More Like Her Page 17

  “You said he would have come in last night?” the girl asks, searching her clipboard and various sheets of paper. She’s got a short pixie cut with a tiny bejeweled barrette placed just so. Her ASPCA polo shirt is tucked into a pair of faded skinny jeans and her entire demeanor is one of . . . protective condescension. I must prove myself worthy of this dog or this girl is not going to let me get near him. Once again, there’s more good than bad.

  “His owners were involved in a shooting. Over at the Markham School? His name is John Henry and he’s a big male Weimaraner. Three years old?” I say, inching toward the end of my chair.

  “Oh, okay. Here he is,” the girl says, pulling a sheet of paper from a file. She sits down behind her desk and I can’t help but notice that she’s way younger than me . . . by far.

  “So, I want to adopt him. I want to have him,” I say, unable to sound anything but determined.

  “He has to stay here until Saturday. We check for diseases, anything at all. Make sure he’s healthy and adoptable,” the girl says, clearly working off a script.

  “He won’t have any of that, I’m sure he’s got all of his . . . everything,” I say, inching forward again in my chair. I’m going to be squatting on the ground just in front of it at this rate.

  “Okay, well, we’ll check him out anyway. You have to pay the fees listed on your intake sheet and then you can pick him up on Saturday,” she says, writing some notes on the sheet of paper.

  “Oh . . . okay. Can I see him?” I ask.

  “See him?” the girl asks, looking up from her desk.

  “I just want to see if he’s okay. It was . . . rough. What happened,” I say.

  “Was he there during the shooting?” the girl asks, her voice dropping.

  “No, but I was,” I say.

  “Oh my god,” the girl says.

  “Yeah,” I say, emotion rising.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay . . . can I see him?” I ask again. I plan to mark this day of remembrance by trying not to remember anything about last night.

  “Let me . . . see where he is right now,” the girl says, and excuses herself.

  “I just need to see him,” I say to myself, looking around the office to make sure no one heard. My energy is off the charts; I feel like I’ve just pounded a Red Bull laced with cocaine. Either I’m all over the place or I’m only able to deal with minutiae. No gray area. No middle ground. Even with my to-do list. I nod to myself and wait and bite the inside of my cheek, then my fingernails . . . maybe I’ll start gnawing on the girl’s desk next. The girl reemerges from the back. I perk up.

  “Okay, we’ve got him in one of our privacy rooms. So, if you’ll follow me,” the girl says. I feel like I’m about to see some kind of X-rated dog peep show. I stand and follow her through the office and back into the maze of the Humane Society. I can hear the distant barking of the dogs, but we’re not anywhere near the kennels. I’m glad; I honestly don’t know if I’m up to seeing a kennel filled with stray dogs right now. I just . . . I would probably break into sobs and howl at the injustice of it all. And then adopt every last one of them. No, best to stay the course and follow the Littlest Humane Society Worker into whatever this privacy room is. She stops and opens a door just to my right. She walks in first. John Henry is still in his crate, cowering in the back. He is terrified. The tears spring up immediately. Instantaneous and uncontrollable. I choke them back, clapping my hand over my mouth. The Little Humane Society Worker’s gaze is fixed on me. I nod. I’m okay . . . I’m okay.

  “He’s terrified,” I say, tears streaming down my face.

  “For now,” she says, looking me in the eye. Making me look her in the eye. “For now,” she says again gently.

  “It’s just been a rough couple of days,” I say, trying to smile.

  The girl nods and gets down to business. “He’s clearly high-strung. A little intense,” the girl says, setting her clipboard on a shelf.

  “Nothing wrong with a little intensity,” I say.

  The girl ignores me as she approaches John Henry’s crate. He skitters back. She continues speaking, but now her voice is light and kind and friendly. “Hi, sweetheart. Hi, sweet boy . . . do you want to come out?” The girl pulls a treat from her pocket as she unlatches his crate. She urges him out. He’s terrified but simply unable not to follow orders.

  “Good boy,” I say quietly. To myself. John Henry is low to the ground and his melty blue eyes are darting around the room. I try to get low, too. I don’t know why. I don’t want to look big and mean. John Henry nervously sits for the girl and she gives him the treat.

  “We want to get him to drink something,” the girl says, filling up a stainless steel bowl with water. John Henry approaches me, smelling my jeans and pulling back. I do nothing, don’t look at him, don’t move . . . I stay still but relaxed. I sit down as slowly and smoothly as I can. John Henry lurches back.

  “It’s okay, sweet boy. It’s okay,” I say, my hand out. Low and open. He walks over to me, nervous and darting. He smells my jeans, my shoes, my hand again. I make no attempt to pet him. The girl sets down the stainless steel bowl. John Henry immediately goes over and drinks, loudly lapping up the water for minutes.

  “So, his owners. They’re dead?” the girl asks as John Henry drinks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Did you know them?”

  “One of them,” I say.

  “What happened?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting to relive it. For this girl, this story could be a juicy bit of gossip. For me? It’s a recurring nightmare I can’t seem to wake from.

  “You said you were there,” the girl says.

  “So, the dog?” I say, motioning to John Henry.

  “Oh,” the girl says.

  “What happens now? With John Henry?” I ask, standing. John Henry lurches a bit, but then does his low walk over to me again. I keep my hands still as John Henry smells them. As the girl motions me toward the door, John Henry happily goes back into his crate with a treat. Maybe I would have gotten more time with John Henry if I’d been more forthcoming about his owners. She’s clearly better with animals than she is with people. The girl walks me back through the maze of hallways with assurances that John Henry will be well cared for.

  Do I even know where Emma’s family lives besides maybe in the Bay Area? Clara being an artist residing somewhere in Los Feliz isn’t really a lot to go on. I wonder if human resources would have that kind of information. I was so cavalier about this plan and now . . . how . . . how is this going to actually work?

  “Am I being weird about the dog?” I say on the phone to Jill as I drive to Huntington Memorial Hospital later that morning. This morning’s to-do list has kept me busy. All so . . . normal. That’s the most astonishing thing about all of this. The sun came up this morning like any other day.

  “I don’t even know what’s weird anymore, to be honest,” Jill replies, her voice crackling through the cell phone.

  “True. Where are you?” I ask.

  “Stopping for coffee and doughnuts before heading over.”

  “Oh good—I’m starved,” I say, turning onto California Boulevard.

  “So—”

  I cut her off. “It’s a long story and I just . . . I can’t tell it right now.”

  “Unacceptable!”

  “It’s going to have to be, young lady. And no weirdo looks or . . . just, can you hold it together? I swear I’ll tell you everything,” I say, pleading with her.

  “I want this to go on my permanent friend record,” Jill says. There are the unmistakable sounds of a bustling doughnut place behind her. Talk of maple bars, doughnut holes . . . my mouth waters.

  “Can you get me a maple bar?” I ask.

  “Yes, you terrible friend you,” Jill says.

  Quiet.

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “Did you see Sam’s maple bar?”

  “Feel bet
ter?”

  “A little.”

  “See you in a few.” I hang up just I pull up to the valet at Huntington Memorial. Yes. A valet. At a hospital. I stop in the gift shop on the way in. I don’t know what to bring Grady. While I may have a deep connection to him based on our shared experience, I actually don’t know Grady at all. I decide on a nice, tasteful vase of flowers. I walk over to the information desk with my purchases.

  “Patient name?” the woman behind the information desk asks.

  “Davis,” I answer.

  “What would he or she be here for?” the woman asks, her Halloween pin blinking Boo . . . Boo . . . Boo over and over again. Jesus. Halloween isn’t for another month, lady.

  “He would be here for a gunshot wound,” Sam says from just behind me, a plastic convenience-store bag in his hand as well. Annnd back to reality.

  “Hey,” I say, trying not to stare.

  “Hey,” he says back.

  “What did you . . . ,” I ask, pointing to his plastic bag and wanting to move things along. Don’t dwell. Don’t linger on the fact that we woke up in the same bed—my bed—this morning. That I made coffee like my life depended on it as Sam politely bolted. Sam opens up the plastic bag to reveal a Playboy magazine, a handful of Slim Jims and a six-pack of Cactus Cooler. I can’t help but smile. Now those are the purchases of someone who really knows Grady.

  “Grady Davis. Gunshot wound,” the woman reads, flipping through a stack of papers. It hits me that I’ve only been to hospitals for the births of friends’ babies. I’ve never . . . Grady is here for a gunshot wound. Grady was shot. By Jamie Dunham. Jamie Dunham. Who Sam killed. Yesterday. Wow.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sam says. The woman takes a map of the hospital off the top of a stack and, using a yellow highlighter, draws us a path to find Grady’s room. Sam and I thank the woman and walk to the elevators. Sam pushes the call button.

  “I can’t believe it’s almost October,” I say, unable to deal with the quiet. I’d gotten so used to his face. So used to him.

  “I know,” Sam says as the elevator dings open.

  “This year is flying by.”

  “Are you trying to make small talk?” Sam asks, a smile breaking across his face.

  “Am I?” I ask as the elevator dings open on another floor. A couple of doctors get on. We all smile politely.

  “You’re trying to make calendar-related small talk,” Sam says. One of the doctors looks back at us.

  “So what if I am?” I say, blushing.

  “Why don’t you just say that this elevator is a tight squeeze?” Sam says, his eyes crinkling. We laugh. And then . . . it fades. I clear my throat and step just a bit away from him. Is there ever going to be enough distance?

  The elevator dings open on our floor and Sam motions for me to step out first. The doctors give us a quick smile and then are back to business. Sam and I search for Grady’s room number. This way and that. Back through . . . no, wait . . . over here. The squeak of our shoes on the sterile floor, my vase bobbing with my every step, Sam’s plastic grocery bags crinkling and swaying with his long strides.

  “Here, here it is,” I say. The door is closed. I wait, then ask, “Do we?” Sam knocks lightly on the door, feeling the same trepidation I do. Lisa flings open the door.

  “What are you guys doing with that pussy-ass knock!?” Lisa yells, opening the door wide. She takes my vase immediately, setting it down on Grady’s bedside table. And she pulls me in. Close. Tight. Her shoulders convulsing one second and then tighter. I hug back. I pull her in.

  “You saved me,” I whisper in her ear.

  “That madman almost took everything I had,” Lisa says, pulling away from me, taking my face in her hands.

  “Thank you,” I say, tears streaming down my face. Again. Again with the tears.

  “We need to thank him,” Lisa says, her eyes welling up with tears as she looks at Sam. Sam’s smile is meant to reassure Lisa.

  Lisa continues as she lunges into Sam. “You . . . you did what I shoulda done. Grady . . . he hit my Grady. You finished what I started is what you did. Thank god for you. We owe you. I owe you.” Lisa is clutching at Sam. I can see bits and pieces of her monologue getting through to him. He softens as she whispers Grady’s name, but I see him tense at the mention of god. Sam hugs Lisa back and just keeps saying “You’re welcome, ma’am . . . you’re welcome, ma’am . . . ,” over and over again. They finally break apart. Sam settles back in next to me. He takes a long, deep breath and continues to listen to Lisa rant. This hospital room is too tiny. We’re practically standing on top of each other. Great.

  Lisa continues. “I wasn’t going to let him do it. With all the blood on you and Earley, I didn’t know for sure whether he had . . . had . . . and then when he got Grady . . .” She steps aside and I finally allow myself to take in our fallen hero. Lisa wipes at her eyes, her mouth contorted in a twist of emotion. Grady and . . . Jamie’s handiwork. Grady’s entire right shoulder is bandaged and in a tight sling.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Grady says with a wide smile, his other hand held high.

  “How you doin’, son?” Sam says, stepping in and shaking Grady’s free hand. His accent is thick and casual and yet, Sam is tentative and overly gentle. He doesn’t know what to do, how to handle this version of Grady. I can see Sam start and stop, so used to barreling into his old friend knowing he could take whatever Sam dished out.

  “That was a close one . . . I . . . uh . . . I’m glad you were there, Earley. For . . . for all of us,” Grady says, patting and clapping Sam on his shoulders. They’re awkward in their greetings, in their happiness, in their concern and mostly in their gratitude. Lisa has yet to let go of me; her arm is tight around my waist. She’s watching Grady. Beaming. Tears pooling in her eyes, her head tilted in awe. I see her breathe . . . exhale. Calm herself. She nods. He’s fine. He’s alive and fine. We’re all okay.

  Sam turns away from Grady and for a brief second I see a haunted look flash across his face. He wasn’t ready to be affected that much; he was caught off guard by Grady’s appreciation. Sam walks over to Lisa and gives her another hug. They’re speaking to each other . . . each so glad the other’s okay, thank-yous . . . we all made it. We’re all fine. I look from Grady to Sam and Lisa. Smiling. And then I hear Lisa speak in Sam’s ear. Quiet. Barely a whisper. Thanks for saving us. Lisa claps him on the back and the tears stream down her face as he repeats you’re welcome over and over again. I look away from Sam and Lisa and over at Grady. He’s smiling and happy . . . or as happy as someone could be with a newly acquired gunshot wound. Maybe it’s the drugs. Sam and Lisa finally break apart. Sam grabs his grocery bags and brings them over to Grady.

  “I brought you the necessities, G,” Sam says, putting the bag on Grady’s bed.

  “Awww, man—Cactus Cooler! This is . . . and some Slim Jims. Earley, you shouldn’t have,” Grady says, holding up the Playboy magazine. Lisa laughs. A barking laugh that seems to split something open, burst it into the room: joy. Life. Goodness.

  “Knock-knock,” Jill says, creaking open Grady’s door. Martin is standing behind her with a pink box filled with doughnuts and a to-go decanter of coffee with all the fixings. Jill carries nothing. And with their entrance, it all starts again.

  “Heeeey,” I say, pulling Jill in for a tight hug. Images flash. Jill sobbing and reaching out to me. The sound of her screaming. And now she’s here and she’s fine. She’s laughing and crying and wearing a ridiculous harvest-orange shift dress with matching grosgrain ribbon.

  “See? See how good I’m being?” Jill whispers in my ear. I smile and wrap my arms tighter around her as Martin makes the rounds. Clapping hands on shoulders, uncomfortable spikes of emotion as he realizes he was worried, he was . . . waiting to exhale, as all of us were. He gives Sam a hearty handshake and an even more heartfelt thanks. Sam is uncomfortable but polite in his reply.

  “I thought I lost you. I thought . . . I can’t . . . I’m never settin
g you up on another blind date, I swear,” Jill says, her voice crumbling into laughter and then eroding into tears.

  “Empty promises,” I say in her ear.

  “I’m going to need those details stat,” Jill says, and pushes me back to take a look at me. She tilts her head and just lets the tears fall. She lays her hand on my cheek and tells me that she’s glad I’m okay. All the blood, she keeps saying. I know. I know about “all the blood.”

  “Get your skinny ass over here,” Lisa says, pulling Jill over. Hugging. Crying. Muttering and sobbing. Martin walks over and just . . . envelops me. No words, just . . . a need to hold on. To make sure. To reacquaint with the living.

  As Lisa and Jill hug and sob, Jill motions to Grady, saying she’s sorry and sorry and sorry. Lisa keeps telling her everything is fine, we’re all fine . . . we all made it. See? See? She keeps saying. Jill is nodding, her face buried in the crook of Lisa’s neck. Lisa and Jill break from each other. Jill walks over to Sam and through childlike sobbing we all kind of make out that she was worried and that he was so strong and such a . . . hero, and then it’s just dolphin-speak from then on in. Sam, despite not being able to understand a single word Jill is saying, keeps telling her he appreciates that, ma’am, it’s fine, darlin’ . . . you’re welcome, you’re welcome. . .

  And then we’re all just standing there. The six of us. The living. The survivors. The heroes and the saved. Sam walks back over and settles in next to me. Jill is watching us like a hawk. It’s killllling her.

  “So, the shoulder?” Martin asks Grady finally.

  “Yeah, no bone damage, which is a miracle, and it just has to be immobilized for a long-ass time,” Grady says.

  “And how long do you have to stay in the hospital?” Jill asks.

  “Around ten days depending on how well I heal,” Grady says, handing Lisa one of the Slim Jims. She tears it open and passes it back to him. He takes a giant bite. Bliss. Lisa cracks open a Cactus Cooler, holding it at the ready.