18. Brinn
Chapter 18
Brinn
The incessant knocking on my door seems to beat in time with the throbbing of my headache.
When was the last time I drank anything? My coffee and my water bottle next to me are still full. Oops.
My phone buzzes. Isaac’s name and smiling picture staring at me from the screen. I press ignore. So much for respecting my wishes.
I thought it’d be easier telling Isaac to leave me alone—deciding instead of the universe deciding for me in some horrible way. Or, instead of Isaac deciding he’s had enough of me. However, it’s been hard.
The crushing, looming date of the anniversary of Josh’s death and the heartbreak of the only other person I’ve ever loved has been hard to handle. I’ve been falling behind at work. I realized this morning that I forgot to eat at all yesterday.
I wake up; I struggle through work; I go back to bed. Wash, rinse, repeat.
A moment later, a text pops up.
Isaac: Brinn, I have an emergency. I need you to watch PB. Please.
Icy fear shoots through me. Is he sick? Is he hurt? Is it his sister? His mom? The fear freezes me in place for a moment before my phone rings again. I run down the stairs instead of answering it, desperate to confirm that he’s still standing.
When I yank open the door, he is dripping with harried concern. It pulls the corners of his mouth down; it bends his spine and shoulders towards the earth. My sunny, handsome neighbor is drowning in distress.
Suddenly, I understand why he grabbed me like he did that day in the town square, checking me over for any hint of injury or issue. I grip the doorknob with white knuckles to stave off the same reaction. It is not my place; I made sure of that.
“Brinn.” His voice is rough as he hangs up the phone and stares at me. “I need to go to New York right away. Can you watch PB for a few days?” His hand scrubs across his face. “I’m sorry to ask, I don’t....” His voice cracks.
“Of course,” I say. The heartbreak of seeing his hurt takes my breath away. New York means something with his family.
“I’ll bring her over on my way to the airport,” he says. “I have to go find a flight ASAP.”
“Is something wrong with Sierra? Is something wrong with your mom? Isaac....”
He stares at me for a moment. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Thank you for watching PB—sorry this is happening again. She should be fine playing in the yard if a walk isn’t in the cards. I’ll bring her by soon.” He leaves before my sluggish brain can process anything.
I close the door when he’s finally out of sight and set to work, picking up the refuse of my depression pit and setting out fresh blanket beds for Pork Belly.
The way this echoes the first time she stayed with me makes my skin itch. Perhaps this is some sort of cosmic punishment for hurting Isaac again or for my weakness. It’s the universe showing me what I could have if I weren’t so broken. Perhaps it’s the universe making me care for Isaac in his time of need because I caused him grief.
After Josh’s death, I’m not sure I believe in some divine or cosmic justice system, but the thought that this is a coincidence is also draining.
At least I won’t be alone on the anniversary, I guess. That’s more than I deserve.
Two hours later, Isaac knocks on my door with Pork Belly and her supplies in tow. “I never took my emergency key back,” he says, as if I hadn’t noticed it looming on my key hook a couple days after he left me in my bedroom. “If either of you needs anything, it’s fine if you go over.”
“Are you okay?” I ask him tentatively.
His somber expression doesn’t change. “Take care of yourself and PB. You’re helping me that way.” He kneels down to give PB a good ear scratching. “Be a good girl for Brinn. I’ll be back soon. No chasing seagulls, okay? You’ve been doing well in doggie class, and now it’s time to put it to the test.”
PB’s tongue lolls happily as she grins at the affection. She wags her tail as he walks away. I envy her outlook on life.
Like the rest of time around me right now, the first night with PB passes in a blur.
In the morning, her soft, wet nose nudges my hand at the edge of the bed. A dramatic snuffling, followed by a huge lick, rouses me. “Okay, okay, I’m up.”
She dutifully leads me downstairs to let her out and waits patiently for her breakfast. I might consider having kids if they could be anywhere as polite as her.
A knock on my door surprises me. Is Isaac back already? My phone is void of notifications. Why are so many people knocking at my door lately?
I shuffle towards it and see a woman with four leashes clipped to her belt. Beside her, a set of ears and a wagging tail peek over the windowsill. She waves through the window as she sees me approach.
“Hiiiiiii,” her singsong voice trills as I open the door. “Brinn Michaels?”
Four dogs orbit the lithe redhead. An elderly pug, his muzzle tipped in white; a white, fluffy creature whose tail and ears had been visible through my window; a beagle looking at me with intense interest; and a black puppy, destined to be massive if the size of her paws indicate anything.
I blink in surprise. “Yes?”
“I’m Robin, from the shelter,” she says and holds out her hand. I quickly move my coffee cup to the other hand and shake it in a numb reflex. “Are you still ready for the photos today?” she asks tentatively, her expressive face hiding none of her concern. “We switched from Thursday to today, remember?”
I did not remember. I had forgotten entirely. Grief and worry use unimaginable amounts of brainpower—they consume every open space and leave nothing for anything else. Even when you find joy again, those places feel calloused and narrow, unable to hold anything the same way.
I nod my head anyway. “Right, sorry. I am running behind. Are you in a time crunch?”
“Not at all!” she chirps. Her name suits her. I lead her to the living room and open the door to the backyard.
“I just need a moment to grab my gear.”
Pork Belly appears out of nowhere, tail wagging excitedly as she and the white dog sniff each other.
“Ohmigoooood,” she says. “Pork Belly!” I give her a quizzical look. “I met Pork Belly and Isaac at the training class,” she explains. “I work with one of the rescue dogs in each class cycle. I’ve been going with Daisy,” she says, pointing to the beagle, who is now excitedly greeting PB. The room is a mass of chaotic tail wags. “Are you Isaac’s girlfriend?”
“We’re just friends.” The words are more brusque than I meant, and I cringe internally. “I’ll be right back.” I scurry out of the room and realize I am still wearing pajamas, adding to my eternal embarrassment.
Ten minutes later, I have changed, brushed my hair, and grabbed my camera. The puppy party has moved to the backyard, where the chaos can spread out. I lay down a picnic blanket under a tree and ask Robin to bring me a dog.
The camera doesn’t feel like the appendage I had grown to love again. It is like a limb that’s fallen asleep. I know how to move it and operate it, but there’s no feeling behind it.
The white fluff ball, I learn, is a Spitz named Franz. His face is expressive, and he is great at sitting. When we try to put a flower crown on him, he’s more interested in holding it in his mouth, which looks adorable, so we let him.
A closer examination of the ancient pug, Mr. Rogers, who had spent most of his time with his nose pressed against one planter, reveals milky, unfocused eyes.
Robin explains he’s fourteen and has severe cataracts. He’s part of the shelter’s senior hospice program. Despite that, Robin tells me he was overjoyed to walk all the way here, following the other dogs without hesitation. He leans into ear scratches with pleasure, though he is entirely uninterested in listening.
“Is he hard of hearing?”
“No, he’s just stubborn,” she laughs.
The camera seems to come alive in my fingers little by little, each shutter click like a breath. The weight of it is soothing in my hands instead of a drag. Each tiny change of settings is like a step toward something beautiful, instead of a dutiful slog.
The puppy grabs at the camera bag, and I can’t help but laugh and snap a picture.
“Who is this little terror?” I say teasingly as I scoop her up. The joy on my face is out of place, but I can’t stop it from spreading as she wags her tail.
“This is Ursula.”
Ursula turns out to be more interested in tugging at the blanket tassels than sitting still, but like any puppy, she is easy to bribe with some treats.
Last but not least is the stern beagle, Jellybean. He is quiet and stately and listens to directions well. His pictures are more like a presidential portrait than Ursula’s playground romp. I love the way they turn out.
As I take the last picture, I am sad. Soon, Robin and the whirlwind of creatures will leave, and I will be alone with Pork Belly. Without PB, I’d just be alone.
That’s what I want, though, isn’t it? Can brief sips from puddles of joy sustain a person, or do they need to dig a well for it? Where can you dig a well without fear it won’t collapse on you? Can I spend the rest of my days with this life?
The questions roll around my mind as I say goodbye to Robin and her pack. I am already excited to see her next week.
The weight of it settles into my bones. The question marks feel like icicles as they dig into me.
The heavy fog of grief and guilt that crept back into my life is no longer a comfort. It’s easy to let it consume you when you see no way out. The thought of anything but what you know is more terrifying than the fog.
Once you find a path out of it and have the energy and the bravery to follow it, the fog becomes the terrifying part. The coldness that once kept you in a numb stasis now claws at you. It’s so easy to let it catch up. I’m not sure it ever truly falls far behind, just like the ever-burning flames of anger.
But the shiver wracking my body as I think about the blur of the past few weeks reminds me that the place in the sunshine was better. Where the anger does not scorch me, and the grief does not freeze me—a mixture that turns me to stone and rot. I think about that place where it is warm and joyful. However undeserving I am of it.
I’m lost in thought when Pork Belly brings me her favorite stuffed toy, a well-chewed moose. She wags her tail as she waits for me to take it. She deserves playtime more than I deserve an existential spiral, that’s for sure.
I wiggle it to tempt her into a tug-of-war. She doesn’t bite, literally. I toss it for her, and she looks at the toy, then back at me, face curious. Normally she’d be diving after it.
“Are you feeling alright, Miss Belly?”
She trots over to her toy and brings it back to me. This time, she jumps on the couch, bringing her soft head and battered moose to rest in my lap. She drops the moose and nudges it towards me like a gift. “This is your favorite, Belly. I don’t deserve it. It’s yours.” She nudges it again, huffing at me. I rest one hand on her head and the other on the head of the moose. She wags her tail and closes her eyes.
I’ve always thought dogs were an excellent judge of character. They understand us in ways we no longer have the senses to understand. Maybe if someone like Pork Belly thinks I am worthy of her favorite toy, I am worthy of at least a little sunshine.
“Do you want to go for a walk, Miss Belly?” I ask her. Her eyes shoot open as her tail wags once more.