The Dog Year (17 page)

Sidney nodded. “Anorexia is my pause.” She gave Lucy a weak smile. “But I wouldn't recommend it.” She took a sip of coffee. “I haven't always been this sick, you know. Although I have always been weight-conscious.”

“What woman in America isn't?”

Sidney nodded. “I had a pretty man: Bobby. God, stay away from a man with a little-boy name like that: Bobby, Tommy, Joey. They carry a lot of heavy baggage. When we met, he was a hockey player slash physician's assistant. He'd given up his skates, but still looked capable of surging for a goal if pressed.”

Lucy smiled. “I know the type. ESPN is tattooed on their brain as the ultimate cultural experience.” She put her hand on her abdomen.

“Yep. He married me for himself. I was his pet wife. He'd play with me, take me out if
he
needed it, otherwise I could just piss in the basement waiting for him between watching sports events. I made a great prop: I was successful, pretty enough, reasonably smart.”

“So you left him.”

“Ha! You'd think, right?” Sidney dropped her ear to her shoulder and cracked her neck, a move Lucy had seen her do several times before. “No. A bunch of old jocks got a hockey league together, started playing on Wednesday nights. The Skates, they called themselves. Had an artist design a logo with a stingray on it, a stingray with devilish eyes. Just another thing for Bobby to do without me. One night, when I was home painting the bedrooms, he tripped on the ice and rammed his head into the goal. Broke his neck.”

“God, Sidney.”

There was a rueful smile on Sidney's lips. “Don't worry,” she said. “He lived. He lost the use of his legs, though. It was a long recovery. Physical therapy, nurses. We both had to learn to get him in and out of the chair, into the shower. I went to every therapy appointment, learned everything I could from the nurses. Until he told me to stop.”

“He told you to stop?”

“Said I was no good at it. Suggested I join a gym. Get in shape, lose weight.”

Lucy's mouth dropped open and Sidney continued. “I used to have kind of big boobs.” Sidney pulled the sleeves of her shirt down over her wrists. “I was enrolled in school at the time, taking classes in social work. So I dropped out. Got to work on my abs. And on this house.” She stood and motioned for Lucy to follow her. Down a hallway Sidney opened the door of the master bedroom.

The walls were a honey yellow on top of glossy, white wainscoting. The floor was painted a Mediterranean blue, waxed and sparsely covered with sisal throw rugs. Jute blinds hung in each window. The sky-blue bedspread was strewn with red poppies. And on the wall, at the head of the queen-sized bed, hung a vintage life preserver with the words S.S.
Happy
printed on it. Sidney opened the door adjacent to the master bedroom and walked inside. This room's white walls and white bedspreads made Lucy feel like taking in a big, clean breath. It had a light-blue ceiling with clouds painted in the corners, and twin beds with red paisley pillows on them. The windows were hung with curtains made from the same flirty paisley material. “Bobby left me for his physical therapist. Told me they had a great sex life. She was pregnant,” Sidney added. “Apparently that part of him still worked.”

“Oh.” Lucy let the word escape like a bird flying from its cage. She paused to gauge the expression on Sidney's face. “I'd been decorating for the happy years to come when Bobby would spend time at home, hoping
we'd
have a family.”

“My gosh, I did the same thing!”

“I guess I still believed in fairy tales, then. It took a long time to edit those stories, but eventually they became less Disney, more the Brothers Grimm, and I lost more and more weight. I finally realized that the only consistent characters in my house were fantasy, disillusionment, and me.” Lucy flinched as she watched Sidney talk, bony-kneed, deep in recollection.

“I want to finish the house. Sell it, but I don't have the energy.”

“Where's Bobby now?”

“No idea. There wasn't much protesting when it ended. ‘No hard feelings,' he'd said.” Then as if to herself, “No hard feelings.”

“Sidney. I'm sorry.” Lucy leaned in closer to her friend. “But it's not over for you. Bobby isn't the only man in the world.”

Sidney snorted, “Where would
I
find a man? One that I could trust? It's a long process. Besides, whenever I think about it, a cuckoo clock chimes in my head: ‘Old eggs, old eggs.'”

“You just described me.”

“Not so much anymore, kid.” Sidney turned and moved toward the living room.

Lucy said, “Did you ever hear that joke, the one where two little kids are in the backyard playing? The little boy pulls his pants down and wags his penis at the girl, saying, ‘I have something you don't have. A penis!' and the little girl says, ‘Oh yeah? Well my mommy says that I have a vagina and that means I can have a penis anytime I want.'”

Sidney laughed. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I have to think about that.” Lucy grew quiet as she followed Sidney back from the beautiful bedrooms into the sparse living room. “I feel ashamed. Disloyal. Embarrassed and ridiculous. I feel like I'm pregnant at my prom and the father is from a neighboring town and nobody likes that town. I feel like from here on out it's going to be all true confessions and conflict.”

“So you feel like the high school slut.”

“You know, I loved Richard, and wanted a family with
him
. I wanted to have
his
baby. I didn't just want
a
baby, any old baby, Mark's baby.”

“I promise not to quote you on that, no matter what happens.”

“I know. It's terrible. I've always wanted this. I wanted to bring a pan of lemon bars to my birthing class, discuss epidurals, and compare overpriced designer diaper bags. I wanted to join the labor and delivery club, talk about episiotomies and insensitive doctors. You know, laugh at the jokes about how if babies were left to the male species there would be no population growth. I wanted to be a Girl Scout leader.”

“And now you're going to get all that.”

“I don't think so, Sidney.” A cold wind hit the outside of the house and it seemed to shudder.

“Maybe we could talk about something else, then,” Sidney said. The two of them sat breathing in each other's air, wondering what could be considered safe territory for a hopeless anorexic and a kleptomaniac unwed mother. “Want to sleep over?”

I
n the spare bedroom, Lucy lay beneath the girlish comforter staring at the painted blue ceiling, with Little Dog at her side. She lifted the overlarge T-shirt Sidney had lent her and ran her hands over her abdomen and up to her breasts. They
were
fuller. That very morning, she'd chalked it up to premenstrual tenderness, but it was actually a call to arms.
Man your battle stations, glands! This isn't a drill
! It was like watching the disguise come off an old, complicated friend who had plans, a map, and was taking over.

It would be several weeks and many thoughts before Lucy would feel the baby move inside her, but she tried now to sense the change within. Just before getting into bed she'd placed the Cryobanking Conception Clinics pamphlet under her pillow. Now she slid her hand under the cool surface and tugged the once glossy pamphlet out. The top page tore free from the trifold and she gasped. Tears welled up in her eyes and leaked onto her pillow. She tried to be silent but to no avail. Her body released a great wracking sob, and then another.

Sidney tiptoed into the room and, light as a paint stick, sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her back. “Let it out,” she said. When Lucy quieted, Sidney moved to the second bed and slipped between its covers.

“We need some rest because we're doing this all again tomorrow. It's going to be better tomorrow.”

“How?”

“It just is. Sleep sweet.”

*   *   *

Just as Sidney predicted, life went on. The newspaper had been delivered and Lucy sat in the living room holding a down comforter around her shoulders and sipping coffee. Beneath an item about a rash of petty thefts from a string of convenience stores in Iowa, Lucy saw a diminutive headline: “82-year-old woman survives three-story fall.” She leaned in to read the article. “Police say a Winona woman had unspecified injuries after falling out of her window and landing on several potted plants. Bethany Anderson, a first-floor resident, upon hearing a ‘thud' at 10:30
A.M.
, looked out and saw a woman lying on her side, covered in potting soil.”

“What's happening today?” Sidney asked, sipping from her can of Ensure.

“Not sure. This one's either a suicide attempt, inner ear instability, or a mere gardening misadventure.” She pointed to the article.

Sidney read it as she leaned over Lucy's shoulder. “How bad could your day already be at 10:30
A.M.
?”

“I guess it depends on how well you slept. It seems this reporter is more interested in the potted plants than the woman. The real story here is how an eighty-two-year-old woman was able to wrestle a window wide open, get past a screen, and fling her old self through it onto the plants below.”

“Yoga for oldies?”

“In med school, during my ER rotation, I took care of an eighty-year-old man with a cucumber stuck up his butt.”

“Shut up!”

“When I told my mom the story, she said, ‘Do you think he fell in his garden?'”

“Did you ask her why she thought he might be naked in his garden?”

“It would have ruined her world.”

Sidney nodded and took another pained sip of her Ensure. “Must suck to be eighty.”

“You think we all spend our lives missing the point?” Lucy asked her. “You think
I'm
missing the point, that I should be grateful for what I have and try to focus on the bigger picture?”

“Um, I think we all just focus on ourselves. And truthfully, that can be a pretty small picture. I mean, when I'm faced with breakfast, a bathroom scale, or a can of Ensure, I'm not thinking about the world's suffering. I'm just focused on the next sip.”

“I'm thinking today we should put grocery shopping on the calendar for you and an AA meeting for me.”

The women stood. Lucy said, “Thanks, Sid.” She didn't add, “For everything.”
But she didn't need to. Sidney nodded, started to take another sip, then stopped.

“Most people, when I talk about my eating disorder, say really stupid things. Like, ‘It's not like cancer, all you have to do is eat.' Or, ‘I wish I could get anorexia for a few days.' Or,
‘You have the most amazing willpower.'”

“It's the mental health bias,” Lucy pointed out. “If you had a rotted tooth, no one would say ‘Just get over it.'”

“You know what's gross? It's only the women who talk like that. The men think I look like shit and the women all want to be me.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“This last visit to the ER got to me. I saw my reflection in the mirror and thought, look, a walking skeleton, before I realized it was me. Fresh eyes tell the truth.”

“So?”

“So I'm starting with Ensure and then I'm going to the grocery store. It's inpatient next, and I can't go there.”

“Good. I'd hate to see you there.”

“Thanks for not saying ‘Why don't you just eat something?'”

Lucy said, “Thanks for not saying ‘Why didn't you use a condom?' You know, I decided something last night. I'm not going to do this. I'm not going to have it.” And just by saying it, Lucy knew she was lying to herself again.

*   *   *

Lucy waved at Sidney, pulled her hand inside the car window, and placed it on her abdomen. It took only ten minutes for her to pull into the lot adjoining Charles and Phong's condominium. In the vestibule she hit the buzzer for Peterman-Luong and waited. Checking her watch, she realized that Phong might not even be awake after working the night shift at the hospital, and Charles was almost certainly at work. But then a tinny, static hello came through. “Phong. It's Lucy. I need to talk to you.”

Before she could get inside the outer door she said to Phong, “How can he still be mad at me? He never stays mad this long. What is going on?”

“He's not mad, Lucy. He's hurt. He's frustrated. And no doubt he'll be furious at me for saying so, but he's the ultimate enabler.”

“What are you talking about? He's always yelling at me. Always telling me what to do. He never just sits back.”

“That's what codependency is, Lucy. Focusing on others so you don't have to focus on yourself.”

Lucy tugged Little Dog into her brother's condo. “No,” she said. “We're close. Good friends. He holds my hand and I hold his. If that's codependency, then everyone is codependent.”

“When's the last time you held his hand?”

“He doesn't need me to, does he? He's got you. Plus, what could he possibly be struggling with?”

Phong paused for a beat. “Did you know we want to adopt a child? That we're thinking of moving to a more sympathetic state that would make it easier to do so?”

“Moving?”

“That's all I'm saying, Lucy. This is between you and your brother. I will say this, though: You should open your eyes.”

A
s she drove home from Charles and Phong's condo, Lucy thought about her parents. Her mother had been the colorful one, her father the balanced administrator. It had been that way with her and Richard, and now, she saw, with her and Charles. As dysfunctional relationships go, this didn't seem so bad. People put their kids in cages, killed their spouses, had affairs with their nannies. How could a little energetic caring be a problem? But the answer to that question was not as simple or easy as it sounded. Lucy knew it was time to fix her life and move back into a realm that had worked for her for years—energetic caring.

A note pinned to the front door reminded her that she wasn't going to be alone in her house like she wanted. The construction crew, due back at noon, planned on sanding drywall. Lucy read the note from Ray's Remodeling.
Probably a good day to go shopping.

Once inside the house, she pressed her palm onto her chest, held it there, then moved it to her belly. Her thoughts were muddled. She tried to push them from her mind. Without thinking, she hit the blinking button on the answering machine.

“This is Dr. Ballwig's nurse. Dr. Ballwig asked me to call and follow up. We'd like to reschedule your appointment. He is only in the Capitol office on Tuesdays and Thur—”

Lucy pressed Delete.

There was a message from Baby Bean, the retail giant for all things newborn. “Your crib has arrived. Please call to schedule a pickup or delivery.”

Lucy rubbed her eyes. “I am not picking up that crib,” she said aloud.

A final beep brought with it a message from the Humane Society.

“We have an opening for a volunteer position. Your application has been cleared.”

*   *   *

Lucy couldn't get to the shelter fast enough. She pushed through the tall glass doors, suddenly remembering her last visit, the one that resulted in a new puppy—well, a new puppy for Mark—and a baby. The baby's for Mark, too, she thought bitterly.

That's enough of that,
she thought to herself. At the front desk there was a large poster featuring dogs, hearts, and a grandmotherly looking person holding a cat. V
OLUNTEER!
it read.

Lucy made eye contact with the worker behind the counter and pointed to the poster. “I'm here to volunteer,” she said. “I received a message that my application had been cleared. I can start today. Where do you need me?”

“Good,” the woman said. “Enthusiasm is good. We'll get some paperwork signed, go over our policies, and get you oriented.” She handed Lucy a laminated card. “This is our basic agreement. Take a minute to look over the list and be certain you can manage these responsibilities, while I get a clipboard.”

As Lucy focused on the typed rules, a woman and girl of about seven approached the counter holding a Stride Rite shoebox. Lucy could hear faint chirping inside. The girl said to Lucy, “We found a birdie. She has a broken wing. I caught her with my butterfly net. What's your name?”

“Lucy.”

“That's my dog's name,” the girl said, and gave Lucy a once-over. She took a seat. The small laminated card she held listed the characteristics of a successful Humane Society volunteer.

Communicate professionally.
Check, Lucy thought.

Take and follow directions.
Check.

Work independently.
Check.

Commit to six months of service
. Absolutely check.

Understand and accept philosophies regarding admission and euthanasia
. Lucy paused then read on.
Euthanasia is used only as a last resort when an animal is unsuitable for adoption.
Lucy walked back over to the desk, where the little girl and her mother were busy with their injured bird in the Stride Rite box.

“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “As a volunteer, I'm not responsible for euthanasia in any way other than, say, not picketing or calling the governor, right?”

The worker opened her mouth to speak when the little girl piped in again. “Sometimes a puppy is mean or sick, Lucy.”

The girl's mother put her arm around her daughter's shoulder and said, “Honey, I'm sure this woman knows that.”

The woman behind the counter started to speak, but the little girl beat her to the punch. “Sometimes it's best for the animal.”

Lucy glanced at the girl's mother, a frazzled-looking woman clearly worn down by the job of mothering such a precocious child.

The mother said, “We'd just had
the talk
on the way over because of this bird. She likes to spread the news.”

Lucy winced and turned her attention back to the Humane Society worker. “I just want to know that I won't be asked to be around that kind of thing. That's why I went into plastics, if you know what I mean.”

“Um,” the volunteer said, “I'm going to get my manager.”

“My mom says plastic is what is wrong with America.”

The little girl's mother looked sheepish. “I also said, sweetie, that not everyone needs to know everything that's in your head.” To Lucy, she added in a low voice, “I was referring to plastic grocery bags.”

Lucy waved her off. Her attention was focused on a stately German shepherd being led to the side play yard by a scrawny volunteer who couldn't possibly have held the dog back if a squirrel or criminal came into view.

“What's the story with that shepherd over there?” she asked the worker.

“That's Coltrane. He's a flunky from service-dog training. It's a real shame, too. He's a lovey.”

“He failed?”

“He has some kind of issue with escalators. Won't go near 'em.”

“Is he mean or sick? Is he going to make it? Will someone adopt him?”

The worker scratched her forehead.

A light bulb went on in Lucy's brain. “Can I adopt him?”

“You want to volunteer
and
adopt a dog today? Um.”

The little girl said, “A puppy is a big responsibility,” and the mother shrugged as she dragged her out the front door.

When the clearly overwhelmed woman behind the desk gratefully answered a ringing telephone, Lucy sat down next to an older man, who was also waiting for help from a better-informed employee. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Listen, if you want that dog, you gotta play it cool. Don't show too much interest. Put down twenty bucks to hold him and come back tomorrow with a collar, leash, and license. If you already have a dog, don't tell 'em and—whatever you do—don't mention that you're planning to give the dog as a gift to someone else.” As the manager approached, he stood and leaned back to whisper to Lucy, “It's easier to buy a house than adopt a dog around here.”

The manager said to the man, “Arthur, am I right? You're here for Taffy, our shih tzu, I believe?” Arthur winked at Lucy. “Yeah,” he said. “I haven't had a dog in years. I figure it's about time.”

*   *   *

After touring the entire complex and meeting the resident horse, ferret, and exotic bird, Lucy touched her temple.

“You look a little ashen,” said Gale, the director of the center.

“There are a lot of strong smells here, and I just realized I didn't have much to eat this morning.”

“Why don't we call it quits for today? We can start orientation tomorrow.” She looked at Lucy's application. “You've asked to work primarily with the dogs, I see.” Lucy nodded and watched Arthur as he led Taffy the shih tzu out the door to a minivan. When he slid the side door open, a black and white dog peeked its head out. Arthur shooed the dog back in and looked over his shoulder as Taffy hopped in.

Lucy started out the door, but before completing her exit she turned and said, “Oh, by the way, I'd like to put a hold on that German shepherd, Coltrane. I don't have a dog yet, and I think he'd be just perfect for me.”

*   *   *

Lucy was, for once, grateful for her appointment with Tig. Seated in the overstuffed chair with her back to the window, she felt a deep sense of relief after having confessed her secret and admitted to her shame. First Sidney, now Tig. Still, she was worn out with the melodrama of it. “Does every day have to include a discussion of life or death? When do I get to talk about what happened on
The Bachelor
or when the next Tom Cruise movie is due out?”

Tig tugged a chair over to face Lucy, sat back, and crossed her legs. “We can talk about anything you want to talk about.” Outside Tig's office window, the wind dragged wet leaves across the pavement. December clouds threatened flurries and people hurried to their cars.

Lucy shook her head. “I haven't told the father. For all of about five minutes I considered not telling him at all. Figured if I wasn't going to keep it . . .” Lucy straightened. “Aren't we supposed to focus on the stealing? I'm not ready to talk about this.”

Tig smiled and waited.

Lucy stared into the distance. “I'm way too old for this. For mistakes like this. It's like I was such a grown-up in high school and so focused on college that I didn't allow myself to screw up in an age-appropriate way. Now I'm making up for lost screw-up time.”

“You want to talk about why you're not perfect?”

“Believe me, Tig. I know I'm not perfect.”

“Do you? Do you know that everyone makes mistakes? Everyone has inadequacies? All of us have things we don't share, can't face, or dislike in ourselves?”

Lucy made a skeptical face. “Not like this.”

“I suspect, as a physician, that you already know this. You take other people's failings in stride, holding yourself to a higher standard of daily perfection. Other people can gamble away fortunes, get into car accidents, and end marriages, and you're fine with those things. You understand their humanity. What you don't understand is your own humanity.”

“You make it sound like I think I'm infallible. I know I'm not. That's why I've always been so careful.”

“Is keeping people out being careful?”

“Richard was the love of my life. I wanted a child with him as a natural extension of our love. That's how it's supposed to work.”

“Could that be one possible reality? Could another reality be that Richard was
one
of the loves of your life? Could it be that you're carrying what could become another? That maybe the father could also be someone special?”

Lucy's face crumpled as she tried to reject this possibility.

“Maybe love is shaped like a pyramid. Instead of looking for the one, the only that sits on the top, your job on Earth is to invert that pyramid and fill the plateau with dozens of loves. Dozens of chances to feel as deeply as you did with Richard, but maybe in dozens of ways.”

Lucy wiped her nose with a tissue. After a moment she said, “Did I tell you I have a dog?”