by Sonja Yoerg
Trixie lifted her head when Geneva entered the room but stayed at the Kahnemanns’ feet. The couple, in their early fifties, described the dog’s symptoms. The woman’s voice trembled. Geneva spoke to Trixie in a low voice and gently examined her. When she palpated the abdomen, the dog flinched.
“From what you’ve described and what I can tell from my exam, I’m afraid there’s been a recurrence. It’s blocking the bowel.”
Mr. Kahnemann said, “That’s what we figured. What can we do?”
“First I’ll want to confirm my suspicions with an X-ray and maybe an ultrasound.” She went on to explain their treatment options, which included another surgery and an experimental chemotherapy drug. “But this type of cancer almost always recurs, even after aggressive treatment.”
“And if we do nothing?” he asked.
His wife turned to him. “She’s in pain. We can’t do nothing.” She bent to stroke the dog.
“I’m just making sure we consider everything.”
Geneva nodded and said they could treat the pain but the obstruction would still be there.
Mrs. Kahnemann sat up. “What do you recommend, then? We want to do the right thing. Trixie’s been such a good dog.”
Geneva had long ago come to terms with her inability to save every pet. But she struggled when asked her opinion on such decisions because most people didn’t reason the way she did.
“I can’t make the decision for you. I can only give you the best information I have.”
“But what if Trixie were your dog?”
She knew exactly what she would do. The dog was suffering and the odds of any treatment adding more than a few months to her life were minuscule. She would put the dog to sleep immediately. But she would not lead the Kahnemanns down that path. Early in her career, she voiced her opinions more openly. She was shocked at the lengths to which owners would go to forestall the inevitable, with too little concern for the animal’s quality of life. But her colleagues, Stan in particular, cautioned her to allow clients control over treatment decisions. On bad days Geneva viewed this stance as less philosophical than mercenary, as delaying euthanasia always increased the bottom line of the veterinary practice.
“I could guess what I would do, but I can’t give you a definitive answer because Trixie’s not my dog. That changes everything.” Mr. Kahnemann gave her a look of frustration. Geneva suspected he had already decided the dog should be put down and hoped for her support. “I would only encourage you to think about this from Trixie’s point of view.”
Tears fell down Mrs. Kahnemann’s cheeks. “I don’t want her to suffer.”
“Of course not. She’s had a wonderful life with you. You’ve taken such good care of her.” She bent down and scratched Trixie behind the ears. “I’ll take her for an X-ray. Please take some time to talk it over.”
She encouraged the dog to its feet and led it into the treatment room. As she prepped Trixie for the procedure, she mused that dogs rarely knew what people had planned for them. And that, when it came to death, counted as a mercy.
• • •
The laughter of her husband and son met Geneva at the front door. When she entered the house, Diesel bounded over and sat, his haunches twitching with the thrill of her homecoming. Charlie’s books lay open on the counter in front of him, but his body was twisted toward the television in the living room. Tom stood in front of the television and shaped a disc of ground meat with his hands.
“Hey, there.”
“Hi. Sounds like a celebration.”
“Hey, Momster. Giants just scored on an error. The outfielder did the funniest dance under a pop fly. Then the ball landed on his head.”
Humiliation plus pain equals delight for the home team. Humans are strange animals. “Did you two have a good day?”
“Yeah, we’re great.” Tom picked up another ball of meat. Diesel’s gaze followed Tom’s movements, and he whined softly.
“Diesel . . .” Geneva said.
The dog looked over his shoulder at her, walked slowly to his mat by the door, and collapsed onto it like a bag of rocks.
“Good boy.” She turned to her husband. “Where’s Mom?”
“Sleeping, I think.”
“At six thirty?”
“Said she had a hard physio session. I didn’t see much of her this afternoon because the rain forest guy was here.”
“Should I check on her?”
Charlie leaned over his books and rested his forehead on one hand. “She was fine when I came home from school. Pretty happy, actually.”
Happy? Something in her son’s tone struck her as odd, but she couldn’t see his face.
“I’ve got an idea,” Tom said. “Since our patient is resting, let’s have a glass of wine from the secret stash.”
Geneva opened her mouth to protest, but then realized a glass of wine sounded perfect. “Good thought. And while I’m getting it, perhaps you, Charlie, could take Diesel for a short walk, then give him a biscuit. The hamburger is torturing him.”
“But what about the game?”
Tom washed his hands. “Hit record on your way out.”
• • •
Geneva carried a tray into the backyard and set the table. The bright yellow and orange place mats set off the turquoise-rimmed plates beautifully. She laid yellow napkins on top of the plates and lined up the bottom edges of the forks and knives. As she tossed the salad, Tom took the burgers off the grill, then went inside to call the children to dinner. Geneva sipped the last of her wine, an earthy Sonoma Pinot, and sat down. The evening air was fresh. She relaxed into the chair. A jay squawked and she tipped back her head to follow its flight from the roof to a tree.
As she straightened her neck again, the movement reminded her of riding on her father’s shoulders when she was small. If she was tired of walking, or simply bored, she would stand in front of him, her arms stretched high, and he would swing her up onto his shoulders. She remembered wondering if adults were thrilled every second of their lives seeing the world from such heights. Sometimes she would arch her back and look to the sky. He would tighten his grip on her ankles, and she would arch farther and farther, until the world was upside down and receding, and no longer boring.
The back door slammed and startled her.
Ella stomped down the steps and threw herself into a chair. She pulled the cuffs of her long-sleeve gray T-shirt over her hands and tucked them between her legs. “It’s freezing out here!”
“Maybe you need a sweater.”
“Maybe I’ll eat inside.”
“I’d like us all to eat together. I haven’t seen you all day.”
Ella shivered theatrically.
“What’ve you been up to?”
Her daughter ignored her.
Charlie threw open the door, which Tom caught before it hit the side of the house. “Easy, easy. You’re like a gorilla.”
Charlie gave a gorilla grunt, sat down, grabbed a burger from the platter, and put it to his mouth.
“Charlie . . .” Geneva warned.
Tom tapped him on the head. “Wait for everyone, okay?”
“Pig.” Ella pulled her knees to her chest and yanked her shirt over them. “It’s freezing!”
Charlie said, “Want Marcus to come warm you up?”
Geneva selected a burger and passed the plate to Ella, who made no move to accept it. Geneva put it on the table in front of her. “Who’s Marcus?”
“No one!”
Geneva looked at Tom, who shrugged. “Ella, aren’t you going to eat?”
Two fingers emerged from the shirt cuff and lifted the edge of the bun. “It’s burnt.”
Tom lifted his plate. “Trade?”
“Or you can have mine,” her brother said around an enormous mouthful. He pointed to a nearly empty plate.
Ella scowled at him and switched plates with her father. She applied copious quantities of ketchup, mustard, and relish, pushed up her sleeves, and ate.
The jay squawked again from a nearby branch. Geneva watched as it held an acorn in its feet and hammered it to pieces.
Ella finished her burger. “Okay, I ate. Can I go now?”
Geneva didn’t look up. “Sure. Please take your plate in.”
“Like I’d forget after years of boot camp.”
Perhaps this was what had happened between her mother and Paris. It didn’t matter that their personalities were different from Geneva’s and Ella’s. A teenager pushing hard enough and a mother too baffled and hurt to know how to respond could conceivably add up to a lifelong estrangement. Look at how distant she herself felt from her mother, twenty-five years after becoming a teenager. She’d always attributed that to her mother’s drinking and the disastrous consequences, but maybe the drinking was a red herring. Maybe one day your children are teenagers who won’t talk to you, and the next they are adults who don’t want you in their home.
The situation with Ella wasn’t catastrophic; she knew other parents had dealt with far worse. Drea’s son had been suspended for being stoned at school—and neither Drea nor her husband had any idea their child smoked at all, much less during school. But although her problems with Ella didn’t appear serious, Geneva worried about where they were headed. She didn’t want things to spiral out of control, to get blindsided and realize too late she could have prevented a serious problem if only she had intervened earlier. Tom said she worried too much, but his reassurances had come to mean little to her.
She admitted her pride was at stake. Geneva thought she knew her daughter and believed she understood her. Hadn’t she held her in her arms countless times after some mishap, listened to her fears and anxieties, and counseled her in her relationships with her friends, teachers, and family? Geneva knew when Ella wanted a hug (the tiniest of pouts gave it away) and when she only wanted to vent (her hands twitched at her sides). To other people, Ella probably appeared the same when she was tired, bored, or nursing an emotional hurt, but Geneva could readily discriminate these states. She had been a conscientious student of her daughter’s behavior for sixteen years. It was at the core of being a good mother. Or so she thought. Trying to understand Ella’s behavior now was like trying to listen to a recording of a symphony whose volume vacillated unpredictably from barely audible to deafening. She couldn’t hear the music, and all she wanted to do was leave the room.
Wasn’t that what Paris had done, moving to another continent? And maybe that’s what her mother’s drinking did, transport her to another room where there was no music at all. Geneva didn’t recall Paris and her mother fighting often, but conflict could stop well short of mudslinging and fisticuffs and still cause damage. Over the years she’d asked Dublin several times about why Paris had excommunicated herself. He didn’t know any more than she did. He was, after all, only a year older than Geneva, and perhaps, as a young boy, was not tuned in to the wavelengths of female discord. Florence ought to know more. Geneva had little history of discussing emotional matters with her, but resolved to ask her about their mother’s relationship with Paris—and with her. And if she could get Paris on the phone, she might ask her directly. In the past, Paris had been clear that any discussion of their mother was off-limits. But Geneva wasn’t prepared to let the issue rest, not with her mother under her roof and the fear of losing her own daughter prickling under her skin.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELLA
Fresh air is grossly overrated. And “fresh” is apparently synonymous with “arctic.” Dinner was two hours ago and Ella’s hands were still numb. And she hadn’t come close to finishing her homework. She spent some time fooling around on the guitar, then dug in a pile of clothes for something clean to wear to school tomorrow, and thought it would be really helpful if her mom did her laundry like she used to. Afterward, she wrote a half-assed outline for her paper on Pride and Prejudice and did the problem set for math. Not a single stupid answer matched the ones in the back of the book. How did she ever end up in the second-hardest math track? Oh, wait, let’s take a wild guess. Her mom. Well, she was way too tired to figure out where she went wrong in those problems. She’d just do what she always did: Wait for Mr. Ryan to go through them in class. Everything would be so crystal-fucking-clear she’d wonder how the hell she hadn’t breezed through them the first time. Then she’d go home, start another set, and discover the symbols were, in fact, hierofuckingglyphics and she wasn’t a goddamn Egyptian scribe.
Her mood was tanking, so she lay on the floor and watched the words float on the ocean for a while. Sometimes they energized her and other times they put her to sleep. Today she just hoped they’d stop her from screaming out loud. Maybe she was PMSing. What day was it? If it wasn’t PMS, then she was having a nervous breakdown.
Her stomach felt gross from mainlining that burger. Family dinner. As if everyone was thrilled to hang out together. The whole thing was so contrived, like her mom read a magazine article: “Teenagers from families that sit down to eat dinner together at least four times weekly are 56 percent less likely to use illegal drugs and 62 percent less likely to have an unwanted pregnancy.” What it doesn’t mention is that teenagers who eat with their families are so convinced their parents are completely batshit, they’d do anything not to become parents themselves, including never having sex.
Her mom was the most annoying, for sure, but Prince Charles was second place and gunning for the lead. Who the hell did he think he was, yanking her chain about Marcus? Wait until she found the right moment to tell their parents the Prince wasn’t such a prince. And not just the porno mags, although she still couldn’t get over how nasty that was. After school yesterday she’d run into Charlie at the bagel shop in town. He was with Spencer and two seniors she knew were not just stoners but did meth and E and God knew what else. Nice friends. And guess what. The Prince was totally out of it. Spencer was practically propping him up. When he saw her he tried to be super cool, but couldn’t pull it off because, for one thing, his eyes wouldn’t focus. One of these days, when Ella didn’t feel like killing him, she’d give him a sisterly lecture about how druggies always turn out to be big failures and that he shouldn’t be such a moron. A little discreet weed was one thing, but pills? And meth? And lots of cool kids didn’t do drugs at all. Like Marcus. At least that’s what she’d heard.
Ella rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. Marcus. As if he would ever be interested in her. Dream on, loser. Maybe if she got a boob job and a personality transplant. Honored guest at her pity party, for one.
Hold on a sec. How the hell did the Prince know about Marcus? It wasn’t like she walked around with a giant torch emblazoned with his name. The only person in the entire world who knew was Megan, and she knew for a fact Megan would never tell anyone. Ella wasn’t sure of many things these days, but she and Megan had each other’s back 100 percent. So how the fuck did Prince Charlie find out about Marcus? Was she that obvious with her nonobvious stares at him? Did everyone at school know?
The thought made her want to puke. And smash something. Maybe smash something, then puke on it.
A knock at the door.
“Ella?”
Her mom.
No, no, no. “I’m really busy.”
“This’ll only take a sec.”
She got up and yanked the door open. Her mom had her planner open. Who the hell uses a planner anymore?
“I wanted to remind you that your last SAT prep class is on Saturday at two.”
“I’m not going.”
“But it’s your last one.”
“And now we know the last one was my last one.”
Her mom looked like she was going to stomp her feet. “It’s important, Ella.”
“To you. So you go.”
“That’s not helpful.�
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“Here.” She picked a prep book from her desk and thrust it at her mom. “I’m sure you’ll think it’s a beach read.”
Her mom did that yoga thing with her shoulders that drove Ella nuts. “Do you have a specific reason for not wanting to attend the class?”
“I have a conflict.”
“But I gave you these dates ages ago. Remember the stickie?”
Fuck the stickie. “I’m not going.”
“Can we sit and talk about it?”
“No.” She started to close the door. “Bye, Mom.”
“Ella, really. Please be reasonable.” She put her hand on the door handle.
“I’ve got a poetry slam. That’s my conflict.”
“Poetry doesn’t trump SAT prep.”
Ella pushed on the door. Her mom, who was super strong, resisted. Ella’s face got hot and her head nearly exploded. Her mom was all cool and collected, which made her more furious. She pulled on the door to give it a good slam, but her mom saw it coming and took a step in.
“What’s wrong?”
Ella backed away. Her skin prickled and her lungs shrank up until she thought she would pass out. Instead of getting out of her fucking room, her fucking life, her mom took a couple more steps toward her. It was too goddamn much.
“Get out! Get out of my room!”
“Please don’t shout.”
“Stop it! Just stop it!”
“Stop what? What am I doing?”
“Telling me what to do! I’m not a baby! I don’t want you telling me what to do!”
Her mom stepped back and held the planner up like she could ward off evil forces with it. “I’m only trying . . .”
“I don’t give a shit what you’re trying to do! Just leave me alone! Leave me alone! I hate you!” She ran at her mom battering-ram style but at the last second threw herself on the floor.
“What’s going on?” Her dad’s voice.
