Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“I will.”
Fiona glances at me momentarily. Then she leans in and presses her lips to Miguel’s. It’s a quick kiss—so fast, in fact, that he doesn’t have a chance to close his eyes, nor do I have the opportunity to bark at her. I wouldn’t’ve this time, though.
Because somehow, what just happened feels right.
She spins and saunters back into the kitchen.
He follows her, and I follow him. Amelia Mae’s left her hiding spot and is seated at the table now, whispering to Riley.
“You remember what we discussed, don’t you?
” she says, and Riley laughs lightly and glances around.
When she sees that Brenna’s still in the bathroom, she whispers back, “I do, and I’ll talk to her as soon as the timing is right. I promise.”
“Good,” says Amelia Mae. “Remember, when you find someone as good as she is, you do what you can to keep them in your life.” When she spots me, she turns to her mother. “Speaking of friends, look how sad Harry is,” she says, pointing at me. “He doesn’t want us to leave.”
“He looks perfectly doglike to me,” says Fiona mildly. “Not sad and not happy. Somewhere in between.”
By the time Walter has learned to do his business on the grass instead of her rugs, she’ll have realized that I, like all of my kind, have a full range of humanlike emotions. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but maybe the puppy is a good idea, if strictly for educational purposes.
“No, I can tell he’s broken up over us having to go back to Chicago,” Amelia Mae insists.
“Dear heart, I like it here, too, but you really do need to get to drama camp sometime this week—I want to make sure you have time to practice your lines. You’re going to want to be at your best for the play.”
She blows at her hair, which has fallen in her dark eyes. “Why? They wouldn’t miss me if I didn’t show.” She leans toward me and says, “ ‘Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you.’ ”
I do love The Velveteen Rabbit! Beth reads it a few times a year, or at least she did before she left.
“That’s from the play we’re putting on for camp,” she explains to the others. “But that’s not even my line—I’m just a stupid chorus toy. Not that I care. The book’s better, anyways.”
“The book’s always better,” says Riley.
“Darn skippy,” says Amelia Mae with a grin.
Sadly, my French toast has just told on me, and I’ve filled the air with what even I can identify as a highly unfortunate odor.
“Oh, Harry,” she exclaims, pinching her nose. “I’ve got to get you outside.”
I glance up guiltily.
“I’ll walk him,” says Miguel, starting for me.
“I’ll take him out back,” she volunteers.
“I’m sure Harold would love it if you ran him around outside for a few,” he admits. “Try to get the devil out of him, or at least out of his gut.”
Fiona smiles, which is when I realize Miriam’s studying her. I don’t think she dislikes her—but she doesn’t like her, either. Strange. Like my Amelia, Miriam usually warms to almost everyone.
“Before you say it, I’ll be careful. It’ll be good practice for when Walter comes home with us,” Amelia Mae tells her mother. She tugs me lightly by the collar. “Let’s go, stinky friend.”
I don’t know about getting any devils out, but my stomach does sound like a pot of boiling potatoes. Once she lets me loose into the backyard, though, the gurgling sound disappears in the din of chirping birds and cicadas.
She plops down on the back stairs while I mosey around the perimeter. I stick my nose in some dandelions and sniff a soggy patch of mushrooms before finding a patch of grass to kill. I lift a leg, then scamper back over to her.
“I wish we didn’t have to go home, Harry,” she tells me.
I sit beside her because even though my gut’s still rumbling, it’s rude to wander too far when someone’s talking to you.
Also, I’m unusually tired for this early in the day, which is probably owing to the pup, who slept only slightly better than the night before.
“Between us, I think Fiona and Miguel would be bananas together.” Seeing my face, she adds, “I mean, really good. Don’t you think? ”
In fact, I do.
“Now listen, Harry, I’m the first to admit that my mom’s weird. She has been since my dad left, or at least that’s what Uncle Jon says. I was little, so I don’t remember her back then. Uncle Jon says he’s a good-for-nothing dirtbag. But I still wish I had a dad.”
Amelia Mae wants a father? This never occurred to me. I rest my head on her leg to let her know I’m sorry. None of us should have to be without the people we need—yet this, somehow, is often exactly how life unfolds. If you ask me, it’s incredibly unfair.
“I know everyone thinks I’m so clever and I have it all figured out, but sometimes I just feel really sad and lonely and it’s like no one can tell. You know?”
I sigh, because do I ever.
“I swear you speak human, Harry,” she says, patting my head.
I swear you speak dog, Amelia Mae.
She strokes my ears and says, “It’s not all bad news.
I know it’s only been a couple days, but Fiona’s happier than she’s been in ages, and it’s more than just Walter.
Don’t get me wrong: She’s already freakishly perky—or at least she tries to be.
But it would be nice if she could just stay regular happy.
Trouble is, that would mean letting people really get to know her instead of making me and Uncle Jon her reason for everything.
That derpy counselor I saw said you can’t rush feelings, but I don’t think I agree.
Being around people you like makes it happen faster.
” She leans down and gives me a little hug.
“And dogs. I wish that instead of bringing Walter home, you and I could be together all the time.”
I do, too, though that wish makes me feel ever so slightly disloyal to my own Amelia. For now I try to memorize her big dark eyes and her perfect frown and this moment, just in case we don’t get another one.
“Amelia Mae, please bring Harold inside!” calls Fiona from the back door. “We have to go back to the car rental place soon.”
“Drat.” Amelia Mae puts her head next to mine and makes a little humming sound. “You’re the best, Harry,” she says after a moment.
I don’t know about that, but I do feel…strange. It’s not the feeling I have when Miguel tolerates me warming his feet in the winter, or even when I manage to get him out of bed for more than a quick bathroom trip. Then this isn’t me being in touch with my purpose.
I guess…
I guess it has been so long since I have felt like this that I didn’t recognize it right away.
When we get inside, Fiona surprises me and squats down beside me. “Harry, I think you’ve helped me see the light about dogs,” she says, looking at the space just over my head. “Thanks for being so sweet to Amelia Mae.”
No, thank you, Fiona Foster, I think, as I lean against her legs. Thank you and your daughter for reminding me and my Miguel of what regular happiness feels like.