by Jones, Brent
“Not exactly. I just . . .” Brennan recalled how his mother, Candice, used to turn tricks for male callers Saturday night, blow rails of cocaine, get blackout drunk, and then wake him early the next morning for church. “Guess sometimes it’s easier just to have faith in a higher plan.”
“And do you?” asked Rocco.
He glanced at Fender. “I find the thought of an afterlife comforting. I understand why others might, too. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna be reunited with their loves ones one day?” As he said it, he thought of Vicious, his childhood guard dog, and wondered if he would be waiting to greet Fender. “I just figure it can’t hurt to believe things might happen for a reason, that’s all. We could all use a little faith sometimes, couldn’t we? Some forgiveness, too?”
“I guess.”
Brennan stared off in the distance. “I wonder if . . .”
“What?”
“I wonder if that’s why Mom kept me in church. Like, she knew she couldn’t teach me much in the values department, and my dad wasn’t in the picture. Maybe she thought the church could teach me something she couldn’t.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”
* * *
Dear God . . . Brennan trudged down the sidewalk with Fender. He studied his own feet, felt each step reverberate through his body. . . . or Heavenly Father, as the Mormons like to call You. Whichever You prefer, really.
It was dark, and streetlights cast the pair in a pale glow. Their senses were bombarded by the sights and sounds of passing traffic. Brennan tried to tune it out and found himself half-whispering, half-thinking the words to whatever divine being happened to be listening.
It’s been a while. Well, a couple weeks now. I pleaded with You for my wife and daughter, remember? Remember me? Even in his thoughts, the word wife came out shrill and dissonant. And, as far as I can tell, You couldn’t have been bothered to do a damn thing about it. All part of Your wonderful plan, I’m sure.
Brennan doubted the efficacy of prayer, but figured taking a harsh tone with the Lord probably undermined its value altogether. I, ah, know I haven’t been a faithful servant of Yours and all that. But Fender has. Whatever purpose You gave this little dog’s life, he’s gone above and beyond. And I know I have to lose him at some point, but . . . I don’t know. I just don’t want him to suffer. A tear streamed down his cheek. He didn’t eat a bite of his dinner tonight. Not a crumb. Please . . . please, You don’t owe me anything, but Fender . . . he needs You right now. Please . . . please ease his pain. Help him. You’re his only chance.
They returned to the Econo Lodge and crossed the parking lot toward their room. And one last thing, God, if I can ask for something else. Give me the strength to make this call. Help me find the words. It’s just been so long, I don’t even know where to start. Amen.
Brennan let Fender in the room. He waved to Rocco and Franky, who were playing cards at a small wooden table near the window. He shut the door again, pulled his phone from his back pocket, and wondered if he still had the right number.
A click. “Hello?”
He froze. He listened, heard a television in the background, heard the woman exhale cigarette smoke, heard scratching sounds over the mouthpiece, as though she had dropped the phone, picked it back up. Seconds passed, and he thought that calling might have been a mistake.
“Hello? It’s late. Who is this?” She sounded tired, distant, irritated.
“Mom? Is that you?”
A long pause then, “Br-Brennan?”
“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Mom.”
“Brennan,” she echoed. “It’s been . . . years.”
Since the wedding, he thought. Since the day you stole from— “It’s been too long.”
“Oh. Oh, God. What a surprise!” Her tone brightened, her speech got faster, breathy. “Oh, thank God, I’ve prayed for this day for so long. I’ve prayed for years that I’d hear from you.”
“You have?”
“You have no idea, Brennan. Oh, I prayed and prayed.” Candice let a second pass, composed herself, and asked, “How’s everything? How’s Rosie?”
“She’s . . .” The truth was too much to reveal over the phone. He pulled it from his ear with a shaking hand and brushed back his hair. “She’s fine,” he said at last.
“Did, ah—” Her voice wavered, and Brennan could almost hear the tear pooling beneath her eyes. “Did you guys ever end up having kids?”
Brennan felt his own eyes moisten. “We, uh . . . listen, Mom, I’m on the road for a few days, but I’ll be back to Williams—” He stopped himself, “—Buffalo soon, and I was thinking maybe we could meet up for dinner.”
“I’d like that.” Candice sniffled. “Why haven’t I heard from you, Brennan?” She didn’t sound angry, just hurt and confused. Her tone was uneven and hurried. “Was it because of what happened at the w-wedding?”
“Mom . . .”
“I’ve cleaned up my act, Brennan, I have. I know I wasn’t always the b-best mother.”
“Mom . . .”
“I got help, Brennan, I did. I swear. I’ve been off the junk for years now. Got someone steady in my life, too. Real good guy. Takes good care of me.” She swallowed, adding, “You’d like ’im.”
“That’s good, Mom. Real good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Oh, Brennan. I tried calling you. I tried visiting, but you’d moved and no one seemed to know where.”
“I just—I just needed some time, Mom, that’s all.”
She sniffled again, coughed. “Time heals all wounds, you know.”
“That’s what they say.”
“It’s true.” He could hear the smile in his mother’s voice and wondered if passing on a few words of wisdom to her only son had made her day. “Maybe it’s not too late for us, Brennan.”
Brennan choked back his feelings. He wiped his eyes. “I’ll c-call you when I get back, Mom.” A moment passed before he added, “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“We can start over fresh.” She whispered, “A new beginning for you and me.”
Chapter 25
Brennan woke up every hour that night to check on Fender. His dog didn’t stir or snore. He didn’t stretch or squirm. He simply held still, drawing in shallow breaths.
He turned away from his breakfast the next morning, refusing even a single kibble. Brennan dipped his fingers in a small bowl of water, hoping to dab small splashes on Fender’s gums. The dog twisted and writhed, strained to avoid the onslaught of unwanted moisture. At the sight of the syringe filled with anti-nauseant, he scurried under the bed next to a collection of dust bunnies. Brennan tried to fish him out, but Fender wriggled with all his might, obdurate and determined.
Brennan sat on the floor and stared straight ahead, dazed, syringe in hand and unsure what to do with it.
His friends peered over from the small table near the window. “I’m sorry,” said Franky. “Maybe we could all try holding him still?”
Brennan set down the syringe and drew his knees to his chest. “No.”
“Just thought it might—”
“There’s no point.” Brennan let out a ragged sigh and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Even if we could get him to drink and take his meds, what then? Do we hold him down every day until . . .”
“I guess they don’t do kidney transplants on dogs?” asked Rocco. “Or dialysis or something like that?”
It sounded to Brennan like a question Franky might have asked. But the prospect of death had a strange way of rendering people hopeful and innocent. At least until acceptance set in, at which point death hardened and solidified everything it touched.
“No,” he replied. “Not sure about dialysis, but Fender’s at least twelve now. Maybe older, I can’t be sure.” He got up from the floor. “Too old for surgery. The vet said there’s a few different meds we could try, but they might just prolong his suffering. There’s nothing left to be done.” He hid the syringe and coaxed Fender out from under the bed. “I
don’t want him to suffer. He’s not well right now, but I’ve got no idea if he’s in pain. I just don’t want to p-put him to sleep before I have to.” He held his dog in his arms. “I’m sorry, guys, but we need to get back. He doesn’t have much time left. I thought he might be able to enjoy the rest of the trip, but . . . it doesn’t look like it’s in the cards.” He cleared his throat. “If he isn’t in p-pain already, he’s going to be soon.”
Rocco studied a map on his phone. He licked his lips and took a deep breath. “We’ll get the car loaded. If we head straight back, it’ll take close to thirty hours. About two thousand miles in all. If me and Franky switch off driving, we can probably make it back by dinnertime tomorrow night.”
Brennan whispered to Fender, “I need you to h-hang on, little buddy.” The dog was limp, heavy, and unresponsive. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
As they left Utah, Brennan held Fender in his lap and stared out the window. He couldn’t appreciate the mountain ranges stretched out before him despite their vast beauty, not the way he and Fender had the day before. He instead focused on clouds billowing overhead, and thought at first he saw another sassy purple elephant following them. He gave his head a hard shake and shifted his eyes to the floor.
Hours passed and the landscape began to flatten. No one spoke and breaks were infrequent, which caused time to pass slower. The car hurtled through nothingness, the edges of the interstate teeming with open fields and expansive farmland.
Signs announcing the arrival of Cheyenne appeared by early afternoon, and the men made their first real stop of the day. Brennan hopped out with Fender and took him on a short walk—more of a deliberate shuffle—while his friends went inside to grab fast food to go. Fender refused to drink water, and he decided against trying the anti-nauseant a second time.
The car was moving again a few minutes later. Brennan rubbed his temples and said, “At least I won’t have to find a nice way to tell Abby she’s gonna lose her dog.” It felt strange to find a bright side to losing his daughter, and he felt uncomfortable having said it out loud. He studied Fender for a moment and thought he could almost see the final grains of sand dripping from his hourglass.
“You want me to put something on the radio?” asked Rocco, who was now in the passenger seat.
“Nah, silence is good with me.”
Brennan slouched in his seat and cuddled with Fender, noticing for the first time that his dog’s chest was hardly rising and falling. After being in the car this long, he would have expected to be antsy. But all he felt was sorrow, and he couldn’t decide whether to soothe himself with a twist of his wedding band or a touch of his tattoo.
It was dark when the Lexus neared Omaha and Brennan started to feel drowsy. His nerves were frayed, and after several sleepless nights and adrenaline-packed days, he was fading fast. His friends switched seats again, and that’s the last thing he remembered before drifting off.
Moments later, images began to flicker on Brennan’s eyelids. He was dreaming, but it wasn’t the past. In fact, he didn’t recognize the scene unfolding before him at all.
Chapter 26
Brennan could tell that his feet were planted firmly to the ground, even though he only saw blackness. He could make out nothing except for a single round light above his head, burning white, and he could feel its intensity on his face. He held out his hands and saw they were effervescent, glowing, indistinct—they rippled in waves, as if blanketed in a layer of fog or smoke. Startled, he touched his torso and found it in a solid state, although his whole body glistened with the same supernatural effect.
Man Human.
Brennan looked up, and amid the nothingness appeared Fender. He was tall, at least double his mortal size, and sat proud, still, at attention. His edges were blurred, his features unclear, like a photo taken out of focus. His body was cloaked with the same smoky aura as Brennan’s.
Fender’s voice was a whine, as in prior dreams, but somehow deeper than usual, raspy, gruff, distinguished—he sounded much older. His voice was full of bass, and his words echoed, as if they were in a large empty room. And through the distorted environment, Brennan could see Fender had the appearance of an old dog. His face worn, pronounced tufts of gray hair around his muzzle, and scars that had healed since the crash.
“Where are we?” Brennan tried to lock his eyes on Fender, but the dog shifted locations without moving, jostled by the waves of bright white above him, the way an object appears to bend in water. The light above intensified, pouring out gusts of hot energy, but casting no shadows behind their figures. It was as though the whiteness was its own world, detached and unattainable.
It doesn’t matter where we are. Fender sounded wise in his old age. I can’t think of how to explain it in a way that would make sense. He tilted his head ever so slightly. What is it Catholics call it? The last stop before Heaven?
“Purgatory?”
Fender nodded and looked toward the white light.
“Is that Heaven?”
You’re dreaming. This isn’t Purgatory and that isn’t Heaven.
Brennan wanted to touch Fender, to hold him for comfort, and he approached but got no closer. It was as though he were walking in place. The blackness between them stretched on to infinity.
Fender watched. There’s nowhere to go. You can travel as far as you want, and you’ll still never find what you’re looking for.
“That sounds a bit ominous . . .” Brennan wasn’t sure how to interpret it all. “. . . I mean, why am I here?”
That’s what we all want to know, isn’t it?
“I guess so.” Brennan shrugged and his shoulders felt weightless. “You sound . . . old, little buddy.” Describing Fender as little seemed almost comical, given his elevated stature in this alternate reality. “Guess you aren’t so little here, huh?”
We’re in your mind. And here, I’m as big as you think I am.
“If we’re in my head, why is everything so . . . strange?”
I might be larger than life in your imagination, but you have to remember that I’m still just a dog. I don’t have all the answers. I’ve been coming here the past couple nights, and I thought it was time to show you something.
Brennan felt disoriented, out of sorts, and he wanted so badly to understand. “Show me what?”
“Daddy?” The voice was angelic, as if reverberating in perfect harmony with a choir a thousand voices strong, permeating the white light above Brennan’s head.
He looked up and saw what Fender had brought him to see—Abby’s face, pure and unharmed, her eyes sparkling with wonder, her perfect smile no longer missing the front tooth she had lost on her sixth birthday.
“Daddy? Is that you?”
Like a kaleidoscope, colors, shapes, and patterns rolled in and out of alignment, and Abby emerged, hovering above Fender and Brennan, encapsulated by bright flashes and sensations of brilliant warmth. She wore a flowing silk gown, her reddish hair dormant despite the unrelenting breeze.
A moment passed before Brennan could speak. “Abby! Abby, yes, it’s Daddy! I’m here, Abby! Can you hear me? Can you see me?”
She laughed. “Yes, Daddy! Of course I can see you.”
He tried to run to her, to where he perceived her to be, and again found himself planted to an imaginary surface. Disappointment washed over him. He wanted to embrace her, to kiss her cheeks, to squeeze her tight. But he couldn’t find a way to get any closer. “Abby, I love you, baby! Daddy loves you . . .” He wiped tears from his face with trembling hands.
“I love you, too, Daddy!”
“Are you safe? Do you feel any pain?”
“I’m, just . . .” She giggled, as if everything was right in the world. “I’m just playing with my new friends.”
“You have new friends?”
“There’s lots of boys and girls up here.”
“Up there? Where are you?”
She shrugged emphatically, the way a young child effortlessly amplifies his or her own in
nocence. “Home, Daddy. I’m home now.”
“You’re . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to repeat it.
Fender watched, turning his head between his Man Human and his Little Human, but didn’t speak or interfere.
“Is that . . .” Abby hesitated, confirming it for herself. “Fender! Come play with us, Fender!”
Not yet, he said. Soon, Little Human. Soon.
Brennan had no idea at that moment if he was asleep and dreaming, or if he was having some kind of out-of-body experience. Either way, he didn’t want it to end. His mind raced to find a way to keep the moment alive. “Is . . .” He hated to ask. “Is Mommy up there with you?”
Even through the rolling haze, Brennan could see conflict on Abby’s face. “Mommy?” She thought carefully about her response. “She—she thinks you’re mad at her. She thinks you don’t wanna see her.”
“I—” Brennan wasn’t sure if he did.“Tell her, ah . . .” He felt strange asking his daughter to pass on such a message, “Tell her I forgive her. And—”
“I’m sorry, Brennan.”
Another whoosh of warm air enveloped him, and he listened carefully to the newest voice.
Fragmented at first, distant, the voice became clearer, and it spoke again. “I’m so sorry.” Through the light materialized Rosie, in the same flowing gown her daughter wore, but larger. Her face was heavy, her cheeks were wet, and she pursed her lips in emblematic apology.
“Rosie . . .” Brennan didn’t know what else to say.
Abby looked between her parents and, without any discernible movement, Fender appeared at her side and rested his head against her.
Rosie’s spectral figure advanced closer to Brennan, but too far to grasp. “I never wanted to hurt you, Brennan. I made a mistake. I know that now and I have to live with it.”
“You’re alive?”
She smiled. Her spirit ebbed and flowed at the edges of her form, spiraling in all directions. She extended her hand, transferring warmth to Brennan. It sent tingles down his spine. He closed his eyes, savored the sensation.
