There had been little warning. To this day, the exact causes of his suicide remain a mystery. Geoff was well-liked, close with his sisters, adored by his parents, and endowed with a first-born's leadership traits. He loved to build things: a campsite in the woods, igloos in the snow, even an intricately detailed dollhouse for Daphne's troll dolls.
The Taylors were one of more than 50 families who formed a close-knit "intentional" Quaker community in Pennsylvania. Each family owned its own house, and all shared responsibility for maintaining neighborhood buildings and roads.
The children enjoyed swimming, skating, and lots of games in fields and woods. At home, the family spoke the plain Quaker style of thee, thy, and thine.
Dinners with their strict, intellectual father and soft-spoken mother were filled with discussions about history and current events. There was a lot to talk about: The world was changing, and fast. The Vietnam War was escalating, its politics dividing friend and neighbor.
The Quaker children went to the public school, where they had close friends from "regular" suburbs but were also mocked for their clothing, dietary choices, and their parents' pacifist politics.
As he entered his teens, Geoff struggled to reconcile his father's pride in his Quaker heritage with the rigid patriotism of school and Scout troop.
Taylor gives such a realistic account of that awful night, you feel you are huddled with her and Daphne outside their bedrooms, monitoring the frantic conversations below between their parents and the doctor who had rushed to their home.
In her initial grief, Beth withdrew from family and friends. A photography buff (her family photos adorn each chapter), the traumatized teen now took her camera everywhere, "because it gave me permission to be mute."
In college, Beth demonstrated against the war to honor the brother she considered one of its casualties. She built successful teaching and writing careers, but Geoff's ghost prevented her from forging deep or lasting relationships.
In passages both simple and potent, Taylor describes how her view of her brother slowly shifted: from helpless victim to someone with choices, who had devastated his family. When even alcohol can't dilute her complicated grief, she decides to confront some painful dynamics about her family.
There are no bad guys, and this makes her insights resonate clearly and true. Her unvarnished reflections strengthen her bond with her sister and parents, with her husband (who is an unwavering but clear-eyed partner), and with her three sons.
Taylor's writing, planed to simple elegance, reveals how social and adolescent pressures can overwhelm a boy's large but fragile spirit. And how, through hard work, serenity can prevail over the survivors' sorrow.
Underlying everything is her question: "What holds us up?" In multiple ways, her memoir provides uplifting answers.
Carol Iaciofano is a freelance writer who blogs at Suburban Study, www.suburbanstudy.blogspot.com.
