When we all know we're going to die, how do we make sure we truly live? Clover Brooks has forgotten how to live. It might be because she spends her time caring for people in their final days, working as a death doula in New York City. Or it might be because she has a regret of her own - one she can't bring herself to let go of. But then she meets Claudia: a feisty old woman who has one last wish . . . As Clover begins a new adventure, will she remember how to live her own big, beautiful life?
After a week of greyish cotton wool blanketing the city sky, an infinite stretch of clear blue finally greeted me as I waited to cross Seventh Avenue. I was grateful for the injection of cheer—Sundays still felt gloomy without Grandpa. In the months after he died, I couldn’t bring myself to set foot in the diner. Or the bookstore. Continuing our weekly tradition without him was a taunting reminder that I’d been on the other side of the world enjoying myself when he needed me most. That even if there was nothing I could do to prevent his death, I could have at least spent more time with him before it happened.
I’ve never understood Western society’s warped perception of grief as something quantifiable and finite, a problem to be fixed. Eight months after Grandpa died, my doctor suggested I see a psychologist because I was still having trouble accepting he was gone. After only one session, the psychologist promptly diagnosed me with “persistent complex bereavement disorder,” aka chronic grief, and suggested I take anti-depressants. Turns out, in the opinion of most medical experts, your grieving process shouldn’t last longer than six months. And if you aren’t over it by then, there’s something chronically wrong with you.
What the hell?
It felt callous to be expected to resume life as normal six months after losing someone whose existence had been so indelibly intertwined with yours. There would never be a moment I wouldn’t miss Grandpa. That was one of the reasons I became a death doula—my grief felt more at home in the company of others who were grieving, whether it was loved ones, or the dying person themselves grieving a life they knew they could have lived better.
As much as it hurt, I eventually realized that keeping up our diner and bookstore tradition was one of the few ways I could still feel close to Grandpa. Now, every Sunday when I wasn’t working, I ate breakfast alone in our favorite booth at the diner and then walked to the bookstore, his absence as conspicuous as his presence ever was. After more than a decade, the pain had dulled slightly, but my grief hadn’t diminished. It had just taken a different shape.
As I started walking towards the nearest department store, I felt my phone vibrating in my coat pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but that wasn’t unusual if someone was calling me about a job.
Ducking under a shop awning, I steeled myself. Death I could handle; phone calls I loathed. Why couldn’t everyone just email?
“Hello, Clover speaking.”
A brief silence on the other end, then a throat clearing.
“Ah, hi, Clover.”
I recognized the voice immediately.
“It’s Sebastian. From the death cafés.” A nervous laugh. “And the vitamin aisle of Duane Reade.”
I could’ve just hung up—but curiosity stopped me. Why would he be calling me after I’d made such an embarrassing exit? And how had he gotten my number?
“Hello, Sebastian.”
“So I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday … I bet you’re wondering how I found you.”
“You could say that.”
“I swear I’m not following you. I mean, I kind of am, but not in the way you think.” Uncomfortable silence. “After you ran out the other night, I went home and Googled exactly what a death doula was. And, you know, the more I read about it, the more I realized how great it was.”
“It felt a little like an invasion of my privacy. But then again, if anyone else had done the same thing to track me down and offer me a job, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”
“I see.” His flattery softened my defenses slightly, even if it wasn’t directed specifically at me.
“It made me realize that a death doula is exactly what my grandmother needs. I think it would really help her.” Sebastian’s sentences were gaining pace, like he was trying to get it all out before being interrupted. “She wants to stay in her house and so she has home health aides there to help her around the clock, but nobody like you—someone who can help her through the more, you know, experiential stuff. That’s what you do, right?”
“Yes, kind of.” I trod carefully. “But how did you get my number?”
Another nervous laugh. “It actually wasn’t that hard. I mean, how many death doulas named Clover are there in New York? And I’m pretty good at going down internet rabbit holes.”
A flock of boisterous teenagers bustled past me on the sidewalk.
“There are lots of death doulas in the city who could help your grandmother,” I said trying to keep my voice low. “I can recommend some.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true—but I think she would like you a lot.” Sebastian’s persistence was a little exasperating.
“You don’t even know anything about me—the only thing you thought you knew about me was a lie, anyway.” The side of my neck ached from clenching my shoulders.
“Well, are you taking on new clients?”
It was hard to say no to a potential job. Long stretches between clients weren’t healthy for my finances, even if I was a diligent saver. You didn’t become a death doula for the money—usually I scaled my rate to whatever the person could afford. Sometimes, like with Abigail, I even did it for free. But regardless of the payment, Sebastian’s grandma didn’t deserve a lonely death.
“Yes … but I may already have one. It’s not quite confirmed yet.” I’d never been a liar, but the instinct seemed to emerge whenever I spoke to him.
“I’d be willing to pay more than your usual rate. Just name the price.”
“You don’t even know if I’m good at my job.”
“Actually, I do,” Sebastian said with irritating satisfaction. “I found a death announcement online that mentioned you while I was searching for your contact details. It thanked you for your support.”
Who could that have been? It was rare that I got any kind of public acknowledgement.
“It turns out,” Sebastian continued, “I have a friend who works as a nurse at the hospital where the person, um, passed away, and he asked around for your name and contact details.”
It felt a little like an invasion of my privacy. But then again, if anyone else had done the same thing to track me down and offer me a job, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
Undeterred by my silence, Sebastian kept talking.
“You come very highly recommended, which doesn’t surprise me, of course. And it would mean a lot to me if you could help my grandmother. I just want to help make this whole thing as easy for her as possible.”
Part of me desperately wanted to say no. I felt uncomfortable around Sebastian, especially now that I’d been caught in a lie. But it would be unethical for me not to help someone if I could. Even if he wasn’t here to say so, I knew Grandpa would be disappointed in me.
Sighing, I relinquished.
“OK let me think about it. Text me your email address and if the other potential client I have doesn’t work out, I can send you all the usual paperwork and we can see from there.” One more lie for the road.
“Great—looking forward to seeing you again, Clover.”
A flutter filled my chest. Even if Sebastian had meant it in a professional context, it was the first time a man had ever said that to me.
Extracted from The Collected Regrets of Clover by Mikki Brammer, out now.
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