Oprah Winfrey reveals “Some Bright Nowhere” by Ann Packer as November e-book membership choose

Oprah Winfrey on Tuesday introduced her newest e-book membership choice “Some Bright Nowhere” by Ann Packer on “CBS Mornings.”

Read a free excerpt

CLAIRE WANTED THE END of her life to be like the top of Su- san Simmons’s. Susan, who’d been dwelling alone for ten years when it turned clear she had only some months left. There was sufficient cash for her to get dwelling care, as a lot as she may want, however as an alternative her nearest and dearest circled round. Three sisters, her closest childhood pal, two daughters. Some moved in, oth- ers lived shut by and spent hours on the home. Susan’s remaining two months have been filled with feminine power, chatter, tears, laughter. Claire remembered Susan on a chaise below a mushy blanket, her hand in a bowl of perfumed water certainly one of her ladies had introduced in, step certainly one of a manicure.

Claire paused in her account. They have been nonetheless within the kitchen, however she’d taken a seat on the desk and in some unspecified time in the future Eliot had risen for a glass of water. He leaned in opposition to the counter and waited. There was a punchline coming.

“Her daughter asked her what color,” Claire went on, “and Su- san said, ‘Pearl. I’ll blend in with the gates.'”

Eliot was speculated to smile, however he could not. He was astounded by what Claire needed. Aghast.

“It was amazing,” she mentioned. “I was over there every few days, remember? It was . . .” She shook her head and seemed off, dreamy. “It must’ve started then, this wish, this yearning.” She gave Eliot a pleading smile. “That’s what it really is, a yearning.”

Eliot could not stand this, not one other second. He mentioned the very first thing that got here to thoughts: “You want your death to be pretty!”

She recoiled. “I do not!” “Manicures? Soft blankets?” “That’s not it at all!”

“Then what is it?” He returned to the desk and sat down. “Help me understand.”

A weary look came visiting her face. “Eliot, you’re going to have to start . . .” She sighed and shook her head.

“What?” “Never mind.”

“I’m going to have to start what?”

“I’m sorry about this. Really. I almost didn’t ask. I knew it would hurt you, we all did. Even though—I swear, Eliot—this isn’t about you. It isn’t about anything other than . . . I just . . . it was so amazing at Susan’s. We all worked together and cried to- gether and . . . loved together.” The dreamy look got here again and he or she stared off, transfixed.

It was as if she have been talking a overseas language. As if she’d lived a secret life he was solely now discovering. Secret and pre- ferred. But he could not say that. He could not ask why his love wasn’t sufficient. He mentioned, “Why do I have to leave for this to work? Your friends can come over anytime. Hang out, give you—”

“Don’t say manicures,” she warned. “Give you whatever you want.”

Until the laborious half began, at which level he’d step in. As he all the time had! Flooded with frustration, he rose and went to the again door. He wanted a second to chill off. He’d executed all the pieces for eight, virtually 9 years, all the pieces—even when at instances he’d executed it

clumsily. All these chemo nights, these hours and horrible hours. Just brutal. Holly and Michelle would wish him for the dangerous mo- ments, the tough remaining days. Claire would wish him. She could not see it now, however the entire thought was a fantasy about avoiding demise. With her pals circling, lighting scented candles and bringing mugs of natural tea, demise would preserve its distance.

He turned to face her. “Do you think this might be denial?”

She threw up her fingers in disgust. “We all know how this is going to end! I made them think about it, really think about it. I made them imagine me in agony, moaning and crying. I told them about, you know—” She arced her hand over her stomach: like a lady outlining being pregnant, although Claire was referring to asci- tes, fluid filling the stomach till it was as distended as a balloon. She’d examine it in a chat room years earlier and it had lodged in her thoughts, terrifying. “They know . . .” she started. She paused and checked out him levelly. “They know I’ll need morphine.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Mine! I mean, I told them about Susan’s house and, I don’t know, isn’t there a moment when a rope is thrown, when it’s still in the air? One hand has let go and the other hasn’t yet reached out?”

“But who was throwing? Who was catching?”

“It was all at once! You know how we get sometimes!”

Eliot knew. Holly’s then-husband Stuart had pulled him apart on a gaggle trip within the Caribbean when the children have been sufficiently old to run round in a pack and the adults may loosen up. “Look,” Stuart mentioned, pointing to an outside bar the place the three ladies had taken over a small desk and leaned inward as in the event that they have been decid- ing the destiny of the world. “What are they scheming about now?” “Probably just which restaurant we should eat at tonight,” Eliot

mentioned, and Stuart mentioned, “Right, and oh by the way it’s on a different island, we’ll have to take a boat. Actually two boats and a plane, it’ll be fun!”

Claire planted her fingers on the desk and pushed herself to standing. She gave Eliot a softer look, filled with concern and regret. “I shouldn’t have asked, but I can’t un-ask now. I mean, I can, but you’re not going to forget this, you’re going to know how I feel. What I want. So it’s up to you, Eliot. Just please don’t see it as any- thing more than it is. I love you. I love you.”