Max when the group was still just an idea.
I’d found him online—searched “grief therapist” and clicked on the first result that popped up for a clinic in Norvale.
When I emailed him about starting the group meetings, he’d requested to meet me individually first. I’d walked into his office with my hair sticking out in every direction and mismatched socks. It had been a day.
Max had looked at me thoughtfully, before opening his notebook.
“You mentioned in your email that you’re starting a group,” he said. “For people who are grieving?”
“Well, that’s the basic idea, yes,” I replied. “I put a sign up at the library I run, and I have had some interest.”
He nodded and scribbled something down.
“What do you think you might talk about?”
How I’d do anything to have my brother back.
“Oh, all sorts of things,” I said. “Feelings, I suppose.”
“That’s a good start,” he responded. “How many people do you think will be in the group?”
“Well, I’ve had four people inquire. So, it would be five, including myself,” I replied. “I guess I’m not sure where to begin.”
“I would imagine so.” Max looked up from his notebook.
“But I think it’s important,” I continued, “to share grief with others who have experienced it.”
“It’s natural that we form bonds with people who can understand us,” Max said. “It’s innately human.”
“Great,” I’d replied. “So you’ll help?”
Max had nodded. “Just on one condition, Henry,” he replied.
“Anything!”
“You understand that every grief process is different. We can’t always help everyone.”
I thought about the first few times people had begun to inquire about the sign.
I could use someone to talk to, one person said, their grief heavy, almost tangible, like a weight they didn’t know how to carry.
I remembered the way some voices had wavered when they asked about the meetings, and I could see that their pain felt all-encompassing, nearly swallowing them whole.
And then when I said yes, a place for you, I watched as something shifted.
Small at first, barely noticeable. A little more ease in their shoulders, a spark in their eyes; hope.
Of course, there was a long road ahead, but it was the start of something.
I pushed the memory aside as I approached Max, deeply engrossed in the book he was reading. “The reading corner should be fixed by next session,” I said brightly. “So it’s back to books instead of whiskey.”
“Henry.” Max smiled, looking up, and he closed his book. “Day off?”
“Never,” I replied. “Just enjoying a moment of peace and quiet, and grabbing some coffees and pastries.”
He pointed to the remains of a donut. “Have you tried the jelly donuts?”
“Of course,” I said. “They’ve supported me through many after-school days.”
Max chuckled. “I’m considering having another.”
“I’m glad I saw you, I wanted to run something by you,” I said. “An idea I’ve had.” Max gestured to the empty seat, and I sat down. “I was going through our outreach programs for the next six months, and I thought that perhaps the library could host a poetry evening.”
Max looked at me blankly. “A what?”
“A poetry evening,” I repeated, enthusiastically. “Of course, I’d need to run this by the board, but I could make flyers, talk to patrons and local businesses about selling tickets. And the best part? The poetry readings could be done by members of the group.”
Max’s expression didn’t change, so I pressed on.
“You know how hard it is for people to talk about their pain,” I said.
“But poetry? Poetry gives people a way to say things they don’t know how to say otherwise.
It’s not just words—it’s a way to process everything, a way for people to share something without feeling like they have to lay it all out.
It wouldn’t just be an event. It would be a chance for them to express their grief in a way other than just…
talking about it. It could be healing.” I hesitated, catching myself.
“I even think I could convince Olivia to write an article on it.” I paused, reconsidering.
Olivia was elusive at the best of times, but it was worth a shot.
“I mean, if she’s not too busy, of course,” I added.
Max was listening, but his brow had furrowed slightly, and I could tell he was weighing his words carefully.
“You hate the idea,” I said, flatly.