Notes from the Dog (4 page)

Somehow the day lurched past, rock by miserable rock.

At the end of the afternoon, Matthew staggered into the yard and threw himself on the ground near where I was breaking up chunks of sod. I chucked my hoe off to the side and lay on my back near him. We both looked up at the sky and didn’t say anything.

“If I work real hard,” Matthew finally said, “and enough people quit or die or move to Uzbekistan, I might work my way up to the crappiest job in the world. Literally. Do you know, Finn, that someone is actually in charge of cleaning the Porta Potties?”

“Do you know that I am freaking out, Matthew, because I worked for eight solid hours and I’m still near the top of page one in Johanna’s binder? And there are seventy-six pages.
Seventy-six!”

We had nothing else to say.

My only thought was: Oh my god I hurt all over.

And judging by the grunts coming from Matthew, his was the same.

We finally got bored feeling sorry for ourselves and started comparing injuries and blood loss. Matthew had been given one task that day—removing nails from old wood. Salvaged lumber was going to be used to make the new building look like an old building. Matthew said that added “prestige” to the structure.

Long story short, he’d picked up about seventeen slivers, banged his right thumb four times and cut his forearm on a nail.

The car that had come for Johanna that morning stopped in front of her house. She slowly pulled herself out of the passenger side, stood, braced herself against the open door and then pushed it shut. The driver beeped the horn and pulled away. Johanna started toward the house.

We got up and, following Dylan, jogged over to her as she made her way up the walk. “Dylan,” I called, worried that he might knock her over if he jumped to kiss her face. But he pressed his shoulder against her knee and wagged his tail instead.

“You look awful,” I said.

Matthew shot me a dirty look and said, “Finn means you seem a little tired.”

“It hasn’t been my best day.”

“What happened?”

“I had chemo and broke up with my boyfriend.”

Matthew and I looked at each other, then back at her.

“That was him,” Matthew asked, “in the car?”

“Was
being the key word, yeah.”

“Are you … can we … I mean, you look …” I didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night, working on the garden binder and baking, plus I think I’m getting the flu. And, you know, I just got dumped. My mother is coming over after work but—” She doubled over and vomited next to the path, one hand clutching Dylan’s neck. He stood still, looking up into her eyes, but I couldn’t help taking a step backward and turning my face away.

“Man up,” Matthew snapped at me.

When Johanna was done, he slipped an arm around her. She sagged against him and he jerked his chin at
me. I jumped forward to hold her up on the other side. She seemed as light as air. Dylan led the way as we moved her into the house. As soon as we got her into her bedroom, she threw up all over herself and us and started to cry. I tried not to pull away.

Matthew grabbed a sheet from a stack of laundry in a basket near the door and threw it over her bed. We helped her lie down and he arranged a towel under her head. She was asleep before we’d even straightened up.

We stood watching her. Matthew took a deep breath.

“Go get clean clothes for us at your house.”

I nodded and turned.

“We need broth,” he said. “It’s good for sick people.”

“What’s the difference between broth and soup?”

“Broth is soup juice, nothing chunky. If you don’t have plain broth, cook a can of chicken noodle soup and strain the noodles out.”

“Okay, what else?” I could hear the panic in my voice. I was amazed at Matthew’s take-charge attitude. I wondered how he knew what to do and why I had no clue. Then I remembered that his grandma had stayed at his house after her hip replacement surgery. He’d helped take care of her.

Matthew thought.

“Tea … soda crackers”—he glanced back toward Johanna—“and towels and buckets or big plastic
bowls. Oh, and call your dad if he’s not home yet and bring him up to speed. Tell him we won’t be home for supper.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m running and cooking and searching and calling?”

“Cleaning up. Unless you want to trade?”

I slunk over to my kitchen. Dad was standing at the counter, chopping carrots for dinner.

“Hey, Dad. Do we have any broth?”

“What happened to you? Did you feed Dylan frozen waffles again?”

“No, it’s, um, Johanna. The girl from this morning? With the muffins? She’s, uh, sick, she had chemo and said maybe she’s getting the flu.” My dad frowned. “She got home a little while ago and now Matthew’s over there waiting for me to bring broth and tea and crackers and clean clothes and—”

“Can I help?”

Help? Take over! I thought. I don’t want to be anywhere near anyone who is hurling and crying.

“I think we’ve got it under control.” I didn’t believe that, but it was what Matthew would have said. Plus I didn’t want to let Johanna down. “Her mother is coming over in a little while. If you could find the soup and stuff while I get cleaned up, that’d be great.”

“Sure thing, son.” He started rummaging through the cupboards but then turned back to me. “You’re a good boy. I’ll be right here if you need me and if her
mother doesn’t show up soon, come and get me. Be sure you and Matthew wash up well.”

It was the longest conversation my dad and I had had in years.

I was back at Johanna’s house fifteen minutes later, with a wagon full of clean clothes and every towel and large plastic bowl I could find. Dad had put hot broth in a thermos and we’d found another thermos, which we filled with hot tea. I had a big box of crackers, too, and pretzels and Popsicles and ginger ale.

“Sure I can’t help?” he’d asked as I left.

“We got it covered. And it’s only for a little while.”

“I am definitely bringing supper over for you and Matthew when the stew is ready.”

I wasn’t sure I’d ever be hungry again, but I nodded.

I looked through the doorway of Johanna’s bedroom and saw that Dylan had tucked himself into the curve behind her knees, which she’d drawn up to her chest. Matthew was sitting in a rocking chair next to the bed, holding her hand and singing, forgetting, as he always does, most of the words and filling in the missing parts with humming. I couldn’t tell what he was singing; I never can. It’s kind of nice, though.

He looked up.

“Hey. How’s it going?” I pulled another chair up and handed him a change of clothes. He stripped off his shorts and shirt and shoved them into a bulging plastic trash bag next to him.

“I got her cleaned up.” I was gratified that he finally sounded a little nervous. “I threw her clothes and the towels I used in that garbage bag. I think we should get rid of them. I don’t want to see them again. I don’t even want to know that they exist in the universe. Do you think we could burn them?”

“Hot water. Double detergent. Two times through the wash cycle.”

We looked toward the voice and saw a curly-haired older woman standing at the door.

“What?” we both said.

“Give me the bag. I’ll take care of it. You seem to have things well in hand here.” She nodded to the wagon of provisions and to Dylan, whose tail went
thump thump
on the bed when she looked at him.

“I’m Matthew, this is Finn and that’s Dylan.” He handed her the bag. “You’re Johanna’s mom?”

She nodded. “Call me Pat. She mentioned she’d met the two of you. What happened here?”

We told her, and then she took the bag of laundry. We heard the washer start. She came back with a basket of clean stuff she must have pulled out of the dryer. Matthew reached over and grabbed a handful of towels and started folding. The three of us folded clothes while Pat asked us about school. Then she put her hand on Johanna’s forehead.

“She’s not warm and she’s resting comfortably. And I smell something like supper in the air.”

We followed Pat to the kitchen. I stopped dead when I saw my father and a pretty woman with long dark hair setting the table, talking and laughing. He pulled tinfoil off the tops of serving dishes and bowls.

“This is Fernanda,” my father said when he noticed me standing there staring. “She’s Johanna’s sister from Brazil, and she’s in the same master’s program I am.”

“But we never crossed paths until now,” Fernanda added. “We ran into each other on the back steps; we both had the same idea to bring dinner over.”

“How do you have a ‘sister from Brazil’?” Matthew wondered.

“We’ve always had exchange students from foreign countries, ever since Johanna was a baby,” Pat said. “Some of them, like Fernanda here, just never go back, and become our family.”

“They have a very big family,” Fernanda said. “Here”—she handed me a roll—“sit. Eat. There’s enough here for all of us.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off my dad. He couldn’t take his eyes off Fernanda, who was telling him about some problem she was having in a course. Matthew and Pat were chatting about his job; Pat worked for an architect and knew all about the building he was interning at. I ate my dinner but couldn’t taste a thing.

I was thinking: Johanna was four, Pat was five and Fernanda was six.

After just three days, I was halfway through my summer limit of people I could talk to. If I kept hanging around Johanna, my plan to avoid people wasn’t going to last long.

And I was surprised to find out I didn’t much care.

I woke up the next morning on Johanna’s living room floor with Matthew’s right foot and Dylan’s butt in my face.

After dinner, we had all cleaned the kitchen together. Johanna’s dad, Dick, had shown up midway through dinner. He’d found the makings for S’mores in a cabinet. Soon we were trying to start a fire in the fireplace. We filled the room with smoke until we got the flue open and then we ate S’mores and watched the news. Well, Pat and Dick and Matthew and I did; my dad and Fernanda had gone over to our house to look through course catalogs. Or something.

Matthew fell asleep during the news. Pat pulled a blanket off the back of the couch to throw over him. “I’ll get you a couple of pillows.”

And just like that, we were spending the night at
Johanna’s house with her parents, who wished me a good night and then went to the spare bedroom to sleep. I was exhausted from having been in the garden all day so I didn’t put up much of a fight to go home. Plus, it was pouring rain outside.

When I woke up the next morning staring at and smelling weird parts of Matthew and Dylan, I rolled over and saw Johanna and her mother standing in the doorway watching us.

“Hey!” I bolted to my feet. “Johanna. How do you feel?”

“Better than you look. Where’s the wolverine that made a nest of your hair while you slept?”

I nudged Matthew with my foot. He opened his eyes and said, “Did you rub S’mores on your head, Finn? You look weird.”

“Get cleaned up and we’ll have breakfast,” Pat said.

When we got to the kitchen, Johanna was sitting alone at the table, finishing a piece of toast.

“Where are your folks?” Matthew asked, spilling cereal into a bowl.

“They saw that I was feeling better and left for work. My mom needs to grab some paperwork, then she’ll be back.”

I shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster, tripping over a pair of running shoes, and sat down next to Johanna.

“Pricy shoes,” Matthew said. “Whose are they?”

“Mine. I’m training for a triathlon.”

“You’re what?” We had practically carried her up the front walk the day before.

“It’s a fund-raiser for cancer research at the hospital where I get my treatments. I don’t think I’m going to set any records. I just want to finish.” She picked up the shoes and tried to untie a knot in the laces. She wiggled her chair closer to mine and set a shoe on my lap. “Can you untangle that for me?” She rested one hand on my shoulder as I worked.

“Hey,” Matthew said, jealous. Johanna was flirting with me. Because if you touch a member of the opposite sex after you ask them for a favor, then you’re flirting. It’d never happened to me, but I’d read about such things.