Minnesota Goodbyes
By hazelgracewaters

Your friends and family don't understand. Maybe she wouldn't either, were she here.

(She's

not)

It doesn't matter, though. You've told them this is a simple round-the-world trip–get over her, find myself—and they have no choice but to believe you. You've got the money for it, after all, thanks to the compensation payments.

You'd intended it to be that, at first, too. To Find Yourself. Ashram, kibbutz, beach, yoga, all that eat-pray-love stuff.

But then you found yourself being taught meditation by a 22 year old Aussie with bad skin and $200 dollar yoga pants and you thought, what is this?

Sipping on your 100 rupee detox smoothie, nine-year-old girls begging for dowry money by the retreat windows. What is this? Do I even exist, any more?

You tried to talk to your mom about it, but she didn't understand. No one did.

She would have, though. She would have understood straight away. You'd just have to say the brand of the yoga pants and she'd roll her eyes. It would make sense to her.

Nothing makes sense now.

You thought it was maybe capitalism you hated, so you booked the next flight to Cuba—you didn't care about the price, thanks to the price on her head, the price of her life, the money that's now in your bank—but you hated it there, too. The lazy men chewing. The begging for pens. Humans are a different species to you. You are only pain. A seeping wound.

Then, Castro died. Castro died, and there was a national outpouring of grief. Women on the pavements, dusty marks on their contorted faces. Old men crying over their chessboards. Every look between strangers heavy and significant.

It felt g o o d.

Finally, the world had dropped down to your level. Others came to meet you in your emptiness, your existential blight. You could cry on the street, and it was okay. It was expected.

You were no longer alone.

And as the women wailed and the men moaned, you pretended it was for her. Because it should have been. This was the outcry the loss of her should have raised, and didn't.

That's how it began.

You became a grief tourist.

You checked the news on your phone every morning, looking for notable deaths. You were lucky. 2016 was rich pickings. David Bowie. Leonard Cohen. Snape from Harry Potter. You flew around the world, and you visited their graves. Mingled with their mourners. Disguised your tears for her. Felt like you belonged.

Sometimes there were no celebrities to mourn, so you directed your energies to lesser known deaths that in their shockingness or inexplicability still made the news. In England, an old woman fell from an attic. A humble affair, but something in its energy drew you...perhaps the psychic power of the ancient stone circle, far bigger and more terrifying than Stonehenge, within which it occurred. Magnifying the loss. You basked in its eerie energy for weeks, even managing to secure a room in the house where she had died. Here, it was okay that you were haunted.

But always the mourning ended, and always life moved on. You weren't ready to move on, though. You didn't give up that easily.

You flew from Avebury to Minnesota, to attend a candlelit vigil for Prince. You hugged strangers, tear-choked, sobbed through Purple Rain.

But like they always do, that goodbye finally ended, with all its words, the good and the bad, said.

You were in the taxi to the station when you read the news report in the local paper. It arrested you.

You told the driver to turn around.
Minnesota wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.

**

You go to find the graveyard. You're walking around, looking for fresh earth, an unsullied stone, when you see them.

A couple, a tall man and a pale woman, walking along the paths, coming closer. Something odd about them. They don't have the slow, burdened gait of the freshly bereaved, nor the efficient stride of the habitués tending to their relatives' tombs. They look here and there, talking, pointing—like sightseers, or a pair of vultures. Like yourself.

They stop at a grave nearly opposite you, talking about "point of view", "plot" and other things you don't care about. Their voices are loud, disturbingly so for a place like this.

"Clair." The woman says, jutting her chin towards a greenish tombstone. "That must be her."

He nods. "Yep." A single, weighty word, followed by an even weightier silence.

"Expected this to be bigger," he says. "More like a monument."

She shakes her head. "Naw, the monument is in the words of that book."

He nods. "Yeah, prob'ly."

She rummages in a scruffy Swedish backpack, retrieving a crumpled piece of paper, and flattening it between her hands while he reaches into his jacket, pulling a notebook from it. The book looks as if it holds but a small number of pages, but still it seems to have volume—its pages creased and furrowed by ink, pencil and thought.
You wonder what these two strange figures are about to do.

"You first, Emma," he says, and looks at her.

1) Story: Did we like it? Did it draw us in? Was it believable? Did it bore us? What did we think of its plot?

"This is a high quality story, alright," the woman says. "The writing is beautifully executed, and it's interesting right from the off, with the immediate hook of wanting to know why M is grieving, what happened.

It was very believable, emotionally, which I really admired, and the plot was simple but effective and beautifully executed. It's really very good."

Her tone of voice changes. "If I'm totally honest, though, there were bits that bored me. At points in the middle, I found myself thinking 'oh, for freak's sake, pull yourself together, M!'." She looks sheepish.

"I am exceptionally cold hearted, though." she adds. "And by the last third, I was fully engaged and strapped in for the ride again."

He smiles. "Yeah, you can be badass, I know... As to the story, I agree. It drew me in, like a fat magnet and me being the steel needle. The mesmerising language, the mysterious beginning, and the narrator's voice that begs to be read aloud. The plot slowly builds the tension with hints at what happened. It left me longing to know more—but also afraid of gaining that knowledge."

2) Characters: Are your characters plausible, tangible, and relatable? How do they grow and change? Did they work out for us?

"The narrator is very plausible and relatable," he continues. "I pined for her right from chapter #1. And the other (female) characters gained substance quickly, too." He rubs his stubbly chin. "The male characters, though, they seemed to have less depth."

"The narrator is a wonderfully, wonderfully drawn character," the cold-hearted woman agrees. "There were points I was reading this book, looking at the characterisation of M, and going 'where is her Watty? I demand her a Watty!'.

Although I agree with you, Rainer, that the other characters were two dimensional, I actually loved this, as I saw it as a representation of how M. was seeing other people at the time, which I thought was lovely and really well done. Although, perhaps the author might consider breathing more life into the male characters in the final chapters, as she does so nicely with Lacy."

"I also think there should be more depth of character to Clair, though I'm torn on this." The woman goes on. "I think having a partial sketch of Clair is again clever in emphasising the nature of their relationship, which I won't go into for spoilers' sake–" she breaks off and looks at you suspiciously, for some reason.

"I just didn't love her like M. did, and I'd like to have more rounded glimpses of her as a person—surely they shared life histories, vignettes, as they got to know one another?—peppered through the book. Most of the descriptions were physical or sensory, and again this is great in showing their relationship, but a bit of extra depth or colour through second-hand histories or facts would give me, as a reader, something more to cling on to."

3) Feelings: How does your story feel?

The woman draws a breath, then continues with her monologue. "The emotions were realistic and beautifully portrayed, and really invited empathy. The language was poetic yet simple, and some lovely literary devices were employed to great effect. There were some arresting metaphors and really unique yet universally meaningful observations on love and life and grief."

He nods. "I fully agree on the metaphors... As to how the story made me feel, it ... involved ... me, if you know what I mean. The way the narrator talks to the reader, includes them and tells her past story in their point of view—I mean in second person point of view—literally put me into it."

4) Pacing: are there any parts of your book that feel slow, or rushed, or superfluous to the movement of the story?

"Pacing..." He browses through the pages of his notebook, stopping when he finds the one he was looking for.

"Yeah, here it is. As you know, the book has two story threads, one basically in the present, and the other one in the past. I'll say a bit more about that later on. Anyway, the story that plays in the past has good pacing. As to the story in the present ... it sometimes feels a tad slow. Around entry #10 and for some chapters after that, it becomes a bit repetitive. We know that the narrator is miserable, and she's wallowing in it ... and again ... and again. Do you know what I mean?" He looks at her.

"I felt exactly that. In one way, I see what the author is doing, as grief is repetitive and annoying and self-indulgent, but also, there was no plot there driving me forward, and in some of those chapters I may even have shelved the book had I not been reading it for review," she admits.

"Cold hearted," Rainer mutters under his breath.

"By the final third, though, when M was starting to grow and change, it was fabulous, and I inhaled the book very quickly. A real page turner. I mean screen swiper. But in the middle I wanted to shake M, I really did. I was losing sympathy fast. We need some change or some plot to drive us forward. It's like we stopped in a moping lay-by on the story freeway."

You close your eyes for a second. It's like they could be talking about you. You want to run in, defend this stranger's honour, their righteous right to grieve. You don't.

You're not perfect, after all.

5) Spelling & grammar: What's our impression of your spelling and your grammar?

"Spot on," Emma says. "A few very minor errors, but overall pristine. Very well done. A lovely clean read."

He draws a breath. "I'm using this heading not only for spelling & grammar, but for anything technical." He turns to face her. "You know, we actually should change this heading to 'Technical aspects (such as writing technique, spelling & grammar)' or something like that."

She looks back at him, her expression blank. Her thoughts are apparently still with the book they are talking about.

He shrugs. "Anyway, this book employs a unique technique of narration. There's the thread of the narrator in the present, and that one is done in 1st person POV, mostly in present tense, some in past tense. And the narrator keeps telling the reader about things that happened before, in a separate thread. But that one is not in past tense, as one would expect—rather it's also in present tense, mostly, but it is in 2nd person POV.

Once the reader gets the hang on this, it works surprisingly well. I'm not sure if every casual reader will get it, but I loved it. It's part of what makes the book extraordinary.

"At some places, I had the impression that there are minor glitches in this scheme, though, e.g. at the beginning of chapter #33 and somewhere in #46. But I'm not quite sure."

"Yes! I noticed those too!" Emma agrees.

6) Suggestions: Do we have any suggestions for improving the book?

He hesitates. "I am reluctant to suggest anything. It's an excellent book, and its success proves its worth. Maybe one could tune back some of the present tense 1st person POV parts, where the narrator does all her suffering. As mentioned, there's a lot of that. But I have enjoyed reading these parts, too, so they are probably just fine—"

She opens her mouth.

He holds up his hand, stopping her short. "And, one more thing. The male characters, as I said, they remain a bit flat, a bit similar."

"My suggestions are similar, but slightly different. First, though, I want to discuss the second person narration." The woman gets in.

"The 'you'. I'm going to be honest, I didn't like it." She shakes her head. "The written word is a funny form of communication. It's both direct and indirect. Let's say you want to tell me I'm sad."

"I'm sad," Rainer says and grins. "I'm sad you didn't like the 'you'."

She frowns.

He holds up his hands. "Sorry. Just joking. Here it comes: You're sad."

"I am. It was a very poignant book. When we're talking, that's clear enough. But when I'm reading, you isn't me. Me is me. Does that make sense?"

Rainer nods.

"When I read a protagonist saying 'I am sad' it's like by some alchemy I'm thinking 'I am sad'. I am the protagonist. I'm on the journey with them. The connection is direct. When I'm high, I am Odetta!" she shouts, bizarrely.

"But when I read 'you are sad' I don't feel sad. I feel like I'm telling someone else to be sad. Who? I don't know. Someone. Who? I'm confused. This book hurts my brain. That's how I feel reading second person. I'm just like WHO IS YOU WHO AM I TALKING TO BECAUSE I AM I. AM I YOU? AHHH EXISTENCE YOU CONFUSE ME!

"To be honest, I got used to it after a while, and found it really useful for separating past and present events, so I wouldn't get rid of it. What I would do, though, is give us a little hint early on of who M is talking to in the notebook. Who is her fellow traveller she's left the notes for? That person is addressed at the end, so a little more at the beginning - even if it's ambiguous - would be great. It would give me a "you" to hang my coat on, iyswim."

She breathes out, exhausted by her rant. "Yeah, so that. Then more details on Clair, a bit of plot development in the eating-yourself-with-self-pity chapters, and more rounding of the boys right at the end. That's all I've got. This is a really fantastic book, and with some small and targeted edits is easily publishable quality."

"Done?" he asks.

She nods.

"I hear what you are saying, about the use of the second person POV." He hesitates. "And you're probably right that it might help the reader if the first few chapters made it clearer that 'you' isn't Clair, which was my first impression. But, as I said, the 2nd person POV was, for me, one of the book's strong points.

"And as for describing the boys, I agree. As I said, I would give them more flesh, too. But I'd recommend not to wait until the last chapters with that. As I was reading, I had problems keeping them apart. Being told more about them at the end would not help with that. I'd like to see them acting, and acting characteristically, earlier in the book.

"Especially at the beginning, the narrator isn't absorbed by Clair yet. So she would look at the world with attentive eyes and take the boys in, see them as more than two-dimensional figures. That would be a great time to show them in more depth."

7) Highlights: What did we enjoy most?

The pale woman closes her eyes, which softens her hard features. "The descriptions of grief and M's journey were on occasion transcendent, just beautiful, and there were some lovely poetic turns of phrase."

He nods. "I loved that, too... the wealth of the language, the strong images. Here's an example, where the narrator is moping and suffering silently, and she describes it like this: I'm silence smeared over the house, drifting from room to room."

"That just beautiful in its simplicity and affective power," the woman says, touching her head. "This book is eminently quotable. It's a grief meme mine."

"Oh, and I forgot!" she adds. "I loved the hints at M's sexuality. It's rare to see certain sexualities portrayed (again,  no spoilers!) in literature, so I really enjoyed this."

8) Audience: Who do we think would most enjoy this book, and why?

"I think the book's great for anyone who likes rich language and strong emotions, such as me." He grins. "If you're looking for blood-curdling action, go elsewhere. If you do read it, make sure you are well stocked with hankies."

"It's for a literature fan, not someone who wants a beach read," Emma says. "But it touches on universal truths, which is the ultimate aim of any art, so is worth anyone's time."

The man reaches into a pocket of his coat and pulls a bundle of herbs from it. You squint and realise they are not herbs.

It is a small bunch of flowers, blue ones. Forget-me-nots. He places them on the headstone of that Clair's grave.

Then the two look at each other. She tilts her head; he nods in reply. They turn and walk off.

Your eyes follow them, wondering what all of that was. You take up their vacated spot at Clair's grave. It was the very one you were looking for.

You stare at the stone for a long time, but for some reason, you feel nothing. You try to think of her, but you can't.
You just keep thinking of the mysterious M the couple were talking about. How sensitive and complex she sounds.

You find yourself wondering how easy it would be to find M. You want to find M. Suddenly, she is no longer the centre, the gravitational force that binds you.

There's someone out there you want to meet. Someone new. Hello's are what you are interested in, now.

Minnesota Hello's. Somehow, this book about the dead has rekindled your interest in the living.

You decide to find this M, ask if she's ever been to Avebury. I bet she'd like it there, you think. And I'll tell her about the yoga pants. I have a feeling she'll understand.

-----
Note: the Avebury references in this review  were inspired by another fine book that Rainer is reading, 'In My Attic' by linahanson