The Dog Year (12 page)

“Oh, I gotcha. Whew. I was thinking,
Shit, this girl's getting too healthy for me.
But if you're talking about the crap you took—I'm all in for that. Pathology 'R Us is just a phone call away.”

“Nothing of Richard's goes.”

“Not a thing.”

“No discussion.”

“None from me.”

“I'll make you a deal. You help me do this and I'll be your go-to gal when you need to go to the grocery store.”

“I guess, but I've got no immediate plans to move forward, either.”

“Sidney, seriously? Why do you go to Tig?”

“Why do you go? Listen, Lucy, you don't get ‘no judgment' from me and then judge my addiction as worse than yours. If that's the deal, then it's no deal on my end.”

“Wait!” A silent, sour lemon seemed to choke the line between them. “You're right. Of course.”

“You got boxes? I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“I'll be ready in fifteen.”

A
re you sure you want me here while you do this?” Sidney stood inside the door at Lucy's house holding two computer-paper boxes and Chubby Lumpkins's leash. She'd pulled her hair away from her face in a messy ponytail, and her clear blue eyes took center stage.

“Yes. I need you to keep me on track. Remind me of my purpose, and keep me company.” Lucy reached for a box, brushing her hand against Sidney's. “Jeez, you're freezing.”

“I'm always cold.” She pulled the sleeves of her hoodie over her knuckles and yawned. “And tired.”

Lucy led Sidney to her old bedroom. “Tig says it's time to give the stuff back.”

Sidney shrugged. “So okay. How much could there be? Let's do it.”

“Brace yourself.” Lucy shooed Mrs. Bobo away from the door while Sidney repositioned her grip on the box, ready to get this therapy session moving forward.

“Don't judge.” Lucy unlocked the padlock, slid the lock, and pushed the door open.

“Holy shit,” Sidney said.

Lucy remembered reading about an alcoholic who had returned home after treatment as an inpatient. He'd stepped into his old apartment and seen for the first time the extent of his disease. Empty liquor bottles had littered every surface: floors, tables, and countertops. There'd been so many that there was little place to step or sit without being assaulted by the smell and clank of empty glass bottles. Today Lucy saw what Sidney saw: a bona fide hospital supply closet that had seemingly been tipped on its side and scrambled like balls in a bingo wheel. Blue packaged items, flung far and wide, occupied most flat spaces in the room. A larger grouping by the door looked as if they were waiting in line to escape and be put to good use.

“So we'll need more boxes then,” said Sidney.

Lucy worked hard to focus on just the things she'd taken from the hospital, and not to make eye contact with the memories in this room. She had to shut down her sense of smell and focus on the task at hand. Occasionally a waft of Richard would get past her defenses and she would abruptly stop gathering rolls of tape and remember his laugh.

“You're no match for my catlike reflexes, Lucy Peterman,” he'd say just before tackling her and tossing her onto the bed. She'd attempt to roll out from under him, putting up the weakest of resistance.

“Yeah,” she'd said with a sarcastic smile, “you're a real ninja.” Then they'd make love.

Today Lucy looked up at the ceiling, searching for the patch of plaster with a tiny moisture stain in the shape of Africa. An overwhelming feeling of loss rushed into her chest and she leaned against a bookcase. Richard's old Army sweatshirt lay tossed onto the back of a chair she'd had since college. It was an ugly thing, filled with horsehair and hard angles.

He used to joke about that chair. “We have a whole museum of uncomfortable furniture in this room. Can we at least get rid of this chair?”

“No, Richard. It reminds me of when I was a poor med student. It's good karma to remember where you came from.”

He'd acquiesce like he always did, a bit begrudgingly but ultimately with humor. “It looks like we're opening a branch of Goodwill.”

Now Lucy rubbed the sleeve of the sweatshirt against her cheek. Sidney knelt to check under the bed and said, “C'mon, let's get this done so we can take a nap. I've been up for like three hours.” She lay her head on the floor and lifted the dust ruffle. “Hey, what's this?” She slid a gift-wrapped box out from under the bed. It was rectangular, covered with a black and white fleur-de-lis wrapping, and tied with a deep-red bow.

Lucy looked at the box and caught her breath. “Oh.” She clutched the sweatshirt to her chest.

Sidney touched the gift card where Lucy's name was written in black ballpoint pen. “It's for you.”

Lucy stumbled over an IV bag to get to the gift; she fingered the beautiful paper, the thickly tied bow. “My birthday was a few days after the accident. I haven't been back in here except to toss stuff into the room and grab a few necessities.” Lucy ran her fingers over her name, her husband's handwriting, a fusion of print and cursive—a lover she hadn't seen for a long time.

“Open it!” Sidney said, eyes wide.

Lucy shook her head, closed her eyes. “I don't think I can right now. It's too much. All this.” She gestured around the room. “Now this, too.” Hugging the box, she felt her throat close and she began to cry: the silent, adult cry that women cultivate in the marriage bed after a fight, or when stuck somewhere where crying is considered an admission of defeat.

For a few moments neither woman spoke. Sidney reached to give Lucy an awkward head-hug. Chubby yawned, dropping his tongue like an anchor.

Lucy said, “You must have gotten a little sun yesterday. Your freckles are showing.”

Sidney touched her nose. “Bane of my existence.”

“They're charming.”

“They make me look like I'm twelve.”

Lucy touched her own hair, stood and tugged at the waist of her jeans. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sidney nodded.

“What's it like to look like you do? You know, sort of effortlessly beautiful.”

“Effortlessly beautiful? You've got to be kidding me.”

“Not at all.”

Sidney's hands fluttered to her face; skeletal butterflies, knobby and webbed. “Have you seen this nose? My hair's so thin . . . and don't get me started on my quicksand abs.”

“God, what must you think of me?”

“You! With that to-die-for thick, curly red hair and your perfect skin? Besides, this isn't a competition.”

“That's for sure. I'm not even in your division.”

Sidney said, “Oh, I get it now. I'm your first eating-disordered friend.” She chuckled a little mirthless laugh. “You don't get it. We only hate ourselves.”

Lucy opened her mouth to speak but Sidney put her hand up. “Everything good about you, you get to keep. I only use it to highlight my own inadequacies. My counselor says I self-loathe to give myself something to do when I should be eating.”

Lucy stroked the gift box. “Richard thought I was beautiful. I never did all that well with men,” she snorted. “Obviously.”

“Men are overrated. Besides, I didn't earn my appearance like you earned your degree.”

“I just have a great memory for facts,” Lucy said.

“And I just have culturally acceptable cheekbones that my mother passed on to me, along with her fear of failure, perfectionistic tendencies, and pathologic fear of adipose tissue. Fucking lucky me.”

“Richard was my chance at love. This gift is like the governor's call before the execution,” said Lucy.

“I get that. Take your time.” Sidney brushed her hands on her pants. “Let's leave this for today.” She led Lucy out of the musty room, walked her into the kitchen, poured her a glass of water. “Tig gave me an assignment, too. I'm supposed to cook for a friend and actually eat what I prepare.” She locked eyes with Lucy and said, “You're my friend. I could maybe do that with you.” Chubby let out an exhausted whine that sounded a lot like,
Oh for God's sake, eat already.
Sidney put her hands on her bony hips and stretched back. “I'm working on packing my shit up into a box, too, but it's just a lot more shit, and a lot smaller box.”

*   *   *

Lucy waved as Sidney and Chubby Lumpkins began their walk to the other side of town, having refused her repeated offers to drive them. Hugging Richard's gift to her chest, she returned to the bedroom she'd shared with him, the bedroom she'd abandoned almost a year earlier. Its noisy silence bombarded her: Richard's cologne bottle waving to be picked up; his coin jar asking to be upended, its contents spent; a brand-new baby rattle bought before the accident, making it superfluous. She stepped inside just far enough to snatch the box Sidney had filled. Hoisting it onto her hip, she stepped into the hall, breathing hard, as if she'd run a great distance from a frightening animal.

With both the carton of supplies and the wrapped gift in tow, she marched to her car. She shoved the supplies into the backseat, dropping the gift and tearing a corner of the wrapping paper. She gasped, retrieved the gift, and rushed back inside. Sucking her bottom lip, she lifted the torn wrapping and, like a peeping tom, both excited and afraid, peered past it. Then she snatched her hand away and put the gift down.

“Luce!” Her brother's face appeared at her door. Butting his head into the screen, he called again, “Luce, I have my toothbrush, and I brought plenty of big boxes. Phong is gone, we can pack all night.”

“You're too late. I've already started, fallen apart, given up, and moved to the maudlin-recluse part of the evening's program.” Lucy held up the gift, wagging it a little.

“And that is . . . ?”

“It's my months-ago birthday present from Richard. It was under the bed.”

Charles's eyes widened. “Open it, Luce. What are you waiting for?”

“Something . . . I don't know. If I open it, it's over. My last conversation, so to speak, with Richard, will be over. I didn't know this existed, and now that I do, I don't want it to go away.”

Lucy thought about the marshmallow study. A well-known experiment in delayed gratification, it was conducted by researchers at Stanford in the late 1960s. A series of children were placed individually in a room with a marshmallow. They were told that if they waited to eat the marshmallow instead of devouring it right away, they would get a second marshmallow.

Delayed gratification. Lucy had invented delayed gratification.

Charles sang a thready tune. “An-tic-i-pa-tion,” he crooned.

“Carly Simon knew all about it. If I open this, Richard will be gone.”

Charles touched his forehead to his sister's temple. “Luce,” he said softly, “he's already gone.”

She sighed. “He's ruined me for other shoes.” Charles pulled his head back, squinting at her in puzzlement. “He was like the best pair of shoes I ever tried on: perfect color, no pinch, in my size, and on sale. I had him just long enough to imprint his soul onto mine. Now nothing in my life fits.”

He nudged the box. “You think he gave you shoes?”

Lucy sighed. “The thing is, no matter what's in here, it's going to be a disappointment.”

“It depends on what you're expecting. If you think Richard is in there, then, yes, you will be disappointed. But if your heart is set on slippers, this could be a dream-come-true day.” Charles cleared his throat and walked to the kitchen. “I'm going to get a glass of water and then we can decide what to do: open the mystery gift, pack hospital supplies, or exorcise your bedroom.”

“Those are the worst multiple-choice options ever! That's like saying, ‘Today is your day: You can get a root canal, eat dirt, or drink colonoscopy prep, you choose!'”

“This is therapy, right? Returning the stolen hospital supplies? Mental health isn't a giveaway. When you're a nutcase, you've got to work for your sanity.”

Lucy shook her head. “You're secretly loving this, aren't you? All those years when you were crushing on your GI Joe, and trying to get team manager positions so that you could hang out in the guys' locker room, you were just waiting for me to screw up.”

“I knew you had it in you.” Charles swallowed the last of his water and glanced at the telephone. “You have messages. You want to get them?”

“I do? Yeah, whatever.”

Charles punched the button on Lucy's answering machine and Claire's southern sweet-tea drawl filled the room. “Good seeing you today. We're meeting again tomorrow at eight
A.M.
It's AA new-member day. I'm bringing donuts with sprinkles, and I just know someone will volunteer to bring the coffee. You need a pickup?”

Charles shot a glance at his sister. “New-member day?”

The machine beeped again. “Hi, Egypt.” The man cleared his voice and said, “Yeah, this is Mark. Since I have to take a few sick days for my eye . . .” He took a deep breath and said, “I'm going to the pound tomorrow. Need a dog. Call if you want to come.” The connection remained intact, as if he were going to say more, or was hoping for an automated reply. He cleared his voice again and hung up. The machine beeped a final time and they heard Mark's voice again. He rattled off his telephone number. “Ironically enough, it's an acronym for GAS HOLE,” he added.

“That's two invitations for my sister the hermit crab. Way to go, Luce. And here I was thinking about maybe pushing you onto an online dating site or enrolling you into a scrapbooking week at Memories Made with Scissors, just to get you out of the house. But here you're doing it all by yourself.”

Lucy lifted her chin. “I'm a very busy surgeon. People need boobs; I don't have time for scrapbooking.”

“You know what I love?” Charles asked her. “I love that Little Dog is your pimp. If this dog hadn't shown up, you'd be eating Ramen noodles and watching old
Friends
reruns. I can't remember when you've had a message that wasn't from the cable hookup guy or the dentist. So are you going?”

“To AA? Sure. Didn't you hear? There will be donuts.”

“I'm more interested in Gas Hole.”

“You're always more interested in the guy. Maybe. No. I doubt it.”

“Listen, Luce, a little relationship advice from me to you. After you help him find a dog, don't bring him back to open that box.”

“He's not interested in me that way, Chuckles.”

“I'm just telling you. That would be a real buzzkill.”

Lucy nodded. “Gee, thanks for the heads-up,” she said with mock gratitude. “I'd never want to kill a man's buzz.”

*   *   *

After dinner and a Netflix movie, Charles woke, stiff from falling asleep in the leather recliner, Mrs. Bobo snoring in the crux of his arm. He gazed at his sister, stretched out under the big picture window on the overstuffed couch. Years of sunscreen protection, moisturizer, and scrupulous skin care had left Lucy's skin remarkably unlined. Her wild curls framed her face and in the golden light of the street lamp she looked like a softer, prettier version of her younger self. Charles removed her glasses, pulled an extraordinarily soft afghan up to her shoulders, and tried as gently as he could to lift Richard's newly found birthday gift off her chest. Lucy grumbled and dropped her arm across the florid bow, and Charles pulled his arm back. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at his usually insomniac sister, until she rolled onto her side, repositioning the gift in her sleep.