Rather than dwell in his own horrible, tumultuous emotions, James perked himself up and smiled. “Carmen, welcome to our little session today. It’s good to see you.”
Carmen half rolled her eyes. “My daughter seems to think this will be healing for us or something.”
Elena winced and gave James a nervous smile. “You like James, Mom. You told me. Remember?”
“I like him, sure. But I don’t care for all this therapizing,” Carmen offered. “No offense, James. I know it’s your life’s work, or whatever, but some of us have decided on grander pursuits. There’s nothing to be done about grief.”
“No offense taken.” James turned to look at the group, who looked buggy-eyed. “Everyone, you probably know Carmen Vasquez. But do you know her daughter, Elena? She’s spending some time in Millbrook during the Christmas season.”
There was a soft murmuring of hellos.
“I’ve read your articles, Elena,” Steven said as the mother-daughter duo approached. “You’re good.”
“Of course she’s good,” Carmen said. “She’s my daughter. She’s my mother’s granddaughter! She was born to be a journalist.”
A few smiles were exchanged throughout the group. James prayed that Carmen wouldn’t realize everyone was smiling about her, about her mood, about how funny her arrogance seemed now that she was unwell.
“How are you feeling?” Gina asked as Carmen settled in.
Carmen flipped her dark gray hair. “I don’t think we’re here to talk about me.”
“On the contrary,” James said, hurtling toward the single free seat in the circle, “we’re all here to talk about ourselves, and about each other. We’re here to talk about grief, yes, but it’s more than that. We’re here to talk about life after grief. We’re here to talk about what it means to keep going after loss.”
“And I’m here to say,” Carmen said, clearing her throat, “that we don’t matter as much as we think we do.” She folded her arms. “And everyone loses things. People. Places. Jobs.”
Elena looked pained, her head down. James tried to catch her eye and finally succeeded. He offered her a look he hoped translated how much he felt for her during this difficult time.
“Maybe someone else can get started for us so Carmen can get a better picture of what we do here,” James suggested.
After a brief and awkward silence, Gina chimed in, explaining what she’d been up to that week and the various times she’d been initially overwhelmed with grief but found ways to overcome. A few other people piped up, echoing what Gina had been through and explaining their own tactics. Throughout, Carmen seemed to grow angrier. She fidgeted and cast sidelong glances at Elena.
When there was a moment of silence, Elena piped up.
“Hi,” she began, addressing the group nervously. “I’m Elena. Elena Vasquez. I got to town a week ago now. I hadn’t been here for a full five years, so you can imagine the whiplash I’ve gone through. Since I was last here, my father died, and Mom and I haven’t spoken. Like at all. I was in Syria when he died, and I didn’t hear about it till after, um, after the burial. And I’ve felt terrible since. Inundated with guilt.”
Interrupting her, Carmen gasped, as though she couldn’t believe Elena would drag their dirty laundry out into public like this.
“It’s okay, Carmen,” James assured. “Elena wants to speak about her grief. She wants to verbalize what happened.”
“But you can’t just say it,” Carmen blurted. “That isn’t how a journalist operates. What I’m hearing right now is all opinion, opinion, opinion, but where are the facts?”
Elena touched her mother’s arm and bent her head to whisper in her ear. James couldn’t fathom what was said. But all at once, Carmen was on her feet, stomping to the front door. Elena got up and followed her, but James chased her down, eager to help in any way he could. When they reached the glassdoor, which displayed flashing snowfall, he managed to speak to Elena, saying, “Are you all right?”
Elena blinked at him, her hand on the door. Her mother was already out on the sidewalk, ranting at her about revealing too much.
“I shouldn’t have brought her,” Elena said, biting her lower lip. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
James shook his head. “She’s sick. I know that.”
“I don’t want her to be sick.” Elena’s eyes glinted. “I want it to stop.”
James knew exactly what she meant. He wanted his own grief to stop, too. It often felt like a ride he couldn’t jump off.
“Come by later, if you want,” Elena said. “She’ll be in bed by eight thirty, and I can’t sleep very well before midnight.”
James nodded but didn’t manage to respond, not before Elena chased her mother, whipping her coat over her shoulder as she ran.
That night, James carried a bottle of red wine over to Elena and Carmen’s place. Standing on the front porch, he swept the snow from his hair and reached to knock on the door. Before he could, the door opened, and Elena stood before him, wearing a dark sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. She looked cozy and adorable—but she’d added a little bit of makeup, and she’d styled her hair. He thought so, anyway. In any case, she looked good. He smiled and held up the wine.
