Chapter 11
NOW
A week passes. Then another.
More vitamins arrive at Ishaan’s porch and remain there.
His curtains stay drawn. The screen door doesn’t open.
One morning, a van pulls up and a cleaning company begins unloading supplies onto the curb.
A few hours later, the boxes of vitamins are gone.
Later that day, I hear Mr. Nguyen telling Dwayne—in a low voice, but not low enough—that Ishaan had died.
The next time I wheel my bin out to the curb, I pause at Ishaan’s now-empty porch. It looks strange without the clutter. Barren, almost. I’m suddenly overcome.
Maybe it’s the reminder that one day, all of us will stop receiving packages.
That the world keeps spinning without ceremony.
Or maybe I’m just coming down with something.
I’ve often found that a jolt of emotion is the harbinger of a nasty cold or virus.
Just when I start to worry I’m depressed, I sneeze or vomit and think, Oh good. That’s what it was.
I don’t hear from the police again. Life continues as before.
Joan scurries away every time she sees me.
Persephone makes a pest of herself. Peter is as affable as ever, which I find baffling, considering what I’m certain he knows.
He even brought over a fluffy dog bed and dog feeder for Nugget (both bought on special at Aldi, obviously), which I initially refused because I had no intention of keeping her.
I tried putting the dog out on the street and she stood on my doorstep, barking.
Finally, to avoid her crapping in my roses, I let her inside and called the animal shelter.
“You’re at capacity?” I cried. “But you’re a bloody shelter.”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Even shelters run out of space, I’m afraid.”
“But I’m an elderly woman. The dog is bereaved. I’m not equipped.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What would happen if I came and left her on the doorstep?” I said. “You’d have to take her then.”
“Unfortunately,” the man said, “the dog would have to be euthanized.”
I looked at Nugget, at my feet, who had the good sense to stop barking.
What’s happening? Daphne mouthed.
“If you could keep her for another week or two, I promise I’ll find her a spot.”
“Two weeks,” I said. “Tops.”
Yesterday—two weeks to the day—I called again, only to be told it would be another two weeks.
“Seven days,” I said. “After that, I’ll euthanize the dog myself.”
Daphne laughed. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“With everything you know about me,” I said to Daphne, “do you really believe that?”
One afternoon, when I venture onto my porch to let Nugget do her business, I find Persephone in the laneway with a purple iridescent Hula-Hoop around her neck. She attempts to make it spin by jutting and retracting her chin rhythmically, but the hoop remains motionless. Odd child.
“Elsa!” she cries when she sees me. I might have found her excitement endearing had she not tossed her hoop into the air with excitement, sending it hurtling into my rosebushes. “Want to play Uno?”
For the love of God.
“No,” I say. “And get that Hula-Hoop out of my rosebushes.”
But she’s already seated at my wrought iron table, pulling the cards from her pocket.
“Is Nugget yours now?” Persephone says, as she concentrates on dealing. Her tongue sticks out as she does it, which is something approaching—but not quite—endearing.
“Don’t be absurd, child.”
“What will happen to her?”
I glance into the street for someone to palm her off to. But everyone is wiser than me. “Sausage factory, I expect.”
“What?” She looks up, eyes wide and brokenhearted. Mother of God.
I have an idea.
“Unless … I don’t suppose you want her?”
“Me? A dog?” Her face morphs from confused to utterly delighted. “OMG OMG OMG.” Her face falls. “But my mum would never let me.”
“I’m sure I could help you convince her,” I say.
“Really?” Persephone abandons the cards and kneels on the porch. “You think?”
“Why not?” I say, feeling downright convivial. What a marvelous idea! With the dog, the child might even find herself too busy to visit me. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.
“Come here, little one!” she says, thrusting out a chubby hand toward Nugget.
Nugget bares her teeth.
“Oh,” she says, withdrawing her hand. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Nonsense!” I say gaily. “She’s smiling!”
Nugget growls at her.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I say. “She does that to everyone. Look.”
I reach out a hand toward the little hellion, fully prepared to take a flesh wound and a dose of rabies if it gets rid of the dog. But the damned thing approaches slowly, and licks—licks!—my hand. I rip it away.
“I think she wants to stay with you, Elsa!” Persephone says.
“Balderdash. She’s confused. Perhaps she thinks I’m Ishaan. Anyway, why are you still here? Where is your mother?”
“Sleeping.”
“Sleeping? In the middle of the day?”
She nods. Odd. I wonder, idly, if Roxanne might be a very friendly drug addict. She does always look tired.
“What if we play Snap?” Persephone says.
“No.”
“One game?”
“Go play with someone else.”
She looks around dramatically at the empty street, then cocks an eyebrow. “Who?”
Impertinent child. “I don’t know. A friend?”
“But you’re my friend.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
She crosses her arms and sticks out her bottom lip. “Why is that absurd?”
“Because I’m eighty-one. And you’re … how old?”
“Seven.”
“How many seven-year-olds do you know who are friends with eighty-one-year-olds?”
“It’s not ideal,” she agrees, after a moment’s consideration. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
I feel a rare moment of pity for the child. “You’re not a beggar, child.”
She laughs. “I know that. You’re the beggar. I’m the chooser. Because I choose you!”
It’s irritating to notice somewhere behind my exasperation, a part of me is affected by this.
I choose you. It’s hard to imagine a nicer thing to say to a person, especially when you’re not the sort of person people tend to choose.
And yet here she is. This loud, bossy, sticky-fingered child declaring, without hesitation, that I’m the one she wants.
As if I’m some grand prize and not just the only adult left upright on the street.
Persephone offers me a winning smile, knowing she’s got me. “What do you say? Uno or Snap? What do you say, bestie?”
Mother of God.