Fear of Falling (8 page)

Andrea lays her cat down on the table and carefully removes the towel. Omar coughs and wheezes as Dr. Mac begins her exam. First she runs through the basics—she checks Omar's pulse rate, gently presses his abdomen, and looks for signs of injury.

I have to admit cats aren't my favorite animal. I'm much better with dogs (and horses, of course). But I can't help feeling sorry for this poor cat. He acts as if he can barely breathe.

As Zoe and I hold Omar still for Dr. Mac, I glance over my shoulder. Dad is standing just outside the doorway. I guess he doesn't want to come in and be in the way. He shoots me a thumbs-up. I'm glad he's getting to see me at work. Now I just hope we can save this cat.

“Did you actually see him swallow something?” Dr. Mac inquires, gently opening the cat's mouth and peering inside with a penlight.

Andrea looks embarrassed and pushes her wire-rim glasses up on her nose. “No, but I found part of my Thanksgiving turkey on the floor,” she admits.

Uh-oh. Omar could be choking on a bone.

Dr. Mac just nods, calm and businesslike, and sets Omar on his feet. He stretches his head and neck forward in this really freaky gagging position and coughs hard, over and over. It's scary.

How can Dr. Mac stay so calm?! “Do you think it's a bone?” I ask her. “Maybe the Heimlich maneuver would help.”

“Cats almost never choke,” Dr. Mac says. “The opening to a cat's windpipe is very small and closes instantly. And you can't do the Heimlich maneuver on cats. But I suspect this is something else. He's in a great deal of respiratory distress.”

Andrea looks frantic. “Can you help him?”

Dr. Mac nods. “David, get the O
₂
. Small mask. Zoe, check his respiration rate.”

I roll the canister of oxygen next to the table and turn it on, then hook up a small mask to the tubing.

“Pulse rate is 240 per minute,” Dr. Mac reports. “His heart's racing. Respiratory rate?”

“It's hard to tell with the coughing,” Zoe replies, “but I'd say about 50 breaths a minute.”

I don't need a veterinary degree to know the cat is breathing way too fast.

Dr. Mac starts adjusting the dials on the oxygen machine. “Go ahead with the mask, David.”

I've watched Dr. Mac do this lots of times, and it always looks easy. But it's hard to put something over an animal's face when it seems to be choking to death. I feel my own heartbeat and respiration rate go up as I slip the small mask over Omar's tiny nose. He twists and turns a little at first, trying to shake off the mask, but stops fighting when the oxygen begins flowing into his lungs.

The poor little guy—he's shedding fur all over the exam table. Cats do that when they're really frightened.

“Nice job, David,” Dr. Mac says quietly. “Now help Zoe hold him still—but gently.” I slip my hands onto the cat's heaving sides as Dr. Mac turns to open a cabinet behind her.

I wonder if Dad is still watching from the hallway, but I've got my back to the door and can't turn to look.

“It's OK, Omar,” Andrea croons to her cat, kissing his paw. “You're going to be all right.”

Seconds later Dr. Mac is back at the table, a needle and syringe in her hand. “I'm going to give Omar some medication. Hold him still for the injection.” She positions the needle and presses the plunger in one smooth motion.

“New pet?” Dr. Mac asks as she discards the needle.

Andrea nods.

“How old is Omar?”

“We think he's about three,” Andrea says. “We just got him from the pound a week ago.” Her lip trembles a little. “We think he's a pure-bred Siamese. I can't believe somebody gave him to the pound!”

Dr. Mac doesn't answer. She's seen far worse things happen to animals than just being given to the pound. She glances at Zoe. “Make a note that I administered fifty milligrams of prednisone sodium succinate.”

“Got it,” Zoe says, recording the dosage in her neat handwriting.

Dr. Mac peers closely at Omar, watching to see how he responds to the medication. “Have you noticed any symptoms of illness since you got him, Andrea?” she asks.

Andrea bites her lip and thinks for a moment. “Well, he's been sneezing a little, off and on, but I've been kicking up quite a bit of dust, cleaning for company.” She pauses again. “And he hasn't been eating all that much. I thought maybe he was just getting used to his new home. You know how finicky cats can be.”

Gradually Omar's breathing slows, and he begins to look more relaxed and normal.

“What did you give him?” Andrea asks.

“A fast-acting steroid. Seems to have gotten him past this attack.”

Andrea frowns. “What do you think was wrong with him?”

Dr. Mac runs a hand through her short white hair. “Well, I want to run a few more tests—some blood work, a chest X-ray, and a chemistry profile. Plus a routine heartworm check, just to rule out everything else,” she says. “But I suspect Omar has asthma.”

“Asthma!” Andrea says. “I…I didn't know cats could have that!”

“It usually occurs in cats between the ages of one and eight,” Dr. Mac explains. “Females are twice as likely to develop the condition, but males can get it too. And guess which breed appears to get it more?”

“Siamese?” I ask.

Dr. Mac smiles. “Bingo.”

“But he seemed fine when we brought him home from the pound,” Andrea says. “Why did he get so sick all of a sudden?”

“The attack may have been caused by something in his new environment,” Dr. Mac explains. “Hairspray, cigarette smoke, even household cleaners…”

“Well, I have been cleaning like mad,” Andrea says, then frowns. “My brother's here, too, for Thanksgiving, and he's started smoking again.”

“Any or all of those things could have triggered a bad attack like this,” Dr. Mac says.

“Oh, Omar, I'm so sorry,” Andrea says, cuddling the cat to her chest.

“The good news is that asthma in cats can be treated, just as it can be in people,” Dr. Mac says. “Omar seems to have responded well to the steroid injection. So, unless the tests turn up something different, we'll probably get him on prednisone and see if that helps his symptoms.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Mac,” Andrea says. “All of you—I'm sure you saved his life just now.”

I turn to look for Dad and—
crash!
—knock over a tray of instruments.

Zoe giggles, but she kneels down to help me. Dr. Mac just looks mildly amused. It's not the first time I've done this, and I know she's not mad.

Still, I'm embarrassed to have messed up again in front of Dad. As I scramble to pick up the instruments, I glance out into the waiting room to see if he's still watching. But he's not there.

Brushing cat hair off my pants, I go to the door and look around the waiting room, then up and down the hall. I don't see him anywhere.

I can't believe it. He left again, without even saying good-bye.

O
pening the clinic door, I check outside. Maybe Dad left because of the choking cat. Some people just can't stomach medical emergencies. Besides, maybe he's had his fill of emergencies in the past two days.

Sure enough, when I step outside, there's Dad across the street, leaning against his truck, talking on his cell phone. I heave a sigh of relief. He didn't skip out. And he didn't leave because I embarrassed him.
Get a grip, David!
He just had to make a call. He probably wanted some privacy, or maybe the phone reception's better out here.

Ashley is already sitting inside the truck, so excited she's bouncing up and down.

Dad's got his back to the clinic and doesn't see me coming over. As I cross the street, I catch part of his conversation.

“A job like this in Philly would be perfect,” he says.

My heart jumps. He's really moving back—he really does want to be near us!

I pause by the tailgate. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I can't help listening in. I mean, this is
my
life he's talking about, too.

“Listen, Isaac,” Dad is saying, “is there any way you can find out for me? I really need this job…”

Isaac? That must be his friend Isaac Jackson. They've been good friends since high school, and I know Mr. Jackson works at a company in Philly. I take a step closer, straining to hear.

“…hasn't been easy since I got fired…”

I freeze in my tracks.
Fired? Dad got FIRED?

“No, I haven't told anybody,” Dad says, kicking at the truck's front tire. “I want to keep it quiet…”

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

Ashley knocks on the window, telling Dad to hurry up, and he looks up and calls through the glass, “Just one more minute, pumpkin.”

“…I know, I know,” he says, speaking into his cell phone again. “I appreciate that, Isaac, but I'm in emergency mode here. Unemployment doesn't even begin to cover my bills…” He's pacing in front of the truck now, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. I duck behind the tailgate. “OK, OK,” he says, “but when do you think they'll decide?”

The pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place, and I'm getting a pretty good idea of the big picture. Dad came back here
not
because of me and Ashley and Brian and Mom. And he's not some big-time business guy who's so busy that he doesn't have time for his family.

No—Dad came back to beg favors from old friends, because he got fired from his job in Texas! Sounds like it happened a while ago, too. Is that why he got rid of his expensive SUV and drives a beat-up old truck?

It also explains why Dad stopped sending Mom money—he doesn't have any. I think about the new riding helmet he gave me and get a sick feeling in my stomach. How did he manage to buy that? And how could he spend money on a luxury like King's Shadow when he's having trouble paying his bills?

I don't care about Dad's money. Or what kind of car he drives. Or whether he has a fancy horse or buys me presents. I just want him back, just want us to be a family again.

But Dad lied to me! He's only moving back to Pennsylvania because he needs work. Not because he misses us.

Ashley presses her lips and cheeks against the truck window, making goofy faces, trying to get Dad's attention. My stomach twists, and I want to run and scoop her up in my arms to protect her.

Suddenly I feel just the way I did in the dream, and the way I felt going over that jump with Comet. As if I'm falling, falling…then hitting the cold, hard ground with a thud. As if all the breath has been knocked out of me.

I can't believe what a chicken my dad is—he's too scared to tell me the truth.

Dad clicks off his cell phone and slips it back into his pocket. He still doesn't see me.

I'd better not let him know what I've heard.

No!
Maybe the old David would have done that. It would be easier, less painful to pretend I don't know anything.

But I'm too mad to just let it go. As he reaches to open the driver's side door, I step out from behind the truck. “Dad—wait!”

Dad turns around, surprised, then gives me one of his charming smiles. “David! Hey, how's the cat doing?”

It must be the look on my face that stops him cold. He tries again. “Hey, that was pretty neat the way you guys saved that cat. Sorry I had to slip out. I needed to check my phone messages at the hotel—”

“Coward!” I blurt out.

Dad's jaw drops.

Did I really just call my father a coward? I don't care. All this time
I've
been so afraid of looking like a coward in his eyes, because I'm afraid of falling off a jumping horse. Now I realize that's nothing to be ashamed of compared to what
he's
done.

“David,” he says, holding out his hands, palms up, like a criminal trying to look innocent, “what are you talking about?”

I step closer and stare straight up into his startled blue eyes. “You're afraid to admit why you're really here!”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I glance at Ashley inside the truck. The windows are rolled up and I try not to shout, so she won't hear me. But it's hard, because I'm so mad I'm shaking. “You think you can just turn up after a year? Just pop back into our lives like nothing's changed, bring a pretty horse, be the big shot again?”

“David—”

“Ashley cried for months when you left!” I hurl at him. “We
all
missed you, Dad. You stopped calling. You didn't even write.” I pause to fight down some angry tears. “Mom knocks herself out to look after us and pay the bills, too. And Ashley—she wears that stupid purple sundress all the time like it's some magic princess dress that will bring you back if she just wishes hard enough. Brian won't talk about you at all. Don't you care how much you hurt us?”

Dad looks like a statue for a moment. Or a handsome mannequin posing as a dad in a department store window. Then he takes a step toward me, his hands outstretched. “I don't know what you heard, David, but I can explain—”

“Don't bother.” I start to run away.

Dad's strong hand comes down on my shoulder to stop me.
Ow!
He doesn't even remember how sore I am from the fall. “David,” he says again, his voice husky. “Wait.”

Don't,
I tell myself.
Just keep going. Keep going until you're so far away, you can't hear any more of his lies.

But Dad doesn't let go. Slowly I turn around, daring him with my eyes to lie to me again.