Chapter 23
Jake
He was gone by the time I got back, and the rest of that day and for several days I was numb, detached, and sad. And couldn’t recall anything I had thought about on my run.
Going back to the clinic took a lot of effort.
I slipped into a mechanical mode devoid of much feeling.
It helped me separate my grief from the needs of my patients and their humans.
I could tell, though, that everyone, especially Sheila, was being gentle with me even as they dealt with their own sadness about Chic.
Sheila didn’t know this, but I caught her wiping away tears during a coffee break.
“Good morning, Shawna. I’m Dr. Elliot. What brings you and”—I flipped my clipboard to the page that gave me the patient information—“Cade in today?” I looked up and saw blond fur, lighter tips showing age.
This golden retriever even had the same wheezing breathing.
Something in me shattered. I interrupted her as she started to tell me her dog’s symptoms and excused myself abruptly.
I found myself in the back room. I gripped the edge of the counter, listening to the sound of the coffeepot sighing after making a fresh pot.
The staff refrigerator hummed. Suddenly, I was thirteen years old.
My mother’s hospital bed was empty. It smelled sterile and clean.
All clues that she had been here, wiped away.
Dad was down the hall finishing up with the nurse.
From the corner of my eye, brown hair swished past the door.
It was her. She wasn’t dead. She was walking in the hallway.
She hadn’t been able to walk last time I saw her.
She was better. Stronger. This had all been a big misunderstanding.
I stepped into the hall. “Mom. Wait. Mom, don’t walk so fast.”
I caught up to her and touched her arm. The woman turned, and her face .
. . it was different. Still the gray, waxy skin.
Dark under-eye circles. Purple splotches.
Sunken cheeks. All common signs of someone fighting cancer.
But this wasn’t Mom. This was another cancer patient in the hospital.
One who was still fighting. Still undergoing treatment.
My mom had lost the fight. She was gone.
I gasped and my breaths were shaky.
Next thing I knew, Dad was pulling me away.
“Jake. Jake, are you okay?” The voice, Sheila’s, pulled me back to the present. And a new loss.
“Yes.” It came out like a whisper at first. I cleared my throat. “Yes. Sheila. I just needed a minute.”
I took a deep breath and realized I needed more than just a minute. I was trying to return too soon. I hadn’t had thoughts about my mother’s death in a very long time. I’d done enough therapy over the years since, though, to recognize that I needed more time.
“Sheila, I think I need to go home. Can you reschedule my day?” I asked.
“Of course. Yes,” she replied.
With that, I removed my white coat and slipped out the back door.
When I pulled into my driveway, I turned off the truck and just sat there, allowing the sounds of the lake and the nature I found soothing to wash over me through the open truck windows.
I don’t know how long I sat there like that before the latch of the passenger door clicked and the door creaked open.
Ali climbed into the truck beside me. Our eyes met but her face didn’t change expression.
She was soft and gentle. We both turned our heads forward and looked out the windshield.
I appreciated her comforting presence. She didn’t try to reach for me or say anything. She was simply there.
After the right amount of time, I finally spoke.
“Today was hard.”
She nodded.
“And not just because of Chic. Grief for my mom resurfaced today too,” I admitted.
She turned to face me, and after a long blink of her eyes she said, “Of course it did.”
I’d not told Ali about my mother and losing her when I was barely a teenager. How I’d watched her health deteriorate rapidly. One day she was fine. The next she was very sick. And then she was gone. Yet even though Ali couldn’t know the details, her response was the exact right thing to say.
She leaned back against the seat and breathed deeply.
“I remember this quote from a psychology class back in college: Grief never asks permission. It just barges in, carrying old wounds with it. I think about that a lot.”
I laughed—a short and hollow sound yanked back by sadness—and nodded in agreement.
The silence enveloped me once again. But this time I wasn’t alone in it. Ali sat by my side the entire time, and with her there, the grief felt less and less like a centrifuge throwing every old hurt and current loss back into the open.
The next few days were a juggling act between veterinarian and grieving pet parent, but I felt myself allowing things to snap back into place. But to do this, I reverted back to my rigid routines and schedules. It always helped me feel grounded and focused. I had no idea how it appeared to Ali.
All my other friends and colleagues knew how I was.
When Ali first came into town, I’d been thrown for a loop and somehow got away from needing that level of consistency.
I found myself being okay with spontaneity and impulse for once.
Nowhere near Ali’s level, but enough so I could keep up with her.
Now I was slowed down and back to structure.
She graciously met me where I was day after day, but I wasn’t sure we could sustain it.
She was exactly what I needed, but I also recognized that it wasn’t her—like it wasn’t Charlotte.
And therefore, it couldn’t possibly last. I wondered when she would get sick of it.
I imagined she was crawling in her skin, itching to scream after a week and a half of this.
“I made some fresh iced tea. Care for a glass?” Ali asked from the edge of the patch of wild garden I was tending. It was a very warm day. She was dressed in a gingham-patterned red dress with strings that tied at the tops of her shoulders.
“What do you mean, you made it?” I said playfully.
“Relax, I’ve perfected brewing my own iced tea over the years,” she said.
“I’d love a glass.”
She smiled brightly, like she’d just won a ribbon at the county fair.
She handed me one of the blue hobnail glasses in her hands. It was filled with ice, slightly sweetened brown liquid, and garnished with a lemon wedge.
“It’s good. Thanks.” I smiled.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m okay. How are you?” I responded with another smile. This felt so weird. A little over a week ago I was watching her gorgeous mouth part as her breaths came faster and faster toward her climax. And here we were back to small talk?
She laughed a little. “I’m good and I’m happy to see a smile on your face,” she said as she pointed her finger toward me and took a sip of her tea.
“You’ve been quiet the last few days,” I said.
She shrugged.
“I’m keeping busy. I’ve been working on getting the mural done,” she shared.
My face dropped. The mural. The campaign. Shit. I hadn’t been helping Ali at all with her main purpose for being here in Lakeside.
“Oh no. I am so sorry, Ali. I completely forgot about that.”
She pulled her glass away mid-sip. “No, no. Don’t apologize. Or worry. I have it all under control, and it will all still be ready for unveiling on Independence Day. Do you think you’ll feel up to taking part in the festivities?”
The Fourth of July was a big deal in Lakeside, and it was fast approaching.
“Of course,” was all I said. Because yes, I would take part. And yes, I would find joy in all the ways Lakeside showed out for the holiday. But I would still have an ache in my chest for Chic and for all the reminders of the loss of my mother.
“Good! I’m looking forward to the holiday and to spending time with you,” she said a little sheepishly.
“I don’t know how much fun I’ll be, though,” I warned.
Her shoulders dropped.
“Yes, obviously. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be too enthusiastic.” She started to walk away. “I’ll let you get back to your . . . your . . . stuff.” Her words stumbled.
“Ali, wait. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.
” I explained, “You are normally so full of life, and I’ve been such a drag lately.
I can tell you’re keeping your distance.
It’s okay if you don’t want to get close to this side of me, but you should know that this is who I am.
I am regimented and structured. I am boring.
As much as I don’t want to be. And as much as you seem to bring out a different side of me. Most of the time, I am.”
“Oh, Jake. No. I don’t think any of that.
I see your strength and that you’re working through some stuff.
I admire the way you’re handling everything.
If anything, I’ve felt like I needed to keep my distance because I didn’t want to add too much more to your plate.
I know that about myself. And I know that energy is not what you need right now,” she said. Then under her breath, “If ever . . .”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Well. I mean. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I am too much for most people on a good day. Let alone when someone is having a bad one—”
I cut her off. “No. You are never too much. Not to me.” I looked directly into her eyes when I said it. I wanted to sear it into her brain. Onto her heart.
“So don’t cap yourself to ensure I’m comfortable. Okay? Trust your instincts. I have faith that you know how to show up for your friends and loved ones. I’m happy you’re here for me.”
I reached my empty cup out for her to take with her.
“Thank you for the drink.”
She took the glass from me, and I turned my back on her to continue working in the dirt.
Suddenly, I felt a delicate hand brush along the back of my biceps.
I turned toward her as the hand caressed up to my shoulder.
I moved almost fully to face her, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed me tightly.
I could tell she was on her tiptoes and unsteady.
I let my arms wrap around her waist with strength and pressure, holding her steady.
Letting all her compassion and feeling filter into me.
Fill me up. Healing me little by little.
I dipped my head into her neck and breathed in her scent.
I let my lips brush the side of her neck.
Then I licked my lips so I could taste her skin.
I listened for her pulse and let the gentle thump root us in the moment.
I wanted all my senses to be flooded by this woman.
We stayed wrapped around each other for a long time.
It was exactly what I needed.