6. Photograph #2
I may not be ready to walk down memory lane with Jordan, but I’ll be the first to admit that a huge piece of James lives with me, every day, in our daughter.
In her smile, her laugh, her mannerisms, James is there.
My best friend gave me a piece of himself, planting his likeness in my mini best friend.
It’s a wonderful, deeply painful gift that I’ll always be grateful for.
“He’d be so proud of her.”
“He’d be proud of you, Red.” The air stills around us, the sounds of the barn creaking, birds in the hayloft above, and Pam’s deep breathing the only stirrings between us. Jordan clears his throat, realizing too late, his mistake. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“It’s not a habit, though. It’s been ten years, Jordan.
Ten years you could have been here.” I want to scream.
To rage. To shake and slap and beg him to give me a good reason for why he disappeared.
Because he’s right. James would be proud of me.
And of Molly. But never in a million years would he have ever believed Jordan would abandon us if he were gone.
Why should Jordan get to know Molly when James never will? Why should he get her smiles, her charm, her nicknames and cereal nights, when the man who helped create her has missed it all?
“I know, Emory, I just—”
“Don’t. Please. Just… What’s the diagnosis?” I quickly give Pam, who’s standing like a champion and quietly staring at our exchange, all my attention. “An infection maybe? Worms? Should I change her diet?”
“I need to run an antibody test and get a stool sample, but it looks like liver flukes.”
“Oh, okay. We can treat that, right? Kelly came to us with the flukes, and she’s fine. Healthy.”
Jordan nods his head, running his hand along the length of Pam’s neck.
When he pauses, she leans in just a little closer, like a dog not quite ready for her belly scratch to end.
“If caught soon enough, liver flukes are often treatable. But I’d like to get an ultrasound to check on any possible liver and gallbladder damage, along with the blood work and a… ”
“Poop sample,” I interrupt, feeling oddly hopeful. “Right. I’ll get you an alpaca bean sample stat, and I’ll pay for whatever you need. Cool cucumbers.”
Not sure how, but I will.
Fake it till you make it is the name of the game, and I am the champion. Or I will be, if I can just get through this tough patch.
I’ve been careful to keep a safe distance from Jordan until now, when I can barely contain my joy at the thought of my girl being her healthy self again.
Reaching out, I rub both hands down her neck and let her bunk my head a bit with hers, all too aware of Jordan beside me.
“You’re gonna be just fine, Pammy. Just fine,” I repeat so it sinks into my gut and has time to marinate there. She’s going to be okay. She has to be.
“Emory,” Jordan says more quietly than before. His Dr. Love confidence replaced with sympathy. Or maybe just his voice, wrecked with guilt.
“Hmm?”
“How long has she been having symptoms?”
“Oh, a few days. Maybe a week…” I do a bit of mental gymnastics, walking through my calendar of appointments, trying to pinpoint when I noticed she just wasn’t quite herself.
“It was last week… I think around Friday… She didn’t want to leave the barn.
But you see her walking and moving now. She’s a little lethargic, but I’m guessing her belly just doesn’t feel quite right. ”
Death is usually quick in livestock like alpacas.
Rarely do farmers actually see symptoms of illness, which is why I’ve been so worried about Pamela, but also hopeful that if she were really and truly sick, it likely would’ve already been too late.
The fact that we’ve got a plan to treat her, if it is liver flukes, is positive.
And the fact that she’s still standing and breathing tells me, if we do treat it, she’s gonna make it.
“Sure, that’s positive,” he agrees, though it’s halfhearted.
He’s deflated, and I don’t know if it has to do with my little outburst or with Pam’s health.
“I do want to run those tests, though. Today. I need to make a few calls to some labs to get the results expedited by the university, and I’ll need to run back to the office for an ultrasound. I could take the stool sample with me.”
“Course. Whatever you need,” I say, still running my fingers across Pamela’s thinning fur. “Will they run it over the weekend?”
“Yeah. I know a few people over there. They’ll get it turned around for me quickly. But Emory, given her age and the fact that she is showing symptoms, I think you need to prepare yourself for the worst case scenario. The chances of her going downhill quickly are high.”
“But…” I hate the tremble in my voice. The shaky tell that I don’t know how to control this situation and I desperately need to.
The fact that I don’t want Jordan to be the one to help me, to see me possibly lose all sense of dignity over this animal, but I don’t want anyone else either. “I need— I need—”
What? A miracle? A break? That time machine my accountant mentioned?
Right now, all I really need is someone to share the load of this heavy lifting I’ve been doing.
I don’t want to make decisions anymore. I don’t want to be the only person losing sleep over the farm and the animals and my kid.
I want to bury my head in the sand—preferably on a private beach with festive drinks and those brownies I haven’t had a chance to bake yet—and pretend that everything in my life is as peachy and pretty as the umbrellaed beverage in my fantasy hand.
And I do not want that person to be the man I thought I could depend on, after years of friendship, who then, in my darkest days, disappeared.
“I need her to be okay, Jordan. Alright?”
He puts his hand over mine then stuffs it in his pocket when I shake it off like it’s on fire. I’m half tempted to slap him again, just to see if it takes the edge off a bit, but I do, unfortunately, need his help.
“I’m going to do everything I can for her, Emory.
I promise you that.” He gestures to where Molly’s now waiting for us just outside the barn.
She waves wildly with the hand not holding the leads for Phyllis, Kelly, and Meredith.
“We need to keep Pam isolated from the rest of the herd. I’ll say hey to the others with Molly, then why don’t you girls go have your cereal night.
I’ll take care of things here. I bet you could use a break. ”
“I can get that sample for you first,” I offer, making my way to the stall.
“No, Emory,” he says, far too perceptive of how very much I do need a break, but unaware of how painful it is to step away when I feel like I should be doing something.
“I’ll handle everything, and I’ll just give you a call when results are in.
Should be pretty quick.” He whips out his cell phone and unlocks the screen. “Can I get your number?”
Crossing my arms, and feeling my heart clenched tighter than my fists, I answer, “It hasn’t changed.”
Then I leave the barn and Jordan behind, placing more hope than I care to in his hands.