I stare.
“Clarissa?” Michael repeats.
When I’m able to speak, the only thing that pops into my head is, “You’re not Mrs. Larson.”
Michael looks at me funny. “No, want me to get her for you?”
“What are you doing here?”
Michael smiles. “I asked you first.”
“Right. I’m looking for a dog.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a dog!”
“I don’t, it’s not mine. It’s Doug’s.”
“Doug, your mom’s boyfriend?”
Oh how I wish I could correct him, but this time there is no doubt about it; it’s true. “Yeah. Her name is Suzy. I heard she has a crush or something on Mr. Ruffles, so I thought I’d check here.”
Michael laughs. “Yeah, Ruffles is a bit of a ladies’ man. All the bitches in the dog park totally love him.”
I am horrified. “Excuse me?”
Michael sees the look of disgust on my face and rushes on. “That’s what you call female dogs, bitches. It’s the proper term for them. I didn’t mean, you know, like, bitches …” he trails off lamely, scratching the back of his head as if that will erase the memory of what just happened.
I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and change the subject. “Well, anyway. She got out and apparently she’s a runner and now I have to find her before Doug gets back. Do you think we could check and see if maybe she’s out back with Mr. Ruffles?”
“Sorry, Clarissa, but Mr. Ruffles is inside,” Michael apologizes, adding, “but we can still check if you want.”
I shrug, totally and completely defeated. “Sure. Might as well.”
Michael holds the door open for me. “Come on, we can cut through the house.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” I remind him.
“Oh. Mrs. Larson is a friend of my grandmother’s. I come over once a week to help her with stuff around the house, you know, like the garbage or vacuuming. Sometimes I take Mr. Ruffles for a walk.”
“That’s nice.”
Michael shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s kind of a big deal,” I insist. “I don’t know any other people in our class who would do that, especially the boys.”
“I get paid, a little. It’s a job, not like I’m this do-gooder boy scout or anything.” Michael looks annoyed, like I insulted his manhood instead of giving him a compliment. I just don’t get boys.
“Well, here we are.” Michael takes me through a little kitchen completely decked out in duck paraphernalia — duck dish towel, duck tea cozy, plaster ducks on the walls — and out the back door onto a porch. After being in a well-lit house, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dusky blue of the evening. I see a birdbath, an empty doghouse, and a recycling bin, but no Suzy. Everything in my chest tightens. It’s been at least ten minutes. How far can a dog go in ten minutes?
“Sorry, Clarissa,” Michael says.
“What should I do?” I ask him. “Is there someone I should call? I don’t know anything about dogs.” My voice is alarmingly shaky. Oh, God, please don’t let me cry now, not in front of Michael.
“You could call the Humane Society, but it’s too early for that. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Did you check the park?”
I shake my head, no. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I’ll come with you. I just need to get my coat.”
Without a word, I follow Michael back through the duck kitchen, into the hallway, and out onto the front porch. I sit on the steps taking steadying breaths and wait for him to say goodbye to Mrs. Larson. I will myself not to cry. The concrete of the porch is cold beneath me and with the sun down, there is a nip in the air.
“Okay, let’s go.” Michael is back, carrying a large sweater. “Here, Mrs. Larson got this for you. It’s kind of cold out,” he says, offering me the sweater.
“Thanks, I am a little chilly,” I admit. The sweater is pale pink, shapeless, and has a faded picture of a pond peeling off the front, complete with mallard ducks and cattails. It is exactly the kind of old lady sweater one would expect a woman who has a dog named Mr. Ruffles to own. Oh, well. Ugly sweater is better than no sweater. I pull it over my head. It falls about mid-thigh, the sleeves ending at the tips of my fingers. I wrap my arms around myself and head out into the darkness after Michael.
“We should knock on people’s doors on the way to the park, just in case they saw her and brought her in,” Michael suggests.
“Whatever you say,” I agree.
And so we stop at every house, asking if anyone caught sight of a little white mutt tearing across the neighbourhood in the last half hour. At each place it’s the same, “No, sorry. Good luck finding her!”
Some people recognize Michael as the nice kid who helps Mrs. Larson around the house. They are extra-sympathetic. “Sorry, Michael. We’ll for sure keep an eye out for her!”
“It’s no use,” I moan.
Michael is determined. “Don’t give up yet,” he says. “There’s still the park. It’s a major hangout for dogs.”
“If you say so,” I sigh.
Michael tries to cheer me up by telling me all about homing instincts, and how even runners like Suzy know how to find their way home. He is full of stories of lost dogs who find their way home eventually. “Like this one dog was on vacation with his family in Florida and got lost. He showed up at their front door in Oregon two years later. Can you believe that?”
I frown. “Is that a true story?”
“You don’t believe me?” Michael asks.
“It sounds a little like The Incredible Journey.”
Michael smiles. “I bet The Incredible Journey was based on a true story, too. There are, like, entire books on amazing dog stories.”
I don’t have much to say to that. Clearly Michael has not met Suzy. Would an amazing animal run away from her warm home full of food and into the dark, cold night? Although I have to admit, ever since Michael agreed to help me look for Suzy, I’ve been feeling much, much warmer.
Park
“Well, here we are.”
The park is really the playground at St. Patrick’s Catholic school, or St. Paddy’s as it’s known around here. It is definitely the nicest park in the city. Not only does it have the usual climber and swing set, but it also has a set of teeter-totters, a tube slide, a tire swing, and the only merry-go-round in town. Plus the whole thing is bordered by tall pine trees that block out the sight of any houses. It feels like you’re inside a fortress, a secret fortress of fun. It definitely beats the playground at Ferndale.
I guess dog lovers like the fact that the playground is surrounded by trees, too. It means they can let their dogs off their leashes and not worry too much about bothering the people who live behind St. Paddy’s, although there aren’t too many dogs around at this time of night.
“Let’s check the border first,” Michael suggests. “I’ll go to the far side and you start here.”
So we split up, searching in and among the trees. Michael whistles and I call Suzy’s name, slapping my thighs and wishing I had brought treats or something to entice her with. I hear barking a few times, but it’s always some dog behind the school, in a yard nearby. My heart leaps every time I hear barking, only to let be let down again and again.
When we meet in the middle, Michael smiles hopefully at me. “Any sign of her?”
“No,” I grumble.
Michael frowns. “We have to think like Suzy. Where would you go if you were her?”
“Suzy doesn’t think all that much,” I say.
I make my way toward the merry-go-round, dragging my feet through the dust, the sleeves of Mrs. Larson’s ugly sweater hanging almost to my knees. It smells like old lady and makes my nose itch, but at least I’m warm.
I sit with a thump, the merry-go-round making a satisfying clang that echoes in the now empty park. Michael joins me and does his best to cheer me up. “There has to be something we
’re missing. Dogs are motivated by rewards, like food or attention.”
“I fed her ten minutes before she escaped,” I point out.
“Maybe there was another dog or a rabbit or something that got her attention outside,” Michael suggests.
“Okay, so then what?”
“I don’t know,” Michael admits. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
I heave another big sigh and lay on my back in my quarter of the merry-go-round. The stars are starting to come out of hiding. I try to pick out one of the constellations, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I know I should be thinking about Suzy, and I am, but I’m also thinking about Michael, who has laid back on the other side of the merry-go-round and now our heads are almost touching.
“Do you know anything about constellations?” Michael asks.
“Not really, do you?”
“Sure!” Michael props himself up by his elbow and starts pointing things out to me. “See there? That’s the Big Dipper. Once you find that you can find anything.” Michael rattles off the history of the different constellations, and I zone out, enjoying the sound of his voice. “What’s your astrological sign?” he asks.
“Why? Do you believe all that stuff about astrology?”
“No,” Michael sounds indignant. “I was just going to point out your constellation for you.”
“Aries.”
“It’s hard to see Aries in the spring.”
“How come?”
“That’s when it’s closest to the sun.”
“What sign are you?” I ask. I feel dumb the second the words come out of my mouth. That sounds like a pickup line Denise would use.
“Virgo. It’s easier to see it when it’s really late, like midnight.”
“I should probably be home by then,” I say.
“Yeah, me too,” Michael says. He sounds disappointed.
For a moment I wonder if he’s going to get up and say it’s time to leave. I don’t want to leave yet, and not just because sudden death might be waiting for me at home. I need to stall him. “How did you learn to pick out the constellations?”
“I have a telescope and some books at home.”
“Cool.”
Michael twists around to look me right in the eye, like he doesn’t believe me. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, a little offended. “I like astronomy. I even have those glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and everything.” I don’t mention that they no longer work.
Michael smiles and it feels like I swallowed a whole box of Pop Rocks that are exploding all over my body. I think I could be happy for the rest of my life if only he would continue to smile at me like that. Oh how I wish I wasn’t wearing an old lady sweater with ducks on it that reeks of baby powder.
“Do you ever read the horoscopes in the paper?” I ask.
“Maybe once in a while, out of curiosity.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “Sometimes they’re pretty accurate.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
“It is. What time is it?” I ask.
Michael consults his watch. “Almost nine. I should probably head home.”
“Me, too” I sigh.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Michael asks. I do, but there is no reason why he should have to witness the smackdown that I’m sure is about to come.
“No, it’s okay,” I lie.
“I’ll walk with you,” Michael offers.
Home
We check at Doug’s house one more time before heading back to my place, just in case Suzy decided to come home. No such luck. At least this time I remember to lock up behind me. I already lost Doug’s dog. The last thing I need is for his house to be robbed, too.
“That old man said she was a runner, right?” Michael says.
“Yeah.”
“So she must get out all the time. Doug is probably used to it.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I am not convinced.
“And she has ID tags, so even if she gets picked up by the pound, they’d still have a way to contact Doug. Even if the worst happens and she gets hit by a car, it wouldn’t be your fault. You can’t help it if it’s in the dog’s nature to run away. Besides, it’s not like you were driving the car.”
In my worst nightmares, I had never imagined Suzy being hit by a car. I’m starting to feel woozy. I know Michael is trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working. I’ve been in Doug’s bedroom, the only photo he has displayed is of Suzy. If she does end up dead on my watch, he’s not likely to forgive me. And neither is my mother.
In my desperation I consider running away, too. Then everyone would be so worried about me that no one would think about the dog. In a perfect world I would spend the night searching and arrive on the doorstep, rumpled but alive, with Suzy in my arms. I would even be willing to make something up about how the dog found me and led me home. Then Suzy would be the hero, I would be alive, and everyone would be happy. Of course there are more than a few flaws in this plan. Anyone who has spent any time with Suzy would not believe her to be capable of rescue. She can barely fetch.
“Looks like they’re home,” Michael says. The lights are on in the kitchen and Doug’s little red sports car is parked in the driveway. Time to face the music.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asks again.
“It might be nice to have a witness in case one of them tries to kill me,” I say.
Michael looks uncomfortable.
“I’m kidding,” I confess. “But, if you’re sure you don’t need to head home —”
Michael shakes his head. “I don’t have to be home yet. Come on. We might as well get this over with.”
It takes an unbelievably short amount of time to walk from the sidewalk to the door. I cast a glance at Benji’s house, but it’s completely dark. No rescue there.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, partially to myself, partially to Michael.
I go to turn my key in the lock but the door swings open and suddenly Doug is there, blotting out the light with his enormous bulk.
“Clarissa! Where’ve you been?” Before I can answer, he continues, “Well get in here, we’ve been waiting for you.” Doug spots Michael and ushers him in, too. “The more the merrier. It’s a party in here!” And then he throws his head back and crows like a rooster.
At my side, Michael whispers, “Is he always like that?”
I shake my head. “No.”
In the living room I can hear Mom and Denise laughing over an old record I haven’t heard in ages. I forget all about being terrified or guilty. “What’s going on?” I demand.
Doug grins at me, eyes shining. He looks insanely happy. Unhinged, even. “What’s a nine-letter word for the best day of your life?” he asks.
“Christmas?” Michael guesses.
“No,” I say. “Remission.”
The living room is full of light and music. There’s only five of us but it feels like more. Mom keeps pulling out albums she hasn’t heard in ages and putting them on the record player. The record only plays for a few songs before she finds another album. She stops the record mid-song so she can replace it with the next one. Each song is the kind of song you’ve heard on the radio your entire life — you don’t know what it’s called, but somehow you know all the lyrics. Even Michael nods his head and sings along.
Doug produces half a cheesecake in a flimsy white box, left over from his dinner with Mom, and we attack it with forks, forgoing plates altogether. I manage to find a few cans of root beer for Michael and me while the adults open the bottle of wine my mom bought especially for this occasion.
Remission. I’ve been saying it to myself for months and now I can finally say the word out loud. “Remission.”
The dreamy look slips from Mom’s face. “What did you say?”
“Remission,” I repeat, this time a little louder. “Remission, remission!”
Mom sits next to me on the couch, placing a hand firmly on my kne
e. “Clarissa, the doctor didn’t say ‘remission.’”
The cheesecake forms a solid lump in my stomach. “But … I thought — Doug said …”
Mom frowns at Doug, who looks sheepish. I’ve never seen her send anything but a smile in his direction before. That’s when I know she’s serious. “The doctor said that at this point, I’m cancer-free,” she explains. “Doug should have been clearer.”
I don’t understand. How is being cancer-free different from remission? “Isn’t that the same thing?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
“So you could get sick again?”
“I could. But I’m not planning to.” Mom winks at me.
Just when I thought the coast was clear, another cloud moves over the horizon. “Then what’s the point?” I say.
Mom thinks before responding. “The point is, anyone can get sick at any time. Right now I’m healthy. That’s good enough for me.”
I search Mom’s face for any sign that she’s pretending to be strong for my sake, but all I see is relief — honest-to-goodness relief. She isn’t hiding anything from me and if cancer-free is good enough for her, then it should be good enough for me. Nothing is ever sure in life, I know that now. You never know when people will get sick or when they will take offense at something you did. You can do everything right and still things will go wrong. Life is full of surprises. But not all surprises are bad.
“Okay,” I say.
Mom leans in for a bone-crushing hug. Across the room, Denise laughs and cries and sloshes her drink all over the couch and herself. But Mom is too giddy to notice. She looks lit from within, as if a hundred tiny candles are flickering under her skin. She gets up and starts calling people to let them know the good news. She holds the phone out and says, “Say hi, everyone!” and dutifully, we respond, “Hi everyone!” and then burst into fresh laughter. I smile so hard it feels like my cheeks are going to split, but I can’t stop.
If anyone was to look in on us right now they would think we were a group of crazy people, and that’s just how I feel, crazy-happy. I hold onto this feeling as long as I can, but things wind down and I can’t keep putting off my talk with Doug. I feel like I’m holding onto a full balloon and the air is rushing out, and I’m about to be flung around the room.
Love is a Four-Letter Word Page 15
