After
AFTER
Darlene swings open her front door and does a double take. Her snowy eyebrows climb her forehead as she regards the bundle in my arms.
“Hi.” I rearrange my grip on the dog, earning myself a pitiful whine. “I’m so sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but she needs help, and I didn’t know where else to go.”
Darlene adjusts her glasses and beckons me inside. “Bother me? No, no, you just surprised me. Bring her here and let’s see what we’ve got.”
In the living room, I arrange the dog gingerly, aware that any jostling might drive a bone shard deeper. Her sides heave, but the sky-blue carpet provides a decent cushion, at least. “I found her hiding underneath my deck.”
Darlene gets down beside me, somehow still limber, even at eighty-nine. She often says that her second passion in life—teaching aerobics—keeps her youthful, and I’m inclined to believe her.
“Did you see anything outside?” she says. “Another dog that might’ve attacked her, maybe? A bear?”
“No, nothing.”
Darlene squeezes the dog’s legs, prods her belly, pries her teeth apart and squints inside.
A lump grows in my throat. “Is it bad?” Now that our furious dash across town is over, I realize this poor, elderly dog is the first creature I’d spoken to in a week. She might resemble Penny in only the vaguest of ways, but I’d scale mountains for her regardless.
Anything that involves flipping death a giant middle finger.
“Hmm. Doesn’t look like it.” Darlene reaches between the dog’s teeth and works a jagged stick free. Blood stains one end, but the moment it’s out, the dog rolls onto her belly, her tongue lolling out like a banner.
I release a shaky exhale. Damn. Why didn’t I think of that?
Darlene levers herself up—god, I really should start doing aerobics—and goes to her kitchen, which is really a continuation of the living room, separated only by a Formica counter and some scuffed wooden stools. She retrieves a box of chewy treats and gives the dog three, not seeming to care about the resulting shower of drool.
“She’ll be fine.” She peers at me. “But what about you? I haven’t seen you in months. We’ve been missing you at the shelter.”
I scrub my palms on my ratty pajama pants and avoid her pointed gaze. “Yeah, sorry. I just haven’t been up for it.”
Her lips thin. “That’s understandable. But...are you all right? I saw your mom last month, and she said she can hardly get you on the phone anymore. She wasn’t even sure if you were eating the food she left you.”
I flinch. My mother’s efforts haven’t gone to waste; I’ve squirreled away every last casserole that’s appeared on my doorstep, and now graduated to filling the chest freezer in the garage. The part about the phone calls is a stretch, though. My mother and I spoke dozens of times in the months after Michael died, when my heart felt as though it had fallen out through a hole in my stomach. All I’d wanted was for someone who understood grief to staunch the bleeding. I’d spent hours on the phone with my mother, hoping she would impart the secrets known only to those who’ve suffered the unimaginable and somehow carried on living.
Except it turned out there is no secret, only comrades united by loss, and eventually, I’d simply grown...tired of railing against the irrevocable. Of crying so hard I could barely get words out. So, fine, maybe I’d let the doorbell go unanswered a few times, and I might have let a call or two through to voicemail. But then August had rolled around, and contact had naturally dwindled, the same way it always does during my birthday month.
Darlene sighs. “Well, the next time I see her, I’ll tell her you came by, put her mind at ease a little. Now, since you’re here, why don’t I grab you a beer?”
She tugs me up from the floor and steers me to one of the stools at the counter. I glance at the wall clock—a kitten whose minute and hour arms bat at a second hand with a ball of yarn at the tip. “It’s ten in the morning. Can you really offer me alcohol this early?”
“I’ll be ninety next month. I can do whatever I want.”
That gets a wobbly laugh out of me. Darlene glances to where my hands tremble against the Formica, and I tuck them into my lap.
She rummages in her fridge as the dog munches away, then pops the top off a brown bottle and sets it down. “I have to say, I’d hoped you’d be feeling better by now.”
I take a half-hearted sip. The cold beer settles heavy in my stomach. “Does anyone ever really feel better after their husband dies?”
It’s an honest question, and Darlene weighs her answer accordingly. “I wouldn’t know, myself. It’s just...that year Margo Fontenot died, when your parents took you away for the summer...you seemed better when you came back. I know what happened to that poor girl isn’t the same, but however you managed then, I was hoping you’d find a similar kind of healing now.”
I turn the bottle in place. It’s true—going away that summer helped. Immeasurably. I’d spent the immediate months after Margo’s death huddled in bed with the curtains drawn, barely stirring, barely eating. Eventually, my mother had insisted on a vacation, then packed up the car so we could drive to our summer cabin near Skykomish.
Where her intuition had proved correct. The magic of the woods had dispelled the dark fog of loss. The warm, lemony sunlight on my skin, the redolent scent of ancient woods in my nose... Being outside had stitched me back together, reconnected me to the world. Mother Nature had folded me into her embrace and breathed life into me again.
I don’t say that to Darlene, though. Something about that experience feels fiercely personal, probably because the one time I tried to explain it to Michael, I sounded ridiculous. our dog Penny had died, I’d brought up going to the cabin in Skykomish again. I’d wanted to see if the healing power of the woods could still soothe me the way it had when I was a teenager.
He’d frowned, told me we had a perfectly good forest in our backyard. You can’t run off into the woods and pretend real life doesn’t exist, Mina . I mean, you can, but reality will still be waiting when you get back. At some point, you’ll have to learn how to deal with it here.
I pick at the bottle’s label. He was right, of course. Which is why I’ve dutifully mourned him in Seagrove, in the same house we loved each other in. I’ve tried my best to honor his memory the way he would’ve wished.
“It’s a good idea,” I say faintly, for lack of anything else. “I’ll think about it.”
Darlene nods, but the set of her mouth tells me the lie hasn’t escaped her notice. “I suppose that’s all I can ask. Now, why don’t we decide what to do with your friend here?”
I twist on my stool, grateful for the subject change. From the floor, the dog regards us with hopeful eyes. I’m guessing she’d devour the entire box of treats if given the chance.
“She hasn’t got a collar, but I can scan her for a chip at the shelter tomorrow.” Darlene comes around the counter. “If she doesn’t have one, would you consider fostering her while we look for a new home?”
I pause. “Me?”
“Well, why not?”
As the dog and I lock eyes, warmth blooms in my belly. Maybe that’s what I need. Not to run off to the woods, but to have some company. It’s as decent an idea as any. “Why not?”
“Great. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
We chat about nothing much as I polish off my beer. Before leaving, I get down on the carpet to snuggle the dog. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I murmur into her fur. She smells terrible, but my chest expands when I think of sharing my empty bed with her.
Not that any animal can replace a husband. No dog will ever dispel the memories of the way Michael’s hair glistened in the morning light, or the long, slow inhale that always prefaced his surfacing from sleep. No pet can replace the treasured, quiet moments we spent in silence, our legs entwined, before the day’s work inevitably drew us in opposite directions.
But even canine companionship beats the company of the crushing darkness that smothers me nightly now, its silence not tender, but taunting. I’m sick to death of lying in bed alone, obsessing over how I spent my last moment as Michael’s wife.
I clear my throat and give the dog one last pat, then go to the door.
Darlene’s eyes shine as she wraps me in a hug. “Sorry about earlier. I hope you can forgive an old lady for worrying about her friend.”
I squeeze back. “There’s nothing to forgive. And I appreciate you caring. Really. I just wish I was more myself. But I’ll get there. Eventually. I hope.”
She nods and releases me. “If you need anything, you just let me know.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
The thing is, I would ask, if I only knew what to ask for. But right now, even I don’t know what I need.
Still, when I step out onto the welcome mat, I glance back, my gaze latching on to the dog and staying there until Darlene’s door swings shut.