9. Our Way
OUR WAY
MARK AMBOR
JORDAN
“I really do feel like I should remind you that feeding chocolate to livestock, and most animals for that matter, is generally frowned upon in the veterinary community.”
Emory ignores me, not for the first time, as she hand feeds Pam a small brownie square made especially for her.
From what I can gather, this sort of treatment isn’t new for Emory.
Though she clearly holds a special place in her heart for the light gray, female alpaca currently covered in a unicorn-patterned blanket I saw on the living room couch a few days ago.
For her final days, the animal has been given the best of treatment, although toxic.
“And I feel like I should remind you,” Emory says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, only for it to fall delicately across her cheek when she leans towards Pamela again—I’m staring so hard at that single lock I barely hear her reprimand—”you aren’t actually Pammy’s veterinarian, so you don’t get a say. ”
“But I am a veterinarian. With a degree and experience and a general knowledge of end-of-life care.” I lean against the door frame since Emory hasn’t actually invited me in, and the fact that she’s allowed me this close when a few days ago she wanted nothing to do with me, has given me a small basis to hope that me sticking around might actually work.
“And, I’m here to help you,” I gently remind her.
I truly believe we can live symbiotically here in Honey Hill.
If Emory will allow me near her, to help on the farm and with the animals—though neither of us will ever acknowledge I’ve done so—it will be my absolute privilege to be in her orbit, to serve her and Molly like I should have been doing all along.
I’ve prayed fervently to find more reasons to be here with them. For more odd jobs around the farm, hoping I might be able to take even the smallest amount of the load she’s clearly been carrying on her own.
But I won’t ever tell her about the way that every time I’ve seen her, I’ve studied her soft, pink lips, the delicate curve of her jaw, that errant lock of my favorite shade of hair, and the perfectly round ear that never seems to hold it in place.
Or how I’ve also prayed that, while I’m here, I can stop noticing all the pieces of her I’m finding more and more impossible to ignore.
The way she talks quietly to herself when she thinks no one can hear.
The nineties R&B she always seems to have playing as the soundtrack to her day, but doesn’t know any of the lyrics.
Her countless alarms. Her dedication to her work.
The way her entire countenance changes the moment she’s reunited with Molly each day.
The crazy room filled with custom, handmade, animal clothing I walked into yesterday.
I’m entirely impressed by her, and I can’t look away.
Molly’s trick may have merit, but it’s not working for me.
And I certainly can never, under any circumstances, admit that when I found Emory crying with her sister the other afternoon, I wanted so badly to be the one to comfort her. To know exactly what she needed to feel lighter. To hold her.
The memory of the only time I’ve ever done so—the day James died—is enough to remind me to stay firm.
I won’t be selfish with her. I won’t add to Emory’s grief.
Not when I can do everything in my power to make her life easier and to honor the memory of my best friend like I should have been doing from the beginning.
Mom and Bill have already told me that though they’ve offered to humanely help Pam’s transition with euthanasia, Emory refused, choosing instead to treat Pam as if she is a true part of her family, staying by her side until the end.
It isn’t lost on me how close we are to the anniversary of James’ death, and if Emory needs to feel close to Pam to help her cope with that anniversary, then I intend to be here, too. To the bittersweet end.
“Can I simply suggest a different treat?” I ask, taking note of how Pamela has refused the brownies altogether, and now can’t hold her head up without strain.
She’s close. If Emory will let me, I think I might give Pam a round of fluids in a saline bag and maybe a light sedative to ease her discomfort.
“Maybe she’d like carrots, apples, or shredded beets? ”
Emory gags, disgusted at the prospect. “Ugh, you go eat beets. My girl’s getting brownies.” She rubs Pam’s snout. “Come on, girl. Just a bite. Just one bite, Pammy. Please.”
Pam acquiesces. But who can blame her. I’d do anything this woman asks.
“She’s dying, Jordan,” Emory says, smiling sadly at the animal she adores. “I think we can afford to let her have some happiness beforehand.”
“And chocolate is how we do that?”
She nods and whispers, “Brownies is our battle cry,” then a bit louder, “It may be terrible for her, but I just know it’s what she needs.”
And isn’t that the truth about most things that we want in this life?
“Okay, Red,” I say quietly, backing out of the room before she has the chance to glare at me for using her nickname.
A habit I can’t seem to break. But just as quickly one of Emory’s dozen daily alarms goes off, startling her and Pam as she jumps from her spot, rushing from the room and past me in a panic.
“No. No, no, no, no, no,” she repeats at hyperspeed, ping-ponging around the house, picking up random knicknacks, a pair of Molly’s shoes that seem to live in the middle of the walkway between the kitchen and living room, and throwing dishes into the dishwasher in a way that tells me she’ll be back later to organize it. “Not today. This cannot happen today.”
The sound of tires spinning over the gravel driveway outside grows closer to the house.
Emory stops her manic cleaning, pausing in front of a large mirror at the front door to tuck in the oversized, button down blouse she’s wearing, smooth out her hair, and slip on a pair of chunky sandals.
She’s gone from a bit flustered but beautiful to put together and flawless.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood—a punishment for thinking so.
“Emory, what do you need?” I grab her wrist, stopping her from fidgeting with her clothes again. “What can I do?”
Someone clomps up the stairs and knocks on the door.
“Hide,” she groans, but opens the door with a wide, plastered smile on her face before I can decipher if she’s serious. “Hello, Trey. Welcome in.”
I don’t know who I was expecting to have sent Emory into such an uncharacteristic tizzy, but it wasn’t this guy. A man steps over the threshold of Emory’s home, dressed like he’s ready for a round of golf or a Sunday in the pew, and not a visit to the farm.
When he leans in, proprietarily placing his hand around Emory’s waist and kissing her cheek, I see red and little else.
For reasons I won’t name, I’d like to hammer some nails into Trey’s tires, but then I have the quick and horrifying realization that I might be intruding on something here.
Like I’m the outsider, and Emory was expecting maybe something akin to a date… with this guy.
Hide, she’d said.
“Trey Ashcroft, Ashcroft Grove and Golf Course.” He holds out his hand, and I’ll admit, I take more than a little pleasure in shaking it harder and longer than necessary.
“Golf, huh?” I look him up and down. Golf. Called it. “Asscroft did you say? I’m not familiar with that course.”
Emory snorts, plays it off like a cough, and pats her chest while I keep a tight hold on Trey’s tiny, manicured, golf hands. My chest puffs up, unbidden.
“ASHcroft.” He smiles wider, tightening his own grip. “And you are?”
“Not going anywhere.” My grip tightens. I think someone’s been overmoisturizing.
Emory steps in, separating our hands. “Okay. That’s enough of that.
” She puts her hand against my chest, and it’s not lost on me that this is the first time she’s touched me since the slap over a week ago.
I feel the heat from her palm down to my toes.
“Jordan, I have a meeting with Trey. And I’m expecting more people here in a few minutes, so I need you to… ”
She bites her lip and looks over my shoulder towards the room where—also against my professional, medical recommendations—Pam is resting.
“I need…” She growls low, obviously annoyed that she needs help. It’s adorable. I bite my cheek again as she whispers, “I need your help with Pam, please? I don’t want her alone when…”
I don’t know why I can’t contain myself—probably because I’m the real Asscroft—but something about the way her hand still hasn’t moved, Golf Guy’s creepy stare has narrowed in on that particular detail, and Emory just called whatever this is a meeting rather than a date has me feeling pretty reckless.
So I trap Emory’s hand on my chest with my own, taking this tiny liberty and promising I won’t do it again.
“Of course, Red. Take your time. I’ll, uh… I’ll stay here.”
“Thank you,” she barely says aloud, but I feel it acutely. All the way down my arm to where our hands are still skin-to-skin, fingertips pressed against my heartbeat.
“Let me know if you need me, okay?”
Emory nods, and when she turns away, I give Trey a look that hopefully conveys the ways I’ll happily torment him with planted fleas, animal feces, and all manner of my most mature and ultimately not-life-threatening tactics if he steps out of line.
He, in return, suddenly grabs the phone hanging on his belt—though I didn’t hear it ring—and answers with a “You’ve got Trey. ”
Now I’m feeling pretty embarrassed by how insecure I was a minute ago. Not that I have any right to feel anything when it comes to Emory or who she wants to spend her time with.
Pamela’s sleeping when I get back to the room, giving me ample time to check her vitals, set up an IV, after talking to Mom about fluids and a sedative she approves of as Pam’s doctor. Then I hum a tune just loud enough so I’m not tempted to listen to every word said down the hall.