The Summer of No Regrets (20 page)

I read the card over and over. Let what go too far? What did he mean? Had he never wanted to be with me in the first place? Did he mean good-bye forever? Did he think I’d told the press he was Trent?

“Brigitta?” Dad came up behind me. “Do you want some granola?”

I shook my head, annoyed to be wet-eyed.

“Girls aren’t supposed to cry when boys send them flowers,” he teased, like the old Dad would have.

“What if they’re the roses of consolation?”

Dad perched on the edge of the sofa and gave me a quick hug. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, he’ll be back.”

“If he’s Trent Yves I don’t know if I want him back.” Dad cocked his head to one side. “Who is Trent Yves?” he said. “And why wouldn’t you want him?”

Only Dad or Malory would not know who Trent Yves is.

“He’s an actor,” I said. “And that’s why.”

“Wel,” said Dad, “it explains the reporters. I’m glad to know he’s not an ax murderer.” He plopped onto the sofa next to me.

“Or is this almost as bad?”

“Almost,” I said. I slid Luke’s card into my pocket.

“These are the gods we worship,” Dad mused softly.

“You mean Holywood actors?”

“The American pantheon,” said Dad. “Better than Zeus and the boys.”

“If that was my pantheon, I’d be an atheist.” Dad clapped me on the back with a burst of laughter. “That’s my girl,” he said.

I put my head on his shoulder. It felt good there. He sat with me for a long time.

•••

His hair was longer and uncombed. He had three zits on his chin. He stepped into the apartment tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure he still belonged here.

“How have you been?” he started.

“Good,” I said. I wiped my hands on my jeans. “It’s been interesting here.”

“Yeah,” he said but didn’t elaborate. He ran his hand along the tops of the kitchen chairs and stared out the window at the maples. I leaned back against the pilar.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “It’s been a long time since we discussed philosophy.”

“You want to discuss philosophy?” I remembered that this was a typical Devon conversation.

“Wel, we could discuss religion if you’d rather.” He fiddled with the lid of Mom’s teapot.

“No, no. Philosophy’s fine.”

“I’ve been reading Spinoza,” he said. “The difference between mode and substance.” He picked up some postcards of Dad’s drums and riffled through them.

drums and riffled through them.

“Hmm,” I said.

“You and I are modes,” he went on. “At least in our bodies we are. Because they’re temporary. But according to Spinoza, the substance of us is what’s underneath the mode. The thing that stays forever.” The postcards whirred as he flipped them with his thumb.

“I thought you didn’t believe in forever,” I said. “Wouldn’t that mean believing in God?”

“Almost,” he said. “Wel, maybe I do believe in God now.” He said it shyly, and it reminded me of the Devon I had always known—the one I’d eaten raspberry sandwiches with and who had doctored my bee stings with mud.

“Why are you here?” I asked him, not unkindly.

“It’s just been a while, Brigitta.” He set the postcards down and put his hands in his pockets. “I thought maybe we could spend some more time together. Pick up where we left off.”

“Where did we leave off?”

He looked across at the stained glass medicine wheel with the morning light coming through it. “We left off at…wel, I thought maybe we should just
be
. You know, be together.”

“In mode or in substance?” I shot back.

“Both,” he said. “Maybe.”

In the silence he took in the room: yesterday’s paper still on the sofa where I’d left it, spread open to page two of the entertainment section, the roses in their vase on the table.

For a whole year I had wanted to be his girlfriend. Now everything had changed. But he was reaching out to me when everyone else had turned away, and the sweetness of this caught me off guard. “Devon,” I said. “I’d have loved to hear you say that a month ago. But—”

“But,” he said.

I caught his eye. “Yeah,” I said.

He held my gaze. “I understand.”

Malory came up from downstairs with a basket of laundry.

Malory came up from downstairs with a basket of laundry.

Devon and I walked outside. “I’ve just had a rough year,” I told him. Two brown rabbits appeared from the foliage and tipped their ears to the wind.

Devon put one foot up on the bench. “I know,” he said. “It was your grandparents, wasn’t it? Them dying?” I nodded slowly.

He sat down, straddling the bench. “Where was that place you used to go? In Indiana? Didn’t it have a name?”

“Cherrywood,” I said. “Nonni named it that.” It caught in my throat.

“You should go back there, Brigitta.”

“Can’t.” The rabbits bounded away. “It’s been sold.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Devon. “Just an idea. You always came back from there in a good mood.”

I had a rush of warm feeling for him and surprised both of us by kissing the top of his head. “You’re a good friend, Devon.” He stood up and gave me a quick hug. “You are, too, Brigitta.

See you around?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You wil.”

•••

I took the phone from her. “Brigitta, I’m sorry,” Dr. Jackson said after a few preliminaries. “We can’t find a placement for those cubs. It’s realy looking like euthanasia is the best option for them.”

I couldn’t answer her.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” I finaly said. “You can’t do this.”

“We’ve had to make a professional assessment of the situation. It’s unfortunate. Nobody wants to see this happen. But situation. It’s unfortunate. Nobody wants to see this happen. But they just don’t have any future under the circumstances. It’s for them that we make this decision and…wel, we wondered if you and your sister would like to come say good-bye to them.”

“When?” I croaked.

“Any time between now and noon,” said Dr. Jackson.

Felicity arrived at 8:30, looking contrite. “We still have time, Brigitta. I have a list of all the TV contacts, and I have seven newspapers I haven’t even tried yet.

“That’s a good thing,” said Malory, “because you owe us, Felicity.”

Malory drove between seventy and eighty while Felicity and I sat in the backseat caling every television station and newspaper within a hundred miles. The answer was always the same: they’d get someone out there if they could; it might make the evening edition; did we have pictures we could send?

At 9:30 one of the volunteers let us in at Cedar Haven. Staff members smiled and waved, but nobody talked much. Even the kingfisher and the seals seemed glum today.

The volunteer unlocked the gate to the enclosure and handed each of us a pair of leather gloves. I puled them over my scratched and bitten hands, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that before. Kalimar climbed right into my legs and began to purr when I sat down. She began kneading my thigh with her claws. I disconnected her gently and ran my gloves over her sleek fur. I

wanted to touch her with my bare hands, but when she grabbed the glove with her teeth, I thought better of it.

Malory picked up Felix and let him sniff her neck. She touched his big paws. Luke should be here. The thought was a lead weight. He was the one who had found them, and he needed to be here now. Only he wasn’t.

Kalimar went after an interesting bug, and Felix jumped in my lap. He rubbed his mouth against my chin. I’ve heard cats do that as a way of marking what’s theirs. I took the leather gloves off. Let them scratch me. I plunged my hands into his rough fur and rubbed him all over. His ears were cold. His ribs vibrated.

He curled up on my bely. Malory scooped up Kalimar and nestled her against her brother. For a few moments, they both stayed there, purring, letting me caress their backs. Then they scrambled up, digging their claws into my legs, and ran off to play. Felicity took plenty of pictures of them tussling together, drinking water, pouncing on a small red ball.

We left reluctantly. I wanted to stay all morning, but we were going to save them and we had work to do.

Dr. Jackson passed us on the way out. She nodded and went back to her clipboard. Was that a guilty look I saw?

•••

I uploaded the best picture onto my blog.

July 21

Can You Save

These Cubs?

At exactly noon today, Felix and Kalimar will be killed by the very wildlife center that is supposed to be helping them. Here is the number for Cedar Haven. Ask for Dr. Jackson. Tell her you want the kittens to live.

I’m not much of a friend, but if I can do one good thing this year, it will be this. Let them live!!!

I posted Dr. Jackson’s number.

Felicity’s phone began to ring. But every call was the same.

They’d have a crew out at 2:00. Or 4:00 or 4:30. It would make the news tonight at eleven or tomorrow morning. A few of them posted Felicity’s “Save the Cougars” article on their websites.

“We need a better plan,” said Malory.

“We’d better find it fast.” I glanced at the clock. It was well after 11:00.

Felicity took a swalow of her latte. “Maybe there’s some rule Dr. Jackson is breaking. I have connections with the county for stuff like that.”

Malory fished around in her backpack until she came up with

“How to Become a Wildlife Rehabilitator” from Mom’s journaling corner.

“You’ve been carrying that around?” I asked.

Malory laughed sheepishly. “Wishful thinking,” she said.

I felt a pang of tenderness for her.

“I haven’t actualy read it through.” She ran a finger down the table of contents. “Euthanasia guidelines,” she said. “That should table of contents. “Euthanasia guidelines,” she said. “That should give us something.”

Felicity and I folowed the words over Malory’s shoulder: A wild animal must be euthanized if:

1. It is unable to recover from injuries or illness.

2. It has a terminal illness.

“There you go,” said Felicity. “Your cubs don’t meet either requirement. She tapped the contact list on her phone as Malory flipped to the next page:

3. It is imprinted on humans.

4. It is tamed due to improper care during the rehabilitation process.

My eyes stopped at the words “improper care.”

“
Must
be
euthanized
,” said Malory. “That can’t be.” My mouth tasted acid. Felix and Kalimar loved us
because
we’d given them “improper care.” And now, without a zoo to take them, they’d pay with their lives.

“I realy think you should call your boyfriend, Brigitta,” said Felicity. “We could use some celebrity help right about now.” The thought of talking to Luke again was so sweet I almost cried. He would help, wouldn’t he? He had sent me flowers.

I shoved Gwen Melier out of my brain and got onto Whitepages.com. I looked up “Michael Boeglin,” “Wendy Burke,” “Ann Geoffrey,” and even, “Trent Yves.” I checked the Malibu listings, feeling stupid. Nothing. I hadn’t expected there would be. It dawned on me that he was out of my life, just when I needed him most.

“This is a waste of time,” said Felicity.

“You have a better idea?” Malory snapped.

“I know,” I said. “We go back there. We blockade the vet office with our bodies. We wrestle with Dr. Jackson for syringes.” I winced. It made it sound too real.

Malory puled her car keys out of her pocket. “Let’s go,” she said.

•••

It was empty.

My eyes swept over the logs and branches, the sheltered room with their crate. Only their crate was gone. And so were Felix and Kalimar.

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Jackson stood behind us. “I thought you’d already said your good-byes.”

“You’ve done it already?” I grabbed the rail around the enclosure to steady myself. “It’s only 11:30.” Felicity put her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Jackson said again. Her eyes were a little red. “They’re in a better place.”

Malory took a step forward. “Don’t you dare give us that kind of sanctimonious bulshit,” she said. “You kiled healthy animals.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” said Dr. Jackson.