Chapter 14
Henry
At first, I tried to see my brother in everything.
I wanted to carry him with me; I looked for him in everything that I read or heard or saw.
I would always bring Jacob up in conversation, trying to remind everyone about him.
I found him in the lyrics of his favorite song, or a paragraph from his favorite book, or even the light breaking over the mountains.
I couldn’t let his memory disappear. I’ve learned many things about memory since then, mostly that I didn’t always remember specific days but rather small moments and the way I felt.
I don’t remember the specific date of our first grief meeting, but I remember that it was raining.
The front door of the library had blown open and leaves had scattered through the entryway.
I’d set up chairs in the reading corner, at first in a circle, then pulled apart, then scattered around the tables, unsure of how this was supposed to go.
Gill arrived first, looking sharp in a collared shirt, dress shoes, and a hat, but he embodied uncertainty with a sheepish smile.
“Wasn’t sure what to wear,” he confessed, sitting down. He reached over to the candy bowl I had left strategically in the middle of all the chairs and plucked a chocolate bar.
I wanted to tell Gill that I wasn’t sure of anything either.
That when I’d placed the Grief Support Group sign at the library desk, I hadn’t expected anyone to respond.
I had never attended a grief support group, much less organized one.
I knew that grief looked different on everyone, and that it was slow, so slow that sometimes you wondered if it was happening at all, like the way your hair or nails grew.
But I also knew that when pain had nowhere else to go, it led you to things you didn’t know you needed.
Emerson arrived next. She was wearing a thick scarf around her neck, despite the library being a cozy temperature.
She sat down as far away from us as possible.
Part of me wanted to encourage her to sit closer; however, a larger part was just surprised she came at all.
Bobby arrived after that. He was equally as reserved and unsure, but he sat closest to the front.
Winnie arrived last. She sat down next to Emerson despite the fact there were at least five other chairs available.
I wondered what to do. Should I introduce myself?
Should I tell them that the reason I was here was because my twin brother was dead and part of me was dead too?
How do you even begin to share the darkest parts of yourself when you have spent so much time trying to hide them from the world?
Thankfully Max arrived, and he interrupted the silence.
He sat down in the front, adjusted his glasses, and peered at everyone.
“Grief is messy, isn’t it?” he remarked.
“It’s like spilling barbecue sauce on your favorite jacket.
At first, you think you can clean it up—scrub it out, make it disappear.
But no matter how hard you try, there’s always a stain.
Fainter, maybe, but it’s still there. And you’re left figuring out how to live with it. ”
He looked around the room. “That’s what heartache is like. It lingers. It changes how you see things, how you feel about the things you loved. It is still the same jacket. But it looks different.”
“So, what do you do with the jacket?” Bobby inquired.
Max fixed his gaze on him, and responded, “You wear it anyway. You learn that the stain is going to stay, but it doesn’t stop you from wearing the jacket.”
That inaugural meeting was inherently simple.
It softened the edges of our vulnerabilities.
There was an unspoken understanding between us, a thread from one struggle to the other.
As I listened to Winnie and Emerson discover their mutual love of birds, and Gill complimenting Bobby on his pink hair, I sensed the potential of what these meetings could achieve.
Toward the end of the evening, Gill posed a question to Max. “How long am I going to grieve?” he asked.
“Forever,” Max replied. “But it won’t always feel like the biggest thing in the room.”
I looked at Gill and Bobby, Winnie and Emerson—all of them from completely different walks of life, but each carrying their own burdens of death, rejection, abandonment, and disfigurement, and I realized that profound sadness was not just confined to death.
So much of the world treated loss as though it belonged only to death, as if the two were inseparable, a club just for two.
But really, loss was an overflowing club, and I suddenly felt determined to maintain this little group as a refuge for anyone who found their way through those library doors, no matter their story.
It had been one of those days. The universe seemingly plucked the day from hell and handed it to me.
I’d arrived at the library to discover someone had left three trash bags full of garbage in the library return box.
If I wasn’t so perplexed about how they’d even managed to fit them in there, I would have cursed all the way to the dumpster to remove them.
Then, not even an hour after opening the doors, I had a gentleman arrive and argue with me for forty-five minutes about why the library needed to refund him for the books he lost. He said he wanted to be compensated for the time he had spent looking for them.
I’d sent him away with four books from the ones on sale at the front, just to get rid of him.
By ten thirty, a class of third graders had arrived, but they were accompanied by a substitute teacher, so their commitment to causing trouble was airtight.
Two boys actually drew on the wall, another placed some sort of sticky pastry on the chair of his classmate before she sat down, and as a collective they were so loud I had another patron ask for earplugs.
By the time three o’clock rolled around, all I could think about was collapsing onto my couch with a large glass of wine.
Which is why I was both surprised and embarrassed when Lillian from Sweet Moments, the local catering company I wanted to hire for the poetry evening, suddenly appeared at the library desk.
I’d completely forgotten about our scheduled meeting.
There she stood, holding a sizeable tray laden with delectable finger foods.
“Henry?” she inquired with a smile.
“Yes,” I replied, rising so abruptly that the chair behind me careened into the filing cabinets with a distinct crunch. “Lillian, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I apologize for being a few minutes behind schedule,” she offered. “I was preparing the items we’d discussed and decided to add an extra one, thinking it would be a hit, but I underestimated the time it would take to get here.”
“No need to apologize,” I assured her. “Thank you for driving all the way in.”
“You know, I haven’t been to Everston in years,” she gushed. “My family used to take vacations here during ski season. I’ve forgotten how quaint it is.”
I thought of all the children who had chosen to terrorize the walls and throw books across the room that day and forced a smile.
“Yes, I suppose we do have a quaint little town. Let’s set up over here,” I suggested, guiding her to set down her tray on a nearby table.
She was a little out of breath, but there was an easy grace to the way she moved, someone comfortable in her own skin.
“Now,” she began. “I know we agreed that chicken wings, stuffed mushrooms, and sliders were an absolute must—and don’t worry, I’ve included those—but I also thought we could add mini quiches because, honestly, they’re always a hit.”
She unveiled the contents of the tray, and I was met with all sorts of delicious smells. My stomach growled, traitorous and loud enough that I was glad she didn’t seem to notice.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I replied, enthusiastically, leaning over the tray to get a better look.
She waved a hand, dismissing the praise, though the slight pink of her cheeks said otherwise. “I love to cook,” she replied. She leaned closer to the tray, too, as though inspecting her handiwork.
Up close, she looked to be in her late thirties, if I had to guess.
Her dark hair—almost black but softened by a natural shine—was swept into a casual braid, with a few loose strands escaping and flowing around her face and hazel eyes.
Her skin was fair, a faint dusting of freckles across her nose, and as she reached to adjust the tray, I noticed a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist: a delicate outline of a whisk.
Just above it, partially hidden by the sleeve of her cardigan, was a birthmark, deep purple and shaped almost like a crescent moon.
She wore a soft yellow cardigan over a black dress, the fabric hugging her soft curves.
There was flour dusted faintly on the sleeve, a signature of someone who’d been baking all morning.
“So do I,” I said. “Although I am no professional like yourself.”
Lillian tilted her head and laughed softly. “Well, I do a lot of catering for events, but my real passion is baking.”
“Really?” I asked, curious. “What do you bake?”
“Cakes, mostly,” she said, and her eyes shone, like the word itself brought her joy. “Cakes for birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, you name it.”
My face brightened at that. “Oh, I love cake. I’d sell my soul for a triple-layered chocolate cake.”
Her laugh was louder this time. “You know, I think I would too,” she replied playfully. “Here, try this.”
She handed me one of the mini quiches, and as I bit into it, my mouth was filled with creamy spinach and salty feta, all wrapped in a buttery crust that melted on my tongue. Suddenly I’d forgotten all about every hellish thing that had happened that day.
“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind. Forget the chocolate cake, I’d sell my soul for these.”