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CHAPTER 1

Elizabeth Church

AFTER MY WIFE, Elizabeth Church, was murdered by the bellman Alfonse Padgett in the Essex Hotel, she did not leave me. I have always thought a person needs to constantly refine the capacity to suspend disbelief in order to keep emotions organized and not suffer debilitating confusion, and I mean just toward the things of daily life. I suppose this admits to a desperate sort of pragmatism. Still, it works for me. What human heart isn't in extremis? The truth is, I saw Elizabeth last night, August 27, 1973. She was lining up books on the beach behind Philip and Cynthia Slayton's house, just across the road. I've seen her do the same thing almost every night since I moved, roughly thirteen months ago, from Halifax to this cottage. I'm now a resident of Port Medway, Nova Scotia.

At three-thirty a.m., sitting at my kitchen table, as usual I made notes for Dr. Nissensen. I see him at ten a.m. on Tuesdays in Halifax, which is a two-hour drive. I often stay at the Haliburton House Inn on Monday night and then travel back to Port Medway immediately following my session. Don't get me wrong, Dr. Nissensen is helping me a lot. But we have bad moments. After the worst of them I sometimes can't remember where I parked my pickup truck. Then there are the numbing redundancies. Take last Tuesday, when Dr. Nissensen said:

"My position remains, you aren't actually seeing Elizabeth. She was in fact murdered in the Essex Hotel on March 26 of last year. And she is buried in Hay-on-Wye in Wales. But her death is unacceptable to you, Sam. You want so completely to see her that you hallucinate — and she sets those books out on the sand. It's your mind's way of trying to postpone the deeper suffering of having lost her. One thing books suggest is, you're supposed to read into the situation. To read into things. Naturally, it's more complicated than just that. It can be many things at once. My opinion has not changed since the first time you told me about talking with Elizabeth on the beach" — he paged back through his notebook — "on September 4, 1972, your first mention of this. My position remains that, as impressively creative as your denial is, and to whatever extent it sustains you, it's still denial."

"My God," I said. "A life without denial. How could a person survive?"

Nissensen smiled and sighed deeply: Here we go again. "What's on the piece of paper you're holding? You've been holding it in clear view since you arrived."

I had copied out from a dictionary the definition of "Bardo." "Let me read this to you: 'Bardo — a Tibetan concept meaning intermediate state.' It's when a person's existing between death and whatever's next. And during this state, certain of the usual restraints might not be at work, in some cases for a long, long time."

"And you feel this is what you're experiencing with Elizabeth?"

"Yes. Which I hope lasts until I die."

"So, you've recently found this word in a dictionary and now you're embracing it," Dr. Nissensen said. "Okay, let's go with this a moment. What do you think it means that certain — what was it? — usual restraints might not be at work?"

"Well, to start with, obviously a person who's died is usually restrained to being invisible, right? They usually don't show up on a beach and hold conversations."

"Yes, I've got quite a notebook filled with your and Elizabeth's conversations."

"That makes two of us, then."

"I've been curious, Sam. Do you jot these down as they occur? Like a stenographer?"

"Like a stenographer, yes, sometimes. But sometimes I just listen closely and write things down the minute I get back to the cottage."

"Week after week, you attempt to convince me you're actually having real conversations, rather than, for instance, composing them. At your writing desk. The way you might when writing a novel, say."

"Do you consider me a stupid man?" I asked.

"Of course not."

"A liar?"

"Of course not."

"No matter whether or not it's called Bardo, the word's not that important. The thing is, I talk with Elizabeth almost every night. And talking with Elizabeth is a reprieve from suffering. After all this time, you still don't get it."

"No, no," Nissensen said, "I get it."

"Yet you insist on calling what's happening to me an — what was it?"

"An advent of mourning."

"Advent of mourning. But I despise the word 'mourning.'"

"And why is that, Sam?"

"Because it implies a certain fixed duration, a measurable time frame, and it also relates to my most hated word: closure. If you love someone and they suddenly disappear — say they die — there is no closure. It's like, it's like — what? — it's like a Bach cello composition playing in your head that doesn't let up. You can't predict for how long. What if it's for the rest of your life? You don't just get closure. You don't just come to terms and then move on. And not even a lobotomy could change my mind about this. And I've read C. S. Lewis, that book of his — A Grief Observed. I've read some theology and philosophy, advice-to-the-bereaved stuff, and I don't give a goddamn who says what or how dramatic or limited or self-destructive I sound. Closure is cowardice. When you lose someone you love, the memory of them maintains a tenacious adhesiveness to the heart — I quote Chekhov there. See, if you don't feel very articulate, it's useful to find people like Chekhov to help you out."

"I don't think being inarticulate is your —"

"Look, if I ever said 'Oh, I've found closure with Elizabeth,' please push me in front of a taxi on Water Street — I'd be dead to feeling anyway. You have my permission ahead of time. Shoot me in the head."

"I'm your therapist. You'd have to ask someone else."

Silence a moment, then he said, "'Dead to feeling.' So the pain keeps you alive to feeling."

There was silence for maybe three or four minutes. This seldom bothers me. I just study the room. It is a basement refurbished as an office. Against three walls are shelves of books. Also, there are books crowded and piled haphazardly on tables. Mostly books on psychology, but I've noticed a few novels, too. Dostoyevsky. Thomas Mann. Virginia Woolf. Conrad. Charlotte Brontë. Little that's contemporary. There is a small Van Gogh drawing of a village; I've wanted to ask if it's an original. I've wanted to ask if it was inherited. There are five framed charcoal drawings of various women, not nudes. I know that his wife, Theresa, drew them because there are two others in the exact same style in the waiting room, each bearing her signature. There's his overstuffed chair he sits on, and a sofa his clients sit on. On the table between the chair and the sofa, a box of tissues, a glass, and a pitcher of water. There are five ground-level windows, allowing for plenty of light, but also three floor lamps and one table lamp. The house is in a neighborhood of some of the oldest buildings in Halifax. Dr. Nissensen's is a late- nineteenth-century townhouse. Winter mornings I occasionally hear the clanking echoes of the radiators. A car horn. On rare occasions a voice from the street.

"Last week you mentioned that lately Elizabeth has told you things she'd" — he flipped back through his notebook — "kept secret, but not on purpose."

"Yes, it's been great."

"I'm curious," Dr. Nissensen said. "Is there any particular thing you'd most like Elizabeth to tell you?"

"If it's a secret, how would I even know to ask about it?"

"I was thinking of the phrase 'a painful secret.'"

"There is one thing. It's something lately I sense she wants to tell me."

"And now you in fact want to hear it?"

"I'm sort of afraid to hear it, actually."

He closed his notebook and stared at the cover, then looked up at me.

"Is that one thing how she was murdered, Sam? What really happened. Not in the courtroom, what the bellman Alfonse Padgett described as having occurred, but the incident from Elizabeth's point of view. Her own account of it. Which would naturally be the truth to you — and should be. Are you afraid, as you say, because you might then experience what she felt at that moment? And yet you want to feel everything she felt. Because you loved her so deeply."

"Not past tense, please. Love, not loved."

The Hated Word "Closure"

With Dr. Nissensen, October 10, 1972:

"SAM, LET ME get this straight. You say that since Elizabeth's murder you've been unable to properly order your thoughts, that — how did you put it?" — he checked his notebook — "'my memories come unbidden and defy chronology,' and therefore you're worried this means your mind's gone off the rails, that you're cracking up."

"That's about it. Yes."

He thought for a moment. Our session had been highly contentious, and it felt like Dr. Nissensen wanted to end it on a conciliatory note.

"Well," he said, "we don't very often remember our lives in original chronologies, do we? More in associative patterns." He wrote something down. "Ordered memories, disordered memories. Really, no matter either way as long as our work together eventually leads to your attaining a kind of —"

"Do not use the hated word," I said. "Please don't use the hated word."

"No, I was going to say clarity."

Love of Your Life

YEAR AFTER YEAR, rain enters your diary, as the Japanese say, and an exhaustive sadness prevails. And then suddenly one day you find the love of your life. Happenstance or blind luck, what does it matter as long as two people meet and life is lived more intensely for all that. Because nothing brings such passionate equanimity as need met with fate.

I first met Elizabeth two years ago almost to the day, on August 30, 1971, at about eight-thirty in the evening, at the small Hartison Gallery on Duke Street in Halifax. The gallery was associated with the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. The Swiss-born photographer Robert Frank, most famous for his book The Americans and who spent summers on Cape Breton, was teaching a course at the college, and there was a lot of excitement in town about this. He also had agreed to exhibit twenty of his Nova Scotia photographs at the gallery. I was thirty-four and had started to write my second novel, Think Gently on Libraries. I had an apartment on Granville, right there in the neighborhood. My regular café was Cyrano's Last Night, also on Duke Street. Art students liked to hang out there. The café had one of those enormous espresso machines that looked like it had been designed by Jules Verne in a hallucinatory condition. Like an ancient sea creature trying to breathe on land, when coffee was being made the machine steamed and wheezed loudly, drowning out the nonstop opera, which was, much to my preference, usually Puccini or Verdi, never Wagner.

Anyway, the gallery was crowded, and after moving slowly along the walls from photograph to photograph, I found myself standing next to Elizabeth (of course I didn't know her name yet), in front of a diptych called Mabou Window, which consisted of two identical views of an expanse of snowy boulders and flat rock outcroppings that led down to the sea. A section of broken wooden fence was in each foreground. The snow's glare nearly made me wince, yet there was a strangely animate quality to the light, as if I were seeing wind that contained snow moving toward the water. To me, Mabou Window was epigrammatic, if a landscape study can be epigrammatic; it held a lot of muted, even spectral emotion, a kind of photographic pencil sketch of a stretch of the Cape Breton coast coming into focus out of the fog. As I stood there, a touch lost in thought, lightly jostled by other people but hardly minding, I heard Elizabeth read the words Robert Frank had scrawled across the bottom: Next Life Might Be Kinder. I didn't look at her right away.

Then Elizabeth turned to me and said, "You probably noticed that he's written the same thing on every one of these twenty photographs. They're unsettling, don't you think — those words? We're going to have to think about them for a while."

Tonight, Your Elizabeth

I'M NOT A spiritual person, but you know what my one prayer is? Please let me get some sleep.

Some nights all memory becomes a ten-second strip of film run in slow motion, which shows Elizabeth spilling down the stairs in the Essex Hotel, shot by the bellman Alfonse Padgett. Though I did not see it happen, I keep seeing it happen. I could be typing away on my Olivetti manual. I could be organizing plates and coffee cups in the dishwasher. I could be riding my bicycle along the jigsaw coastline near Port Medway, the full moon bright enough you could read a book by it. I could be having a conversation with Philip or Cynthia Slayton. (How many middle-of-the-night telephone calls have they suffered?) I could be having a cup of coffee on the porch. I could be watching a movie at three a.m. in the kitchen, where the small portable TV sits on the counter. Anything, really. "In the moment," as they say, and then the film strip ambushes me. When that happens, I've taught myself to counteract it by clamping apart my eyelids with my fingers, to the point of causing tears, which usually takes only a few seconds — Dr. Nissensen didn't suggest this technique — and it's then I willfully recall, in as great detail as possible, the first time Elizabeth and I made love.

It was in my one-room apartment. She kissed my ears and whispered, "Tonight, your Elizabeth," as if reading the title on some lurid cover of a 1940s paperback detective novel. Just the way she said it, enunciating each word in my ear. Each word given equal regard by her tongue and breath. From that night forward, before our marriage, during our marriage, these two things — kissing and then whispering into my ear, "Tonight, your Elizabeth" — always guaranteed we'd go (to quote Veronica Lake in a movie) from slowly opening buttons to smoking cigarettes without even turning back the bedclothes.

The Progress of This Picture Is the Progress of My Soul

I SHOULD MENTION THAT in Halifax they're filming a movie based on my marriage to Elizabeth and her murder, basically our life together. I think that's an accurate way to describe the subject of the movie. Though if someone had said, in regard to how this movie got made in the first place, "You've whored out your life," I'd have to accept the accusation. When Elizabeth Church was murdered, we had $58 in our savings account. I am just stating facts here. I had a financial situation. My last royalty statement from my first novel (I Apologize for the Late Hour) had amounted to $28. So I borrowed $1,000 from an uncle on my mother's side who lived in Regina ("We've never been close," he'd said, "but all right"), and paid him right back when Pentagonal Films bought, for $125,000, as the contract read, "all rights to the story of the marriage, the murder, and its aftermath." And I signed it with eyes wide open, remorse already in place. Pentagonal, which was based in Toronto, assigned the project to a director-screenwriter named Peter Istvakson. I met with him a few times and found him the most severe example of a wonder-of-me type I've ever seen. "The progress of this picture will be the progress of my soul" — he actually said this while we were having coffee in my old haunt, Cyrano's Last Night. I mean, who talks like that? A real dunce. Go sit in the corner with your dunce cap on, dunce.

The production's been up and running for about three weeks now. The cast and crew are set up at the Essex Hotel on Argyle Street. Definitely something perverse in that choice, since that's where Lizzy was murdered. "The hotel manager, Mr. Isherwood, was disgusted, but the hotel's owner gave us the best rates," Istvakson's assistant, Lily Svetgartot, told me on the telephone. "He figured having a film crew and all those actors and actresses around would help soften what happened to Elizabeth in the public's conscience. Well, a hotel is a business, after all."

Just yesterday, Lily Svetgartot telephoned again. "Mr. Istvakson prays you'll soon visit the shoot," she said. I immediately arranged for an unlisted phone number for my cottage. The "shoot," I'm told, is any location at which the movie is being filmed. Prays, does he?

Night has fallen; full moon; the tide is out. What makes me feel homicidal toward Istvakson is something else he told the Halifax Chronicle-Herald: "I no longer think in sentences." Like he's transcended language and risen to a higher plane of regard — cinematic images. Gulls tonight are ghosting the shore, along with the occasional petrel. I've been studying the field guide, but I don't know the birds around Port Medway all that well yet. The ones I'm looking at outside my kitchen window might be Franklin's gulls, little gulls, laughing gulls, or black-headed gulls. Bonaparte's gulls, mew gulls, ring-billed gulls, herring gulls, Iceland gulls, great black-backed gulls, glaucous gulls, Sabine's gulls, or ivory gulls. Because all of these frequent Nova Scotia.

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Excerpted from "Next Life Might Be Kinder"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Howard Norman.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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