St. Francis Society for Wayward Pets

by Annie England Noblin

  I nodded obediently, found her shoes and purse, and then led her outside. We waited silently until my father appeared with the car, and I couldn’t shake the feeling, as I slid into the back seat and my father sped off down our quiet cul-de-sac, that what had just happened was entirely my fault.

  Chapter 4

  IT WAS A SLOW NIGHT FOR SEATTLE MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, and the ER was surprisingly empty minus an elderly woman in a wheelchair covered by a hospital blanket and a man in an expensive-looking suit who walked brusquely, if not painfully, up to the receptionist and whispered something that caused the woman behind the desk to blush, and they ushered him back without even taking his information.

  “What do you want to bet he’s got something stuffed up his rear end?” my father whispered to me. He named a really famous male celebrity.

  “Him?” I asked. “That was never confirmed, you know.”

  “Stop it, you two,” my mother said, giving us a look of disapproval. She’d since regained her composure and had been insisting for the last twenty minutes that she didn’t need to be in the ER and lamenting her spoiled pork chops.

  “It happens more than you’d think,” my father said knowingly. “One of my buddies at the club has a son who’s an ER doctor. People shove all kinds of things up there.”

  My mother was about to respond when her name was called by the triage nurse.

  “I’ll wait here,” I said as my parents stood up, and the triage nurse gave me a grateful smile. I figured she’d had enough for the afternoon already, what with Mr. Suit waddling in and everything.

  After they’d disappeared behind the double doors, I stood up and stretched, raising my arms high above my head. It felt so good to stretch. What I really wanted to do was go running, something I hadn’t been doing much of since I moved back in with my parents. I’d been too depressed, even though running was pretty much the only thing I’d ever found that could help me clear my head. There was something about the pounding of my feet on the pavement, the sharp and almost desperate intake of air into my lungs, and the exhausted satisfaction that came with running that helped calm whatever problem happened to be coiling around like snakes in my brain.

  I briefly considered running up and down the halls of the hospital but decided that was probably a terrible idea and settled instead for a stomach-churning cup of coffee and a chair at the farthest corner of the ER waiting room. I watched two families come in and sit down—one with a coughing, feverish-looking baby and the other with a small boy with a long cut down one of his skinny legs. As they were led back, and my entertainment lapsed, I looked down and checked my phone.

  I’d called Eli while we were on the way to the hospital, and he’d been in the middle of a root canal. I told the receptionist not to interrupt him. Still, I knew he’d come by as soon as he could. It was just four o’clock in the afternoon, but it felt like midnight, especially in the windowless emergency waiting room, and I was suddenly very tired.

  Just as I was drifting off to sleep, my father came out from behind the double doors and said, “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. The doctor is going to wrap it up and prescribe a cream.”

  He collapsed in a chair next to me.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “They’re finishing up. I just came out to tell you and to call Eli,” my father replied.

  “I already called Eli,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  I sat up to face him. “How is Mom?”

  “She’s all right,” my father said. And then, as if suddenly remembering the reason for the entire debacle, he asked, “Are you okay, kiddo?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Just tired.”

  My father leaned back in the chair and smiled at me. “You know, we brought you home from this hospital, your mother and I,” he said. “Nearly thirty-seven years ago.”

  “I know,” I said. I’d heard the story at least a dozen times over the years—about how long and skinny I was, about how I had a full head of dark hair. “Please don’t tell the entire waiting room about how I pooped on your shirt in the elevator, because you’d put my diaper on backward.”

  My father grinned. “That’s my favorite story.”

  I couldn’t help returning his grin.

  “Your mother was so afraid that Annabelle might change her mind,” my father said. “She had some time, you know, to change her mind after you were born, even though the paperwork was all set; nothing was certain until we had you.”

  I sat up. This was a part of the story I hadn’t heard before. “You really thought she might change her mind?” I asked. “Annabelle, I mean?”

  My father nodded. “Your mother did,” he said. “But I was confident Annabelle wouldn’t. That child—and she was seventeen, mind you, but she was still just a child to look at her—was determined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She loved you, you know,” my father replied, his voice quieter than it had been before. “I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

  I felt my eyes well up, even though I did my best to hide it. “Then why . . .”

  “Shhh,” my father said, the way he used to when I was little and had a scraped knee from falling out of my treehouse. “There’s no sense in that kind of talk.”

  “It doesn’t even matter now,” I said finally, rubbing furiously at my eyes.

  “So it was Alice who called you, then?” my father asked.

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat surprised. “You know her?”

  “She picked Annabelle up from the hospital,” he replied. “And Annabelle spoke of her often during her visits with us before you were born. They were incredibly close and, I think, all the other one had in the world.”

  I tried to think about how I’d feel if I lost Holly but couldn’t bear to imagine it. It was too awful. “Alice must be pretty upset,” I said, realizing as I said it that upset was probably a gigantic understatement.

  “I know you don’t see it this way,” my father continued. “But it was nice of her to call you. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” I agreed.

  I thought about the way I’d spoken to her, the clipped tone I’d used, especially as I told her I wouldn’t be making it to the funeral.

  “You wouldn’t be betraying us to go,” my father said, nudging me gently out of my thoughts. “To the funeral, I mean. Your mother and I, we’d go with you if you’d like.”

  I took my dad’s hand and squeezed it. “No,” I said. “That’s okay. I think Mom has had enough excitement for this week. I’ll ask Holly.”

  “So you’re going?”

  Before I could answer, my brother burst into the waiting room, still wearing his scrubs. He glanced from me to our father. “Is Mom okay?” he asked.

  “She’s fine,” Dad replied. “Just a second-degree burn, nothing too major. She ought to be out anytime now.”

  Eli sat down next to me and sighed. “I had five people ask me for directions around the hospital, and one nurse tried to force me into a surgery,” he said, shaking his head. “I guess I should have changed out of my scrubs before I came in.”

  “I wish you were a real doctor,” I grumbled. “Then I could come and see you instead of having to pay out of pocket for someone to tell me my knee hurts because I need to lose fifteen pounds.”

  “You don’t need to lose fifteen pounds,” Eli replied. “And I’m hurt that you don’t consider me a real doctor. What is it that you think I do all day?”

  “Punish children for eating sugar?”

  Eli shrugged. “Fair.”

  We stood up when my mother pushed her way through the double doors and out into the waiting room. She stuck her bandaged arm out to us triumphantly, like a prize she’d won, and then said, “Come on, you three. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  “Where do you want to go?” my father asked her, taking her by her other
arm and guiding her out of the waiting room.

  Turning around to wink at me first, she said, “Anything, anything at all, but pork chops.”

  Annabelle

  April 1984

  ANNABELLE WATCHED THE YELLOW SCHOOL BUS DISAPPEAR down the street, its red taillights fading into the early morning fog.

  “Is it gone?” came a voice from beneath Annabelle. “Answer me! It smells like shit in here.”

  Annabelle jumped down from the table on which she’d been standing. “You’re the one who suggested we hide in this nasty shed,” she retorted, dusting off her jeans. “I said we should just ride the bus to school and then ditch, remember?”

  “Too risky,” Alice replied, shaking her head. She pulled a pack of Virginia Slims Lights out of her back pocket and offered one to Annabelle. “Besides,” she said, pausing to light their cigarettes, “my brother won’t go anywhere near that school, and we’d have to walk forever before he’d pick us up.”

  Annabelle didn’t even know why Alice was worried about being caught ditching school. They’d been doing it nearly every day this year, their senior year, and she doubted the teachers or anybody else even missed them. In fact, she figured Mr. Morrow, the principal, was probably relieved. Alice, with her blond curls and fierce hazel eyes, was a force to be reckoned with and had a bit of a reputation despite her short stature (she was just five foot one). She’d been born with her left leg shorter than the right, and she’d always worn a special shoe. When they’d been much younger, in elementary school, Alice had also had to use a special walker to get around, and Annabelle knew that her best friend had had to learn to be tough early in life.

  Annabelle, for her part, was much milder in comparison, both in personality and appearance. She was tall and lanky with straight brown hair and even features. She had a quiet nature and let Alice do most of the talking, which often got them into trouble, and being a loyal friend, Annabelle never let Alice fight her battles alone. Yes, Annabelle mused. Principal Morrow is probably plenty relieved we’ve been skipping class.

  “There’s Billy!” Alice said, peering around the side of the shed’s door. “Come on.”

  Annabelle grabbed her backpack and slung it over one shoulder. She’d packed a change of clothes and her toothbrush. She hoped they’d stay at Billy’s that night instead of going back to their house—well, Alice’s house, where Annabelle had been living for the last three years since her parents died in a car accident. If they were lucky, Alice’s father would be drunk before he even got home for dinner and would forget about the two teenagers altogether.

  Billy rolled down his window when he saw them, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke escaping through the crack. “Hurry up,” he said. “You’re gonna make me late for work.”

  Both girls sidled into the back seat, huddling close together for warmth. It was still cold in Washington. Annabelle often fantasized about moving to Florida or California—someplace where it stayed warm year-round instead of freezing most of the time. As she considered this, Billy turned around from the front seat and gave her a wink. Annabelle felt her face grow hot, and she was relieved, not for the first time, that her dark skin kept her secrets instead of flushing bright pink the way Alice’s did when she got angry or embarrassed.

  “The house is a mess,” Billy said, lurching the old LeBaron forward. “You could pick up a little while you’re there, Al.”

  From the back seat, Alice rolled her eyes. “I’m not Mom,” she said. “Do your own housekeeping?”

  “I ain’t the Ritz-Carlton either, so if you want to keep staying at my place, you better start helping out,” Billy replied. His tone was jovial, but both girls knew he meant business. He’d been letting them hang out nearly every day for the last two months at his tiny shotgun house a few blocks from the factory where he worked.

  “Fine,” Alice replied. “But I’m not washing your underwear.”

  Again, Annabelle felt her face go hot. She’d known Billy all her life, as he was Alice’s big brother—nearly five years older than they were. He’d spent most of his life in trouble, either with his father or with the law. He’d spent a year in prison on drug charges just after he turned eighteen, and to his credit, he’d remained free and clean since his release. Billy said having his sister and her “little friend” there to stay at his place kept him from being lonely and slipping back into his old bad habits.

  Annabelle couldn’t admit to Alice how much she liked Billy—how good-looking she thought he was. With his dark curls and full lips, Annabelle certainly wasn’t the only girl in Timber Creek to have had a crush on Billy Monroe. Billy had plenty of offers, and he knew it. There was, of course, the added bonus that no young woman’s parents wanted their daughters dating a young man like Billy, and so this made him all the more appealing to the daughters of upstanding citizens.

  Years later, when Annabelle and Alice were in their early twenties and sharing an apartment together, Alice would bring home an album called Appetite for Destruction by a band called Guns N’ Roses, and Annabelle wouldn’t be able to stop herself from thinking about how much that sexy guitarist, Slash, reminded her of Billy. Now, though, from the back seat of the car, Annabelle tried to keep her gaze from falling admiringly on the back of Billy’s neck.

  Billy pulled into the driveway of his house and said, “The key is in the usual place. Don’t go crazy.”

  “Shut up,” Alice replied, pushing open the door and hopping out. “Don’t tell Dad where we are if you see him at the plant today, okay?”

  “Like I’d tell that old bastard anything,” Billy snorted. He looked over and caught Annabelle’s eye as she scooted out of the back seat and held her gaze for just a little longer than was polite, before peeling out of the gravel driveway, spraying the girls with rocks and dust.

  “He’s such an idiot,” Alice said, patting at her jeans.

  “I don’t know,” Annabelle replied absently.

  Alice grabbed Annabelle’s arm. “Oh, not you too,” she groaned. “I won’t be able to take it if my best friend falls in love with my stupid brother. He’s too old for you anyway.”

  “I know,” Annabelle said. “Besides, I’m not falling in love with him. I just don’t think he’s as stupid as you do.”

  “That’s because he’s not your brother.”

  “Probably.”

  Alice reached into her pocket and pulled out a wadded-up twenty-dollar bill and waved it in her friend’s face. “Look what I lifted off Janet Galloway in the break room yesterday.”

  “You didn’t,” Annabelle replied. She shook her head. “You’re going to get caught one of these days, you know.”

  Alice’s mother worked at the grocery store part-time during the day when the girls were supposed to be in school. Once in a while, they’d go to visit her after three o’clock, and Alice regularly helped herself to whatever her sticky fingers could carry.

  “Nah,” Alice said, grinning. “Janet’s purse was too heavy anyway. She just had that rotator cuff surgery, you know. I’m just helping her out.”

  “Klepto.”

  “Would you rather not walk down to the gas station for Doritos and Pepsi?” Alice asked, knowing that Annabelle could never resist a bag of Doritos. “Fine. I’ll buy Tab and Corn Nuts instead.”

  “You will not,” Annabelle said, snatching the money out of Alice’s hand and running down the street.

  “Give it back!” Alice yelled, limping after Annabelle. “That’s not fair!”

  “Promise to buy Doritos?”

  Alice sighed. “I promise. Now give it back.”

  Annabelle handed over the money and the two walked, arm in arm, down the street, a full day of MTV, cigarettes, and caffeine in their immediate and satisfied future.

  Chapter 5

  ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT ME TO GO WITH YOU TO the funeral?” my mother was asking, two days later, as I threw clothes into my overnight bag. “I hate for you to go alone.”

  I stopped packing, holding in the si
gh that was threatening to escape from my mouth. “I told you, Mom,” I said. “Holly is going with me.”

  My mother ignored this, as she’d always disapproved of Holly. It wasn’t because, as people sometimes assumed, Holly was married to another woman. No, it was because Holly once accidentally insulted her new living room carpet one Thanksgiving home from college. “Well,” my mother continued, “just make sure that whatever you wear to the funeral in the morning isn’t wrinkled. I don’t want them thinking you were raised by lunatics.”

  “Wearing wrinkled jeans doesn’t make a person a lunatic,” I replied, still unable to look at her. I felt guilty for even going, and she knew it.

  “You aren’t going to wear jeans, are you?” she asked, and I imagined that she was clutching her chest behind me. “Maeve, you can’t be serious.”

  “Mom,” I said, releasing the sigh and turning to look at her. “Of course I’m not serious. I have a black dress hanging up in the closet, and I’ll even wear pantyhose if it’ll make you happy.”

  “And a slip?”

  “Nobody’s worn a slip since 1992.”

  “June! Maeve!” my father called from the living room. “Eli is here with the kids!”

  I grinned and hurried into the living room, where my brother, my five-year-old niece, Rowan, and my six-month-old nephew, Theo, were watching my father pretend to remove his thumb from his hand.

  “That’s not real,” Rowan said, rolling her eyes. She looked so much like my brother had when he’d come to live with us all those years ago that it sometimes made my breath catch in my throat.

  “Of course it’s real, Ro,” Eli replied. “Papa wouldn’t lie to you.”

  I looked down at Rowan, winked, and then extended my arms to take Theo. “Show Daddy and Papa what I taught you,” I said.

  Obediently, Rowan made a fist and placed her thumb in between her index and middle fingers. She moved the other hand up to her fist and proceeded to show everyone how to make her own thumb disappear. “See?” she said, triumphant. “Aunt Mae taught me how to do it.”