LITMIR.BIZ

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The bald guy sitting next to me leaned across and waved a photograph in front of my nose.

      It was a small snapshot, an old one judging from the wide border and all the folds and creases. The woman looking up at the camera had great bone structure, but she seemed to be hiding behind too much hair and black eyeliner. Mr. Jones, who leads our high school photography club, was teaching us all about bone structure.

      I nodded and looked away, but the creep leaned closer and tapped the snapshot with a stubby finger.

      “My wife.” Tap. Tap. “She’s dead.”

      He was way into my personal space. I shifted sideways in my chair as far as I could and looked around at the rest of the group, hoping someone more my own age might have come in while I wasn’t looking. But the others seemed pretty old, and they were either crying or staring straight ahead like zombies.

      Now he was leaning forward, peering at the stud in my nose.

      “How d’ya blow your nose with that thing in there?”

      I felt like asking how he tied his shoes with the big gut hanging over his belt, but I just shrugged and looked away.

      “Hey! I’m talking to you.” He reached over and clamped a hand on my knee. Oh, please!

      I jerked my knee away and scraped my chair a couple of inches to the other side.

      The noise made the group leader look over. She cleared her throat. “Welcome everyone. Let’s start by introducing ourselves.” She smiled at each of the five of us in turn. “My name is Helen. I’m Program Coordinator here at Coping with Grief, and I’ll be your facilitator this evening.” She sat down and her voice went quiet. “My husband and daughter were killed eight years ago at a railway level crossing, so I’ve experienced something of what you’re all going through.”

      “I seriously doubt that,” the guy beside me said.

      She looked a little surprised. “Mr. Simpson. Would you like to start?”

      “Name’s Russ Simpson. Career army. Retired.” He laid the snapshot on the arm of his chair and stretched back, his fingers laced behind his neck. His shirt was one of those loud Hawaiian jobs with the first four buttons undone. I could see gold chains tangled up in a bird’s nest of gray chest hair.

      “Moved here from Calgary a month ago.” He cracked some knuckles. “My wife, Debbie, was killed a while back.”

      Helen waited to be sure he was finished and then turned to me.

      “I’m Jill,” I said. “My mom died in March. Breast cancer.”

      That was all I felt like saying. My throat and chest had started to ache, and I could feel tears making rat tracks down my cheeks. I sure didn’t want to be bawling in front of strangers.

      “All of us are bound to cry at one time or another during these sessions. And that’s okay. In fact it’s more than O.K.” Helen pushed the box of tissues on the coffee table closer to me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, and after a bit she turned to the woman on my other side.

      “My name’s Mary Anne.”

      I hadn’t had a chance really to look at Mary Anne before because she’d been hunched over in her chair since I arrived. Now I could see she wasn’t all that old, probably not more than thirty. She was pretty too, even with puffy eyes.

      “My little girl died of leukemia. She—”

      “Hey. Life’s a bugger.” Russ gave a low whistle.

      “Go on.” Helen said to Mary Anne, but she’d clamped her mouth shut and was staring down at the wet lump of tissues in her hand.

      Helen waited then looked across the room at an old couple sitting close together and apart from the rest of us. The man had a tight grip on the woman’s arm. “Our daughter and her husband died in a car accident last winter. They were on their way home from a ski trip. Left three kids—”

      “Hoo boy. Gotta take it easy on those winter roads. Wonder there aren’t more accidents. Eh?”

      The old man straightened up and glared at Russ. “The wife and I are doing the best we can.”

      Helen spoke up. “Your names…?”

      “I’m Bert. This is Doreen.” He slumped back.

      “I want to say something.” Russ dropped his hands to his knees and shifted forward in his chair. “The wife here,” he tapped the photo again, “she was a beautiful woman. Great cook and housekeeper, too. I get real mad when I think how some runner could just up and kill her and get away with it. I could kill…”

      Helen frowned. “It’s quite normal to feel anger—”

      “Just walking home from the mall one day, minding her own business and this woman jogger runs past her and pushes her off the sidewalk and into traffic. Wham!” He slammed his right fist into his left palm.

      “That’s terrible—”

      “Police never found the bitch who did it.” He was breathing hard. “Sometimes I get this red, this blood-red light in front of my eyes. Can’t see past it. Tried anger management, but they told me to come to this group.”

      Helen turned to Bert and Doreen. “Were you going to say more about how you’re feeling?”

      “Well, I get a little angry at Trish sometimes.” Doreen’s mouth was quivering. “I know it’s not fair to her. She didn’t choose to die.” She looked at Bert. “But we already raised our family. We didn’t expect to have to raise—”

      “Kids. Nothing but trouble, you ask me.” Russ seemed calmer now and was slapping his heels against the chair legs.

      “The kids are okay. It’s just they’re teenagers, and teenagers are different today. More independent.” Bert glanced over at me and I could see him sizing up the purple streak in my hair and my black leather jacket. I wondered if he might say something else, but he just shrugged.

      “A certain amount of anger is—”

      “You bet I’m angry. Police didn’t even try to find Debbie’s killer.” Russ sat back and drummed on the photo with his fingers. “But I’ll get the bitch. Believe you me.”

      “I don’t think—”

      “I can see her right here.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “And I got a pretty good idea where to find her.”

      He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket and held the pack out to me. I shook my head, and he leaned closer.

      “She better watch her step, eh?” And then, I swear to God, he giggled.

      Helen stood up. “I think we could take a short break now. Top up your coffee or juice. The bathrooms are just down the hall, and you can smoke outside on the front steps. See you back here at 8:15.”

      Russ must have left during break, because when I got back from trying to scrub the mascara off my cheeks, the discussion was starting again, and his seat was empty. We talked about a lot of things in the second half. We talked about the shock of not having the person around any more, and I said that even though my mom was sick for so long, I felt real empty when she was finally gone. And I told them how worried I was about my dad, who just played computer games all evening. Without Russ there to hog all the conversation, everybody else had a chance to talk, and I recognized a lot of my own feelings in what they were saying.

      Nine-thirty came before I knew it. Helen did a final check on how we were doing so far, then said she hoped we’d all be back next week. I waited while the others got their stuff together and Helen was gathering up coffee cups and juice bottles.

      “I know you’ve already spoken to my dad, but do you think you could try talking to him again about coming next week? He’s driving me nuts. He never talks about his feelings, just tries to be cheerful all the time. I asked him to come tonight, but I

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