by Peggy Jaeger
Even though I lived alone, I still kept the house tidy and neat, a side effect of growing up with two women who were neatness fanatics—my mother and my grandmother—and a younger sister with cleaning OCD.
“Bring a couple of the boxes inside, and we can start on them,” I told Frayne, grabbing two from my car.
George lifted his head, his rheumy, half-closed eyes peering at me in the afternoon light when I came through the doorway. I set the boxes on a counter and dropped to my knees. With his face cradled between my hands, I rubbed his nose with mine. His breathing was faster than when I’d seen him a few hours ago, his tongue swaying back and forth with each rapid pant. He hadn’t eaten anything in almost forty-eight hours, not even the delicious food Maureen had sent home for him or the sausage from Ruthie. I’d been able to get him to drink a few ounces of water every few hours, but when I offered him some now, he turned his head.
“Baby, you have to drink something. Just a little. Please.”
I sensed Frayne come into the room, then a moment later crouch down next to me.
George’s cloudy eyes turned his way, the gray hairs above his eyes lifting, sensing someone new.
“Hey there, old fella.” Frayne reached out a hand to let George sniff him. His thick, dry tongue swiped across the tips of Frayne’s fingers, something he always did when he recognized a friend.
“How old is he?”
“Almost sixteen.”
His gaze swept across George’s face and frame.
“Not feeling too good, are ya, boy?” His fingers slid up and around the dog’s ear, scratched, and then petted his head.
I don’t know whether it was because George was seeing someone new in the house for the first time in a long, long while, but I actually sensed a little sparkle of life come back into his eyes. His shaggy tail wagged and thumped on the floor several times under Frayne’s stroking.
“He’s not eating?”
I shook my head. “Or drinking. My vet says I should keep trying, though, even if he refuses.”
“Do you have a syringe or a turkey baster?”
Talk about a weird request.
“I’ve got a baster, one I use at Thanksgiving. Why?”
Frayne sat on the floor, his hand still stroking George’s head. “My mother had a dog when I was a kid. Old as dirt and as spoiled as any animal I’ve ever known. She paid more attention to him than she did to me.”
The wry grin on his mouth made me sad.
“When it wouldn’t eat or drink on its own, she was able to force fluids by using a tiny eye dropper filled with water. It worked, although I think the dog did it because it liked being catered to and not because it physically couldn’t drink. Like I said, it was spoiled rotten.”
“Do you think that’ll work with George?”
Under the shaggy fringe spilled across his forehead, his eyebrows tugged together and the corners of his mouth turned down. His gaze slipped to my dog and then back to me. “This”—he pointed under the table—“is George?”
I nodded.
“This is who you and your sister were speaking about in the kitchen the other day? And the one the diner owner, what’s her name, Ruthie, sent home sausage for?”
“Yeah. Who did you think George was?”
“Your husband.”
I snorted. Not the most feminine sound to make, to be sure. “Nope. This is George.” I rubbed his snout.
“The way people talked about him, I assumed he wasn’t, well, a dog. George isn’t exactly a canine name.”
“True, but it fits him. Doesn’t it, baby?” I kissed his snout this time. “Okay.” I stood up. “Let me find the baster.”
Frayne stayed on the floor and continued rubbing the dog’s head and ears. “It kinda does fit you,” he told my old friend.
I located the glass cylinder in the bottom of my kitchen junk drawer, rinsed it, then filled it with some of the filtered water from the fridge. “Okay. Let’s see if this works.”
Carefully, I slid the baster into the side of George’s mouth and gave the plunger a little push. George lapped the liquid, then licked the syringe. I squirted in another ounce, then another, until the baster was empty.
“It works.” Pleasure floated through me. I turned to Frayne to find him grinning. “I wish I’d known about this a few days ago.”
I moved to fill it up again.
“Don’t give him too much,” Frayne cautioned. “If he hasn’t had anything in his stomach, he might get sick from too much too fast. Dole it out, and see what happens.”
“Good idea. Feel better, baby?” As an answer, George dragged his sandpapery tongue across my hand.
I stood, as did Frayne.
“I can’t believe you thought George was my husband. That’s too funny.”
He folded his arms in front of him and leaned back against the kitchen counter. With a shrug, he said, “I don’t know if funny is the right word. The way everyone spoke about him, I assumed it was your husband’s name.”
I shook my head, then took two glasses down from the cabinet, filled them with the filtered water, and handed one to him.
“I don’t know if I could ever be married to a George,” I said, considering the idea. After a few sips, I shook my head. “Nope. Can’t see it.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
I greased over the present tense. “Danny. Daniel Mulvaney.”
Frayne nodded. “Definitely different from George.”
I smiled into my glass, then cocked my head like he was prone to do and asked, “Where does McLachlan come from? Are your parents Irish?”
“My father is. Born and bred. Thick brogue and a will of iron.”
“Were you named for him?”
“No.”
The way his jaw clenched and the finite sound of the word screamed sore subject. There was some family drama there, and I was an expert on all things family and drama related. I sensed Frayne didn’t want to talk about it so, instead, I said, “Well, we should start on these boxes. See what we’ve got that’s salvageable and usable. Let’s bring them into the dining room. There’s more room to spread out in there.”
I grabbed a few dishtowels to clean off the mountains of dust on each box and lifted the two I’d brought into the kitchen. Frayne followed me.
For two hours, we systematically went through five of the boxes we’d carted from the storage unit. The huge plastic containers were filled with Robert’s clothing. They’d make a good addition to the public archives once they were cleaned and ironed. And boy, did they need to be cleaned. Nanny had packed them into airtight containers, but they still smelled stale and musty.
Every half hour, I’d gone back to the kitchen and given George another baster of water, thrilled when he not only drank it, but kept it down as well.
By four thirty, the January afternoon sun was gone and we were almost finished with the first wave of boxes. Frayne had been delighted when he’d found several leather personal diaries dated from the 1940s and ’50s belonging to Robert. He placed them in a separate pile and said we should read them together when we were done going through everything else.
Working side by side, we talked little, concentrating instead on the task at hand, but I was acutely aware of him at every turn. Little things filtered through my consciousness as I worked, like how every time he lifted an item from a box he’d readjust his glasses to see it better. Inevitably, the glasses would inch their way down to the tip of his nose. Or how when he went through the clothing containers, he’d methodically search all the pockets in a jacket or a pair of pants, a few times finding small items like an extra button, or in one instance a lighter with a monogramed H embossed across its face.
“Was Robert a smoker?”
“I don’t remember ever seeing him with a cigar or cigarettes. We can ask Nanny.”
He placed the lighter in the pile of personal effects we needed to take pictures of and catalogue.
When my stomach started to growl,
Frayne’s did as well. It was a contest whose was louder.
Laughing, I went into the kitchen, checked the stores I had in the refrigerator, and then called out, “Slim pickings, I’m afraid. I haven’t had a minute to shop this past week. Do you like grilled cheese? I can make us sandwiches.”
When I closed the fridge, I jolted. “Good golly. I’m buying you a bell.”
“Sorry,” he said, holding a piece of paper in his hand, the tops of his cheeks going pink.
God, how was it possible for a grown man to be adorable and hot-as-hell sexy at the same time? I had a wild urge to reach up, grab his face, and kiss him silly.
In the same instant, I wondered how he’d respond if I did.
Better not to go there.
“So. Grilled cheese okay?”
With a quick nod he said, “Fine.”
“Okay. Give me a few—”
A noise I’d never heard before thundered from under the kitchen table. Both of us turned to see George standing upright on wobbly legs, a thick, white substance covering his mouth. His breaths were harsh, and sounded like a seal barking.
“Oh my God, what was that?” I fell to the floor next to him. His chest retracted with each labored breath, the outline of his entire ribcage visible through his fur. “I don’t think he can breathe.”
Frayne moved next to me and ran a hand along George’s ribs. “I’m no expert, but it feels like he’s not moving any air into his lungs.”
I wiped the froth from George’s mouth only to have it cover him again within seconds. Deep expressive eyes settled on me. Through the clouds of his cataracts, pain engulfed him with each breath he tried to take. His body shook as if he were in the throes of a feverish seizure, his spindly legs quivering, fighting to keep him upright.
“Oh, baby.” Tears swelled in my eyes, and I touched my forehead to his.
I knew this day was going to come. The vet had told me I was on borrowed time, but I wasn’t prepared to lose George. And because I wasn’t, I was still going to fight for him.
I swiped at my tears and chugged in a deep breath. “I’m calling my vet. She’ll be able to tell me what to do.”
“He’s probably dry as a bone, Cathy,” the receptionist told me when I connected. “Even though you were able to get him to drink a little, it’s not enough. The doc says to wrap him in a blanket and bring him in right now.”
“We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
“Your car is bigger than mine,” Frayne said while I covered George with an afghan I pulled from the rocking chair in my living room. “He’ll be more comfortable in it than he would in my two-door. You sit in the back with him while I drive. I’ll need directions.”
Together, we carried him out to my vehicle. I slid into the back seat, and Frayne lifted George in as if he weighed no more than a five-pound bag of potatoes. With George’s head on my lap and his breathing worse, I sent up a few silent prayers while I directed Frayne to the veterinarian’s office.
The waiting room was empty, and we were shown into an exam room the moment we came through the door.
“Put him on the table,” Shelby Sinclair, my longtime veterinarian instructed. I’d known Shelby since kindergarten. She’d been interning with Heaven’s local vet, Doc Masters, fifteen years ago when I’d brought George in for his first vaccinations. When she’d bought the practice five years later, she’d continued to be the only doctor George ever knew.
“Hey, buddy. Not feeling too good, are ya?” She ruffled his head and slid a stethoscope bell along his ribs. “He’s not moving any air, and from the color of the mucous, it looks like he’s in congestive heart failure.”
“Congestive, like he’s clogged with water? Oh, my God, did I cause this? I’ve been giving him water all afternoon through a turkey baster. Did I do this?”
Shelby fixed her steady gaze on me and, in a stern voice that would have made Nanny proud, said, “You did nothing to cause this, Cathleen. Nothing. This is a progression of his ailments and his age.”
“Really? You’re not saying that because you want to spare my feelings?”
“When have I ever said anything to spare your feelings?”
She had me there.
“Okay. Okay.” I tried to keep from letting go of my tears. “Can you fix this heart failure?”
“I can try to alleviate some of the symptoms causing it, but we’ve talked about this.” She spoke to me but kept her hand on George. “Combined with all the other conditions he has working against him, I can’t fix the underlying cause. George is elderly. A dog’s body ages at a much more rapid rate than ours. In people years, he’s over one hundred. Old by anyone’s standards.”
“I know. I know, but I’m not…ready to say… I mean, he’s all I have. I can’t…” A sob finally tore from me, unchecked, and I shot my fist to my mouth. A strong and steady hand rubbed along my back.
Frayne.
Shelby’s dark eyed gaze shot from him, then back to me.
“Please, Shelby. Please. Try something. Anything,” I pleaded. “I can’t stand to see him this way.”
With a quick nod, she called out to her assistant and issued a series of orders. “Okay, let me work. Go outside to the waiting room, and I’ll call you back in in a few minutes.”
“Can’t I stay?” I sounded like a whining child, but I didn’t care. My emotions were sliced raw. My life had been filled with too much loss the past few years. I couldn’t bear to add George to the list.
“No,” Shelby said. “I’ve known you forever, Cath. You can’t stand the sight of needles or blood, and I don’t want you getting sick or, God forbid, fainting.” Her gaze flicked to Frayne again. She pointed to the door. “Outside, and when I’m set, I’ll let you know.”
“Come on, Cathy.” Frayne’s hand circled around my upper arm. “Let’s let the doctor do what she needs to.”
I pulled against him and grabbed Shelby’s hand. “Please. Please.”
She patted my hand and nodded. “I know, kiddo.”
I let Frayne guide me out to the empty waiting room. My bones felt as if they’d turned to unsettled jelly, loose and liquid. I slid into a cushioned chair and folded in on myself, my hands wrapped around my midsection, my body bent at the waist.
I couldn’t lose George. I couldn’t.
When the army representatives had come to my door to tell me Danny had been killed, I hadn’t reacted as everyone assumed I would. Lucas had been with them, and he’d volunteered to be the one to notify me because, as one of my oldest friends, he’d thought to try and temper the emotional blow of the news. With his strong, familiar voice cracking at the loss of his dearest, best friend, he’d told me what had happened.
I kept my cool, didn’t shed a tear. I thanked the soldiers and Lucas and then sent them away.
Alone, except for George, I’d sat in my rocking chair for the rest of the day, thinking about how my life and my marriage had turned out so different from what I’d imagined and dreamed it would be. Lucas had been the one to notify my family and as soon as they heard the news, they’d descended on me, seeking comfort, fighting tears, grieving, wanting to be comforted.
I was the one to give it. I was the one who held Danny’s mother up, physically and emotionally, through the endless days of the visitations, the mass, and then the burial.
When my sister Eileen died a year later of breast cancer, history repeated itself. I was the one who notified people, organized the funeral, wrote thank-you responses for the condolence cards, while my sisters and parents fell apart. No one ever knew how weak I was on the inside each time I was called upon to be strong.
Those same emotions whirled inside me now while one of my oldest friends worked on a dog I loved beyond all end.
Frayne’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Can I call anyone for you? Your sisters? Your husband?”
His face was a mask of concern. Seated next to me, he leaned in close, his gaze fixed on my face. His fingers were doing a little kneading thin
g on my shoulder, and a soothing calm, like the sensation you get right before falling asleep, flowed through me from his touch.
I was used to being the one doing the comforting; the one who stayed strong and focused. Through the haze of my amazement to actually be the one receiving comfort, Frayne’s words seeped through.
I squinted at him. “My husband?”
“Do you want me to call him to come and be with you? I would think you’d both want to be together in case…” He didn’t need to finish his thought.
I sat up so abruptly, his hand slipped from my shoulder. Heat shot up from my neck, and my face burned as if I’d been caught out in the bright sunshine all day without sunblock.
“What? Cathy, what? Did I say something wrong?” His concern morphed into confusion.
I shook my head. “No. No, you didn’t. I just realized you don’t know a thing about me.”
“What does that mean?”
I sighed and stood, prepared to pace. “My husband is dead. He was killed in combat three years ago. And you don’t need to call my sisters. I’ll handle this like I do everything else.”
Frayne’s hands shot out and halted me, his fingers now flexing and extending their grip on my upper arms. The movements were careful and controlled. The emotion swimming in his eyes was anything but.
“Your husband is dead?”
I nodded.
“You’re a widow?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I?”
Frayne shook his head, the disheveled hair I’d fantasized about clutching on to, swishing side to side. His eyes bore into mine. No longer kind and caring, they were now hard and questioning. “All the times we’ve been together, at the museum, the storage locker, Christ, even your own house, you never once mentioned your husband was dead.”
“Again, why would I? It’s not like we talked about anything other than your research. What does his being gone have anything to do with, well, anything?”
