“Everything’s fine.”
“How’s it working out with David?”
“I take back every horrible thing I’ve ever said about you.”
“I wasn’t aware of any, but that’s good to know.”
“I owe you a big one.”
Joshua shakes his head. “You deserve to have something work out for you for once.”
“I will give you an ‘amen’ to that.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering what you can tell me about this guy,” Sally says as she gently places Skippy on the exam table.
Joshua takes Skippy and playfully lifts him into the air. Skippy seems to enjoy this. “You know about his condition, right?”
“I know it’s an issue with his heart, but David was a little fuzzy on details.”
Joshua nods. “I was there the day Helena found him and worked him up.” Joshua takes the stethoscope from around his neck and listens to Skippy’s heart. Skippy sits patiently through this; he’s been examined by Joshua many times. “His left ventricle is about half the normal size.”
“Is there maybe something more I could be doing? Clifford’s getting very attached to him.”
Joshua returns the stethoscope to his neck and checks the color
of Skippy’s gums as he talks. “It’s structural. He’s doing the best with what the Lord gave him. I’m sorry, Sally.”
“And so, as he gets older…”
Joshua’s examination moves on to Skippy’s ears and eyes. “Yes, his heart will get weaker. It’s already enlarged—trying to do the work it can’t do. He’ll eventually go into heart failure. We’ll be able to up his Lasix and increase his digitalis for a while at that point, but it’s a losing battle.”
“No surgical option?”
“No, not even if he were human. Too much damage. He’d never survive.”
“Of course Cliff would’ve had to pick a dying dog,” Sally mutters.
“I’m not surprised. There was always something a little bit special about him,” Joshua says as he rubs Skippy’s lush black fur. Joshua accidentally touches Sally’s hand and he quickly moves it away. “Helena said he was the perfect little husband.”
“It’s his eyes,” Sally offers. “There’s an intelligence there that’s hard to ignore, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“How long do we have with him?”
“He keeps surprising me. Today he looks pretty good, but I guess he can turn quickly. In the end, it will be a quality-of-life decision,” Joshua says, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. I know Joshua dreads the thought of having to make that decision yet again. “I only hope Skippy will make it clear when it’s time.”
Sally lifts Skippy off the table onto the floor, where he sits at Sally’s feet, watching the conversation. “I’m so damn tired of having to say good-bye.”
“I understand.” At this moment Joshua must be thinking of his own good-byes—to his marriage, to me, to his little boy.
Sally searches Joshua’s face and settles on his eyes before he turns away again in embarrassment. “Yes,” she says, “I believe you do.”
“For whatever small consolation it’s worth, I don’t think Skippy shares our conception of his disease. I bet he feels today pretty much like he felt yesterday and the day before. He gets up, eats, plays, maybe chases a chipmunk or two. That’s his day. He’s living. He’s not waiting.”
Just then a giant Newfoundland blasts through the door and bounds into the exam room with a harried Eve close behind.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. J,” Eve says breathlessly. “He just got away from me.”
The Newfie jumps on Joshua and they are nearly face-to-face. The dog lets out a deep “woof” and then licks Joshua’s nose. He giggles like a little boy and his entire face opens up. Sally laughs, too. Skippy, though, is not amused at the intrusion, and he growls.
“It’s okay, Eve. I’ve got him,” Joshua manages to say as he struggles to get the big dog’s paws off his shoulders.
“It looks to me like the other way around,” Sally says, still laughing.
“Let me introduce you to Newfie Pete. Another of Jimmy’s rescues.”
“Is he looking for a home, too?”
“No way,” Joshua says as the dog gives his face a good coating of drool. “You’re never leaving me, right, buddy?” Joshua hugs the dog’s huge head.
Moments later, calm is restored and Joshua escorts Sally and Skippy out of his exam room. They pass the “holding room”—a wall of cages filled with cats and dogs in various states of injury or distress. The kittens that Jimmy had found are huddled together in a few cages.
“Tiny Pete?” she asks.
“You even remembered his name?”
“It’s been tough to get that one out of my mind.”
“He’s doing pretty well.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what about the hard sell. How he needs a home, how he shouldn’t have to spend any more time in a cage. You know the routine.”
“I wouldn’t do that with you. I figure if you’re not taking him, then there’s a good reason.”
Sally walks with Joshua and Skippy to the front entrance of the hospital in silence. Her face is a mask. She may be thinking of other cats and dogs she has known and buried over her life, or her husband, or Clifford, or she may simply be thinking about lunch. I just can’t tell. I get the sense that, somewhere along the way, Sally has become truly expert at hiding what is most important to her just in case someone may be watching from the shadows.
At the front door, Sally turns her focus again on Joshua and gives him a knowing smile. “Oh, you are good, Joshua Marks. I’ll give you that. Oh, yes, you’re very good. The ‘no-sell’ sell. Almost had me, too.”
“Apparently not good enough, though,” Joshua says with a mischievous grin and a suggestion of hope in his voice.
“We’ll see.” Sally waves good-bye and walks with Skippy to her car.
Joshua watches her go. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he calls after her, but Sally is already in the car and doesn’t turn back.
T
hanksgiving. I completely forgot about it.
Thanksgiving for us had always been something of an odd holiday. My father died in my last semester of vet school, and my mother joined him during the second year of our marriage. David’s parents were long gone by the time I’d met him. With no children of our own and no parents, David and I couldn’t even pretend we had a “family” in the “Hallmark Thanksgiving” sense.
There was never a roast turkey at our table because I was a vegetarian and David, out of respect for me, did not eat meat in the house. During the first few Thanksgivings of our relationship, I tried every type of fake turkey, even going so far one year as molding fermented tofu and mashed potatoes into the form of the giant bird. The reality, however, is that meat tastes like meat and nothing else does, so eventually I gave up. Instead, Thanksgiving dinner at our house was all about carbohydrates—mashed potatoes, stuffing, yams, bread—a vegetable or two, and very good wine.
Depending on their plans in any given year, we would force this
carb-fest on Joshua, Liza and whoever she happened to be with at the time, Chris and her husband, Martha and her husband, and any single junior associate on David’s team who had no place to go. These were humor-filled gatherings that made us feel like our house was full of life. It was that feeling of life that made us thankful.
Eventually on Thanksgiving night, once all the guests had left, we would clear the table and do the dishes together, giving the dogs, cats, and Collette whatever remained of the food. Exhausted and wine-buzzed, we would settle into the den with the dogs and watch
Homeward Bound
—that sappy movie about two dogs and a cat who get separated from their family and must overcome perils and obstacles to find their way home.
Homeward Bound
was our
It’s a Wonderful Life,
our
It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
. We knew all the dialogue by heart and could repeat every scene. No matter how late it was, no matter how tired we were, regardless of whether David had to be at work the next day or I was on call, we would sit through all eighty-four minutes of the movie surrounded by our creatures. For this, too, we were thankful.
Seeing David enter our house now, looking weary and preoccupied, I’m certain that he also has been thinking about Thanksgiving. My husband, though, faces the Thanksgivings of his widowed future while I dwell on the Thanksgivings of our married past.
David gives the dogs a perfunctory greeting. Sensing his mood, they soon move off to other areas of the house. In the kitchen, David grabs an open bottle of wine from the refrigerator, pours himself a full glass, and skims through the mail. He skips through the bills and correspondence and pulls out a magazine—the jumbo “Thanksgiving Issue” of
Food and Wine
.
Taking his wine and magazine to the living room, David drops
onto our couch and begins paging through the glossy images of the family gatherings and beautiful holiday tables he believes he will never see.
Sally emerges from the back of the house. “How was your day?”
David manages a smile. “Fine.” The smile quickly becomes a smirk. “You know, people yelling at each other about money. Yours?”
“Great. No yelling and certainly no conversations about money, although I think Collette might be pushing us soon for a new house for her. How about some tea?”
“I’m good, thanks,” David says, gesturing to his glass. Sally is about to tell David of her trip to see Joshua, but the look on David’s face, the glass of wine in his hand, and finally the magazine in his lap make her think better of it. Instead, she starts collecting her bag and coat for her trip home as David watches her over his magazine.
“Clifford’s not with you?” David sounds a little disappointed.
“No. He was tired, so the sitter put him to bed.”
“How’d you pull him away from Skippy?”
“With difficulty.”
“Big plans for Thanksgiving?” David asks her, waving the magazine in the air.
“Clifford and I are expected by my father and his wife. It’s sort of a tradition.”
David nods and takes a long drink from his glass. “I didn’t realize your father was still with us.”
“Alive and kicking. He remarried after my mother died.”
“Does Cliff like her?”
“Not really. She’s not my favorite, either. But she’s a gracious host and treats Clifford well.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a good plan then. If you’re done early,
you’re welcome here. Our friend… my friend Liza will be coming over. And probably Joshua this year.”
“Joshua? Does he really ever leave the hospital?” Sally asks.
“On Thanksgiving, at least, after he makes his rounds.”
“Well, the offer is very thoughtful, but we probably won’t be back until Friday morning. Will you be off from work?”
“Officially, yes. But I may go in. Still lots to catch up on.”
“Well, I’ll be here if you need to go, so don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” David downs the rest of his wine as Sally puts on her coat. “Sort of odd, you know?”
“What’s that?”
“Did you ever see
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
?” he asks.
Sally smiles. “Every year.”
“Remember the Island of the Misfit Toys? That used to be our house on Thanksgiving—the place where everyone with no better place could go and feel welcome.” David refills his glass in the kitchen, and Sally waits for his return. “Now I guess I’m just another broken toy.”
“It’s hard. I know,” Sally offers.
David clears his throat and tries to sound casual when he finally asks Sally, “So how long did it take you to… you know… with your husband…?”
Sally quickens her pace to leave. “I’m really the wrong person to use for comparison. I was young, with a child. It’s just different.”
David knows where he’s not welcome. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just thought…”
“It’s okay,” Sally says as she concentrates way too hard on the act of putting on her gloves. “I’d better get going.” As David walks her to the door, Sally mumbles something just below audible.
“Excuse me?” David asks.
Sally sighs, knowing that her plan for a quick getaway has failed. This time I understand her. It has failed mostly because, although Sally wants to believe she is hard and therefore immune from further hurt, she is anything but and just as vulnerable as she ever was. For her this means that when the next hurt comes—and she knows that it always does—she will not be able to wish it away or ignore it. Instead, she will need to live through it, and she’s already done so much of that type of living.
Sally turns to face David straight-on and then gently places her hands on his shoulders. “The first holiday is by far the hardest. Try to stay out of the house until it’s time to go to sleep. Distract yourself with whatever you can find that you won’t feel bad about in the morning. No one—and I mean no one—will be able to understand, so don’t ask for it, don’t expect it, and don’t be angry when you don’t get it. Their perfect words will fail you. And so will yours. Understand?” Sally’s voice trembles with memory.
She releases David’s shoulders and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s not my business to tell you how you should manage your pain,” she says. “And God knows I don’t have any good answers. But one thing I can tell you is that looking at your own grief is a lot like looking at the sun. You can’t do it for very long before it screws up your vision. Sometimes permanently.”
Without further comment, Sally turns up the collar of her coat against the cold and walks out of the house into the night.
Liza arrived at our home a little after two
PM
on Thanksgiving Day. Thankfully, she came without a date, but holding a pumpkin pie. The pie was a running joke. The three of us hate pumpkin pie. It is Collette’s favorite, though.
The wine came out immediately, and Liza and David drank quickly—one glass, then another and then a third, all before the food made it to the table. The last several months have increased David’s alcohol tolerance. Liza, however, was always something of a lightweight to begin with, and three glasses of wine in quick succession without any food took their toll on her. I guess that was her intention.
“You know,” David says, taking a big gulp from his glass, “I think you may have a drinking problem.”