EPILOGUE
DEATH WISH LOVE, BENSON BOONE
JORDAN
Thirty-five minutes until I get to go home to my girls.
That’s what I tell myself as I see the patient’s name on my next exam room’s door.
I love my job and the animals I get to treat every day, but there’s something about being married and having a family that makes me anxious to get home to them just about as soon as I arrive for work.
My wife sending me flirty texts isn’t helping the matter either.
My phone has pinged all day with selfies of Emory and Molly, Emory and the twin lambs born last week, Mary Kate and Ashley, and the one currently burning a hole in my pocket, Emory in the yellow dress she was driving me crazy in all morning before I left.
I’m just about to open the door when Bill and Mom rush into the hallway. I think they’re popping out of an exam room for a discussion, maybe some light discourse about a patient or treatment plan, but those hopes quickly die when Mom shoves Bill into the wall and begins a heavy, geriatric makeout.
“Y’all!” I holler down the short hall. “I’m right here.”
I love them, but sincerely hope they retire soon.
Mom peels away from her husband but looks anything but disconcerted. In fact, the grin on her face tells me she couldn’t care less about their workday indiscretions. Meanwhile, I feel my neck and face heating with every second we all continue to share the same air.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Bill apologizes, moving as if to come in for a hug. I grab the door handle in an effort to escape. Stay in my parents’ makeout hallway or enjoy my second visit with Veronica Cotten this week? Coincidentally, the same amount of times I’ve caught my parents in this exact position.
I choose the dog and hear my mom greet her final patient of the day in the room next door like the professional she is. “Did someone eat their mama’s cowboy chili again?”
Gus will definitely be a repeat customer for the next week as his gastrointestinal issues work their way out. Neat.
Thirty-one minutes and counting.
Veronica is fairly straight forward today.
She seems down, according to both of her parents, and though they’ve tried all of her favorite outfits, nothing seems to cheer her up.
Mrs. Cotten is positive she’s in need of what every woman needs from time to time…
a new outfit. Mr. Cotten isn’t sold on the idea, but his whistle methods and what he calls daddy-daughter dates are not doing the trick either.
I feel like I can’t be completely objective, since my wife’s business benefits from the Cottens’ obsession with boutique petwear, but I’m still a man with personal convictions.
One of those being a vehement disagreement with animals wearing clothing of any kind.
Even if Veronica and her parents are all wearing Emory’s newest designs, a T-shirt with various animals holding balloons with greetings on them.
“I’m going to be very honest with you all.
” I bend low, running my hands over the dog for another inspection, though I’m sure nothing is out of sorts.
Both Cottens lean in close like they’re preparing for awful news.
“I think Veronica really needs to gain some confidence. You could try teaching her a new skill. Growing the bond between you both with specific goals in mind.”
Though I’m not sure the bond between pet and owner could be any more solidified with these three.
“And,” I add, preeminently wincing, “I think you should consider allowing Veronica to really experience her day-to-day life uninhibited by so many clothes.”
Mrs. Cotten gasps. “She loves them.”
“Oh, I’m sure she does,” I agree, patting her hand.
Mrs. Cotten loves this sort of reinforcement.
No whistles necessary. “But let me tell you, my girls both love corndogs and mozzarella cheese sticks, but if I didn’t insist they change things up every once in a while…
throw some veggies into the mix… maybe a vitamin now and then…
they’d never do it for themselves. And I’d like to think I’m helping encourage them to be a bit healthier. ”
Understatement of my life.
Mr. Cotten chuckles like he really gets it. In fact, it only takes me a total of seventeen minutes to convince them to give Veronica a naked day three times a week. Which they have promised to do.
I expect I’ll see them at least one more time by week’s end.
My drive home is my favorite kind. After a long but cozy winter, settling into the fully renovated house with my girls and our small zoo, today was my first motorcycle ride of the year. The air is crisp but not uncomfortable as I zip around the roads leading me to the farm.
I’m still about five minutes out when I see the first balloon. A deer’s off to the side of the road with a message hanging from his hindquarters that says, “Best Day Ever.”
The next balloon, attached to a flattened squirrel in the middle of the road, reads, “Let’s Celebrate.”
And the final one—down the length of our long driveway and beside the foundations we laid where six cabins will be built this summer in the east lavender fields—is attached to Dwight.
The spotted, male alpaca eats the grass at his feet, barely registering me driving down the gravel road beside the fence line or the balloon looped onto his collar that says, “Congratulations!”
I’m confused but laughing to myself when I park my bike and see the girls waiting for me on the porch.
Molly’s hopping on her toes, ready to race down the stairs, but Emory says something I don’t hear, scoops something up from behind them, then releases a puppy to barrel down the steps ahead of them.
It’s a fluffball doodle of some sort—Aussiedoodle, if I had to guess—and probably no more than eight weeks old.
But I hardly get a good assessment of the little cutie when I read the balloon attached to its pink collar.
“Happy Father’s Day!”
Emory’s smiling ear to ear. She’s glowing, if I were to put a name to her beauty right now.
Despite the cool air, she’s still wearing that yellow dress.
The same shade as our bedroom ceiling. Her cheeks are sweetly pink, and her hair just barely brushes the top of her shoulders.
And when she twists a finger into that hair, biting her lip nervously, it almost brings me to my knees.
“What’s this?” I ask. Though I think I know, I’m afraid to assume, for wanting it so badly.
She shrugs, giggling lightly at the puppy dancing around our feet. “I thought you’d look good holding a puppy.”
“I want to name her Rose.” Molly’s bouncing grows more animated. She’s bubbly, a shaken soda ready to burst, holding excited hands clasped in front of her. “And…” She looks at her mom, waiting for the nod Emory immediately gives her. “Mom’s having a baby!”
Emory slips into my arms, with Molly following suit, and I’m dumbstruck.
In a single, breathless moment I’m suddenly terrified and endlessly grateful.
I still can’t quite believe the life we’re living.
The life we’re creating together, and that I get the privilege of loving them. For every day I’m alive.
“You’re sure?” I whisper, a crack of emotion in my voice.
“Positive,” Emory says, giving me a whisper of a kiss. She takes my hand in hers, kissing my palm then bringing it to rest on her belly. “You look good snugglin’ with all the animals, Dr. Love. But I can’t wait to see you holding our baby.”
And I can’t help but send up a quick prayer that we add another girl to the pack. One with red hair, just like her mama.