“She painted the farmhouse,” Grandma said as we drove past. “And look at that shiny new red tin roof!” I’d forgotten Grandma hadn’t seen the place since Dr. B. moved in and fixed it up. She kept staring at it as we drove up the driveway to our house.
I wrestled her wheelchair out of the trunk while Dad helped her out of the car. We got her settled into the chair, and Dad backed it up to the front porch steps. “Close your eyes, Grandma,” I said, as I held the door open so Dad could wheel her in.
“Close my eyes? The house can’t be that bad, not if you boys have done what I told you,” she said, but she covered her eyes with her pretty little uncurled hands. I caught a glimpse of the unicorn-hair bracelet on her wrist as the wheelchair bumped over the threshold. Dad wheeled her into the dining room and Steve came in from the kitchen.
“OK, open them now,” I said.
Grandma lowered her hands, opened her eyes, and gave a little gasp. The table was draped with the tablecloth she always used for holidays, the fancy lace one. It was set with her best china dishes, her best glassware, and candles, too, just like she had always done at Thanksgiving.
“Oh, you all are the best boys ever,” she said. I could tell she was happy. I just hoped she wouldn’t notice that my place had a jelly-jar glass—I broke one of the good glasses when we unpacked them.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mama,” Dad said, patting her on the shoulder.
“It was Dr. B.’s idea to use these,” I told her, wanting to be fair about the credit. I’d forgotten we kept all this stuff after Grandma moved out, until Dr. B. asked what kind of Thanksgivings we had, plain or fancy, so they would know how to dress. They were both, I guess—the table was fancy, but we were pretty plain, in our good shirts, but no ties.
“Well, it was a wonderful idea, doesn’t matter whose it was,” she said as she rolled up to the table. She tweaked the cloth a bit and switched the silverware around so the little forks were on the outside, then fussed with the candlesticks in the middle.
“Stevie, how is that bird? It smells about done,” she said, going to take charge in the kitchen. “Open that oven door and let me see.” Dad and I retreated to the living room to escape all the talk about cooking. Fortunately, the Brancusis showed up about then, before Grandma could find more for us to do.
Their arrival sparked a flurry of taking coats and arranging covered dishes. Georgie was carrying a big cake with chocolate frosting, Dr. B. had a wooden bowl full of salad, and Allegra had a glass dish with cranberry sauce. I was a mite disappointed in that, as it was the fresh kind, not the good kind out of the can. I was minding my manners, so I didn’t point that out. We already had the good kind on the table anyway.
“Welcome, welcome, come on in and sit,” said Grandma, motioning for everyone to come into the dining room. She wheeled over to the head of the table, where she always sat. “Eric, come pull out my chair,” she commanded. I picked up the chair to take it away, but she said, “No, leave it. I’m going to sit in a real chair like a proper hostess.” Then she grabbed the arms of her wheelchair, lifted herself up, and shifted over to the dining room chair. Slowly, she lowered herself down, smoothed out her skirt, and, like a queen, nodded for all of us to sit.
It was the first time since going into the nursing home she had taken any steps by herself. The bracelet was working, not just on her hands, but on all of her, like I’d hoped. If I got Allegra to make her another one, maybe she’d be strong enough by Christmas to move in with us, not just to visit.
“Let us all hold hands while Jimmy says grace,” said Grandma. She reached out for Allegra and Steve on either side of her. I put out my hands for Allegra and Georgie. I caught Allegra’s eye and then motioned with my head, so she’d look at Grandma’s wrist and see the unicorn-hair bracelet, which she did. She gave a little smile. Then Dad asked the blessing.
When I raised my eyes back up, I noticed that both Dad and Dr. B. were staring at the bracelet too. Dad was at the other end of the table, with Dr. B. on his right and Georgie on his left. I quickly looked down so they wouldn’t notice me noticing them; suddenly, my silverware was very interesting. Everybody began passing dishes and filling their plates, so I figured they would all just forget about that bracelet.
“Kris, I saw you painted the farmhouse and put on a new roof. I haven’t seen the old place look so good in a long time,” said Grandma. “Have you fixed up the inside too?” Uh-oh. I glanced over at Dad. He didn’t like to be reminded that we had to sell the farmhouse and barn because we needed the money. We’d kept the part of the land with our house and a few more outbuildings and all the rest of Harper’s Woods. He didn’t look too happy.
“I’m afraid you might not be as pleased with the interior changes,” said Dr. B. “We had to do a lot to make the downstairs into a working clinic. That room off the kitchen is now our operating room for surgeries, and your old bedroom is full of crates and cages for our patients.” She went on about all the new stuff, Grandma hanging on to every word. Then I got distracted by Steve kicking me under the table, trying to get me in trouble by getting a rise out of me.
“And who posted all those No Trespassing signs?” Grandma asked.
“I did,” said Allegra, smiling at Grandma and making a “so there” face at me.
“Everybody knows there’s no hunting on Harper land, but somebody might try to take advantage, thinking the vet here doesn’t know. Good work, girl,” Grandma said, but she was looking hard at Steve. He didn’t hunt, but he had friends who did, and who were always pestering us about using Harper’s Woods. He got busy chasing peas around his plate.
Then Grandma clapped her hands and raised them up. “Steve, fetch the desserts.”
Steve jumped up, happy to be let off the hook. “Yes sir, General Grandma, sir,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared with Georgie’s chocolate cake in one hand and pecan pie in the other. He set them on the table, sweet as you please. Next, he came back with a plate full of peanut brittle—Grandma’s recipe, of course.
She beamed, then picked up the cake server. “Who wants cake?” she asked. Her sleeve fell back, and there was the white bracelet.
“I’d love a piece of cake—Georgie’s chocolate is divine—and that pecan pie too,” said Dr. B. As she accepted her plate of dessert, she continued, “I couldn’t help but notice your bracelet, Mrs. Harper, very unusual.”
“Please, call me Maggie. Eric gave it to me. Said your Allegra made it for me, out of horse hair,” Grandma replied, giving her wrist a little shake.
“Did she now,” said Dr. B., all mild and sweet-like, while looking daggers at us.
“Came from that white horse Eric says he’s helping you with. His other white-haired lady friend, I call her,” she said, running her hand through her own white hair. “Maybe I’ll get to meet her too, when I come to visit your clinic. Nothing prettier than a little white horse, except maybe a blue-eyed boy.” Grandma gave me a teasing smile.
“Maybe so.” Dr. B. gave me a look that said I had a lot of explaining to do, then turned that same look on Allegra. We both shrank down in our seats.
“I’m beginning to think of this bracelet as a good-luck charm,” Grandma told her. “I’ve been feeling so much better since Eric gave it to me, I hardly ever take it off.” She had an expression that reminded me of Timothy when he’s feeling especially pleased with himself.
Allegra gave me a look that said, Do you think your Grandma knows about the unicorn?
And I gave her one that said, I don’t think so. How could she?
Dr. B. gave me a look that said, She better not know.
And then Dad gave me a look that said, You better behave, boy. There were entirely too many looks going around the table and not nearly enough talking.
“Maggie, could you slice me another piece of that pecan pie?” Georgie asked, breaking up the round of looks with some actual words. The conversation turned back to the desserts, as Steve tried to convince Georgie to
give up the recipe for her cake. After a while, Dr. B. stopped glaring at me and so did Dad.
Finally, Thanksgiving dinner was over. Steve and Dad were in the living room, arguing over which football game to watch. The Brancusis and Georgie were fixing to go, saying all their thank-yous and such. So I was hopeful that whole “white-haired lady” business was about to blow over. No such luck.
“Maggie, would you like to come over and see the clinic?” Dr. Brancusi asked.
Grandma got a big smile on her face. “Kris, aren’t you a dear. I would love to come and maybe your girl can make me another one of these bracelets. A matched set would do me a world of good.” She held up her arm and shook it a bit and looked straight at me. It was like she knew the bracelet was what was making her feel better.
Allegra was glaring at me, like I had spilled the beans. I knew I hadn’t, so I glared back.
“Jimmy, I’m going over to the farmhouse. Come help me back into that fool wheelchair. You all go on, we’ll catch up,” Grandma announced.
I held the door for the Brancusis and Georgie, since their hands were full of dishes and containers of leftovers.
“No more bracelets unless you check with me first,” Dr. B. said to me in a low voice as she stepped outside.
“Mama, you’re going to tire yourself out. Are you sure about this now?” Dad said. But he could tell she was set on going, so he got her into her chair and then into the car. Steve decided to come too.
I sat in the back with Grandma and she took my hand as we turned out of the drive. It was the hand with the bracelet, and I noticed the fingers were curling up a bit again. Maybe the power of the unicorn hair was wearing off. I wished I could roll Grandma out to the barn and Moonpearl could use her horn to cure everything, so she would be strong again. That would be breaking my promise to keep everything secret and to keep Moonpearl safe, so I wouldn’t. But I didn’t want Grandma to go back to that old nursing home.
“Doesn’t the place look grand?” Grandma said as we pulled up in front of the house. Dr. Brancusi explained about adding the ramp up to the front porch for deliveries. In this case, it made it easy for me to wheel Grandma up the ramp, while Dr. B. held open the front door. Timothy came and jumped up into her lap.
“Hello, you handsome fella,” Grandma said, stroking Timothy’s back. He purred loud enough for me to hear as I pushed the chair through the front door. Dad and Steve came clumping in behind us.
“Oh my,” Grandma said, looking around the room at the bare floor and the desk and wooden benches. I had gotten used to it, but now remembered how proud she was of the living room, with all her best furniture, lace curtains, and framed pictures of Harper ancestors on the wall. This room was useful, but it wasn’t pretty.
“Where’s the clock?” asked Steve, and I realized he hadn’t seen the place since Grandma moved out either.
“We have your grandfather clock and the sofa upstairs now,” answered Dr. B. “We have a living room and a kitchen up there; the downstairs is all for the clinic.” They bought some of the furniture along with the farm, as we didn’t have room for much in our little house. Dr. B. pushed Grandma’s chair into the office, explaining what everything was. I hoped it was clean enough. I hadn’t done any mopping today—just fed everybody and groomed Moonpearl so I could get back and get ready for the dinner.
“So let’s see what you’ve done with my old bedroom,” Grandma said.
“It’s our recovery and overnight ward,” said Dr. B. proudly. She stopped the wheelchair at the open door. “We won’t go in, I don’t want to disturb them.” Most of the cages were draped with cloth for the night already, but you could see the ferret cage and the jar of squonk water.
“I used to keep those kinds of things on the back porch,” Grandma said. Then I remembered—she would keep barn cats with torn-up ears and baby birds that didn’t have all their feathers out on the screened-in porch until they were better. She once had a baby squirrel, a scrawny little pink thing that she let me feed with a medicine dropper.
Steve stuck his head in and then came back to me. “Got a lot of weird stuff here, bro,” he said. I was worried he might have figured out things, until I realized he just meant all the medical stuff. So I explained about some of the things I did, cleaning and fixing the food and all.
“So, you’re a mop jockey,” he joked, giving me a wimpy punch on the arm, but he looked sad. He had always been closer to Poppaw than Grandma, and didn’t come here near as much as I did after Poppaw died four years ago. I guess he was remembering how it used to be, when it was all Harpers here.
“I’ve seen enough for now,” Grandma said as she was wheeled back into the office. “I do confess, I miss my old living room, but you’re doing fine work here, Kris. It all looks so grand.” Her voice trembled and her eyes looked a bit watery. “I’m proud of you, Eric, for helping her. You’re a true Harper.”
“Come on, Mama, let’s go,” said Dad, real soft, as he took the handles of the wheelchair.
“Take me home, Jimmy,” she said. She had never called Three Oaks “home” before—this was home. And now it wasn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
DAD HAD ALREADY GONE TO WORK the next morning when I got up. Steve was still snoring, and he was planning to hang out with his girlfriend anyway. Nobody would notice if I spent all day at the clinic. I grabbed a bag of carrots and a couple of apples for Moonpearl and headed over. The grass was crunchy with frost and I could see the puffs of my breath as I ran.
The kitchen lights were on when I got there. Dr. B. was chopping up veggies to feed to the parakeet. There were empty bowls on the clean counter, waiting for the various types of chow—cat chow, dog chow, rabbit chow, ferret chow. I measured the food into the bowls, checking the daily feed chart to make sure I got the right amount. Nobody needed medicine with this meal, so it was pretty easy. I arranged the bowls on a tray and carried everything into the ward.
Attached to each cage was an index card with the animal’s name, diagnosis, feeding and meds schedule, and owner’s name. The tabby cat, Amber, hissed at me when I opened the cage and put in the food dish. I pulled out the water dish and put it on a separate tray for dirty dishes. Ajax, a bull terrier, was glad to see me and wanted to lick my hand, but couldn’t figure out how to do that with a cone around his neck to prevent him from biting the stitches on his hind leg. His tail was thumping against the side of the crate, making a rattling noise.
“Hey, boy, glad to see you too,” I told him, speaking softly so as not to bother the other patients. I scratched him on the neck and shoulder behind the collar and his tail thumped faster.
Dr. B. came in, carrying a tray with food for the birds. “You have a real gift for working with animals, Eric,” she said.
That was nice to hear. I didn’t get too many compliments. I took the bowl out of Ajax’s cage and locked it. “I like them,” I said.
“I can tell. And so can they.” She moved over to the birdcages and lifted just the corner of the towel draped across one to open the door.
I fed the rabbit, then went to the cage that held Slinkydink. He was partially covered with the bedding. I opened the door and took out the old food dish, which was still full of ferret chow. That wasn’t a good sign. The water dish was full too. I looked closer at the stretch of fur, but didn’t see any movement. His back and ribs were still, no sign of breathing.
“Dr. B.,” I whispered. “I think he’s dead.”
“Let me see,” she said. She put on a pair of surgical gloves, then reached into the cage and brushed away some bedding. The ferret’s eyes were half closed and his mouth was slightly open. He still didn’t move. Dr. B. pulled a flashlight out of her pocket and shone it on his face. The ferret didn’t blink. She touched his side, checking for breathing, but still nothing.
“You’re right. He’s gone.” She drew her hand out and sighed.
“But he was doing so much better,” I said. “The unicorn hair was helping him. Look at his leg�
�you can’t even see the scar where the dogs got him.”
“He was doing better, but sometimes they decline very quickly. He must have died during the night, because I checked on everyone before going to bed,” she said. She pulled off her gloves and threw them in the trash. “I’ll have to call his owner. I hate it when they die during the holidays; it always seems to hurt even more. Not that a ferret cares about Thanksgiving.” She gave me a weak little smile.
How could she smile, when this poor creature was dead? She was supposed to save him. We were taking good care of him; he shouldn’t be dead. It wasn’t fair. I reached into the cage to touch Slinkydink. I ran my hand over his little gray body. His legs were all stiff, and his body wasn’t warm anymore.
“He was hurt bad; we should have had Moonpearl heal him,” I said.
“Eric, we’ve been over this. Moonpearl is an intelligent being, a wild creature, not a tool for us to use, especially now that she is pregnant. It took her several days to recover from healing your friend’s dog. It would be even worse now that she’s so close to delivery,” Dr. B. said. She ran her hand over my head, like she was soothing one of the animals. “It’s hard, but it’s part of the job. We can’t save them all.” She left the ward and went into the office.
I finished collecting all the dirty dishes and took them into the kitchen. It had started out as such a perfect day, so peaceful, and now this. As I was scraping out the dishes, Allegra came in.
“The office door is closed. What happened?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
“Slindydink died.”
“Aww, no,” Allegra said. “Calling the owners to tell them their pet died is the worst. She hates that, always feels like it’s her fault.”
“Well, this one is her fault. Moonpearl could have healed him,” I pointed out.
“Do you want Moonpearl to lose her babies?”
“No, of course not!” I said. How could she even think that?
The Unicorn in the Barn Page 8
