What Holds Us Together

by Sandi Ward

  “I don’t know,” he says, taking my question seriously. “I guess we click. Sometimes you just know, right?”

  “Sure.” I study him. “You mean that you have chemistry. That makes sense.” He seems okay with this conversation, so I press on. “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mom. You’ll meet her. When I think you’re ready to meet her.”

  What does that mean? I feel a familiar acidic pang in my stomach. This kid fights me on everything. “Why can’t I meet her?” I swallow and try to dial it back. “It’s just that I’d like—never mind. Just tell me one thing you like about her.”

  Donovan glances down at the phone again. “Okay. I guess I’d say . . . she’s fun. This has been a really shitty year, but she laughs a lot.” He stares at her photo. “I just want to be with her all the time. She makes me feel better.” His voice trails off. “I love her,” he adds, so quietly that I almost miss it.

  When he raises his eyes to meet mine, and I see how sincere he is, I feel my eyes quickly well up. But I push the tears back down. I want to be strong right now, not weak.

  “That’s nice, Donovan. I’m glad.” I reach out to rub his elbow, but he instinctively pulls away.

  “Is that all?”

  I clear my throat. “No, not quite. Sweetheart, I want that journal back. I’ve had enough. You have until breakfast. Bring it downstairs with you, or I’m coming to get it.”

  This is it. I’m drawing a line in the sand—or, should I say, in the snow.

  I see the glimpse of a sneer cross his face, but he calms his expression. I could swear there’s a twinkle in his eye as he processes my challenge, and I can almost see the wheels turning in that clever brain of his as he plans what to say next.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s going to have to be a no.” He stands up straighter. “Are those guys done with the driveway yet, by the way? What’s taking them so long? Are they completely incompetent or what?”

  For the love of God. I don’t want to hear it, so I cut him off before he can say anything more.

  “Their truck is stuck, Donovan. You don’t happen to know how to help them, do you? I didn’t think so. But, listen. I actually have something more important—more pressing—that I need to discuss with both of you.” I take in a deep breath. “I want you to know that I spoke to your grandparents and they feel strongly that you should attend The President’s Academy next year. I agreed. It looks amazing. And your grandparents offered to pay for it. They sent in a check. You’ll start in mid-January, for the spring term.”

  I’ve never seen Donovan’s face change so quickly before. He goes from arrogant to shocked in the blink of an eye. Delilah is equally surprised.

  “What, Mom?” she whispers.

  “No.” Donovan can barely speak. “No way,” he says again, quiet, as if I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

  I wince. “Sure. Your grandmother told me you both toured the campus with her last summer and thought it was beautiful.”

  “But, Mom.” Delilah gasps and puts a hand on her stomach. I worry that I’ve induced an ulcer. “We took the tour with her just to get out of the house. We told Grandmommy the school sounded good to be polite. I don’t want to move again. I’ve just started to make friends here. Please?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t stay here, Del. I can’t. I feel like your father is here with us. This cottage and the whole town have too many memories of him. I just can’t do it. I’ve already told Nana and Poppy to put this cottage up for sale. I’ll probably move to Maine to be closer to them, and try to get your aunt Lisa to come, too.”

  “But, Mom.” Tears well up in her eyes. She takes in a shaky breath and regroups. “Okay. Okay. I hear you. You need another change. But I mean, I’d rather . . .” She flutters her hands out in front of her, unable to get the words out fast enough. “You know, Mom, I haven’t mentioned this before, but Grandmommy also asked if I might want to live with Jannik next year. In Germany. Like a year of study abroad, you know? What do you think? Could I do that instead?”

  “What?”

  I didn’t see that coming. I feel my heart freeze up.

  A year abroad? In Germany? What is she talking about? Where is this coming from? Going back to Connecticut is one thing, but she wants to go live in Europe for a year?

  Why would Peter’s mother bring that up? Where does she get off asking Delilah about that without consulting me first?

  It’s probably too late anyway. Judith already paid for the spring semester at the Academy. I suppose I could call and ask her—

  “No.” Donovan’s voice breaks my concentration. “NOT A CHANCE IN HELL. Are you kidding me? How could you even think about doing that to us, sending us away? You let her pay for school without even asking us?”

  “I didn’t want to do it, sweetheart. It wasn’t my idea. But I think she’s right that you two could use more structure. More attention.” Doesn’t Donovan understand that even hearing Peter’s mom bring it up broke my heart? “She said she talked to you guys about it. Didn’t she talk to you about the school?”

  “Yes,” Delilah answers. “But we didn’t take it that seriously. We just nodded and let her do all the talking to make her happy.”

  “But maybe your grandmother’s right. Maybe I’m not doing a great job here. Maybe I’m not providing you with enough direction right now.”

  There’s a pause as the twins think about it. I notice that they don’t immediately jump in to dispute what I’m saying about doing a bad job at parenting.

  “No.” Donovan shivers with anger, barely moving, as if I’m a wild animal that might attack him. “No, no, no. Forget it. There’s no way I’m leaving Manchester.”

  “But I won’t be here, Donovan. You don’t like it here, remember? You hated leaving Connecticut, and now you can go back. You’re always complaining about this house. Look, we all have to move on. The Academy could be a fantastic opportunity, sweetie. It’s an amazing school. You’re so lucky Grandmommy knows a few people and pulled a few strings to get you guys enrolled in the middle of the year.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. This isn’t going well. I can see that. “Listen, let’s take a break. We can talk about it tomorrow. And, Donovan, please bring that diary downstairs with you in the morning. I promise you and Delilah can both read it, but it’s your father’s private journal and I think I should look at it first and make sure it’s okay for you to read. And then, we can read it together as a family, okay? I love you.”

  He stares at me, stunned. He obviously thinks I’ve gone off the deep end. “I’m not leaving Manchester.” He shakes his head, then turns to go. “You know, if things were reversed, Dad would never send us away.”

  I watch him walk up the stairs, and feel like weeping.

  “You’re right, okay? Your dad was perfect, all right?” I hear myself getting hysterical. “He’d figure out a way to handle it and make it work. The wrong parent died. I HEAR YOU.”

  I didn’t mean to quite say that. I realize I’ve gone too far. But I don’t know how to fix what I’ve said now.

  Donovan hesitates a moment, resting his foot on a stair. He turns his head slightly back toward me and opens his mouth as if to say something. But he seems to change his mind, and keeps ascending. Moving away from me.

  “Mom.” Delilah tries to smile, but it comes off as anxious. “He doesn’t mean that. You know that’s not what he means at all. We love you, too. But you don’t need to sell the house and rush off anywhere. You don’t need to do that. We have to talk about it and make a decision together. You’re right—let’s not get into it tonight. But definitely tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay, baby. I’m sorry to spring it on you like this.” I put a hand on my forehead. I feel somewhat lighter, now that I’ve told them about the boarding school. I had a sense they’d object, no matter how terrific that school is. But I didn’t realize how disappointed I’d be in myself. “Why don’t you go ahead up and get ready for bed now.”


  Delilah tips her head and studies me, I suppose weighing her options. “Okay. Tomorrow we’ll talk again,” she says with a definitive nod, as if it’s all settled. She turns to head upstairs.

  “Sure. Of course,” I promise, although I know nothing will be different tomorrow. At this point, I can’t imagine what could possibly happen to change my mind. I know why Donovan is angry with me, and there’s nothing I can do to change the past.

  It’s not just that I missed Peter’s symptoms. I also wasn’t home when he died.

  Warm Summer Night

  LUNA

  I’m curled up in a corner of the couch, as still and quiet as a mouse. I don’t like to hear my humans fighting. I see defeat in Annika’s eyes and watch the way her shoulders slump.

  I know she’s concerned about the children. I’m worried about them, too.

  I know what they’ve been through. A terrible, awful thing.

  I went through it myself. I relive the night Peter died, going over and over it in my mind. And I dwell on what I could have done differently.

  * * *

  Peter always has trouble sleeping. There are nights where he tosses and turns, and ends up stumbling half awake to the kitchen with his crutches to pour himself a glass of water. He sinks into the couch with a big sigh, not bothering to turn on the lights. Sometimes he breathes unevenly while he lies in bed, but it doesn’t wake him up. Other nights, he sits up suddenly, gasping for breath, holding his chest.

  Annika sleeps soundly through most of these episodes, as do the children. They’re all heavy sleepers. I am the only witness to Peter’s sleep troubles. I’m awake most of the night anyway, so I follow Peter around the house if he goes for a short walk. Once he’s back safely in bed, I snuggle under his arm. Sometimes he’ll be groggy in the morning, dark circles under his eyes, hardly able to eat his breakfast. But he doesn’t complain much about his sleep problems.

  The night Peter dies, it’s a warm summer night. He’s alone in the bed, and snoring while in a deep sleep. The noise wakes me up, so I go for a walk to hunt for crickets. When I return, I jump up to the bed to check on Peter. A damp sheen glistens on his forehead, and his mouth is slightly open. He’s lying on his back, so I climb up onto his chest as I have hundreds of times before. As a gentle breeze floats in through the open window, Peter begins to inhale. I feel his chest expand under my paws, but he fails to draw in a full breath; then his rib cage falls again. Not long after, I feel his heart start to go quiet under my paws. His heartbeat sloshes, and the life seeps out of him.

  I know it’s happening—I know it! He’s a healthy man in the prime of his life, and I sense the onset of death. But I do nothing. I am naïve.

  A few minutes later, his heart simply stops. And that’s that.

  It’s a quiet and peaceful death.

  I should know. I’m right there, lying on top of him.

  In the moment, I think it will be okay. Nature is taking its course. I have come across dead chipmunks, possums, and even a large deer in our woods. I have slaughtered many birds, out of instinct, just for fun.

  And I’ve heard Peter talk about Heaven. He doesn’t make the afterlife sound so bad—not so bad at all. So at the time, I don’t understand the import of Peter’s death, and how it will change our lives.

  Moonlight pours in through the sliding glass door. Peter and Annika’s bedroom opens to the deck that runs the length of the house and overlooks the ocean, and I love lounging out there on breezy afternoons. Sometimes when moonlight hits Peter’s face in the middle of the night, he instinctively turns away toward the cooler, darker side of the room. But now, a white beam of light splashes across his face, giving him an eerie glow, and his eyelids do not twitch, and he does not move. I sit heavily on his chest as he lies still.

  Of course, later I realize I should have stood and yowled. I could have reached out and slashed Peter’s face with my claws to wake him. Or I could have run down the hall and pounced on Delilah to rouse her. Yet I just settle down and try to keep Peter’s body warm with my own.

  What a fool I am! By morning he is as cold as a stone.

  Everything after that is a blur. Delilah wakes first, and peeks in the bedroom door after she doesn’t find her father in the kitchen. She comes into the room and can’t get Peter to respond. Delilah’s voice is low and panicked as she calls for her brother, and I hear the sound of her footsteps as she runs down the long hall to wake him up. Donovan follows her back to the bedroom, rubbing his face. Delilah orders him to call someone on the phone, which he does, his eyes opening wider as he starts to understand the seriousness of the situation. They both climb up onto the bed with Peter, as if there is something they can do. But I know there is not.

  Donovan tries pressing on his father’s chest over and over, as if he might be able to restart his heart, but it has been still for a long time. A siren wails, and strangers hurry into the house with shiny equipment. I run and hide, staying out of the way.

  Once the body is removed—useless and lifeless, yet precious as Donovan clings to Peter’s hand and Delilah caresses his face—a woman and a man stay behind.

  They stand in the living room with Delilah, who looks gaunt, her cheeks sunken. I hear the woman ask, “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. My brother and I, we’re both fifteen.”

  “Where’s your ma?”

  “Away.” Delilah’s complexion is pale, but she speaks with confidence. “She’s on a trip. A business trip. In upstate New York. At Cornell.”

  “She’s away?” There’s a long pause. I peek out from under the couch to see the man and woman exchange a look. “Do you have any relatives or family friends here in the neighborhood?”

  “Sure.” Delilah shakes her hands out in front of her, as if trying to get her circulation going. “Yes, I can call my best friend’s mom. Our grandparents—my dad’s parents—are about forty-five minutes away. Closer to Hartford. I’m sure they’ll come right away. And my other grandparents are up in Massachusetts.”

  “Okay. Can we sit with you and make some calls together?”

  “Yeah.” Delilah glances toward the kitchen, distracted. Worry passes over her face. But she stands with her shoulders squared and speaks in a calm voice, because she knows what Donovan needs most in that moment. He needs her to take charge and placate these strangers. “Yes, of course. I’ve got numbers in my phone. I need to call my dad’s boss, too.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  They all take a seat in the wide, white living room. It’s quiet in the house—other than the sound of wailing coming from out back, a howl that surges and wanes like a wounded animal caught in a trap. I pad my way over to the kitchen, where the sliding glass door to the deck is wide open.

  When I step outside, the deck is hot to the touch of my paws, but the breeze off the ocean is cool. I can hear waves breaking down at the shoreline. Donovan is kneeling, bent over, hands out flat on the deck in front of him. He sobs and gasps for breath, tears and snot pouring out of him, his forehead down on the deck as if he’s wiping his face on it.

  I brush my soft fur against Donovan’s hip and arm, for there is no one else to comfort him. He’s already yelled at the others to leave him alone. A seagull calls out overhead, a witness to our grief.

  It’s okay, I try to tell him. You tried to save him. It was just too late.

  Donovan weeps until he has exhausted himself. The heat from the sun grows intense, and the humidity is uncomfortable, but still I sit with him. After the strangers leave and other adults arrive, Donovan finally takes Delilah’s suggestion and drags himself back to his dark bedroom to lie down. By the time Annika gets home, he has retreated inward and barely speaks to her. And as the months go by, I see that when Donovan needs something, he goes to his sister, the only person he feels he can really count on.

  * * *

  In the days that follow Peter’s death, I hear in one conversation after another that Peter could have been saved, if only someone had known about his sl
eep apnea and understood it. People say many odd things to my woman, including:

  At least he died peacefully.

  You didn’t know—no one knew!

  It’s good to know he didn’t suffer.

  He went in the best way possible: quietly, in his sleep.

  But were any of these things true? Peter didn’t sleep well, not ever. He was often tired and cranky and not at peace. Someone knew about his sleep problems—me—and yet I didn’t do anything about it. In my estimation, he did suffer—many nights, when we were alone with the moon and our thoughts. And was that truly the best way to die?

  But I suppose what the humans mean is that at the very moment of his death, Peter slept in his own comfortable bed, with his favorite cat on top of him. He never had a chance to say goodbye to us, but neither did we have to see him in terrible pain.

  * * *

  I still blame myself for not doing more to save Peter at the time of his death. But I also think what his spirit told me is right; I can’t cling to guilt for the rest of my life. It does me no good, and it isn’t what Peter wants for me. I look forward to my next meal, my next brushing, my next long nap. Sometimes we must let the past go and allow ourselves to take pleasure in the now.

  Peter, the One and Only

  LUNA

  “What did you do today?” Donovan’s voice is soft and low. He’s sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall, with his silver phone glued to his ear. I’m spying on him from the hallway.

  Donovan had many posters up in his bedroom of our old house: surfers holding their boards on golden sand, clear blue ocean waves, dirt bikes with thick tires covered in mud. But here, his walls are blank and white. It’s as if he’s left his old life behind and can’t remember what interests him.

  But there’s an open sketchbook and a thick pencil next to him on the bed. He’s been working on this drawing for a week with great concentration. It looks like a pretty girl with soft curves who is lying down on a couch. He has several similar drawings of the same girl, with different outfits on. And there are a few drawings where she’s wearing no outfit at all.