of aftermaths (the year of pleasures, berg)

Elizabeth Berg's "The Year of Pleasures" reminds me of Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking" in terms of subject matter. Like Didion, whose book chronicles her process of coping after her husband John Dunne died in December 2003, Berg's female protagonist Betta Nolan here is also struggling in the aftermath of her husband's death, incidentally also named John. And before you even ask: No, I don't actively seek out books about death and coping, but you see I've always had a soft spot for anything that discusses death and discusses it well (like, remember this?); I admire anyone who manages to have the right words for loss and anguish (Didion most especially; I can't do it in fiction, but Didion did it and it was all fucking real.)

(Mandatory cut for spoilers)


Anyway--so here's what Betta does: She sells her house in Boston, buys another house, moves in, makes some friends in the neighborhood, tries to reconnect with old friends, tries to date a bit, tries to do something she's never done before. It sounds like a fool-proof plan, but in between, the details are... you know when words make you want to laugh and bawl at the same time? Berg does that here, and she does that a lot.

"Other times, I went  numb, as though vultures had landed inside and picked me clean. At those times, I did not quite taste or see or hear or touch or feel. And at those times, I thought cautiously, Is that it, then? Am I through crying? Am I healing already? And then would come another tidal wave of pain, nearly nauseating in its force, that had me pounding and pounding on the kitchen table. I knew it was a common story, the loss of a husband, widowhood, but it was of no use to me to know how many had experienced this before me. I remembered an eighty-nine-year-old woman who'd lost her husband many years ago telling me in her shaky voice, You still sleep on your half of the bed. I learned that it was true."

I remember the foolishness of that thought, that we are ever done. When our mother died, it took me a few days to stop crying, and when I did, that was the first thing I asked myself: Am I done? And then I ended up crying again that night. And the morning after. And during her funeral. At the foot of her open grave as she was being lowered into the ground. While the guys from the memorial park shoveled earth onto her casket to fill the grave. When I woke up the next morning, while sitting in our living room for a long time, a towel wrapped around my arm, contemplating about the sudden major life change; I was planning on going back to school that day and I did. In summary: Pretty much every now and then, until today. It kinda goes on. I am a believer in moving on (boy am I a firm believer) but there are a few things I haven't allowed myself to forget.

What I love about Berg - what I always love about her -- is that her prose is simple and warm and in the end it leaves you lighter. This one's an easy read; I had hoped to finish this while Andrea was still around, but alas I finished it a night too late and now I have no one to talk to about it, LOL. So maybe Monday night then. I can't wait. :)