Dog Crazy (11 page)

T
he next morning, Saturday, Leo opens the door in flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt with the words
NERD ALERT
in an old-school computer font across the chest. Leo works at an IT consulting firm, and I'm sure the T-shirt was a gift from Lourdes. He's bleary-eyed, lifting his glasses to rub his hand over his face, and the house smells of coffee. I hear Gabby wailing in the kitchen.

Giselle flies at me, wedging her body between my legs. Her leash trails from her collar and writhes on the floor behind her, smacking against Leo's bare feet. He looks down and blinks slowly.

“Please don't report me to the Humane Society,” he says. “I swear I haven't given her a drop of coffee.”

I reach for Giselle's collar and she immediately sits on her
haunches in front of me, trembling with excitement. “If only we could bottle her energy.”

“Or just
be
her. Just for a day.”

I smile. “Is it Lourdes's morning to sleep in?”

Leo nods. He glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen, where Gabby is still wailing. “We're out of frozen waffles,” he murmurs. He looks shell-shocked.

“Ah.” I think for a moment. “Do you have cinnamon?”

He frowns, considering. I'm sure they have cinnamon, but I also suspect Leo is capable of staring at their well-organized spice rack for five full minutes without finding it. All men, in my experience, have this problem, which I've diagnosed as Male-Pattern Blindness. I send Lourdes a telepathic apology for the fact that her husband is probably about to wake her up to ask if they have cinnamon.

“I think so,” he answers finally.

“Butter? Sugar? Bread?”

He nods, this time with more confidence.

I wrap Giselle's leash around my hand. “Cinnamon toast. My mom used to make it for me when I was upset. It's like kiddie crack. Beats waffles any day.”

“Cinnamon toast,” Leo repeats. I think he might kiss me. “Cinnamon. Toast.” He straightens his shoulders resolutely, looking a degree or two more awake than he did a moment ago. I have the sense there's something else he'd like to say. He scratches at the scruff of dark hair along his jaw, adjusts his glasses, then reaches down to pet Giselle a few times. Finally, he says, “I'm really glad you're getting back out there, Maggie. I know you
know that Lourdes is here for you, but I hope you know that I'm here for you, too, if you ever need anything. I'm cheering you on.”

I'm touched. Leo and Lourdes began dating in college, so I've known him nearly as long as I've known her. If Lourdes is like the sister I never had, then I suppose Leo is like the brother I never had. “Thanks, Leo. That means a lot to me.”

He scratches at his jaw again. “I've been thinking. Is there an agoraphobia spectrum, like an autism spectrum? If so, I think a lot more of us fall somewhere on it than we'd like to admit. I don't mean to make light of the people who really suffer from the, um, illness,” he says quickly. “But there's so much social interaction and consumption we can do from our homes these days. I think we're
all
losing some of our practice with negotiating the real world outside our doors and face-to-face relationships. And the less you practice, the harder something becomes.”

“Why, Leo. If I didn't know you were a tech guy,” I tell him, smiling, “I'd say you're starting to sound like a Luddite.”

He shrugs. “You should see some of these guys who work for me. Their skin gets all lobster red and blotchy when they're faced with the daunting task of saying ‘good morning' to me in the hall. Honestly, it's a miracle they make it out of their bedrooms in the morning, let alone their apartments.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Maybe I need to find myself a nice, awkward tech guy. We could share the cost of a Netflix subscription. Solid relationships have been built on less.”

Leo laughs. “Please don't do that. For Giselle's sake, at least. She's growing quite fond of your city explorations—I don't know how she'd handle it if you went back into hiding.” In the kitchen,
Gabby seems to be attempting to break the sound barrier. Leo winces. The fact that Lourdes is sleeping through the noise is a truly impressive testament of her willpower.

“Soooo, is there anything else we can talk about?” Leo asks, deadpan. “Let's see, we've covered cinnamon toast, the agoraphobia spectrum . . . Oh, fine. I guess my time is up. Thanks, Maggie.” He glances wistfully beyond me, toward the front yard. It's a sunny, clear-skied morning, a hint of the sea in the air. “Enjoy your walk—”

At the sound of her favorite word, Giselle leaps to her feet, races past me, and springs off the top step. Barely hanging on to the other end of the leash, I spin around and stumble down the stairs after her, yelling good-bye to Leo as I do.

W
HEN
G
ISELLE AND
I turn onto Anya's block, I see Henry waiting for me in front of the house.

“Morning,” I say, walking up to him. “We really should stop meeting like this.”

He's clearly in no mood for jokes. “I wanted to catch you before you went inside,” he says straightaway. “Anya told me you'd be here. She said you've been coming all week.”

I shade my eyes, squinting up at him. Now that I've decided he's handsome, it's hard to notice anything else.
You need to get out more,
I tell myself.
Obviously.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“Terrence had dinner with Anya and my grandmother last night and apparently Anya blew up again, ranting about Billy. Terrence said Rosie was completely shaken up by the whole thing. June had to take her to bed early.” Henry crosses his arms. “Anya
isn't getting any better. I don't think your plan—going on all these walks with her—is working.”

“Well, it's barely been a week.” I think for a moment. “And you may not see it yet, but I actually do think we're making a little progress. I think she's relieved to have someone to talk to.”

Henry winces. “She knows she can talk to me. We've always been close. I'm the one who brought Billy home for her in the first place. I thought having a dog would help her. Growing up in this big old house with my grandmother . . . I didn't want her to be lonely.”

I smile at him. “She didn't tell me. That was nice of you.”

“Well, now I'm not so sure. If I'd known this was going to happen—”

“Trust me,” I interrupt, perhaps a bit too sharply. “Billy was good for Anya. I'm sure she wouldn't trade one moment of the time she had with him even if it meant feeling less heartache now.”

He looks at me and nods.

“Listen,” I say. “I know you want Anya to let go of Billy, to accept that he's gone, but she's not ready. That's not something you can force. These things take time.
She
needs time.”

“I get that, I do, but I'm not sure you understand how critical it is that she snaps out of it.” He gestures toward the house. “Don't be fooled by this place. There's
no
money. Clive and Terrence and I—we're the ones who support my grandmother and Anya. And Anya lost her job. Did she tell you that?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Well, she needs to work. She needs the paycheck, and she needs the stability of a schedule. I enrolled her in a photography class at City College with the hope that it would inspire her to
take more classes, maybe even pick a major, but apparently she stopped going as soon as Billy ran away. She needs to find her way back to some sort of emotional equilibrium. Billy isn't the only loss she's going to have to deal with in the near future. Rosie is very sick. She's probably not going to be around much longer.” He swallows. “Yet another thing that Anya refuses to acknowledge.”

My heart sinks. “I'm so sorry, Henry. I knew your grandmother was ailing, but I didn't realize how serious it was.”

“Anya won't discuss it with anyone. After I move, she's going to be on her own dealing with all of this. Clive, as I'm sure you gathered, isn't exactly the nurturing type, and Terrence has a lot on his plate right now with young kids at home and a business to run.”

I nod. “And you're sure moving is the right thing to do at this point? Have you considered staying closer to home until Anya finds her way through this period? I think she might rely on you—emotionally, I mean—more than she lets on.”

Henry's expression changes, darkening, and I immediately sense my mistake. “I hate that I have to move right now. But this is my career we're talking about . . . the career that helps to support my grandmother and Anya. Who will pay Rosie's medical bills if I don't go?”

Henry looks so tormented that I have to fight the impulse to reach out and touch his hand. “I'm sorry. I don't know all of the details of your situation, or Anya's, and I shouldn't have said anything.”

“I
have
to go,” he says again. “And I thought that if I knew Anya was at least seeing a therapist . . .” His voice trails off. “But this isn't how it was supposed to go. This was a mistake. You're
only confusing her, giving her hope. You're going to make things worse, which means
I've
made things worse.”

Before I know it, I'm inviting him to join us on our walk. “You'll see that you didn't make a mistake. All I'm doing is listening to Anya, talking with her. I like her.” Even as I say it, I realize how sincere I am. I think of my old boss arguing for professional distance. But Anya isn't a patient—if she were, I never would have seen her again. “When she's ready to mourn for Billy, I'll be here. That's what you really want, isn't it? To know someone will be here for her after you leave? Come with us,” I say. “You'll see.”

Henry listens closely, his expression thoughtful. “Fine,” he says when I'm finished. He sounds less convinced than defeated.

“Good,” I say brightly, but I'm already regretting my suggestion. I'm trying to convince Henry that he hasn't introduced a negative presence into his unstable sister's life, but what if I have one of my panic attacks while he's watching? Anya may not have been flustered when I fell to the ground and hugged a dog for dear life during our first walk, but I don't think Henry would view such an episode so lightly. I haven't had another incident like that one all week, but my anxiety flares at the thought of Henry observing my every move.
What was I thinking?

Henry gestures for me to lead the way. I head toward the front of the house and Giselle falls into step beside me, tail wagging, the only one of the three of us who seems unfazed by what is about to happen.

“W
HAT ARE YOU
doing here?” Anya asks Henry when she sees him standing behind me at the door.

“I want to come with you and Maggie this morning,” he answers. “On your walk.”

Anya releases a hard laugh. “It's not for fun. We're not a couple of ladies going for a power walk. We're looking for Billy.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But you think Billy is dead.”

“No, I just . . . Anya, you know I don't sugarcoat things for you. You're not a child. I have no way of knowing whether or not Billy is dead, but to be honest, either way, I don't think he's coming back.”

Anya crosses her arms and scowls. She looks like she's about to rip into her brother, so I speak up before she can, turning to Henry.

“If you don't think he's coming back,” I say, “what
do
you think happened to Billy?”

“I think someone let him out by accident. Clive or Terrence, most likely, and they don't want to admit it either because they feel bad about it or they don't even realize they did it.”

I nod. It's my best guess, too. But Anya lets out a frustrated huff and shakes her head.

“That doesn't make sense. Billy wouldn't run away. He's never run away before. Not once. Why would he start now, when he's old and clearly prefers being home to being anywhere else?”

Henry sighs. “You have to admit it makes a lot more sense than jumping to the conclusion that someone stole him.”

Anya purses her lips, and the angular lines of her cheekbones rise from below her pallid skin. “Why are you
really
here, Henry?”

“Please don't be like this. Let me come with you. I just want to spend time with you.” He sounds sad and I'm relieved to believe
him—to know that he's not joining us for the sole purpose of evaluating my relationship with his sister.

Anya looks at me. “What do you think?”

The way she asks this—as though she wants to make sure it is okay with me—makes me feel both touched and uneasy. I have the distinct sense that she's been questioning my state of mind as much I've been worrying about hers.

I give a blithe shrug. “Why not?”

“I was going to head toward Kite Hill today,” she says, holding my gaze. “It's sort of an upward climb.”