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Talk Before Sleep

Talk Before Sleep

4.4 35
by Elizabeth Berg, Beth Fowler (Read by)

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What do women talk about when they know they don't have forever? They talk about what they have always talked about, only they go deeper and more honest: with outrageous humor they try to mitigate pain. Intimate and uncensored sharing, the kind of connection women prize, is at the heart of this deeply moving novel about the grit and power of female friends.



What do women talk about when they know they don't have forever? They talk about what they have always talked about, only they go deeper and more honest: with outrageous humor they try to mitigate pain. Intimate and uncensored sharing, the kind of connection women prize, is at the heart of this deeply moving novel about the grit and power of female friends.

Ann and Ruth have always talked as only great friends can--honestly, and about everything: husbands and marriages, sex lives and children, their work, their hopes, their disappointments, and their dreams. For Ann, cautious and conventional, her closeness to the outspoken and eccentric Ruth brings about discovery and liberation, a chance to say whatever she wants, and, most important, under the insistent tutelage of Ruth, to become herself. Over the years, the women have shared recipes, quilting patterns, child care, delicate and dangerous secrets. Each rests secure in the knowledge that they will be friends forever. Then something happens that will change their lives forever, and the women begin to share something more profound than either of them might have predicted.

Written with an unerring ear for how women talk, laugh, and cry together, and with a gift for capturing the uniqueness of personality, Talk Before Sleep is sure to find a place in readers' hearts.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Because it is rendered with such clarity, authority and feeling, Berg's novel may cause readers to forget that this story of a woman's death from cancer is fiction. Berg's ( Durable Goods ) depiction of a sisterhood of women banding together to succor a friend is never falsely sentimental. Accurately observed details and honest descriptions of the body's frailties make the narrative gripping and immediate. But intensely real characterizations, outrageous black humor and graceful prose are what render it memorable. Narrator Ann Stanley, a nurse who loves her young daughter and husband but sometimes hates the institution of marriage, recognizes a soul mate when she meets Ruth Thomas. A talented artist, Ruth is mercurial, outspoken, fearless, charming, charismatic. When she leaves her caustic, icy husband and (regretfully) her teenaged son, she is eager to embrace new experiences, to find love and artistic fulfillment. Instead, she is sidetracked by cancer, which she fights gallantly, even into its terminal phase. Ann and several other devoted friends spend days and nights by Ruth's side, helping her to die. Berg writes candidly--if ultimately a bit too schematically--about the bonds between women that transcend the male-female relationship. A celebration of intimate friendship as well as a cry of grief, this book is a weeper, all right, but its effect is cathartic. (May)
Library Journal
The subject of women's friendships in the face of death is sensitively handled in Berg's ( Durable Goods , LJ 4/15/93) second novel. Conventional and quiet, Ann Stanley never had a true best friend until she met the beautiful and outgoing Ruth Thomas. Over the years, their friendship deepens and enriches them both. Then Ruth is diagnosed with rapidly metastasizing breast cancer. During the period of Ruth's dying, a small group of women, along with Ann, share Ruth's doctor visits, help make funeral plans, and enjoy late-night lobster feasts together. They talk about men, children, sex, the future, and the past. They weep, laugh, analyze, and try to console one another. Never preachy or maudlin, this novel is utterly convincing. All the conversations ring true; all the emotions are recognizable and real. Many women will be able to identify with the subject matter of this novel, which should guarantee it a well-deserved readership. Highly recommended for all public libraries.-- Nancy Pearl, Washington Ctr. for the Book, Seattle
School Library Journal
YA-A painful, gripping story about two best friends, Ann and Ruth, and Ruth's ultimate death of cancer. While the outcome may be tragic, the telling is lyrical. The women met when they both were in their late 30s, and for the 4 or 5 years of their friendship, Ann has been the follower and pupil to Ruth's exhilarating and thought-provoking leadership and teaching. Ruth has forced Ann to examine her comfortable life with her husband and child by her example of freedom and independence. She seems to be everything Ann is afraid or unable to be-beautiful, artistic, appealing to both sexes, and self-confident. Her love life thrives and her times with Ann provide excitement and challenges. When Ruth is diagnosed with terminal cancer, Ann, once a nurse, becomes the mainstay of the small group of women who surround their friend, but feels little in common with them. Much of this brief novel focuses on the interplay among these characters as they all try, each in her own way, to do her best for Ruth. Readers realize, along with Ann, how important relationships can be, and how important it is to communicate feelings and be honest. Ruth is the catalyst for self-discovery on the part of each of the figures, and her own discoveries are satisfying. This is a beautifully realized story and so well written that mature YAs will gain insights and strength from it.-Susan H. Woodcock, King's Park Library, Burke, VA
From the Publisher
"You'll want to give a copy to  every good woman friend you have." — The Charlotte Observer

"Entertaining, finely crafted Elizabeth Berg tackles serious  issues with grace" — San Francisco Chronicle

"Tender and irreverant by turns, it offers mature intelligent and  buoyant spirit, like a very good  friend." — Houston Post

Product Details

Publication date:
Edition description:
Unabridged, 4 Cassettes
Product dimensions:
6.48(w) x 9.04(h) x 1.26(d)

Read an Excerpt

Talk Before Sleep

By Elizabeth Berg

Random House

Elizabeth Berg
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0739312219

Chapter One

This morning, before I came to Ruth's house, I made yet another casserole for my husband and my daughter. Meggie likes casseroles while Joe only endures them, but they are all I can manage right now. I put the dish in the refrigerator, with a note taped on it telling how long to cook it, and at what temperature, and that they should have a salad, too.
Next I did a little laundry-washed Meggie's favorite skirt, then laid it on top of the dryer and pressed the pleats in with the flat of my hand. I love doing this because I love the smell of laundry soap and the memory it brings of lying outside on warm days, watching my mother peg huge white bedsheets onto the clothesline. Those sheets glowed with the light blue color white clothes radiate when they are extremely clean. My mother seemed to be fighting with them sometimes, muttering at them as best she could through the wooden clothespins she held in her mouth, insisting that they stay anchored in one place while they pulled and yanked to be free, their wet snapping sounds a protest. I always thought maybe we should let them go. Maybe they had a mission. Maybe the sheets were really people who had started all over again, come back on some low rung and now were ready to fly up to heaven for a promotion-say to a paramecium. I viewed all things on the earth as equal, in terms of the Grand Scheme.Vice presidents and river rocks had nothing up on each other. So the cotton fibers of a bedsheet could easily return as a simple form of water life, or, for that matter, as a movie star who drove white motorcycles through the glamorous hills of Hollywood.
I also like doing laundry for the feeling of connection it brings me, especially now, when I see my family too little, when most of my time is taken up with things they have no part of. With my hand on Meggie's skirt, I can see her small, keyhole-shaped knees, the sliding-down socks she wears, the nearly worn-out sneakers she won't let me replace. I see her schoolgirl blouses and the half-heart necklace she likes to wear every day lately, advertising the fact that she is someone's best friend. And then, saving the best for last, I see her face, her still slightly rounded cheeks, her stick-out ears, her gorgeous red hair and matching freckles. She has just learned to make her own ponytail, and she stands softly grunting at the mirror in the morning until the lumps are gone-or nearly so. I can't attend to these small things now-sometimes I sleep at Ruth's and am not there in the morning and Meggie goes to school with messy hair; and with questionable color combinations, no doubt. She's lucky she's only nine; it doesn't really matter yet. Her bangs need cutting, her toenails too, probably-Joe can't keep up with these everyday details and still work the number of hours he's required to. I know that eventually all will return to normal at my house, and then we will feel better-and worse, too, of course.
For now, I roll out piecrust, let myself be soothed by the sound of low-voiced interviews or oldies on the radio. I have learned so much lately about the salvation to be found in caretaking, whatever form that caring takes.
Today, while I was rushing around the kitchen making dinner at seven-thirty in the morning, Meggie asked, "Is Ruth your only best friend?"
"Yes," I said, surprised at the evenness of my tone.
"Oh." She sighed softly. "I'm sorry for you, Mommy."
"I know you are."
"Was she always your best friend?"
"Did you have one before her?"
"I guess so," I told her, then sent her off to school. And then I thought about Carol Conroy. The first time I made a promise with my whole heart, it was to Carol Conroy, and it required me to take care of her rabbit, Ecclesiastes. Carol, who liked very much the sound of words she found in the Bible, was leaving our small New England town to visit Disneyland for ten entire days. My jealousy was mitigated somewhat by the importance of the task she had assigned me. "You have to feed this rabbit and change his water every day," Carol told me solemnly. "And on every third day, you have to clean up his poops. It's not too bad unless he gets sick. But you have to do it even if he gets sick! Now, promise." I stood up straight and promised with my whole heart-I could feel it straining with earnestness-because I loved Carol Conroy in the way that ten-year-old girls do love each other, with a fierce, raggedy flame destined to go out. I vowed to do everything she said unless I died.
Ecclesiastes did get sick-maybe because of some licorice I fed him-and I ended up having to clean his cage several times a day for four days straight. The rabbit's illness only endeared him to me. I didn't resent him; I wanted to help him; and I felt gilded when he recovered. Years later, I would say it was Ecclesiastes that prompted me to become a nurse. And now, years after becoming a nurse-in fact, years after having left the profession to take care of my family, I have again made a promise with my whole heart, again out of love for my best friend. Only this time my friend's name is Ruth. And this time the flame is steady, in no danger of going out. I would say it is of the eternal variety.
So now it is ten-thirty in the morning, and Ruth is in the bathtub, and I am straightening out her bed. She has a white eyelet dust ruffle, white sheets with eyelet trim, a blue-and-white striped comforter, Laura Ashley. There are four fat goosedown pillows, each covered with beautiful embroidered pillowcases, white on white. There is a stack of magazines piled high on the floor and a collection of crystals on the bedside table: rose quartz, amethyst, and a clear white one with a delicate, fractured pattern running through it. They are not working. She is dying, though we don't know when. We are waiting. She is only forty-three and I am only forty-two and all this will not stop being surprising.
I hear her calling my name and I crack open the bathroom door. "Yes?"
"Could you come in here?" Her voice is a little shaky and I realize this is the first time I have heard her sound afraid.
I sit on the floor beside her, rest my arms along the edge of the tub to lean in close, though what I am thinking is that I ought to get in with her. She has used bubble bath and the sweet smell rises up warm and nearly palpable between us. Tahitian Ginger. The label on the bottle features happy natives who do not believe in Western medicine. The bubbles have mostly disappeared; I can see the outline of her body in the water. She is half swimming, turning slightly side to side, hips rising languidly up and down. Her breasts are gone.
"What's up?" I say.
She squeezes her bath sponge over her head. She is almost bald, but not quite. Dark strands of hair cling to the bottom of her head and her neck. Duck fluff, we call it. I told her to shave her head and she'd look great, like a movie star, like a rock singer. It's the latest rage, I told her. "Nah," she said. "What's left, I want to keep. It has sentimental value."
"I was wondering what happens when I die," she says now. "I was thinking, how are they sure? Are they really sure? I mean, what if I get buried alive?"
"They're sure," I tell her. "You sort of . . . shut down. Your heart stops, and your breathing. Certain reflexes disappear, you know, like the pupils in your eyes don't react." She watches me, holding absolutely still, looking like a colorized sculpture of herself. I sigh, then add, "And you get cold, you get real cold, okay? Your skin doesn't feel warm anymore. They're absolutely sure."
"Oh," she says. "Okay. Just checking." She is relieved; you can see it in the uncreasing of her forehead, in the loosening to normal of the area around her mouth. "Wash my back, will you?"
She sits up and rests her forehead on her raised knees. I bump the washcloth over newly revealed bones, the delicate scapulas, the orderly line of vertebrae. "I'm becoming exoskeletal," she says, her voice muffled. "I'm turning into a lobster. Maybe when we die we go back incrementally. You know, a little to the sea, then on to the heavens." She thinks a moment, then says, "I was just lying in here and I felt kind of tired and . . . weird, and then I thought, wait-is this it? I mean, how will I know?" She leans back, frowns. "Is that the same question I just asked? Am I making any sense? Do I keep asking the same goddamn question?"
I'd been making dinner. I had The Oprah Winfrey Show on the little kitchen TV. The phone rang and I wiped my hands on my apron and answered it and she said, "It's in my brain."
"No," I say, "it's not the same question. It's different. First you wanted to know how they'd know; now you want to know how you'll know. Different question entirely. You will know, though. You won't be the same person you are now when it happens. You'll be, I don't know . . . wiser."
"Okay." She stands up, asks for a towel, tells me she's done.
"I should think so," I say. "You've been in there for an hour."
"Have I? Jesus, I thought it was about five minutes."
"That's okay. I was having a good time waiting for you. I was reading your diary."
"Find anything good?"
"The sex stuff. That's good. But it's all bullshit."
"You wish."
I help her into a nightgown: white, white-lace trim, thin strands of ribbon hanging down the front.
She climbs in bed, pulls the covers up. She is tired, so pale. But her blue eyes are still beautiful and her face such a perfect shape you could walk into the room and see her and first just be jealous.
"I suppose it could be tonight, couldn't it?" she says. "God, it really could."
I was with her, sitting in the corner of the examining room, while she read questions off her list. She was pushing to know exactly how and when. She's that way: if she'd ever had to go to confession, she'd have torn down the curtain separating her and the priest. "Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you," she would have told him.
Her oncologist was wearing a blue suit, a white shirt, a beautiful Italian silk tie and a gold Rolex watch. He was handsome and very sad, leaning up against the little sink in the room with his arms crossed over his chest and one leg crossed over the other, too. Obviously, this was too much for him. I think when he first met Ruth he fell in love with her and, guiltless, stayed there-though at an antiseptic distance Ruth regretted. Falling in love with her was a liability that came with being a man around her. Finally, he said, "All right, yes. It could be any time. Depending on how it happens. If it's from brain metastasis, it could be at any time."
Of course she has other options. Respiratory failure, say, from lung metastasis. Liver failure from the metastasis there. Think of those cartoons where people are run over by steamrollers and then get up and walk around. You'll be seeing Ruth. She put a new message on her answering machine the other day-she thought the old one sounded too sad. I stood behind her and watched her do it, her back so straight. The only thing that revealed what was really happening is that one of her feet rapidly tapped the floor the whole time she was talking. "It's me," she said. "I can't come to the phone right now. But leave me a message and probably you should make it a good one, okay? Okay, 'bye." She says "okay" all the time, Ruth. Before, we'd be making plans to go somewhere. "Okay, okay, so I'll meet you there at seven, okay?" she'd say.
"Will you stay here tonight?" she asks now.
"Of course." I hope my face doesn't reflect any of the ambivalence I feel. Another night away. I haven't paid bills. I need to call my mother. Joe and I haven't had sex in over six weeks. I feel sometimes as if I'm opening a too-full closet and shoving something else in, then leaning against the door so it won't burst open.
Later, when she is asleep, I'll call home. "Please understand," I'll say.
Ruth pats the bed. "Here, take a load off. Should we watch a movie?"
I stretch out beside her. "I'd rather talk."
"Okay," she says. "But mostly you. I get too short of breath. It's getting worse. Have you noticed?"
She nods. "Yeah."
"What should I talk about?" I ask.
"Me," she says. "Tell me a story about me. If I seem to fall asleep, make sure I'm not dead. I think you have to call somebody if I am, right?"
"Right. The coroner."
"Yes. And call Michael, too. You be the one to tell him. I don't want his father to. He'll fuck it up. But if I'm just sleeping, don't get offended, okay?"
"Okay," I say. "All right: the story of Ruth. So to speak. Well, the first time I saw you, you really pissed me off."
"You were jealous," she says.
"I know," I say. "Everybody was. But also you were being a pain in the ass."
"Exactly wrong," she says. "You're projecting again."
"Exactly right," I agree.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

Excerpted from Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are Saying About This

Amy Bloom
Elizabeth Berg understands women and how they talk and eat and live with each other. She is a tender, funny, grown-up writer who talks with us as much as to us.
From the Publisher
"You'll want to give a copy to  every good woman friend you have." — The Charlotte Observer

"Entertaining, finely crafted Elizabeth Berg tackles serious  issues with grace" — San Francisco Chronicle

"Tender and irreverant by turns, it offers mature intelligent and  buoyant spirit, like a very good  friend." — Houston Post

Meet the Author

Elizabeth Berg is the New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including The Year of Pleasures, The Art of Mending, Say When, True to Form, Never Change, and Open House, which was an Oprah’s Book Club selection in 2000. Durable Goods and Joy School were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, and Talk Before Sleep was short-listed for the ABBY award in 1996. The winner of the 1997 New England Booksellers Award for her body of work, Berg is also the author of a nonfiction work, Escaping Into the Open: The Art of Writing True. She lives in Chicago.

Brief Biography

Chicago, Illinois
Date of Birth:
December 2, 1948
Place of Birth:
St. Paul, Minnesota
Attended the University of Minnesota; St. Mary¿s College, A.A.S.

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Talk Before Sleep 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 35 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I've just moved away from my best friend, and we both decided to read this at the same time. I was devasteted simply leaving the state. As I was reading this book, I found myself relating to every conversation and every emotion that Berg describes. We cried for days in the month before I moved, so I can't even imagine what it must be like to know that permanent separation is imminent, yet at the same time, I know it would feel exactly as Berg describes. The entire tone of the book is very intimate; you feel as if you are right there experiencing everything right alongside the characters. It describes a woman's relationship with perfect accuracy; love, jealousy, admiration, intimacy, humor-it's all there. The good part about this book is that although it's sad, if you read it and recognize the relationship as one that you do possess, then you'll treasure the connection that much more. If you had it once in your lifetime, you'll be grateful you had it at all. I'd recommend it to anyone who's ever loved a woman.
VirtuousWomanKF More than 1 year ago
Sad but very moving! In this novel, Elizabeth Berg does an amazing job giving us a view into a friendship of two best friends. Ruth is dying from breast cancer and Ann is constantly by her side. You get a true sense of what it is like traveling this road from both women's perspective; the person dying and the one left behind, it is so difficult for both to face life and death without the other. This novel is wrought with emotion; deep despair, fear, hope, laughter, and above all love.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Is there anything that Berg writes that isn't wonderful? I don't think so. She is unique in her ability to include everyone in the room in her prose. Her stories are a good glass of wine, a box of tissues, and three of your best friends. All can relate. All can cry, all can say, 'I get it.' Her simplicity is her jewel. Talk Before Sleep is a story of a woman who loses her friend for good. Each page brings me closer to my own heart. There are few writers who can keep simplistic continuity close to the bone. Berg demonstrates that this is second nature to her.
Guest More than 1 year ago

This is the first Elizabeth Berg novel that I've read...and I was not disappointed! I anticipated a real tear-jerker, but was surprised when I found myself actually laughing out loud at some points. I felt like some of the conversations were ones that I've had with my own girlfriends or things I've wanted to say but never have. The book gives you a different perspective on what is important in life -- like lobster and french fry dinners and lots of hot fudge (with friends, of course).

This is a very fast read (I read it in about 4 hours), but it will stay with you for much longer.

Guest More than 1 year ago
There is no stopping the page turning here. Berg writes with an eloquence that simplifies the reality of friendship and dying. The wholeness of her imagery is attainable by all. She is a womans writer, she is both a friend and 'seer'. I would love to meet her, hear her speak, shake her hand.
Anonymous 3 months ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great book but I thought Ruth was a bit selfish
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Written in easy to follow dialog.
willieAP More than 1 year ago
I am an avid Elizabeth Berg fan. Her books somehow reach onto my heart, and touch my soul. She comes up with terrific ways to express in writing the way that I feel, and I love when that happens! The best part of this audio book is that Blythe Danner reads it, and adds even more "meat" to the journey through the book!
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Lisa123 More than 1 year ago
I took my first Elizabeth Berg book with me on a cruise 2 weeks ago, titled Open House. Finished it on the first day. (Could not put it down). When we arrived home, immediately went on the computer and ordered 6 more books. Loved everyone of them. I saved "Talk Before Sleep" for my last one to read, as it sounded as if it would be a little depressing. Well, I just threw away all of the tissues that I used up on the last chapter of this book. Yes, the ending is very sad, but the friendship of Ann and Ruth will remain in my heart forever. I have never read anything before written by Elizabeth Berg, but I am now her biggest fan. I will be ordering the next 6 books shortly. She is an amazing story teller and I only hope she can write as fast as I can read!!!!
Susan61SB More than 1 year ago
This book is well written and contains every emotion any human could ever feel. Although it is depressing, it is a very well-written book. The only thing about this book that I could not find entirely believable was the depth of friendship formed by the woman telling the story and the dying woman. A friendship of this depth would have had to be a lifetime friendship. I honestly don't think several years would do it. It is not that easy to become so emotionally "in tune" with someone in such a short period of time. Other than the things I have stated above, I found the book quite good.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
RoseSW More than 1 year ago
Through the terrible diagnosis of breast cancer, one woman has been sentenced to death. She shares her darkest moments with her closest friends, as well as her small triumphs. This is a story that offers a birdseye view into the depth of womens' friendships, as well as the emotional rollercoaster that ensues when death is imminent. Ruth goes through a plethora of emotions and changes when she learns that there is no hope for her. In the end, she faces the hand that she is dealt with grace and dignity. She learns to embrace the fact that time is limited for her, and she lives like she is dying. This is a book that will put you right there with the characters. You will feel what they feel, see what they see, and shed the tears that they have shed for the impending loss of their closest friend. It will take you on a journey to a place that breeds sentiment. You will weep for these characters and for the sheer depiction of the process of death. This is a story that we can all relate to as we have all lost someone that we were close to. I can't imagine this story having been told better. So grab your box of Kleenex (you will need it) and prepare to laugh, to cry, and to rejoice in the pure and selfless love that women are capable of giving and receiving.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
as a cancer survivor having gone through treatment this book touched my soul. there is nothing more that a woman needs than her friends during that time. i also was glad to see a husband who was not jealous of his wife offering unending time and love to a woman she loved and adored and was inspired by. great read!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was moved by this book and felt it was an honest and open dipiction of women's deep friendship with other women. It hit a nerve as I was reminded of those very special friendship where be bare our souls and support each other selflessly. I enjoy Elizabeth Berg and believe this is one of her best yet.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Its one of the most brilliant books I ever read. Hoping to read more of Elzabeth Berg's.