Chapter 7
Frannie had agreed to keep the puppy at her apartment for the first night.
Then tonight, as soon as Rebecca and William left to attend a play, she would arrive with the puppy and all the gear we’d purchased.
We’d have the rest of the evening for Lucy to form an unbreakable bond with her new dog before I begged for forgiveness in the morning.
Lucy was coloring at the kitchen table, totally unaware she was on the cusp of a whole new world, when Frannie burst through the guesthouse door. “Hell-oooo, my sweet chickens!”
Lucy’s eyes popped as she registered the puppy, with oversize droopy ears, squirming in Frannie’s arms. “You got a dog!” She was out of her seat in a flash, reaching up to touch its hanging paw.
Like we’d planned, Frannie lowered herself to the floor to give Lucy unfettered access to the puppy. I nodded when I was ready to video the reveal. Frannie looked solemnly at Lucy. “Actually, he’s not my dog . . . he’s yours!”
Lucy let out a piercing squeal, which made the puppy whimper. “Mommy! Is it OK? Can I have Frannie’s dog?”
“You sure can, Jellybean. We got him for you,” I said, beaming at her. “But he’s a little scared right now, so we have to be calm.”
Lucy nodded as she ran around in hyperactive circles.
Then Frannie demonstrated how to pet him and encouraged Lucy to mimic her.
“Hi, little puppy.” Lucy dropped her head to his. “What’s your name?” He licked her chin.
“We thought you could name him,” I said.
As Lucy pondered, she stuck her tongue out of the right corner of her mouth, which used to be Callie’s habit when she was concentrating hard on something. My breath hitched. I’d never seen Lucy do that before, and it made me long for my sister—and the relationship she would have had with her niece.
“Sam. The. Dog!” Lucy jumped up and down, shouting one word each time her feet smacked the floor.
The dog cowered behind Frannie, peeking out with mournful brown eyes.
“Oopsie, I didn’t mean to scare you, Sam The Dog.
” She squatted down again and whispered shhhhh, as if the dog were the one making noise.
Frannie and I exchanged a worried glance. “Sweetie, Sam was your daddy’s name,” I said. “So that might be confusing.”
“Mommy, his name is Sam The Dog! He’s a dog, not a people.”
“Running circles around you already and she’s not even four. Impressive.” Frannie shot me a sympathetic smile. “I guess I’ll go get the gear from my car.”
I shuddered to think of Rebecca and William’s reaction.
It was bad enough I’d brought home an illicit puppy.
But to name him after Sam? Yikes. I would definitely be taking another run at a name change.
When Frannie returned, I said to Lucy, careful not to demonstrate acceptance of the placeholder name, “Why don’t you play with the puppy while we set up the crate? ”
Frannie quickly caught on to my name-dodging strategy and played along, calling him everything from dog and doggie, to pup, puppy, and puppinator. Lucy, on the other hand, already lovesick, stuck to using his given name for the next half hour.
The next time, I took a different approach. “Lucy, now that we’ve gotten to know the puppy, I wonder if maybe another name like Clifford or Boo or Milo might suit him better?”
“No, Mommy. His name is Sam The Dog. See?” She pointed. “He likes it! He looked at me when I said it!”
He was indeed watching her, though I was certain it had more to do with the pitch of her voice than his pleasure at being named after her deceased father.
“I just thought of something,” Frannie said softly, clearing her throat. “STD for short? Could be a problem.”
I groaned.
“Sam would have thought it was hilarious, though,” Frannie whispered.
She wasn’t wrong, but still. “It feels disrespectful,” I whispered back. Then I pressed Lucy again, with even more urgency. “But why Sam The Dog?” If I could get inside her logic, maybe I could figure out how to change her mind.
That’s when Lucy put her hands on her hips, doing a spot-on imitation of the sassy teenager she’d one day become. “If we call him Sam The Dog and he lives with us, maybe you’ll be less sad about Daddy being dead.”
Frannie let out a whistle.
I gave her my meanest side-eye.
“Wow, look at the time!” Frannie said, clearly deciding this situation had exceeded the project scope.
I couldn’t help feeling bamboozled, though.
She’d rebuffed my efforts to back out of getting the dog, and now she was going to leave me here with a stubborn preschooler and the world’s most inappropriately named pet.
Frannie hugged Lucy and kissed the top of the dog’s head. “Goodbye, Sam The Dog.”
Her use of the name was as sure an acknowledgment of defeat as anything I could imagine. As Frannie let herself out, she offered this final sage advice: “Maybe stick to the long-form name with the Packers?”
“There you are, Sam The Dog! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Lucy said as she burst through the bathroom door at 7:15 a.m., narrowly avoiding my head.
By my groggy calculations, I’d been cosleeping on the tile floor with Sam The Dog for about three hours after finding myself unable to take another second of his whining from the crate.
Now Lucy beckoned him, and the dog scampered out at her heels.
I was hauling my aching body up off the floor when I heard the front door squeak open.
Crap. That meant I had roughly thirty seconds before Rebecca and William would meet our newest family member.
I grabbed a sweatshirt, jammed my feet into my slippers, and chased after Lucy and Sam The Dog as they wound their way down the flagstone path to the main house.
The kitchen door, painted a welcoming bright red, was already open. But there was no universe in which the tone of Rebecca’s voice would be described as welcoming. “What do you mean this is your dog? Where’s your mother, honey?”
“Hey, sorry,” I said, stumbling inside and zipping up my hoodie. “Lucy was so excited she tore out of the house.”
“A dog, Thea?” Rebecca’s eyes were round and unblinking with an exaggerated, fake smile for Lucy’s benefit. “William, are you seeing this? A dog?”
William’s wide-eyed gaze traveled from Rebecca to the dog to me, where it paused uncomfortably. “I am, in fact, seeing this.” Then, to Lucy, he said, “And tell me, does this animal have a name?”
“Sam The Dog,” Lucy announced.
I cringed as Lucy trailed after the dog, who was making himself at home exploring the kitchen.
“Did she say Sam The Dog?” William’s voice creaked.
“I named him all by myself,” Lucy said, her head bobbing out from behind the island.
Rebecca widened her eyes at William before turning to Lucy. “You better run along and get some breakfast in you before your tennis lesson, honey. And take your new little friend with you. William, can you go with them?” And then to me: “Thea? A word?”
As they left, William said, “Hey, little buddy, you’re pretty darn cute.
What do you say we go help Lucy get ready for tennis?
” Rebecca glared at his receding form as though by taking a shine to the puppy he was purposely undercutting her.
As soon as Lucy was out of earshot, she assailed me.
“How could you get a dog without talking to us first?”
“I’m sorry, I know that wasn’t cool,” I said. “But Lucy is so happy.”
Rebecca sighed and poured herself a cup of coffee without offering me one like she usually did. “So we’re clear, I will not be involved in caring for that dog. I have too much on my plate as it is. And I don’t even know what to say about that name except that you obviously must change it.”
I winced. “Believe me, I’ve tried multiple times. I totally agree the name isn’t ideal. But here’s the thing: Lucy named him after her dad, and I feel like maybe we should respect that.”
“She’s three years old,” Rebecca snapped. “You’re the parent. And it feels like you’re desecrating his memory by naming a mutt after him.”
“He’s not a mutt. He’s a purebred beagle.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Whatever it is, I am never calling it that name.”
“You can call him whatever you want,” I offered, but she wasn’t done.
“Thea, it’s a little worrisome that you don’t seem to be making the connection between Lucy’s inappropriate name choice and how much you talk about Sam,” Rebecca said with a sigh.
“It’s been four years, yet every week your thorn is the same—we know you miss Sam.
We all do. But it isn’t healthy for Lucy to see you so stuck in the past. Nearly every square inch of the guesthouse is still stuffed with photos of Sam and his trophies and clothes and .
. .” She glanced out the window. “It’s just too much. ”
I blanched at the criticism. “But, Rebecca, part of the reason I talk about him so often is because I want Lucy to feel connected to him. She deserves to know her history,” I said, my voice cracking on the final few words.
“That’s why I tried to make the guesthouse bookcase resemble an exhibit at one of the presidential libraries you and William used to take Sam to when he was a teenager.
He loved the richness of all that history, and I just want Lucy to feel that, too.
Look, I know you find it really painful to talk about Sam, or to let us talk about him too much, and I get it.
I do. Losing him was beyond cruel. He was your only son.
But I worry about you, too. I may wear my grief on my sleeve, but sometimes I worry yours is too bottled up inside. Who’s to say which is unhealthier?”
“I think we’re getting off track.” Rebecca dropped down onto a barstool. “Everything was clicking along fine. Lucy started preschool. You’re working at the agency. What made you want to throw a dog into the mix right now?”
“Sam and I used to talk about getting a dog when the time was right.” True. “The time felt right.” Not.
“What I can’t understand is why you didn’t discuss this with us first.”