“How long is she going to do that?”
I felt a peculiar mix of emotions in that moment: sympathy, yes, but also a sense of disgust at this animal pushing around the corpse of her dead baby, bloated and bobbing like some kind of gruesome pool float. It reminded me of a recent story I had seen in the news about a mother who kept her stillborn in the freezer, nestled among the vegetables.
“As long as it takes,” he responded. “As long as it takes to grieve.”
“That seems like a strange way to grieve.”
“Nothin’ about grief makes sense.” He shook his head. “Not for any of us.”
I later learned through my interviews that nobody knew how the calf had died. Sometimes it happens in childbirth, they explained, sometimes right after. And sometimes, male dolphins engage in a behavior called calf tossing, where they bash a baby to death in order to free up the mother for their own sexual needs—although that detail I left out. That wasn’t the story I wanted to tell.
But still, there was something so magnetically macabre about it all. About these creatures, so beautiful and serene, having a darker side. A violent side.
“Excuse me.”
I feel a tap on my arm now, making me jump. My neck jerks around, and my eyes adjust to find an old woman standing behind me, her leathery arm outstretched as it hovers over my shoulder.
“The cathedral is closing in five minutes.”
“Oh,” I say, the beating of my heart starting to slow. I look around, realizing the place is completely empty now. That the people perusing the aisles have long since left, and I’ve still been sitting here,oblivious. Totally alone. “I’m sorry… what time is it? I was just looking for a place to sit—”
“It’s fine,” she says, her eyes weary but kind. She must see the panicked confusion in my face—the way I’m glancing around, looking for any indication of how much time has passed—because she places her hand on my arm now, squeezing gently. “There’s a group that meets on Monday nights, if you’re interested.”
“A group?”
“Grief counseling,” she says. “Around back. You’ll see a sign outside the service door.”
“Oh, no—” I start, reaching for my purse. But suddenly, I remember Kasey’s eyes finding mine in the dark. Her voice, gentle and low.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. It’s okay to ask for help.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” the woman says, winking, sensing my hesitation. “You can just sit.”
I collect my things and step back into the brisk night air, walking around the side of the building. The square is eerily empty now, still except for the faint flicker of the remaining candles not yet blown out by the wind, and once I reach the back of the church, I find an open service door, cheap fluorescent light leaking out onto the sidewalk.
I poke my head inside, the smell of bitter coffee pricking at my senses.
“Welcome.”
I turn to the side, taking in the woman before me. She looks young, in her late twenties, with olive skin and glossy brown hair pinned back at the sides. Her eyes are large—domineering, almost—and when she smiles, two dimples emerge on her cheeks, slits like gashes deep enough to scar.
“I’m Valerie,” she says, extending her hand. It takes a second, but slowly, her expression shifts, the dimples disappearing as her smile fades.
She recognizes me. Of course she does.
“Isabelle,” I say, even though I need no introduction.
I peek farther into the room, noticing the metal chairs arranged in a circle and the folding table set up in the back. There are carafes of coffee, rows of pastries, all of the stereotypically sad things you’d expect to find at a place like this.
“I saw the candles,” the woman says, gesturing to the open door. “It looked very nice out there.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you joining us tonight?”
I hesitate, glancing back at the chairs, but all I can see are the chairs in that auditorium. All of those glowing eyes, staring. Judging.
“No,” I say at last, shaking my head. “I was just curious, I guess.”