Then she would kneel or climb the little ladder attached to the cart before she made a space for the returned book. She’d slide the book back onto the shelf, make sure the spine was even with all of the other spines, and then give the top a little tap with her index finger, as if to say, “Perfect.”
The whole time I watched The Girlbrarian I pretended that you were speaking to me, Richard Gere. You kept saying, Look at her, Bartholomew. She’s perfect for you. Go over and speak with her. Ask her what she likes to read. Ask if she likes looking at the river flow behind the art museum. Tell her you like her outfit. That she does her job with precision and efficiency, both of which you value highly. Ask her to have a beer with you. Why not? What do you have to lose? There she is. Go! It’s as simple as walking fifty feet and saying ten words, big guy. Come on!
When you spoke to me at the library, you kept calling me “big guy.”
Come on, big guy. She’s right there. And I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll be telling you what to do in your mind. Come on, big guy! We can do this. Trust me.
It was nice to hear your voice in my mind—even if I was only pretending—especially since you are so confident and good with the opposite sex, both on and off the screen.
Each time The Girlbrarian climbed to the top of her ladder, I thought of that line you say to Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.
What happens after he climbs up the tower and rescues her?” you ask.
And Julia Roberts says, “She rescues him right back.”
I wondered if maybe The Girlbrarian and I would say something like that to each other after we had gone on so many dates, and in my mind you said, Sure. Sure you will, big guy. It’s easy. Just go over and say hi. Listen to what I tell you to do, and failure will be impossible.
But I didn’t listen to what you told me to do.
I didn’t say hi.
I didn’t do anything.
And I want to thank you for being patient with me, Richard Gere, because you never once yelled at me or called me a retard. You said only positive, encouraging things in my mind, and you were so nice, I almost wanted to cry. I understand why Mom loved and admired you so much, although the little man in my stomach was not amused. He kept yelling, Hey, stupid! Richard Gere is not speaking to you! It’s only your imagination! What type of a grown man pretends like this? Only retards! With every sentence, he’d give a little kick or punch, and my insides started to feel sore.
But you ignored that little angry man in my stomach—you just kept encouraging me, Richard Gere.
You even appeared to me briefly in the library—just long enough to flash me a smile before your image evaporated.
Thank you.
I listened to you speak so sonorously in my mind for more than two hours until I realized that I had to leave and get something to eat before I attended my Surviving Grief meeting.
I ate a baked potato and a salad at Wendy’s, because I was thinking about Wendy my grief counselor just as I was walking past that redheaded little girl’s fast-food restaurant and was reminded of Jung’s synchronicity, so I decided to go inside.
I smiled while eating at Wendy’s—thinking about my grief counselor and the fact that there are no coincidences.
Thinking about Wendy at Wendy’s.
Then I went to the address that Wendy gave me.
1012 Walnut Street
Third Floor
There was a coffee shop on the first floor, and when I asked for directions they told me to use a door that was in an alleyway. There was a buzzer and a black box with numbered buttons and a tiny hole you were supposed to speak into. Since I didn’t know the entry code, I pushed the white circle call button and heard a bzzzzzzz!
A second later, a man’s voice said, “Hello?”
Um . . . I’m looking for group therapy. Grief management. Wendy sent me? Are you Arnold?”
Are you Mr. Bartholomew Neil?”
Yes.”
Wendy has said such nice things about you! Come on up! Third floor!”
I heard another buzzing noise and a click, so I tried the door and it opened.
I could smell the coffee shop—ground beans, steamed milk, warmth like breathing through a wool scarf on the coldest of days.
There was a narrow staircase and a wooden railing. The walls were painted a mint green.
I climbed.
When I reached the third floor there was a blond man with a well-groomed blond goatee waiting in the doorway. He was wearing a brown cardigan sweater with leather arm patches, moss green corduroy pants, and suede shoes that looked like a very expensive version of what you’d wear while bowling.
I glanced into his office and suddenly noticed that the entire room was yellow—yellow couch, yellow rug, yellow walls, and several abstract paintings of flowers that appeared to have been made by folding thin sheets of gold.
It was absolutely bizarre.
Bartholomew!” he said and stuck out his hand, which I shook. His grip was perfect—not too hard, not too light. “Welcome to group therapy for the grieving! Come on in!”
I included all of the exciting punctuation marks because he was so enthusiastic. I was also a bit confused about “group” therapy, because there wasn’t anybody else in the room.
I’m Dr. Devine, but you may call me Arnie. I’m so glad you decided to join us. How are you today?”
His use of the plural pronoun made me very suspicious, since we were alone.
But Arnie’s eyes struck me as sincere, and I felt as though he was really concerned—as though he wanted to listen to me. He seemed like a nice man, a good doctor.
I’m fine,” I said.
Good. Good. Now, what has Wendy told you about us?”
Us?” I said, not able to let it slide a third time.
Max and me.”
Max?”
She didn’t tell you about Max?” Dr. Devine had a surprised look now that made me feel very anxious. Worry lines appeared on his forehead.
She didn’t really say anything at all—except that I would benefit from coming here,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about Wendy’s personal problems with her schooling, because I didn’t want to gossip.
Oh dear,” Dr. Devine said. “Where to start? Where. To. Start?” he said to the floor. “Max and you have been grouped together for several reasons that I will explain shortly. But before he gets here—and I realize we don’t have much time—I wanted to warn you about Max’s . . . demeanor.”
What do you mean?”
Well, Wendy really should have told you that—”
What the fuck, hey?” a man said as he walked into the room from the stairwell. “Fuck this. Fuck this!”
Hi, Max! Great to see you today! We were just talking about you. This is Max, Bartholomew. He is also grieving. Bartholomew, this is—”
Why the fuck is he here?” Max said, standing in the doorway.
Now, Max,” Arnie said. “We talked about this.”
Max looked at me and then—a bit more softly—once more, he said, “What the fuck, hey?”
I was speechless.
Should we all sit down?” Arnie said.
Max threw his hands in the air like it didn’t matter and then plopped down at the far end of the yellow couch.
He looked to be about my age, but was wearing thick brown old-man glasses that made me wonder if he might be legally blind. Behind the heavy lenses, his pupils made me think of twin snails in adjacent bowls. Max had on black pants, black shoes, a purple button-up long-sleeve shirt, and a black vest—all of which reeked of stale popcorn. On the breast pocket was a gold name tag with his name printed on it.