Lost & Found

by Jacqueline Sheehan

  Rocky said, “So she doesn’t have cancer? She’s going to live?”

  “Cancer? Where did she get that idea? Did she think she was dying? And she wasn’t going to tell me?” Len’s eyes registered anger, but Rocky knew that the emotion was layered thick with years and that anger was just the surface.

  Rocky reached for his hand. “Maybe it was one of those synesthesia things; maybe she thought she saw something. Maybe it was green or shaped funny or made a sound that the rest of us couldn’t hear. But is she going to be OK?”

  He squeezed her hand in return and sighed, relief pouring off him. “Yes. There’s the infection to deal with, and the surgery, but yes, she’ll recover.”

  “I’ve got one more emergency to handle. Will you excuse me?” asked Rocky. She located Hill’s room as he waited for surgery. Someone had clipped the arrow so only several inches protruded from his upper thigh. An IV bag hung by his side, and just as Rocky walked in, a man in blue scrubs injected something into the line. “This should relax you. We’ll come get you as soon as the last surgery is cleared out. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  Hill looked up at her and said, “You’re not going to shoot me again, are you?” He held out his hand as she came closer to the gurney. “This is going to score so many points with my students in B Period English. We’re studying Beowulf, and I brought a few bows to school for them to try. They’re going to love this. Hey, that stuff he injected makes me feel like I just drank about four beers.”

  “What in the world were you doing on the island?” asked Rocky. She sat next to the wheeled stretcher.

  “You had a very bad guy out there. I was hunting the bad guy.” He smiled his crooked smile. “But the bad guy didn’t know who he was up against. I’m not sure you needed me.”

  Rocky lifted his hand to her mouth and pressed her lips to his palm. “Not true, not true at all,” she whispered.

  Tess did not return to the island until March, after spending weeks recuperating at her daughter’s home.

  “Len hovered relentlessly. He also got more peeks at my poor belly than he’d had in decades. He said his interest was purely clinical, but I don’t believe him,” said Tess.

  Rocky was thrilled to have Tess back again, as if everyone was finally back in the right place. It was an unseasonably warm day and Rocky followed Tess’s instructions about uncovering her crocus from the winter debris so they could emerge unfettered. Tess watched her from a chair placed next to the garden. Cooper assisted by digging his own spot in the garden, until Rocky made him stop by throwing a stick for him.

  “Len will be here again tomorrow. He said this is my penance for not telling him I was sick. He brought a dartboard and darts. He’s beating me terribly while I’m compromised. Not fair.”

  Rocky knew that Len also came to walk with Tess. She had seen the two of them on the beach, the tall, white-haired Len, with Tess resting her hand lightly on his arm.

  “Come inside. I’m done with your garden work. I’ve got some of Melissa’s photos to show you,” said Rocky.

  Melissa had joined the photography club and Cooper was her number-one subject. Whenever Rocky noticed Melissa these days, a girl named Chris was with her. The two girls carried their cameras everywhere.

  Rocky spread the photos of Cooper on the coffee table for Tess to see, but no sooner had Tess curled in her overstuffed chair, than she dozed off, napping in the full tonic of sunshine like a cat. Cooper also decided to nap. Rocky picked up one of the photos of Cooper.

  In this one he was looking noble, his great chest expanded without effort, offering the camera his best senatorial profile. And here, in this one, Cooper and Tess were sitting on the deck and he had one mighty paw on her foot. And in this one, Melissa caught him in midflight, back legs extended, head driving forward, all for the glory of catching a tennis ball. There was not a hint of sadness in any of the photos. When did he leave behind all the grief of losing his true love? Where had it gone?

  Rocky had gone over the scene again and again, knowing only snippets from the police report, filling in the rest with conjectures: Liz’s sleep-deprived psychosis, her full-out non-medicated mania, fleeing an obsessive boyfriend. Liz must have bought the old Hamilton place as a refuge, and for a brief moment in time it was, until the unexpected appearance of Peter.

  Shouldn’t Liz have known Cooper would try to protect her? That the fur on this back would rise, a deep rumble would erupt from this throat, that he would issue a last warning to Peter to stay away? Liz would have faltered for a second, as she stood with her weapon, her resolve crumbling just enough, doubting her own perceptions, doubting the danger. The dog leapt, following Peter’s scent, leapt as high as he dared, to pull him down, and Liz, at that very moment, pulled back on her bow and took her shot. Liz had plucked her own dog from the air.

  Peter would not tell the police exactly how he dragged Liz from the island. He did say that he told her over and over again that she had killed her dog. And Cooper had been left behind. Rocky pictured the last days in Liz’s life in Orono: the fragile structure of her mind unraveling, chewing away at itself as Peter drove her back to Orono and left her at her house, trying to teach her a lesson by tossing her bottles of stored medication at her, abandoning her. It would not take Liz long to saw her arrows and bows into tiny bits, stacking them on her table. It would not have taken her long to die by her own hand.

  Rocky nudged Cooper with her foot. “Come on, you. Let’s go home.” She slipped quietly out of Tess’s house. Her job still called and she had an important delivery to make today. But Cooper needed to go home first and she needed lunch.

  As soon as Rocky and Cooper entered the house, Peterson began her new game of pouncing at the dog’s tail and then dashing off. Cooper eyed her with the same level of interest as one might have for a fly, as if a dog of his standing could not possibly be interested in this type of inferior play. Yet just last night, Rocky noticed that Peterson had wedged herself behind Cooper as he lay gnawing on a stick. Cooper had peered over his backside as the once skittish cat curled against him and eyed her with surprise, then with an odd sigh, he returned to his slobbery stick.

  Rocky made a ham and cheese sandwich and considered two letters that sat on her counter. One was from her boss at the university, asking her to verify her return date in the fall. The other was from Jan Townsend, who said they were coming out to the island soon to look at the house that was part of Liz’s estate. And did Rocky know anyone on the island who might have an interest in buying the place before they contacted a real estate agent? The letters jostled for her attention. Rocky turned them facedown on the counter and placed her used plate on top of them. Not yet; she didn’t have to decide anything yet. Right now she was still an animal control warden.

  Ten days ago, a tomcat was discovered on the east side of the island, called in by a neighbor who said, “He’s not exactly feral, but he’s darn close. Guess you better come get him and bring him to the mainland before he starves to death.”

  Rocky had easily trapped the cat and kept him for a day at Isaiah’s public works garage. The cat was black with three white paws and a white diamond on his face. His ears had been bitten and nicked from years of fighting with other toms and he had an abscess on his jaw. The cat hissed at her each time she came near. She waited twenty-four hours in case anyone called about a lost cat, then took him to the animal shelter in Portland. A sick and battered-up tom was the last cat anyone would adopt. She dropped him off at the shelter, knowing if the shelter was crowded, as they frequently were, he would be put down.

  Yesterday, Rocky got a call. “This is Mrs. Hancock. My cat has been missing. He usually comes back after three days, but I’m afraid something has happened to him. He’s black with white paws. Three of them, and a sweet white face.”

  Rocky rang up the shelter, fearing the worse. “Don’t kill the tom I brought in! He’s got an owner.”

  The receptionist said, “We’ve just finished all the procedures for the
day. You’re probably too late. I’ll check and call you back.”

  Rocky dreaded telling Mrs. Hancock that she had delivered her cat to his doom. The shelter called back.

  “You’re not going to believe this. We made a mistake and put him on the schedule for neutering. He’s here. Do you hear that sound? He’s not a happy boy. Come and get him tomorrow; I’ll send someone down to the pier with him.”

  Rocky took the ferry over and was met at the pier by one of the shelter volunteers with a cat carrier.

  “He’s not happy about his missing testicles,” she said.

  Rocky got back on the ferry for the return trip. She delivered the cat to Mrs. Hancock, who opened the carrier and took out a suddenly sweet cat that pushed his tattered head into her hands. Rocky explained his shaved abdomen, with apologies. The women stroked him and the cat purred like an outboard motor.

  “I know he’s really as ugly as sin; I’m not blind. And he’s a terror to other cats, but I don’t know what I would do without him. There’s no explanation for love. But love is all that matters, isn’t it?”

  Rocky felt her body rearrange itself; her bones slid into their sockets in a slightly different way, and a chunk of asphalt lifted off her heart. In its place, a space opened up that had been reserved for only Bob.

  She left the reunited cat owner and drove home to get Cooper. They were going to visit Hill.

  Chapter 37

  At last, a pack of his own. With the First One, Liz, they had been a majestic pair and he had steadied her wild course. But they were cut off from others, isolated. Who can say why he had not been able to save her. He could no more answer that than know why the lives of dogs were a brief flash of light compared to the great expanse of human life.

  How strange that humans live on and on while dogs move in and out of their lives like seasons. Even stranger is that humans cannot hear or smell all that surrounds them and all that they themselves announce through their hairless flesh.

  He felt the formation of his pack grow daily. The cat pressing against his backside, the New One settling into this place muscle by muscle, the girl eating bits of food, the old one healing from the injury that he had long known was there from the scent of infection deep within her. And the others who circle his pack with the watchful eyes of friends: the man with the limp who looks at the New One with longing, or the old dark man who stands sentinel over the island.

  But in this life, he is dog. His life is ocean, stick, ball, sand, grass, ride in the truck, sleep by the bed, look deep into the eyes of humans, lure them outdoors, greet them with a burst of joy when they come home, love them. Fill this brief life with more. And more.

  A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS, & MORE…

  FROM

  JACQUELINE

  SHEEHAN

  AND

  AVON A

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Inspiration for Lost & Found

  Lost & Found is a profound departure from my first book, Truth, a novel about Sojourner Truth, the courageous nineteenth-century slave and abolitionist. It took five years to write Truth because of the enormous amount of research that I had to do and in order to present the true essence of her character. Because I admired Sojourner Truth so deeply, I felt like my feet were constantly held to the fire. During this time period, I periodically took breaks from my historical novel to give voice to the wonderfully flawed and irreverent Rocky and the character for my next book was born. In the stories and snippets that I wrote about Rocky, she was always drawn to bow hunting and she was always in love with her husband. At some point I asked the heartless question that authors often ask about their characters, which is, what if Rocky lost the thing that was most important to her? And for Rocky, that was her husband.

  Truth required that I dive into another culture, another time. I wanted Rocky to come primarily from my own experiences and from our contemporary world. My world has been driven by psychology; it is a rich and satisfying world that gives me endless insight into the motivation of people and the resilience of the human spirit. Psychology was my training ground for fiction, and likewise, I often urge clients in counseling to use writing as a way to tap into a deeper and wiser side of themselves.

  Is this autobiographical?

  No and yes. No, this is fictional, and yes, Rocky is a psychologist and so am I. Yes, I was once a lifeguard, but only for one summer and I wasn’t a terribly good one. And, yes, I was called on to perform CPR and the victim did not survive. And yes, I have known and loved two of the most extraordinary dogs, both of whom would have stood in front of a racing train to save the ones they loved.

  Do your life experiences with loss influence the tragedy in Rocky’s life?

  Death is a major character in this book and death has been a major character in my life. When I was nine years old, my father died suddenly from a massive heart attack. People did not talk much about the impact of loss back then and I was simply expected to go back to school and continue on as if nothing had happened. He died in mid-June and I don’t recall the summer at all except that the sky was constantly gray. In the fall, I started fourth grade with a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Vivien Tarbox. She informed us that we would be studying science and the arts. I selected an unlikely author, Edgar Allan Poe, and spent the year reading everything he ever wrote. He was my maudlin grieving partner; he knew about parental loss and sadness and he and I were sad together. He understood losing someone to the thief of death and he took grief to the farthest, most macabre level in his writing. His mother died when he was two years old and his father before that. He brooded over the mystery of death and I brooded right along with him.

  It was not until years later when I was in graduate school studying about grief that I fully understood my year with Poe. As odd as it must have looked for a young child to cozy up to Poe, no one in my family even noticed because everyone was so shattered by my father’s death. But once the year was over, I put my friend aside. He had taken me through a year of grieving.

  Readers have said to me that they are startled and horrified at Rocky’s behavior after her husband’s death, particularly when she disposes of his ashes in such a spectacular, yet gruesome manner. Yes, Rocky is a bit over the top, but in dealing with grief there are infinite ways that people choose to make a statement to the dead. Her behavior tells us just how far off center she is blown. I have known people who wear their lover’s ashes in a vial hung around their neck. When my ex-husband was killed in a motorcycle accident while I was writing this book, I knew immediately what I had to do. I took a dear friend to a bar, ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a cigar. I did not leave the bar until both the cigar and several more shots were consumed. These were potent symbols of my former spouse and I felt connected to him as I rolled the powerful smoke in my mouth and the Jack Daniels scorched my throat and belly.

  What we believe about death determines how we live. Billy Collins, the former poet laureate of the United States, often warns students as they enter his poetry classes, “Welcome to the school of death.” Poets so often write about death and loss, and fiction writers are not far behind.

  Cardio-pulmonary resuscitation (CPR) is widely taught as a lifesaving technique. Why do you present a case where it doesn’t work?

  When I began to write about Rocky, I knew she would have her world shattered by the death of her young husband, and that she would feel betrayed when her iron-clad belief in CPR is ripped away from her. She completely believed that she possessed a skill that would save her husband.

  My own experience with CPR made its way into the novel. I have known CPR since I was a lifeguard at age 23. I was never called on to perform CPR during my one summer as a lifeguard, despite working with handicapped and medically fragile people. It was not until years later when I had just started a job at a college in Massachusetts that my old training was tragically needed. As I walked up a flight of stairs in the student center, a man flew down the stairs and said, “There’s a guy in the men’s room who’s not breathing.”
I ran into the men’s room and there was a young man wedged between the urinal and the corner of the room; his skin was already blue, his lips an alarming shade of purple. As soon as a student and I got him on the floor, I knelt next to his head and began CPR. I never hesitated for a second and part of me assumed he would be revived; he would open his eyes at any moment because we were going to save him through CPR. Within moments the head of the athletic club arrived and took over compressions, then the campus police arrived and all of us took turns doing everything we could to convince his heart to start. We were undaunted; we continued until the EMTs arrived with defibrillators. I imagined that we were breathing for him and squeezing his heart into action until the medical professionals could make his heart start for real. I believed that much in CPR. The young man never revived. I was devastated and so were all the people who tried to save him.

  Less than a year later I was walking in a park with a friend and saw that a man had fallen on the asphalt and two women stood over him. Once again, the man was not breathing and the stubborn lifeguard in me responded. One of the women was a nurse and we immediately began CPR. I remember thinking; we’ve got this one. Once again the man did not survive; a massive heart attack had left his heart damaged beyond reach.

  CPR remains a lifesaving technique, and particularly for drowning accidents, the rate of success is very good. But like many people, I had placed an inordinate amount of faith into a technique that simply can’t compete with the assault of some cardiac disasters. I held on to the sense of despair for nine years before I transformed it by turning it into fiction.