The Mourning Parade

by Dawn Reno Langley

  Of course.

  Natalie had read some of Dr. Grandin’s articles on reducing animal stress years ago, but once Natalie focused on equine surgery, her energies were concentrated on that field of study and her research turned to other specialists. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have stored Temple Grandin’s story. And perhaps she’d shared it with Danny at one point.

  She scanned the list of online articles for the legitimate and academic papers Grandin herself had written.

  An hour and two more cups of tea later, Natalie lifted her head and watched the horizon for the elephants she’d heard trumpeting. Temple’s invention . . . the hug machine. Grandin’s machine was meant to be used on cows heading for slaughter. The machine squeezed cows from both sides as their heads hung through an opening in the front of the box. When she saw them settle down after being in the “squeeze box” for a little while, she adapted it for herself. As an autistic woman, Grandin never wanted to be touched yet desperately needed that physical comfort people get from hugs. The box worked to soothe her, and Temple used it to control the anxiety she often felt during her years away at college. The deep pressure the squeeze box provided had a calming effect that Grandin could not deny and both animals and human beings benefitted from it.

  “That’s it!” Natalie whispered. She reached for her notebook, sketched out a box-like structure that would immobilize Sophie so that Hatcher could medicate her and make her feel safe so Natalie could also start training her using protected contact and positive reinforcement. Zoos and other animal sanctuaries had been using the protected contact technique for years to manage captive elephants. Instead of poking elephants with hurtful tools like hooks, caregivers and trainers stood outside fences and elephants could choose to freely approach humans for treatment or treats. Safe for both mistreated elephants as well as the humans caring for them.

  Natalie wrote in her notebook:

  Combination of:

  1. Grandin’s squeeze box

  2. the protected contact technique &

  3. positive reinforcement = a safe Sophie.

  Add time = recovery from PTSD.

  She felt a bit giddy. It might work. It HAS to work.

  For the rest of the day, her mind buzzed with the details of putting her plan into action. The steel bars already in place in the holding pen where they worked with Sophie could be simply moved inward to give Sophie enough room to fit inside, yet allow her access to everything she needed—food and water—and to give Natalie room to work with the elephant. The training might take time, but it would be worth it. Others had already proven that it worked. Keeping Sophie in a smaller area encased in widely-spaced steel bars would keep both elephant and trainer safe. Natalie would have access to the animal, and Sophie would have some freedom. No ankle chains or ropes around the neck. No need for three mahouts to help anchor her during the time Sophie needed her meds. No negative treatment for the elephant so clearly traumatized.

  It might work.

  By the time everyone gathered for dinner, Natalie had a proposal ready for Andrew.

  “I think we can adapt her shelter fairly easily.” Natalie passed a copy of her sketch of the design for a squeeze box big enough for an elephant to Andrew, Hatcher, and Siriporn.

  They sat quietly during her presentation, listening without interrupting as she detailed her idea. She’d been excited to talk to them about the new technique for Sophie, figuring they’d all be on board since their commitment to rescue animals was as strong as hers. But Andrew continued eating while she spoke, Hatcher gazed toward the other table where the volunteers gossiped and laughed noisily, and Siriporn simply smiled, making her wonder exactly how much he understood.

  She paused for a moment. Andrew was the first to meet her eyes.

  “I’m sure you feel this will work, Natalie, but have you given a thought to the cost? Most of the funds we currently have available must go to keeping our animals fed. Crikey, I’ve been trying to raise money to repair our exterior fence for the past year. Ask Karina. She’s been struggling to balance the books with very little luck. Don’t get me wrong. I applaud your creativity, but I’m not sure we can afford it.”

  “I think I can do it with what we have,” Natalie said, only half sure it was true.

  “Even if we could,” Hatcher added, “who’s to say it would work? Or that Sophie’s the one to spend the time, effort, and money on? There are three other elephants with major medical issues that need attention. All of them need constant medication. And none of them are violent. That friggin’ elephant has cost us more in the past year than all of them combined.”

  “Not quite what I meant, Peter, ol’ chap,” Andrew interrupted. “If we had the funds, I’d do whatever it takes to rehabilitate Sophie, you know that.”

  “I thought we agreed the best solution—the most humane thing to do—is to put her down.” Hatcher turned to Andrew, leaning forward, his platinum eyebrows arched. It was obvious to Natalie at that moment that it wouldn’t have mattered if she had a magic wand she could wave over Sophie. Hatcher would say the fix was quackery, anything to disprove her. Even if it meant killing an animal she might be able to save.

  “The infection is persistent,” he continued. “It’s eventually going to take the whole leg, and I’m certain the pain is driving her insane, which is why we can’t get her under control. You know damn well, Andrew, that we’ve tried everything medical that I know of. You can’t fix her psychological problems until the medical issues are addressed successfully. She needs to be put out of her misery.”

  “I’ve thought about that, too,” Natalie said, flipping open her notebook. “We could treat her more aggressively, try a different antibiotic cocktail, and if that doesn’t work, I can research that new procedure being used on bacterial strains in AIDS patients.”

  Everyone silenced. Hatcher shrugged and played with a paper clip.

  “Are you volunteering to take her on?” Andrew leaned back, her sketch still in his hands.

  She paused but only for a heartbeat. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “That still doesn’t give us the money we need to create the damn contraption!” Peter’s voice had risen, become strident. His jaw hardened.

  “True,” Andrew raised his hand to silence anymore of Peter’s arguments. “But before we go farther, Dr. DeAngelo needs to put some time in with Sophie. Siriporn has already started working with you anyway, hasn’t he?”

  She nodded. Siriporn smiled at her. Sometimes she believed he understood English better than he spoke it, but other times, she wasn’t so sure.

  “Okay, I’ll give you some time,” Andrew said as he rose. Behind him, Mali had come to the table and now stood silently. “But if anything else happens . . .”

  “I understand,” Natalie said, fighting hard to keep the excitement she felt from showing on her face.

  Seventeen

  My family history begins with

  me, but yours ends with you.

  -Iphicrates

  Sophie swayed gently in her stall, still munching on the last hand of bananas Natalie had fed her. Each day began exactly the same: Natalie rose at four in the morning, fumbling in the dark for her T-shirt and shorts before finding her way down the path to the elephant barns where she prepared Sophie’s breakfast and fed her. Alone. Siriporn joined her around sunrise to start the day’s lesson, but for a few hours, Natalie and Sophie had time to bond.

  On the first day, Sophie slapped her trunk on the dirt floor of the enclosure, refusing everything Natalie handed through the steel bars. Pomegranate, squash, persimmons, palm fronds, bananas, potatoes. It didn’t matter. Sophie wanted none of it.

  Puzzled, since food had always worked as a training device previously, Natalie watched Sophie’s movements closely, writing in her small notebook she kept with her at all times.

  What am I missing? What signs can’t I re
ad? Keep track. Every detail: the number of times Sophie slaps her trunk on the floor, whether she stares at me or looks away, how Sophie moves—side to side, foot to foot.

  It didn’t matter what the movements or reactions, even if it was the flicker of an eyelash. Natalie wrote it all down.

  Sounds were important, too. Natalie had heard plenty of trumpeting and growling in the short time she’d been at the sanctuary, but she now recognized a variety of other sounds: chirping and tweeting and calls that sounded like birds. Rumbling. Roars. She recorded some of the sounds with her cell phone (which never had enough signal to make a call or send a text anyway) then realized unless she could pair the sounds with Sophie’s movements, they were useless. So she video recorded everything instead.

  At night before she fell into her twin bed, every muscle in her body stressed to its limit, Natalie watched the videos she’d made that day. Late into the night, she reflected on the new insights she’d made about Sophie’s personality, and she combined her handwritten notes with the medical records Peter Hatcher shared with her. He’d changed Sophie’s antibiotic cocktail, and both he and Andrew agreed that it could work. Time would tell.

  Sophie’s hunger won out when Natalie handed a particularly pungent piece of watermelon through the bars. She not only ate the watermelon but everything else Natalie gave her that day. A small success, but an important one.

  I’ll understand you if it kills me, damnit, Natalie thought when Sophie rumbled quietly. Content.

  By the twelfth day, Natalie realized that understanding Sophie might be the death of her. Even though the elephant had allowed Natalie to feed her the day before, she wanted nothing to do with her once again. Fighting to keep her frustration in check, Natalie forced herself to sit quietly on the sidelines as Sophie paced and trumpeted.

  During the third week, Siriporn had shown up at the enclosure on Wednesday morning. Natalie half expected to be upbraided for what she’d done on her own, but he looked at her and said, “Sophie quiet.” It took her a while to realize that “quiet” meant “behaved.” That, she suspected, was a high compliment from Siriporn.

  That Friday afternoon, she received a letter from Maman, as well as one from her sister-in-law, Kerry.

  We all miss you,” Maman wrote. “The winter is promising to be a long one. So far, we’ve had two ice storms that totally shut down Raleigh, and you know how much I hate ice. We’re not prepared for it.

  Natalie shivered involuntarily then glanced around the area where she sat reading Maman’s letter. The bougainvillea crawled up the side of the cabin and spilled over the side of the porch. The scent of ginger blossoms filled the air. She’d been watching a black-backed kingfisher all morning, listening for its high-pitched call as it flew above the elephants swimming in the nearby stream. No ice here. Thank God for that.

  We’re starting to plan for Christmas—only a month away—and Stefan and Kerry are coming for Thanksgiving. Will you miss my cinnamon rolls and deep fried turkey? As I sit here writing this, I hear you groaning about our weird French-Southern-Italian Thanksgiving dinner, but I bet you miss them as much as we miss you. I’ve shown everyone that I see the pictures you’ve sent of Thailand and your new friends and the elephants. Everyone agrees that this is the best thing you could have done for yourself—even though I don’t particularly agree. Pop and I still miss you horribly. We wish we could have been with you last week. I’m sure getting past his birthday was difficult for you.

  The rest of the letter blurred. Natalie read something about people looking at her house and maybe there’d be an offer on it before the holidays. Then Maman was on a roll about North Carolina politics, and Natalie was lost.

  Maman knows Danny’s birthday. How could she have gotten it wrong?

  Shaking her head, she folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope. Patting the flap a bit, she closed it as if giving a blessing. Then she slid one finger under the flap of her sister-in-law’s letter, hoping that reading it would make her feel better than her mother’s had.

  Kerry repeated the same news about the weather that Maman had. (Did North Carolinians always talk this much about the weather? Funny, Thai people never mention the weather at all, yet the heat is often unbearable and when it rains, everyone and everything living is affected. Life moves on, and Thai people barely acknowledge the weather at all.)

  Then Kerry wrote:

  Listen, Nat, I want you to hear this from me before someone else tells you. One of the TV anchors did an interview with the kids’ teachers about the first year after the shootings. Horrible. All about how people are trying to move on, even though their hearts are broken. Some of them talked about giving their time and energy to fighting for gun control. They’re saying all the parents and family should be using their voices to make a difference. Someone mentioned your name, and it’s all over the place that you’re not in the Raleigh area anymore. I know you don’t want to hear this, but like I said, better to hear it from me.

  Natalie folded the note and put it back in the envelope wishing she’d never read either letter.

  His birthday.

  Maman had it wrong. This was October. Danny’s birthday was in March. She had never been good with dates. When Natalie turned eleven, she arrived home one afternoon to balloons all over the porch and a huge “Happy Birthday, Natalie” sign fluttering in the wind. The only problem was that her birthday was a month later. It had become a family joke, and Natalie never minded because she’d celebrated her birthday twice that year.

  Yes, Maman was horrible with dates.

  Still, the thought that she would ever become so engrossed in her own life to miss an anniversary of Danny’s life was unacceptable—even if it was untrue.

  Natalie smacked the edge of the desk with her hand, instantly wishing she hadn’t hit the right hand, her operating hand. Tiny shocks ran down the side of her hand and up into her forearm. Even thousands of miles away, Maman made Natalie doubt herself. That was nothing new. No matter how accomplished or successful she’d become, Natalie felt six years old in her mother’s presence and part of her would always be that hurt, insecure child—even when her mother forgot her birthdays or couldn’t tell anyone what day of the week it was. Pops might think it was cute—Maman’s forgetfulness—but it had long passed into the realm of pure irritation for Natalie. She had lost her patience with her mother the first time a teacher had suggested Natalie had strengths in math and science but couldn’t complete a literature project. All Maman needed to hear was her daughter’s deficiencies. After that, the strengths didn’t matter. The world might welcome a female who knew how to calculate algebraic equations and how to name all the bones in the body, but if one didn’t know literature, Maman thought that person stupid. So that’s what Natalie became in her mother’s mind: stupid.

  Enough.

  Natalie turned to the window. Storm clouds gathered, dark and foreboding, above the monkey pod trees. It was time for Sophie’s afternoon snack, and if a storm was coming, Natalie needed to feed the elephant before the thunder started to rumble. Siriporn would be coming down the road any moment with Ali. She’d wait for him on the porch so they could head down to Sophie’s enclosure together.

  The letters still on her mind, Natalie haphazardly gathered a bucket of vegetables for Sophie and placed it on the ground near the enclosure, then turned to put on a pair of plastic gloves. She’d come to the conclusion that keeping Sophie’s food as clean as possible would help the infection heal more quickly, so she’d started feeding Sophie by hand. The constant contact between them was building a level of trust.

  When she turned back around, Sophie’s trunk rooted around in the pail.

  “No!”

  Natalie’s cry startled Sophie. She tossed the pail into the air, bringing it down with a ferocious thump on Natalie’s head. She slumped to the ground, her leg buckling at an odd angle under her.

  Sophie wat
ched Natalie try to stand, as if she couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with the accident. Natalie lowered her left foot gingerly. A sharp pain burned up her calf. She moaned.

  “Damn, Sophie. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  In the distance, the sky roared. A storm, winding through the mountains. Sophie’s trunk lifted straight into the sky. The air crackled and the smell of sulfur filled the air. Through the ground, Natalie felt the rumble of the storm, and in that very moment, she had a sense of what Sophie must feel through the pads of her feet. Somehow she could tell that the storm was too far away to matter, and this particular storm would skirt the mountains, but there were others behind it. Stronger and more dangerous storms.

  Natalie turned her torso, but still couldn’t stand completely upright. She moaned again.

  Reaching out with her trunk, Sophie found Natalie’s arm and traced without actually coming into contact with her skin. The hair on Natalie’s arm stood straight up, the sensation more visceral than the hot throbbing in her ankle. But Sophie’s tender touch was soft—took away the pain—made Natalie believe it was temporary. Everything is temporary.

  Eighteen

  Too much politeness conceals deceit.

  -Chinese proverb

  By the middle of the afternoon the leg felt strong enough that Natalie walked up the dirt road toward the kitchen. She checked her watch: 3:12 PM. The kitchen staff would be gone home or sitting on the platform to relax for a while before starting to prep for the evening meal. If she was lucky, no one would be there, and she’d be able to raid the ice chest for a plastic bag of ice. She’d take it back to her cabin and sit with it for the rest of the evening. It should take down the swelling.