5. Animal #3
I hold my hand out to the door separating the waiting room from exam rooms. It isn’t Emory that steps forward, though, but her daughter.
“That sounds awesome! I never get to go to the exam rooms. Dr. Raff always comes to our house and keeps the tools way up high so I can’t reach.
Do you have instruments back there? I’m gonna be a veterinarian one day. ”
“I have all the instruments back there,” I say, letting her fall into step beside me. “What kind of animals do you think you want to work with, little Red?”
She smiles at the moniker. “How did you know my nickname is Red? My mama calls me that sometimes.”
My eyes flick over my shoulder to Emory, who’s staring at the linoleum tile as she follows us down the hallway.
“I, uh… ya know, vets just have a good sense of names. If you’re gonna be a great vet, ya gotta be good at naming strays as they come along.”
“I’m gonna be an amazing vet! All of our alpacas are named after characters from some show called The Office, but my mom says I can’t watch that show until I’m like thirty years old. But I just named our teacup pigs!”
“Is that so?” I hold out my hand, welcoming them into a clean exam room. “What are they called?”
“Fezzik the Giant and Inpigo Montoya.”
I snort and catch the slip of a smile from Emory, who covers the guffaw quickly with a glare.
“So, you’re a big Princess Bride fan, huh?”
She nods wildly, her red buns flapping with her. “Oh yeah. It’s my favorite. Mama calls me Red, but my best friend Theo calls me Princess. Like Princess Buttercup. But my name is really Molly.”
I hold out my hand to shake hers, shame running through every cell of my body as she shakes it vigorously and I’m reminded that this is the first time I’m meeting this little girl. “I’m so glad to meet you, Molly. My name is Jordan.”
“Cool. Dr. Jordan. I’ll come up with a better name for you later… Now can I see your instruments?”
Wishing I could have a redo on about a million things all at once, I open the door where we keep sterile instruments and explain what each one is for, answering the multitude of questions Molly asks until she is satisfied with every answer.
“Okay, I’m gonna chat with your mama for a minute, but you feel free to investigate some more.
Just don’t touch any of the pointy ends. ”
That seems like solid advice to give a kid.
She nods her agreement and picks each tool up one by one, then I turn to Emory, who’s not said a word since we stepped into the exam room.
“I’m joining the practice,” I say quietly, approaching her like a cornered cat. “You obviously didn’t know, and I’m sorry for that. Mom sent me over the other night for the house call, but…”
“I slapped you,” Emory whispers but doesn’t sound apologetic at all. Rightfully so.
“I deserved it.”
She nods and crosses her arms again. “So… you’re not a cardiologist.”
“Nah.” I blow out a huff of air and bury the tightening in my chest. “A cardiologist named Dr. Love? Seemed too on the nose.”
Her lips pinch, eyes blinking fast and looking anywhere but at me.
“I’m sorry, Em, I—”
“Don’t. Please.” She puts her hand up, voice tight but not as filled with emotion as I would expect from her.
The girl I knew once was always quick to shed tears.
Happy. Sad. Overwhelmed, with joy or anger—often with James and my antics—it didn’t matter.
Emory feels—or felt—everything in big, all-consuming ways.
But that’s not the same woman standing before me now.
It’s a stark reminder of how much time has passed and the fact that I don’t know this version of Emory at all.
“I don’t need apologies or nicknames or… a friend.” She hesitates, like what she's about to say will pain her greatly. “I just need help… One of my girls—my alpaca—is sick. Dr. Rafferty usually—”
“I want to help,” I interrupt, immediately going through a mental tally of the various possibilities of what could be affecting the livestock.
If I was smart and far less selfish, I would give Emory exactly what she wants, which is Dr. Rafferty.
But as Molly peeks up from where her head has been buried in my drawer, examining every possible angle of the tools there, and points her dimpled smile—James’ smile—at me, I can’t help but desperately want to be the one who helps Emory and her daughter now.
“Please, Emory. I’m done for the day, and I could follow you out right now for a house call. Let me help you.”
I have all the minutes in the world if it means she’ll let me help her in some way.
She looks at the door, as if my mother will barge through and save her from this abhorrent option at any moment, then glances at Molly who’s watching us both closely.
The perceptive kid winks at me when her mom isn’t looking, giving me all the encouragement I need to stay the course.
So I stand a little taller, tucking my hands in my pockets so I don’t seem overeager, though the longer we’re in this silent standoff, the more I want her to say yes.
I failed Emory before. I’ve been failing her. A justifiable lack in judgment with time and zipcodes separating us. But now, with Emory and Molly so close, I could drown in a pool of empty reasonings.
So when Emory sighs and hesitantly nods her agreement, I make a solemn vow that I won’t ever fail her again.