Chapter Two
DEACON CLARK
“How’d it go?” Dad asked me, a gentle hand on my shoulder, just for a moment, just for as long as he knew I could allow.
He knew my limitations.
“As expected,” I replied, taking my coat off and hanging it neatly.
“Come in and have some dinner,” Mom said from the kitchen. “I made grilled fish.”
My place was set at the table, and when I slid into my seat, she put a plate in front of me, my knife and fork at nine and three o’clock, glass of water at ten o’clock. The fish looked good, the vegetables not touching.
“Thank you.” I took a few mouthfuls. “A man brought an injured cat in,” I told Dad. “It didn’t make it.”
Dad frowned and sat opposite me. “Oh. Do you want to talk about it?”
I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to talk about.
Not all animals could be saved; we both knew this.
It was the first thing they taught in veterinary school.
It was the first thing Dad had taught me as a young child when I would help him at his veterinary clinic. It was an unfortunate fact of life.
I took another mouthful of dinner and shook my head. “No.”
“Okay.”
“The man was quite upset.”
Dad winced. “Was it his cat?”
“No. A stray, I think. Not chipped. Poor condition.” I sipped my water. “Though there were enlarged nipples. I believe it was nursing.”
Dad’s lips formed a thin line, a telltale sign that this was not good. In this case it meant there was a litter of kittens now on their own.
“I didn’t tell the man that,” I admitted. “He was distraught enough.”
“You didn’t know who he was?”
I would have said if I did.
“No.”
Dad inhaled deeply and let out a sigh. His smile was not his happy one. “You did the right thing. I’m sorry I wasn’t there tonight to help you with that.”
I shrugged as I swallowed another mouthful. “It’s fine.”
Mom gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Well, there are some mini apple pies from the diner. I can heat one for you if you like?”
I put my fork down. “No, thank you. It’s not necessary.” They were both looking at me as if they expected me to say something else. “Mrs. Gilbert is bringing her Pomeranian in tomorrow at nine. She said he’s not himself, which is probably directly related to how many treats she gives him.”
Dad nodded, and this time his smile made his eyes shine. “There’s a good chance. I’ll remind her again that one treat a day is enough.”
We sat there for a long few seconds.
My parents were very outwardly caring and loving people, and I knew they tailored their concern for me with gestures of service and kindness. I loved them very much, but I wasn’t good at small talk.
In fact, small talk made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t any good at it, and I didn’t like how people looked at me waiting for my input.
I stood up and put my plate straight into the dishwasher and made myself hold eye contact with Mom. “Thank you for dinner.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome, love.”
“I’ll go shower now.”
Dad poured himself a glass of milk. “Our show starts at seven. Don’t forget.”
How could I forget something we did every single night? Regardless, I nodded, happier now. “Okay.”
I went to my room and closed the door, feeling immediately at ease.
The relief of it, I felt in my bones. It was quiet, and it smelled right.
My single bed in the corner with the blue covers was perfectly made, just as I’d left it this morning.
My notebooks and pens sat on my desk, exactly as I’d put them; not a thing out of place.
As I knew it would be, but I still liked to see it.
I showered quickly in my bathroom and wore my winter pajamas when I redressed, hanging my towel neatly on the rack to dry.
And as I sat on my bed to put my slippers on, my eyes went to my bookcase. Neat rows of my favorites, the ones I’d first read from the library but needed to buy, to have for my very own.
To one book in particular.
I slid it out of its row. Its red cover with the white circle and the black lines of legs that look like trees.
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.
This book, this perfect book. Words that stayed with me long after I’d finished it. Words that resonated with me. That plucked a string inside me.
I’ve read a lot of books. Fiction, non-fiction, and textbooks, of course.
Manga and yaoi. I’d found those when I’d gone to college . . . I didn’t own any physical copies though, only digital.
I loved all books. Some more than others.
But I’d read Norwegian Wood more times than I could count, and it resonated with me even more, every time.
I’d quoted this book today to the distraught man who’d brought the cat into the clinic.
I wasn’t entirely sure why, which wasn’t a feeling I liked. I rarely offered my opinion or words of comfort, unless asked. He hadn’t asked me, but I’d felt compelled to offer something.
He was so upset, and more often than not, I found people’s outward display of emotions disconcerting.
But with this man, I wanted to help him, which admittedly usually ended badly—my father typically intervened in situations such as these—but I’d said to this man the first words that came into my head.
Words that helped me process the reality of veterinary science—understanding my father’s profession and the path I’d chosen to follow—and appreciate the fact that we helped more than we lost.
Death was a part of life. I knew that. It wasn’t easy, but it was the undeniable truth. I couldn’t offer any words on loss or the pain which accompanied it because it was not my loss to bear.
But I wanted to comfort that man with words that I myself had found comfort in.
I wondered briefly how he was. Was he still sad? And the kittens who were now fending for themselves. Were they warm? Were they crying for a mother, a source of food, who wasn’t coming back?
“Deacon,” Dad called out. “Our show’s about to start.”
I slid the book back into its place and found my dad in his favorite chair with Mildred, our bulldog, by his feet. I sat in my usual spot, unsure how to broach the subject.
“Everything okay?” Dad asked me.
“I’d like to find the kittens,” I said. “From the stray that was brought in. I should have asked the man where he’d hit her with his car, then I could have gone to see if I could find them.
There’s no way of knowing how young they are, a few weeks perhaps, and they might not be able to fend for themselves.
I should have asked him, and I didn’t. I feel bad that I didn’t ask.
I didn’t even ask his name. He said he would pay whatever fees we charged, but I didn’t think to get his name.
He was so upset, I . . .” I shrugged. “I thought it best if I just let him leave.”
Dad gave me a warm smile. “We can ask around tomorrow and have a look at the cameras at work. We might see his car, and we can find him that way. Don’t feel bad about the kittens. They weren’t your primary concern at the time.”
“I should have thought about it, but I didn’t. As a veterinarian, I’m supposed to think of these things.”
“We’ll see what we can find out tomorrow. I’m sure those kittens are in their little hideout, warm as toast. We can start looking tomorrow.”
I trusted his judgment, so I tried not to think about it and to enjoy our 7:00 p.m. ritual.
His attention turned to the TV. “Ooh, okay, it’s about to start.”
Every night we watched reruns of Antiques Roadshow, guessing how much each item was worth. This little game we played was one of my favorite things.
The show began, and I tried to stop thinking about the kittens, which of course, meant I thought about them more. My mind did this to me often. Trying to not think about something usually made it the only thing I could think about.
Dad did his best to distract me, and the guessing games were fun.
I appreciated his efforts, but I was relieved when it was time for bed.
It meant I could lie in my room—my favorite place—surrounded by my things, where it was quiet and contained, and stare at the ceiling.
I could think about finding the kittens tomorrow.
My mind kept replaying the scenario of the sad man and how upset he’d been, how I’d tried to comfort him by quoting Haruki Murakami.
And of course, the more I tried to not think about him, about his kindness and his sad eyes, the more I thought about him.
I slipped out of bed, slid my copy of Norwegian Wood from the bookcase and took it back to bed with me.
I’d read it a few dozen times, and I could have very easily began at page one, immersing myself in the gentle words. There was a pattern, a cadence to the writing that I connected with, and yes, reading it over would have been easy and would have stopped me thinking about the man from the clinic.
But for reasons I didn’t quite understand, I didn’t want to stop thinking about him.
So I slipped the book under my pillow, switched my lamp off, and closed my eyes. I pictured in my mind the man and the way he looked at me when I’d quoted those words to him.
His kind face, the way his sad eyes met mine.
I couldn’t get the image out of my head, but for another reason I didn’t quite understand, I didn’t even mind.