Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  “What,” he said in a growl to rival the dog's, “is that thing doing in my office? What is he even doing out of the laundry room?”

  “I wasn't quick enough—” Abby began.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Kiana squealed, throwing herself at his legs. “This is Dog! Isn't he beautiful?”

  “Not now, Kiana,” Mitch snapped at his daughter. “I'm talking to—” He broke off mid-sentence, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips together in what Abby recognized as a bid to recover his patience. But even as he reached for Kiana to apologize, the meltdown had already begun.

  Small hands flapped at the little girl's sides and she rocked sideways from one foot to the other, her gaze unfocused. Abby grabbed at Mitch's outstretched hand, but she was too late. As gentle as his touch was, the contact was enough to set off the downward spiral. Humming loudly, Kiana dropped to the floor, tucked her head down, and wrapped her arms around her knees. Mitch's hand hovered for a second, then returned to his side. His expression made Abby's heart hurt.

  “Freaking hell,” he muttered. “Kiana, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to snap at you like that.”

  The humming increased in volume. Mitch tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, radiating guilt, self-blame, and helpless frustration.

  “Now you've done it,” Brittany observed.

  “Britt, your breakfast is getting cold,” Abby intervened. “Rachel, you too.”

  When the two older girls were gone, dragging their heels in obvious reluctance, she turned back to Mitch. “I really am sorry,” she said. “They're excited, and I should have expected them to go straight to the laundry room. Let's just give Kiana some time to recover, and I'll help you pick things up so you can see if there's any damage.”

  A hand wrapped around her forearm, rooting her to the spot with surprise as much as its firm grip. Surprise and... Abby swallowed. She really needed not to feel that little warmth unfurling in her chest every time Mitch so much as brushed against her.

  Really.

  Heat crawled up her neck, but Mitch's whisper distracted her from it.

  “Look.” He nodded his head toward the floor, and Abby followed his gaze.

  The giant, filthy, matted mutt had lain down beside Kiana and wedged his nose under her arms and into the space between her abdomen and upraised legs. As Abby watched in astonishment, Kiana's rocking and humming stopped, and her arms stole around the dog's neck, hugging him close. The dog's cropped tail twitched, and he gave a contented sigh. Dark, intelligent eyes looked up at Abby. “I've got this,” they said.

  “I'll be damned,” Mitch muttered, drawing her attention back to him—and to the hold he still had on her arm.

  The warmth in her chest resumed its unfurling, and she gently extricated herself. “You have a meeting to get to with Madame Sylvie,” she reminded him, “and I need to drop off Britt and Rachel so I can let the painters into the house.”

  “What about that?” He indicated the dog.

  “I'll bring him with me and stop at a vet's office to see whether he's microchipped.”

  “Can't the shelter check for you? It will save you extra driving if he's not.”

  Abby looked at the child still hugging the dog on the floor. Well, yes, but... She backed away from the treacherous thoughts beginning to form. The ones that whispered that if the dog wasn’t chipped, then maybe...

  Because no. The last thing Mitch needed right now was another family member to look after. She steeled herself to do the right thing.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  “Can I go with you and Dog?” Kiana asked, peeping around a hairy ear. “Then he won't be as scared.”

  Mitch and Abby exchanged a glance. “It might be easiest that way,” she murmured.

  He responded in the same, low-pitched voice intended for his daughter not to hear, “Even when you have to leave him at the shelter?”

  “Good point. But what if saying no triggers another meltdown?”

  “Also a good point.” Mitch grimaced. “Suggestions?”

  Abby sighed and shook her head. “None.”

  Mitch sighed, too. “All right. You go get the others ready, and I'll see what I can do here.”

  “Good luck,” she whispered, and then, with a trace of guilt—but only a trace—she made good her escape.

  Back in the kitchen, Abby focused on making lunches while straining to hear the words beneath the deep rumble of Mitch's voice coming from the office. Rachel and Brittany, unusually quiet at the island as they ate, appeared to be doing the same. And when Mitch and Kiana came into the kitchen together a few minutes later, the dog trailing them, all gazes fixed on them.

  “So?” Abby asked. “What's the plan?”

  “Kiana and I have agreed that the shelter is the best place for the dog,” Mitch said, his tone pleasant but determined. “Because that's where his family will look for him.”

  “But—” Brittany broke off at a look from her father.

  “She would, however,” he continued, “like to come with you to say goodbye to him, if that's all right with you?”

  Abby bit her lip. She had serious misgivings about the idea but couldn't bring herself to voice them in the face of the pleading looks directed at her by both dog and child. “Of course,” she said. “Let's put him in the back yard to do his business while we get ready, and then we need to get moving so I can let the painters in on time.”

  Chapter 28

  Twenty minutes later, parked in front of Britt and Rachel's middle school, Abby twisted around in the driver's seat of the SUV to stare first at Rachel beside her, then at Brittany in the back seat beside Kiana. “What do you mean, you're not getting out?”

  “We're coming with you,” Brittany said brightly. “We want to be there for Kiana.”

  “That's very sweet of you, but I'm more than capable of looking after Kiana,” Abby replied. “I promise. Now, I'm already late for the painters, so—”

  “Still not going,” Rachel said. Arms crossed, she stared out the windshield.

  Abby stared some more, nonplussed by the mutiny unfolding. She couldn't very well drag the two of them out of the vehicle, and Mitch was depending on her, and—

  “It's getting even later,” Rachel observed. “You should probably start driving.”

  Another few seconds passed while Abby debated threatening to ground the pair of them if they didn't move their butts, but truth be told, her heart wasn't in it. They all knew Kiana was in for a hard time when they dropped the dog off at the shelter, and her sisters' determination to support the youngest member of the family was... sweet, she decided. And heartwarming.

  She put the vehicle into gear and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street again. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rachel reach backwards over the seat for a high-five from both her sisters.

  It was also a darned conspiracy.

  She cleared her throat and tried for a stern note in her voice. “This isn't over, you know. We'll discuss it at home later.”

  “Yes, Abigail,” the three of them chorused.

  Yup. A conspiracy. For which she didn't blame them a bit, if she were honest. Abby glanced into the rear-view mirror at the dog, shook her head, and drove toward the address Mitch had given her for the painters.

  ***

  Folded into a chair made for the average four-year-old—or perhaps a gnome—Mitch tried hard not to squirm as he waited for Madame Sylvie to close the classroom door and join him. Her heels clicked when she crossed the floor, and a string of pearls swung out from her neck as she stooped to seat herself in a chair identical to his. Only she managed it much more gracefully.

  “Bon,” she said. Good. “I understand that your nanny—”

  “Abigail,” Mitch interjected. “Abigail Jamieson.”

  Madame Sylvie raised an eyebrow and regarded him for a moment, as if wondering why his nanny's name might be important, and then repeated, “Abigail. Of course. I understand Abigail has discussed some of h
er concerns with you regarding Kiana.”

  “She has,” Mitch agreed, not sure himself why Abigail's name was so important in this context. “And it reminded me that I never gave this”—he held up a file folder—”to the school. In all of the upheaval of Eve's—my wife's—illness and then her death, I'm ashamed to say that it completely slipped my mind.”

  Pink polish-tipped fingers reached for the folder, and Kiana's kindergarten teacher took a moment to read through the cover letter at the front from the pediatrician. Piercing brown eyes from the folder to look at Mitch. “I am cognizant of your circumstances, Mr. Abrams, but there is important information here that is critical to your daughter's school career.”

  Mitch took a deep breath, trying not to feel as if he faced a trip to the principal's office. What was it about being back in a classroom setting that made him feel so small? It happened at every parent-teacher interview. Eve had laughed, teasing him that it was a guilty conscience left over from all his youthful escapades. The memory made him smile, which made Madame Sylvie's forehead stretch even more. He wiped the amusement from his face. “I know. And I'm sorry. I should have given this to you when I registered Kiana, but to be honest, I forgot it even existed. There was a lot going on. There is a lot going on.”

  “Hm.” Madame Sylvie went back to the file, skimming through the other papers, most of which pertained to the psychological evaluation that Eve had insisted on getting when Kiana was only three and a half—just after her own diagnosis. The teacher looked up again. “We don't generally develop an IEP at the kindergarten stage, but based on what I'm reading here, I think you should request one be put in place before she enters Grade one. The earlier the intervention, the more successful the student.”

  “An IEP?”

  “Individualized education plan. If Kiana does have the learning disabilities suggested here”—she tapped a finger on the open folder—“she'll need to have an IEP that allows for any accommodations she might need.”

  “Accommodations?” He was beginning to feel a bit like a parrot.

  “Additional help with her reading, extra time on tests, assistance with planning, perhaps taking verbal tests instead of written ones—that sort of thing. Your daughter is very bright and remarkably confident for her age, Mr. Abrams, but if I'm seeing her struggle now, it will only get worse as she progresses in school.”

  Mitch looked past the teacher at a brightly decorated alphabet plastered along the top of the wall. His gaze settled on the “f” for “fan” and he swallowed a snort. “F” for “failure” was more like it, he thought bitterly. That seemed to be the ongoing theme in his life right now. He was losing count of the number of people he'd let down over the last year—more, if he counted the year and a half that Eve had been sick before that, because he'd let her down, too. Her, the girls, his business partner, half their employees and clients...

  “Mr. Abrams?”

  Madame Sylvie's voice jolted him back to the tiny, uncomfortable chair and the equally uncomfortable new information he'd been given. How much more? he wondered. How much more could he handle before his family and business both collapsed under the weight of the world he couldn't keep at bay? Elbows resting on knees almost at chest level, he spread his hands in a gesture he hoped didn't look as helpless as it felt.

  “Tell me what I need to do,” he said.

  Chapter 29

  After a quick stop at Mitch's construction project to let in the painters already waiting there—and to call Rachel and Britt's school to excuse their absence—Abby and her entourage continued on to the animal shelter. There, Abby found herself profoundly grateful to have all the girls along, because without a proper collar and leash, it took all of them working together to steer their hairy guest out of the vehicle and into building. And, once inside, she was certain only Kiana's presence kept the animal from running rampant through the place.

  Perspiring and out of breath, she presented herself at the reception desk and waited for the woman behind it to finish a phone call. The woman craned her neck to look past Abby. Both her eyebrows rose.

  “That,” she said, “is a big dog.”

  Abby, who'd had to lift the thing out of the SUV, grimaced and brushed at the smears of dirt across her jacket front. “Tell me about it.”

  “Is this a surrender?”

  “A what?”

  “Are you giving up a family pet?”

  “Oh! No. No, he just turned up on our doorstep last night.”

  “All right, let's put him into our holding area, and then I'll get some details from you.” The woman handed a leash across to Abby and then came out from behind the counter to lead the way to what looked like a bank of oddly sized lockers in a short hallway to the left. She unlocked the largest at floor level and opened the door. All three girls leaned down to peer inside.

  “It's so small,” said Rachel.

  Abby looped the leash around the dog's neck and coaxed him to follow. She did a double-take when she saw the narrow space he was expected to occupy. “Don't you have something larger?” she asked. “He won't even be able to turn around in there.”

  “It's temporary,” the woman assured her. “He'll only be in there until they scan for a chip and give him a quick health check, then he'll be moved into the back. If he's chipped, we'll try to contact his family.”

  “And if he isn't?”

  “They'll have three days to come looking for him.”

  “What happens if they don't?” Brittany asked.

  “He'll be evaluated by our team and get all his shots, we'll make sure he's neutered and give him a good grooming, and he'll be put up for adoption.”

  “Will he have to live in a cage until someone takes him?” Rachel asked.

  “Once he's cleared for adoption, he'll get his own little room—we call them pods. Someone will take him out for a walk three times a day and give him playtime, and he'll get lots of cuddles and love. We'll take very good care of him because the more socialized he is, the better his chances are of getting adopted.”

  “How long can he stay if he's not?”

  “As long as he needs to. It'll be tougher for him because he's so big, so it might be a while.”

  “What's the longest time a dog had to stay here?” Brittany again, bending over for another look at the holding cage.

  The woman hesitated for a second, and her apologetic gaze met Abby's. “We have one who's been here for sixteen months,” she admitted.

  “That's almost a year and a half.” Rachel's voice took on an accusatory tone, and three pairs of eyes fastened on Abby. No, make that four pairs.

  Abby's fingers tightened around the leash, and she stared down into the dog's intelligent, trusting gaze, remembering how adamant Mitch had been that they leave the creature at the shelter. And how Olivia had long begged for a pet that had never materialized.

  “Do we have to leave him here?” Brittany asked. “Can't we just file a report or something so he can stay with us?”

  “Your dad—” Abby began.

  “You absolutely can.” The woman joined the others in looking at Abby. “If that's what you'd like to do?”

  Kiana wrapped her arms around Abby's waist. “Can we?” she pleaded. “Please?”

  “I don't—”

  “Please, Abby?” Rachel and Brittany chorused.

  The dog grinned up at her, tail stump wiggling.

  Abby groaned.

  It was definitely a conspiracy.

  Chapter 30

  Mitch stared at the heavyset man tipping back in the chair so that its front legs were well off the ground. “Say that again?” he asked hoarsely.

  “You heard me the first time, Mitch. I'm done. Paul has had enough, and I can't blame him. I'm packing it in.”

  “But we talked—I told you—you said—” Mitch gave up on trying to string words together and put both hands up to cover a head that felt like it might explode. Every bone in his body ached from his night on the floor at the job, and he was still
reeling from his meeting with Madame Sylvie, and how in hell was he supposed to respond to this? He tried again. “Freaking hell, Derek, we talked about this. You agreed to give me a month to get up to speed again, failing which you'd pull the plug. It's only been three weeks, and I've worked my ass off around here. You've seen me working my ass off!”

  His business partner, Derek Simmons, rubbed one temple and looked away, his jaw tight. “I know. And you have. But—”

  “But what? We had a deal, damn it! I have three kids depending on me to make this company work, and I can, but you know damned well no bank is going to float me enough to buy you out right now.” Hands on hips, Mitch paced the floor of Derek's cramped office. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Paul has cancer.”

  The bombshell stopped Mitch in his tracks. He stared again at Derek, seeing for the first time the weariness in the older man's lined face—and the quiet, underlying terror he remembered so well from when he'd learned Eve's diagnosis.

  “Shit,” he said. He walked back to the desk and sat in the chair opposite his partner. “I'm sorry, man. So sorry. How bad?”

  “Prostate. Stage 4A, which means it's regional and not just localized. He'll need treatment. I want to be there for him.”

  “Of course.” In Mitch's mind, there was no question. “Of course you do,” he repeated.

  “He didn't want me to tell anyone.”

  Mitch had been there with Eve, too. He nodded. “Not a word,” he agreed.

  For a moment, they both sat silent. Then Derek released a shuddering sigh. “I'm not ready to lose him, Mitch.”

  We're never ready, Mitch thought. “What's the prognosis?” he asked.

  “Decent, actually. The five-year survival rate is almost a hundred percent.”

  “Wow. That's excellent news.”

  “Yes. But a wake-up call all the same. I'm pushing seventy, Mitch, and my heart isn’t getting any better. As much as I love and admire you, I love and admire my husband more, and I'd much rather spend whatever time I have left with him. Especially now.”