Only one person was brave enough to say that if, like Oregon, the state allowed for physician-assisted suicides, then instead of being forced to resort to extreme measures for lack of options, Gran would have been able to pass away with dignity, to go gently and peacefully surrounded by loved ones, not miserable, desperate, and smashed to pieces.
The person who suggested it was roundly condemned and never returned to the newspaper’s message board to respond, because really, what would have been the point?
Everyone believes what they want to believe.
The police had to keep watch on the house because there were actually ghouls who came out to stare at it, people who wanted to see where the murderer and his helpless victim had spent their days, trespassers who tried to walk the grounds and peer in the windows and see if they could identify what caused the snap so they could avoid it themselves, but I knew they would never find it because they were only looking on the outside, and the answers, all of them, came from the inside, the past, present, and future, the imprints, decisions, and experiences, the parts of us that we hold secret and dear, the pieces that no one will ever know unless we make a point of revealing them.
Someday, when all of this is over, I’m going to give my mother the audiobook so she’ll have the real answers, too.
Three times so far my mother has opened the front door and stood behind the glass storm door watching me, eyes red and lids swollen from crying, fingers knotted together, and the pain of the last two days forever stamped in the lines of her face.
Three times she’s slipped out of the house, crossed the porch to the railing, where I’m sitting with my back against the post, touched my jacketed arm, and said, “Hanna? Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and wait? It’s so cold and you’re not even sure he’s coming….”
And three times I’ve shaken my head, short, quick, full-body, trembling shakes that are an extension of the bone-deep shuddering that hasn’t stopped ever since I raced through the predawn chaos. “He’ll come.” I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, curl my fingers up tight inside the thick white crocheted mittens, and gaze down across the acre of flattened, frozen grass toward the road beyond, watching.
Because he will come, I know it.
All I have to do is wait long enough.
“Have you called him?” my mother asked this last time.
“No,” I said, because it’s important, somehow, that I don’t have to. It’s important that he finds Sammi in the halls and asks how I am, and when he hears the truth, all else falls away and he comes.
It’s important that I don’t have to ask.
He has to do it soon, though, simply because he loves me and I need him, because I’m huddled here, wrecked and broken, and the wake is tonight and people will come to stare and question and whisper, and he’ll know that standing beside me will mean everything.
So I wait for him because I always have, because out of all the moments that went wrong, I think there were just as many that went right, just as much love and heat and want as hurt, disappointment, and cruelty. I want to believe there’s a balance here, that out of this tragedy will come some good, and there will be a happy ending.
And most of all, for all the times he’s told me, Get your head out of a book, Hanna. You don’t live in a novel, I want to show him that, yes, yes, I know all too well that real life is not fiction.
My parents stand together at the front of the crowded wake. My father looks weary, defeated, and my mother, eyes red, lashes wet and spiky, is like a wounded sentinel, dazed by the sudden ferocity of death and the deluge of unanswered questions but still standing with chin up and gaze fierce, determined to protect Gran and Grandpa from the flood of bright-eyed, stale-breathed mourners who cheaped out on flowers but still came to feed on the shocking tragedy, gossip, and judge.
I heard he had an arsenal in the cellar.
Do you think he really kept her tied to the bed?
I want to know what they were doing with all those cats.
I can’t believe no one knew.
And then they turn and look at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the sparse scattering of floral arrangements standing behind the urns and give them nothing, because this bone-deep ache is mine.
The only thing I say when people bait me with comments like, “I can’t believe this happened…” is, “Anybody who really knew them knew he would never stay without her,” but it’s like they don’t want to believe in a love that strong, in a happily ever after that deviates from the fairy tale, and so they keep fishing for answers they will never get.
Sammi, Crystal, and their families come, Grandpa’s old supervisor from the railroad comes and so does an elderly lady named Coral. People from my parents’ work come and Mr. Sung from school comes.
Seth does not.
And it’s in the last half hour when I’m exhausted and close to tears, heart sore from gazing at the urns and wishing, oh God, praying this is all just a terrible nightmare that I glance up and see Jesse standing in the back looking solemn, dreads in a ponytail, carrying a jacket over his arm, and wearing a long-sleeved white dress shirt so new that it still has the fold lines down the front.
I almost break then, I do, but instead I meet his dark, steady gaze and make my way to him, take his hand, bring him forward, and introduce him to my parents, and in that space surrounded by loss and sadness and the passing of something real and good and true, something else real and good and true is passed on, too, seeded with a moment of pain that could someday become a pearl.
Winter
I huddle on the back steps, knees drawn up, hands in my pockets, and toes numb from the creeping cold, watching the birds gathered at the feeders, cardinals and chickadees mingling with wrens, blue jays, and doves, all picking at the seed spread across the frigid January ground.
A shadow flashes past and I glance up, growing uneasy as the birds continue to feed, oblivious to a thin black slash in the sky that’s coming closer, looming larger, sharpening into strong wings and a curved beak, circling unnoticed over the peaceful scene below.
It veers out of sight, and as I exhale, the birds at the feeders explode in a flurry, hurtling into the air as the hawk bullets in. They scatter, frenzied, panicked, and streaking toward me, hitting the false sky reflected in the window with dull, solid thuds and falling broken to the leaves below.
The hawk, fierce, beautiful, inevitable, plumage dark and shining iridescent, lands and stands motionless, ignoring the feeble fluttering of the dove trapped in its talons. I watch, paralyzed, as the dove’s twisted wings flap uselessly against its captor, hear the triumphant keen as the hawk surveys its domain then dips its head to peck, tear, peck…
And then there’s no sound at all but my own mindless Have mercy, you took it, now kill it, don’t make it suffer, and when the numbing fog inside me finally burns away and I’m close to screaming, the hawk tenses, spreads its wings and, with the limp body caught firmly in its grip, carries it off.
The feeders sway, abandoned.
Buff-colored feathers, torn loose and stained bright ripple and twitch in its wake.
Trembling, I rise and search for survivors. At first I see nothing but casualties: four sparrows that were never the targets but still fell in the course of the assault.
Then I spot the fifth bird, a wren, lying beneath the window on a drift of matted leaves. It blinks, quivering and still too stunned from the shock of impact to fly.
I crouch, weeping, and gently close my hand around it, absorbing the residual terror fueling its tiny heart. Cradle it close for a moment, then place it on one of the stray-cat towels in a warped and weathered shoe box, close the lid, put the makeshift sanctuary on the step, and return to bury the dead.
The strays however, always hungry, always prowling, have already discovered the small, cooling bodies and carried them away.
The relief that comes from this shames me, but I’m still thankful because the birds who died quickly have not only bee
n spared but have spared me the struggles of the mortally wounded, of kneeling helpless beside a body too broken to fly but not broken enough to die, beside living wreckage that cannot be healed and would never again be more than a twisted, flightless song trapped on the ground alone, defenseless, and forsaken by its own kind.
And so I wait in the chill of the thin, gray light until the tears dry, the lost have been mourned and the hawk forgiven, and then return to the porch, open my jacket, and tuck the shoe box in close against me to warm it, not speaking, not lifting the lid to see if the little wren is still breathing, just waiting while the faint flutter of a single taken dove ripples through me again and again, just waiting, keeping quiet watch over the wren in the bottom of the shoe box and wondering if it will ever recover enough to be released.
Where is home?
Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart’s tears can dry at their own pace.
—Vernon Baker
Ever After…
I walk through the little woods, Serepta at my heels, and together we travel the deer path to the old wooden bench under the catalpa tree. Sit in the shade of those generous, heart-shaped leaves and breathe in the scent of the delicate white flowers.
It is impossibly beautiful.
Serepta, slow and arthritic, gathers herself and leaps up to settle beside me.
Birds—robins, sparrows, and wrens, maybe even the one I know—flit through the meadow grass, and a worn, raggedy monarch, perhaps the first to return from the winter migration, flutters past us and along the wood line in the sun.
It’s fawn season, too.
There are hoofprints in the mud along the pond’s edge, and for a heartbeat I think I hear you whisper, Wild horses, Hanna. I know it’s only the sweet breeze rustling through the catalpa, but today, on my eighteenth birthday, I very much want to believe it’s you.
Because this morning I discovered you left me everything you ever loved.
I lift my head, listening to the faint sound of a motorcycle in the distance.
It’s a Harley—it has a very distinctive sound—and it’s headed my way.
I smile and wipe my damp cheeks on my sleeve. Lift Serepta up into my arms and, cradling her close, rise and start back along the deer path.
Wild horses, Gran.
I miss you so much.
how it ends
Laura Wiess
READING GROUP GUIDE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
In the prologue we are introduced to Hanna and Mrs. Schoenmaker and learn about the history of their relationship. How does the prologue foreshadow the events of the novel and emphasize the link between Hanna and the Schoenmakers?
When Crystal tells Hanna Jesse’s history, Hanna is shocked at what Jesse has been through: “I never knew anybody with such a sad story before…I mean, I had no idea there could be so much to karate guy.” What surprises Hanna about Jesse? How does the way he looks contrast with his personality and background? How does this passage reflect a common theme in the book? How have people surprised you in your life?
How are Hanna’s parents a good support system for her? How does their relationship influence Hanna?
After the robbery at the sub shop Hanna tells her psychologist that “There’s pre-robbery Hanna and there’s post-robbery Hanna; my life is halved now. Pre-Hanna was so sure of her life, she…strode through it like there was nothing she couldn’t find a way around, like there was nothing she couldn’t handle.” How else does the robbery change Hanna’s life? How does it help to prepare her for some of the events that are still to come?
Talk about your impressions of Seth. What draws Hanna to him? Have you or anyone you know experienced what Hanna went through with him? Why does she continue to go back to him when he repeatedly makes her feel bad? Discuss the ups and downs of Hanna’s relationship with him.
Consider the husband-wife relationships in the book. Think about Hanna’s parents, the Schoenmakers, the Boehms, Seth’s parents and Jesse’s parents. What do these couples demonstrate about the nature of love? What does Hanna learn from these relationships? What does she not understand?
Discuss the Schoenmakers’ relationship. What is unusual about their marriage? In what ways is their love story universal? Did their relationship alter your view of what constitutes romantic love? Can you think of other fictional or real life love stories that parallel theirs?
When Hanna runs into Jesse over Memorial Day weekend she tells him, “Every time I see you I just…I don’t know. You make me smile.” Why does Jesse make Hanna feel good? How is he different from Seth? Why do you think it takes her so long to realize how she feels about him?
Discuss the theme of reinvention in the novel. Consider the Schoenmakers, the Boehms, Hanna, Jesse, and others.
Louise shares some of Peter’s background in the audiobook but also writes that “he had done some things while trying to stay alive that were best left unclaimed and undisturbed.” Why does Louise choose not to reveal more details about Peter’s history? What do you imagine he might have had to do?
What is the significance of the book’s title, How It Ends? Why do you think Wiess gives her book and the audiobook Hanna and Mrs. Schoenmaker listen to the same title?
This novel contains some shocking moments, particularly toward the end. What did you think of Lon’s actions at the end of the novel? Were you surprised? Do you think he did the right thing? How does his personal history affect the choices he makes?
Discuss the role that animals play in this novel. What do they symbolize? How do they help to drive the story?
When Hanna rescues the wren after the hawk attacks, she discovers stray cats have carried away the birds that died. “The relief that comes from this shames me, but I’m still thankful because the birds who died quickly have not only been spared but have spared me the struggles of the mortally wounded, of kneeling helpless beside a body too broken to fly but not broken enough to die…” What does Hanna mean? What is significant about this passage?
What does Hanna learn from her relationship with the Schoenmakers? How does it change her? How does it influence her ideas about her own romantic relationships?
Did you relate to Hanna? Did you like her? Were any of her experiences similar to yours?
Why do you think it takes Hanna such a long time to acknowledge the truth about the audiobook? Why might it be hard for her to face the truth? In what other ways does Hanna have trouble facing reality?
Louise writes, “True love is real, and I have loved you since that first day, the best way I knew how. I hope someday you can forgive me.” What does Louise want Hanna to forgive her for? What else does the audiobook show about the nature of true love?
What did you think about the book’s ending? How did you feel after finishing the book?
Discuss some of your favorite passages or scenes in the novel. What resonated most for you? Are there any other themes or topics that stood out?
A DISCUSSION WITH THE AUTHOR
How It Ends is extremely inventive and touches on a wide range of topics, from love and family to taxidermy, animal rescue and women’s reproductive rights. What inspired you to write this book? What kind of research did you have to do to incorporate so many topics in this novel?
How It Ends began when I was wondering about the experiences people keep hidden in their hearts, thinking about how there’s always so much more to people than we see, and what a huge mistake it is to believe we know everything there is to know about a person, whether it be a stranger, family member, or friend. It shifted into higher gear when two of the images I’ve been carrying around in my mind for years surfaced and wove themselves into the mix.
The first image came from one of the stories my mother used to tell me, about how it was back when she was a little girl in the 1940s. She lived in a neighborhood where all the kids used to play out in the street, and although no one talked much about the kinds of men who offered candy to children, all the kids w
ere warned by their parents not to go near this one house on the block where an old man and his invalid wife lived, especially if it was dusk or he called you into his garage for any reason.
The local kids ran away from this guy whenever he beckoned but one day there was a new girl of about fifteen living there, a state kid, an orphan, placed with them to live and work. She had no one, and so was trapped: on the surface the old man and his wife looked harmless but behind closed doors, it must have been an unimaginable hell. She was rarely allowed to come out and play with the other kids and did not even go to school.
I asked my mother—who had been maybe 9 or 10 back then—what happened to the girl and it turns out she got pregnant, and was sent away in shame for getting herself into trouble. Can you even imagine? She—an orphaned child—was an unpaid servant, denied an education, sexually molested, impregnated by her foster father, and then punished for it, whisked away as if it were all her fault. How convenient.
The image of this faceless, anonymous girl trapped in a house of horrors, has haunted me for years.
The second image was from a story I read years ago about a man who was supposedly a deer rehabber and an amateur taxidermist. (Anybody else see a conflict, here?) Wildlife rehab is a wonderful, difficult, heart-and-soul endeavor if it’s done correctly and with the best interest of the animal in mind, but supposedly this guy had been taking in orphaned fawns and shoving them into a dark, dank outbuilding along with deer corpses in various stages of decomposition, dissection, taxidermy experiments, chemical treatment, etc., and basically leaving them there to die of starvation.
It was not a stretch for me to imagine the imprisoned fawns confused, hungry, scared, and locked into what could only be a living hell with no food or water, with the thick, unrelenting scent of terror, death, and rot all around them, no sun, no breeze, no grass, no freedom, laying in chemicals that burned through them, blood, feces, mud…I couldn’t get such self-serving cruelty out of my mind and wanted to know why? Why would someone do this? So I began to imagine an answer.