Seaglass Summer

by Anjali Banerjee

  “You know a lot for a kennel boy.”

  “I wanna be a technician someday, like Duff.”

  She pokes her head in the door. “Hey, you two! Bremolo’s doing great today, huh? He even ate solid food this morning. Doc wants to keep him here a few more hours, get some more fluids into him. You can pet him for a minute, Poppy. He’s a mellow dog. Just don’t touch the leg.”

  I open the kennel and step inside, my heart hopping in my chest. I sit on the blanket next to Bremolo and pet his curly fur. I’m careful not to touch the IV tube. His tail thumps, and tears spring into my eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” I tell him.

  Hawk leans against the bars of the kennel door. “Yeah, you’ll be just like new.”

  “Don’t bother Bremolo for too long,” Duff says. “He needs to rest.” Then she’s gone.

  I step out of the cage and shut the latch. Bremolo whines softly.

  “We’ll stay with you,” I tell him. “We’ll be right here near your cage. Won’t we, Hawk? We’ll meditate in here.”

  Hawk rolls his eyes, but he helps me drag dog food bags over near the kennel, to use as chairs. Bremolo is quiet now.

  Hawk sits across from me. “So this huge marble is a window into your soul?”

  “It’s not a marble.” I situate the chunk of seaglass on the floor between us. “We have to close our eyes.”

  “We’re not supposed to look into the marble? Aren’t we—”

  “Hawk, do as I say!”

  “Okay, okay. Bossy, bossy.”

  I shut my eyes, but my lashes flutter. I take deep breaths. I don’t remember ever sitting still for so long. One minute feels like an hour. The smells come at me—dog and antiseptic and pet food—and the sounds of the phone ringing, Saundra shouting, the slam of a door, a scared meow, and Hawk’s loud breathing.

  I open one eye, and he’s staring at me. “Are we done yet?” he says. “I gotta pee soon.”

  “You’re not following the rules. You have to keep your eyes closed.”

  “You opened yours.”

  “I was checking on you. Let’s try again—”

  “Wait!” Hawk’s eyes pop open wide. “The marble is making me psychic. I heard a doggy thought.”

  “What thought?”

  “From that Chihuahua. He’s thinking, Te quiero, Señorita Poppy Ray!”

  “You have to take this seriously. I need your help. I’m supposed to meditate with a friend, but I can’t concentrate if you’re going to mess around.”

  “Let’s try again.”

  I gaze into the seaglass. Hawk’s eyes are closed. Nothing happens.

  “Okay, long enough,” I say finally. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  Hawk runs off to the bathroom at top speed. Bremolo and the Chihuahua are both asleep now.

  A minute later, Uncle Sanjay pops his head in the door. “Come and see this, my dear niece!” His eyes are bright.

  I drop the seaglass into my pocket.

  In the treatment room, Duff, Saundra, Hawk, and I gather around Uncle Sanjay. He holds a small clear bottle to the light. There’s a tiny lump inside. “Can you believe this? In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You’ve never seen a lump?” Saundra asks. She’s chewing gum and wearing a red and white dress. She looks like a candy cane.

  “I thought it was just a kidney-shaped sac,” Uncle Sanjay says. “But it’s a fetus.”

  “A fetus!” Saundra gasps.

  “Cool,” Hawk says.

  Duff steps back and blinks. “That little thing? But you were spaying that cat, Dimple. She wasn’t pregnant.”

  “This kitten—this fetus—is mummified,” Uncle Sanjay says.

  A baby kitten. I curl my fingers around the seaglass.

  Uncle Sanjay hands me the bottle. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  I shake my head, although my knees are rubbery. “This doesn’t look like a baby,” I whisper.

  “Remarkable to find the remains still inside the mama cat, intact and not absorbed,” Uncle Sanjay says. “This fetus died in its mother’s womb, and instead of dissolving, the little body became mummified instead.”

  I’m holding a bottle with a tiny baby cat inside, in a sac shaped like a kidney bean, maybe an inch long. This kitten did not get a chance to have a life.

  Duff peers closely at the bottle. “How is the mama?”

  “She’s doing fine,” Uncle Sanjay says. “She’s in recovery.”

  Hawk doesn’t make fun of the lump in the bottle. He doesn’t laugh. He looks inside, and then he says, “This baby shouldn’t be on display.”

  Uncle Sanjay takes the bottle from me. “This will be an interesting educational tool. Hawk, you could take it to school—”

  “No!” I say. “This kitten needs a memorial service.”

  Hawk glances at me, then at Uncle Sanjay. “I’m with Poppy. We need to have a funeral.”

  Saundra snorts. “The kitten is gone, honey. She’s not going to care. She has vacated the premises. Doc needs to—”

  “No no, it’s fine.” Uncle Sanjay holds up his hands. “Let Hawk and Poppy have a funeral. It’s only fitting.”

  Saundra frowns.

  I want to hug Uncle Sanjay.

  Duff runs off to an exam room, Uncle Sanjay behind her, and Saundra leaves to answer the phone.

  Hawk looks at me. “We need a box,” he says. We rummage in the drawers until he finds a large empty matchbox. He wraps the bottle in a tissue and places it inside. Then we go out to the grassy garden behind the hospital. A soft, salty breeze is blowing in from the sea.

  We pick a spot near a tall cedar tree and dig a hole. Then we sit cross-legged in the grass and look at each other.

  Hawk holds the matchbox over the hole. “We should each say a few words. You first.”

  I take a deep breath. “Dear Universe, please take this kitten back and let her be born again—”

  “Kittens aren’t born again.”

  “How do you know?” I glare at him.

  He shrugs, pushes the straw-straight hair out of his eyes. “Okay, you got me. Maybe they are.”

  “Let her run and play and catch mosquitoes like she’s supposed to.”

  “We’re lucky. We don’t have many mosquitoes here.”

  “That’s probably because kittens eat them. Aren’t you going to say a few words, too?”

  “Okay. Dear God, you shouldn’t let baby kittens die and turn into mummies before they’re born. You need to pay attention. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  He carefully places the box inside the hole, and we bury the kitten and lay a rose over her grave.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MARMALADE

  Every morning for the next three days, I meditate on the seaglass. My parents call every night. They’re visiting relatives, and they’re meeting with tax lawyers about property they have to sell. Yawn. But when they mention their journeys to historic monuments, or to the bazaar to buy sandalwood, silk, and jewelry, I begin to miss India.

  No! I needed to come to Nisqually Island. Animals are my destiny.

  The seaglass doesn’t show my inner self. It doesn’t tell me how to groom a fragile dog, or how to save baby kittens before they’re born, or how to help an old orange cat named Marmalade.

  His owner, Mr. Pincus, brings him in just before closing time Saturday afternoon. They’re both ancient. Mr. Pincus is all wrinkles that ripple across his face when he smiles. The years pile up in Marmalade’s yellow eyes. He’s bony and the hair around his mouth is turning white.

  Duff weighs Marmalade and takes his temperature. You do not want to know where the thermometer has to go, and it is not pretty. But Marmalade doesn’t fidget. When Duff hands him back to Mr. Pincus, he settles down and purrs.

  “I’ve never known a cat to purr at the vet,” Duff says, scribbling in Marmalade’s chart. “Except when … well. How are things coming along with him?” She turns her back to Mr. Pincus.

&n
bsp; “He’s drinking way more water,” Mr. Pincus says in a gravelly voice.

  She turns to look at Mr. Pincus. “Shall we check his blood again?” Why is she asking him? He’s not a doctor.

  “I say let him be,” Mr. Pincus says.

  Duff nods and walks out. Where is she going? What’s wrong with Marmalade? Why didn’t she take his blood?

  Mr. Pincus holds Marmalade close and rocks him. “My wife, she wanted a dog. Never liked cats much. But when I got Marmalade, she fell in love with him. He followed her everywhere in the garden, trotted after her when she planted her bulbs. Flopped next to her when she sunbathed. She passed away five years ago. Marmalade was already twelve years old.”

  “I’m sorry….”

  “We all pass away, eventually. I miss my wife something terrible, but Marmalade helps. He sleeps next to me. Course, I had to buy pet stairs so he could climb up on the mattress. He doesn’t jump anymore. He’s old in human years, about eighty-five.”

  Voices murmur outside the door, and then Uncle Sanjay steps inside. He pets Marmalade, listens to his heart, checks his ears and eyes, but doesn’t lift him onto the table. He and Mr. Pincus glance at each other and nod slightly, sharing a silent, secret language. “How can we help today?” Uncle Sanjay says gently. “For the kidneys, I can give you—”

  “Just the fluids,” Mr. Pincus says. “He’s drinking up a storm.”

  “Of course, whatever will make him comfortable.”

  What about medicine? What about weighing Marmalade? What about his kidneys?

  “He’s still eating,” Mr. Pincus says.

  “Good, good. Give him anything he wants.”

  “He still loves chicken and salmon. And corn on the cob. Cantaloupe, too, in small amounts.”

  “Just stay away from the dangerous foods—grapes, onions, chocolate—”

  “I’m very careful,” Mr. Pincus says.

  Uncle Sanjay prescribes special diets for skin or weight. But now an old, sick cat gets to eat anything he wants?

  After Mr. Pincus and Marmalade leave, Duff and I clean the exam room, and Duff says, “That poor old guy. When Marmalade goes, I don’t know what he’s going to do. He’ll be so lonely—”

  “When Marmalade goes? Why didn’t Uncle Sanjay give him medicine?”

  “Marmalade’s getting up there in age.” Duff scrubs the counter harder.

  “But his kidneys—”

  “Sometimes, medicine isn’t the best way to deal with a problem. Sometimes, you just gotta help the cat feel better.” She rushes out to take a phone call, and I stand in the exam room, which suddenly seems smaller and darker than before. The wall clock has stopped at two-forty-five, and on the sink, the bottle of antiseptic soap is empty. A few strands of Marmalade’s orange fur still float through the air.

  Chapter Seventeen

  BRANDON

  I dream of old, skinny Marmalade. He’s sitting at the dining table, surrounded by plates of every kind of food—roast chicken, pumpkin pie, curried potatoes, mounds of rice, and filets of salmon. He’s wearing a bib, eating whatever he wants. But the more he eats, the smaller he gets. I frantically search for him everywhere, but he has disappeared. I wake up in a sweat. Stu is sitting next to the bed, his tail thumping on the floor. His brown eyes are saying, Take me for a walk.

  “Oh, Stu.” I hug him tightly; then I get dressed and run out to the beach. My dream drifts away, but I can’t forget Marmalade, the way he purred in Mr. Pincus’s arms.

  Monday morning at the clinic, a week after I first arrived, the waiting room is full, the phone is ringing, and a dog is barking in the kennel room.

  “Hey, Poppy, you’re here!” Hawk pulls me toward the treatment room. “You gotta check out this pit bull. His name is Brandon, after Brandon Roy, who played basketball for the Washington Huskies. Stepped on glass at a construction site.”

  Inside the treatment room, Uncle Sanjay is fixing the paw while Duff holds Brandon. We watch from the doorway. The dog’s back right foot has a big ugly bleeding cut with the skin hanging off. My stomach turns upside down.

  Uncle Sanjay is pouring liquid into the wound.

  “He’s getting the dirt out to prevent infection,” Hawk whispers. “He gave Brandon a local anesthetic to numb the area.”

  Blood drips onto the floor. My legs turn to rubber.

  Uncle Sanjay glances up at me. “You all right?”

  I am not going to pass out. “I’m fine,” I say. The air thickens. I’m having trouble breathing.

  “Come in and watch,” Uncle Sanjay says.

  Okay, here I go. We step inside.

  Uncle Sanjay smears liquid from a tube onto the flap of skin; then he presses the skin back onto Brandon’s foot and holds it there. “This is tissue glue. The army created it for soldiers in the field. If an animal is wounded, apply firm pressure, like this. Very important. If the blood is spurting, it’s probably coming from an artery, so you apply pressure above the wound.”

  The room begins to shrink. Does Uncle Sanjay realize he’s making me even queasier?

  “If it’s a steady flow, the blood is probably from a vein,” he goes on. “You need to apply pressure below the cut—”

  “Hey, Poppy’s looking kind of white,” Duff says.

  Hawk grins. “Yeah, she’s gonna faint.” I want to slap him.

  Uncle Sanjay looks up again, clearly surprised. “Oh, my dear niece.”

  Brandon begins to fidget and whine. Duff holds him tighter. She must see my worried face, because she says, “He’s mostly upset about being held. Half the time, that’s why an animal cries. Not because of pain. Some animals just hate being restrained. You only got so much time until they lose it. Hurry, Doc.”

  “I’ve got it.” Uncle Sanjay wraps Brandon’s foot in a purple and gold bandage. “You wrap from the bottom up; otherwise you cut off the blood supply to the paw, and the foot swells.”

  Brandon leaves wearing a cone, called an Elizabethan collar, around his neck, to keep him from chewing the bandage off his foot.

  I follow Uncle Sanjay into his office. “How do you do that? How come the blood doesn’t bother you?”

  “Oh, I’ve felt sick many times, but after a while, I learned to be calm, inside and out. When you’re calm, the animal calms down, too.”

  “But all the blood—”

  “I look past the blood, past the damage. Once, in the late stages of my training, I saw a cow that had its eye gouged out. The eyeball was hanging from the socket. I pictured what I could do to fix what was broken. In that moment, I no longer felt queasy. I believe, in part, we feel faint when we feel helpless. We are stronger when we begin to see the possibilities, to see what we can do.”

  I’m not yet sure what I can do. I see Shopsy going home covered in patches of bare skin, and I see the blood seeping from Brandon’s paw.

  But then, right before closing time, Bremolo comes in for a checkup. He trots around the hospital, wagging his tail. Harvey is dressed up in a dinner jacket and pressed slacks, his white hair neatly combed to the side.

  “The leg looks good,” Uncle Sanjay says.

  “That old dog is doing so well,” Harvey says, grinning. “Runs around the house like he’s a puppy again. Doesn’t even notice that missing leg.”

  Saundra pats Bremolo on the head and gives Harvey a fake smile. “You look nice. Going on a date?”

  Harvey straightens his jacket and pats his hair. “Dinner at the Witless Cove Pizzeria with Liana Lopez. Taking Bremolo with me. Liana has a dog, too.”

  I grab a sample bag of dog treats from the kennel room and hand them to Harvey. I’m smiling. “The dog’s name is Lulu. Here, this is for Bremolo to take on his date with her.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  DUCK ON THE LOOSE

  My second Wednesday at the clinic, Duff grabs my sleeve and drags me into an exam room. Inside, Uncle Sanjay is talking to a man who looks like Santa Claus except for his Hawaiian shirt. He brought in a big cardboard box labeled DOLE, w
ith pictures of bananas on the sides.

  “Bananas?” I ask.

  Uncle Sanjay presses his finger to his lips to shush me.

  “I’m sure the poor fella was hit by a car,” the man whispers. “He was wobbling at the side of the road, on his last legs, God bless his little soul. He let me pick him right up. Good thing I had the box.”

  Oh no.

  Uncle Sanjay ushers me over. He lifts a flap on the box and I peek inside. I’m looking at … a duck!

  “Is that a geoduck?” I ask in awe, remembering the bumper sticker on the back of Uncle Sanjay’s truck: GEODUCK FOR STATE BIRD.

  Everyone goes quiet. Hawk grins, like he’s holding in laughter. Duff stares at me.

  “Uh, not exactly,” Uncle Sanjay says. “You pronounce it goo-ey-duck, and it isn’t really a bird. A geoduck is the biggest burrowing clam in the world.”

  I blush. A clam? “Um, so, cool. What kind of duck is this?”

  “A male mallard,” Uncle Sanjay says.

  I’ve never seen a duck up close. The feathers on his head shimmer in green and gold. A ring of white encircles his neck like a string of pearls.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I whisper back.

  “We don’t know yet,” Uncle Sanjay says. “Perhaps a shattered wing—perhaps something worse.”

  The duck isn’t moving. I wonder if it’s going to die.

  “What should we do?” Duff whispers. “We could send him to the wildlife rehab center up in Freetown….”

  “Not sure he’d survive the drive,” Uncle Sanjay says grimly.

  Duff runs her fingers through her stiff, sprayed hair. “Ducks mate for life. He has a female waiting for him; you can be sure of that.”

  My insides melt. A mate. Maybe babies, too. Another animal hit by a car, and the bad guys got away. I’m beginning to hate cars.

  Santa scratches his head. “I found him near a big pond. Maybe his mate is still there waiting.”

  “Let’s see what we can see.” Uncle Sanjay opens the box. I clutch the seaglass in my pocket.

  Uncle Sanjay reaches into the box, but in a flurry of feathers, the duck takes off. Just like that, he spreads his wings and flies out the door and all the way down the hall.