The Beginner's Guide to Living Read Free Page B

course. I’ll be there in a minute.”
    She goes over to the sink, her jacket pulling across her shoulders, her hair rolled up in a ball at the base of her neck.
    Taryn follows me, touches my arm, whispers, “You know, once you’ve carved into our table, you’re one of us.”
    I look at her hand and for a moment it all feels creepy, this family with their table witness to their lives. But she’s close, so close I can smell her, her scent wrapping itself around me, filtering its way in.
    4. Is it possible for others to taste your pain?
    After dinner, while Dad’s in the bathroom, Ray says, “I know your dad’s a bit on the quiet side, so if you need someone to talk to.”
    I look at this man I’ve only just met, his nose that’s lost its way, one of his front teeth dead.
    â€œWill, your mom and I, a long time ago…” He checks the door through which Sandra left. “A long time ago, we were close.”
    There’s an unwieldy silence; his confession has no place to go.
    â€œYou’ll come back, won’t you, Will?” asks Taryn, and I know I must. There’s something about how they hang together, the way they’re allowing me in.
    â€œSure,” I say to her.
    I want to touch her freckles, one by one. They’re like constellations—make me think that if I joined them together, dot to dot, some map to the universe would appear across her face.
    5. When one thing ends, does another always begin?
    Dad’s staring into the absence of traffic as he drives us home. His neck looks older, the skin darker—it’s a long time since I really looked at my father, how he holds the steering wheel, pushing it away from him, his obsession with adjusting mirrors as if it will somehow save him from his fate. My father has friends I never knew about and together they have a past, a pool of memories. Jesus, for all I know, tonight I met my mother’s one true love.
    Dad stops at the lights. People cross the road in front of our car but they don’t see us, father and son, side by side. Eight days beyond Anna’s death. On my leg is a CD Taryn slid into my hand as I left. I try to read the song titles in the unpredictable light, to work out which one will give me an answer.
    6. How many questions does it take?

THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
    T HE WIND IS WARM and it feels good to be out walking; at home the walls and floors are made of glue. It’s not far to the local library but even the birds seem to be doing Saturday morning slowly.
    As the doors whoosh open, I remember the last time I was here, with Mom, her walking ahead of me, her red hair, just dyed, clashing with her coat, a stack of books in her arms. I almost decide to go home, but picture Dad still ruminating over his cornflakes and decide to stay—besides, last time I checked there were no answers scrawled across my bedroom wall.
    There’s a computer free in the center of the library and another one taken hostage by a couple of kids perfecting their vocabulary on sex. I hear them talking about looking up orgasm as I type death in the subject box and hit enter . There are 457 listings—on the first page, some graphic novels and abstractly linked titles, before I find the number that I need: 155.
    I look around and remember where things are. Down by the long windows that drop into nowhere, I work my way along to 155, the books on grief, some devoted to dying, some written for kids. I pick one out because of its yellow cover, its plastic spine warm from the sun. The book lists the stages of mourning, each phase spelled out in detail with headings, all so precise, the anatomy of grief, and I have an urge to tear it into tiny, precise pieces, but a lifetime of respect for books works against my desire for revenge. I return it to the shelf, lean against the cookery books opposite, and wonder what to do next. If only there was one titled A Thousand Recipes for Dealing with Your Own