Where We Belong

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

“That’s the kind of dog she was.”

  “Want me to shovel the driveway, so Rachel can get in?”

  “Good idea,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Then at least I had something to do.

  “We never had any breakfast,” he said. “Do you want lunch?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.”

  We sat awhile longer.

  Then I said, “When Rachel gets here, should we leave? And if so, leave how? Leave the house and stay in the apartment? Or leave completely?”

  In the last year and a half, I’d told him maybe ten times that he should invite Rachel up for a visit. He finally invited her, once. And she came. She stayed four days. My mom and Sophie and I went camping. At the same place we camped before. But in Paul’s tent, and in nice weather. We’d arranged it all in advance, so he’d be able to talk to Rachel.

  He didn’t talk to her. Not about the big stuff, anyway.

  He never really explained why not, and it never felt right to ask.

  “Is it okay if I don’t really know yet?” he said, finally.

  “Sure.”

  “It would be nice if you could get ready to take off if Sophie gets noisy. But… I don’t know. If she’s like this… I don’t know if it matters.”

  “You don’t have to figure it out now.”

  “Good. Because I can’t really think.”

  “Is that her?” I asked, because I thought I heard a car in the driveway.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  But he didn’t move.

  “You going to get up and go meet her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. And continued to sit. “It’s not looking that way.”

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  I ran, carefully, down the back steps and opened the garage door, so she could pull her car in next to Paul’s. And when she took her two suitcases out of the trunk, I took one. To be helpful.

  “Thank you, Angie,” she said. “Where’s Paul?”

  She looked so young. Not younger than usual or anything. It just hit me again, the way it did both other times I’d seen her. Except the first time I saw her, I hadn’t known she was a little older than Paul. It was hard to believe she was in her late sixties. I couldn’t see that when I looked at her. She looked like an actress who’s about fifty now, but still looks like an actress and still looks good.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” I said.

  I set the suitcase down and closed the garage door behind us. And we walked toward the back stairs together. Side by side. Careful not to slip.

  “Rigby died in her sleep last night,” I said.

  “Oh, dear. Is Paul all right?”

  “I don’t know. He isn’t crying.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “I never meant it was. He seems kind of frozen.”

  Then I let her go up the stairs ahead of me, because it was only wide enough for two people if they weren’t both carrying suitcases. When we met up on the back landing, I said, “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for Paul.”

  “Then definitely yes.”

  “If he acts like it’s okay for you to go soon, because he doesn’t need help lifting the dog, could you please not believe him?”

  She looked into my face for what felt like a long time, and it made me squirmy. But I held still. I watched the way her frozen clouds of breath and my frozen clouds of breath came together into one big cloud. Then she put her hand on my cheek. Kind of cupped it in her palm. And I thought, This is how a mother should touch you. Like the touch is really for you, not for her. But I figured it was too late for my mother to learn.

  “I’ll stay a few days,” she said. “Until we’re sure he’s doing all right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then I opened the back door and let her in and closed it after us. We walked through the back bedroom together. It still had a twin bed in it that Paul had gotten for her first visit.

  “Did you ever have kids?” I asked her.

  She looked at me in an odd way, and I wondered if it had been a rude question. If I’d been wrong to ask.

  “I have no children. No. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you’d be a good mother.”

  Before she could even answer, we were in the kitchen, with Paul, and then Rachel and I didn’t get to talk anymore, because then it wasn’t about the two of us in any way.

  My mom got home from work at the usual time. About two-thirty. I made sure I was there to meet her and talk to her.

  “What?” she said. “The dog died. Didn’t he?”

  “She. She, Mom. You knew that dog for years. How can you not get that she was a she?”

  “I’m sorry. Where’s Sophie?”

  “Right where she always is. On the dog bed at Paul’s. And right now, Rigby is there, too. But in an hour or so, a place that does cremation is going to send two big guys over to pick her up.”

  “And then Sophie’s going to freak.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. And Rachel is here, so if Sophie freaks, we’re going to have to clear out.”

  “And go where?”

  “Anywhere that isn’t here.”

  “Not exactly camping weather.”

  “We could go to a motel. You said we had a lot of money saved.”

  “The money is not the issue, kiddo. How can we go to a motel if Sophie is freaking out?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what we’re going to do. But brace yourself. Because we’re about to have to figure it out.”

  My mom kept looking out the window. Peering around the edge of the curtain, the way she’d done the day Paul moved away from the old place.

  It made me nervous this time, too.

  “They’re here,” she said.

  I went to the window and looked out on the snowy scene. The snow had started up in flurries again. There was a gray van parked near the bottom of the back stairs, but I couldn’t read what it said on the side, because it was too covered with snow and that dirty sleet that gets thrown up from your tires when you drive on a barely plowed road.

  I realized I didn’t want to see what came next. So I sat down on the couch.

  It bothered me that my mom didn’t. So after a minute, I said, “Come away from the window!” But it came out harsh. So I followed it up with, “Please.”

  She came and sat on the couch with me, looking like a puppy who’s just been smacked on the rump.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just nervous.”

  “You’re not crossing anything.”

  “I think it’s going to take more than crossed fingers to save us now.”

  I heard the thunk of the van door slamming, and then the engine started up. I ran to the window and watched it inch down the driveway, back wheels losing traction and spinning now and then.

  Then I paced for a minute or two.

  Until my mom said, “Now who’s driving who crazy?”

  “Sorry.”

  I sat back down on the couch.

  “She’s not freaking out,” my mom said.

  “She’s not.”

  “Why do you think she’s not?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I would think she’d have freaked out when the dog died,” she said.

  “She was happy when the dog died.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “My theory? It’s just a theory. I could totally be wrong. But I’ve decided to believe it means wherever Rigby is now, she’s happy. Even if I’m wrong, and it’s not true, I’m going to keep believing that. Because that’s what I choose to think.”

  I waited for close to two hours. Because I really didn’t want to go knock on their door. Maybe he was talking to her, right then. Telling her how he felt. Or maybe he was crying, and she was holding him. I had no idea what was going on in there. I only knew I didn’t want to interrupt it
.

  But there was an obvious loose thread hanging, because they still had Sophie. And I had no idea if that was okay.

  “I’d better go see what’s what,” I said to my mom.

  I bundled up warm and walked all the way down the slippery, snowy driveway, because I didn’t want to knock on the back door, because the back room was Rachel’s guestroom. I slipped twice and fell on my butt on the steep part of the driveway, but I kept going.

  I walked up the front stairs, which was easy, because the tree tunnel had kept them pretty much free of snow.

  I paused. Wished like hell I didn’t have to knock.

  Knocked.

  Rachel answered the door.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” I said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I didn’t know about Sophie. I didn’t know if I should… What about Sophie? What’s she doing? Should I be trying to get her back?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me ask Paul. Come in.”

  I waited in the living room, dripping snow onto the mat by the door. They had a fire going strong in the woodstove, and it was warm. In my big jacket, I felt like I was suffocating, but I didn’t figure I’d be there long.

  Then she came back and said, “She’s just lying on the dog bed. She’s not causing any trouble. Paul says she can stay until she has to go to school.”

  “It’s Christmas vacation. She doesn’t have to go to school until January.”

  “Oh. Hold on.”

  I sweated by the fire for another minute or two. I wasn’t sure why Paul wasn’t coming out and talking to me himself. If I had to guess, I think he might have been more okay with crying in front of her than me. Which I guess seemed right to me, since they’d been friends for more than fifty years, and he loved her.

  She came back and said, “Paul says fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s being very well-behaved.”

  “I’m not sure why, but good.”

  “She’s acting like the dog is still here.”

  “Pretending, maybe.”

  “Or maybe the dog is still here in some way she can feel.”

  I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t. Because I had no idea what I thought about that.

  “Well, you know where to find me if there’s a problem.”

  I turned to go.

  “Don’t you want to go out the back way in this bad weather?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the back door?”

  “Because it’s your guestroom. I didn’t want to disturb your privacy.”

  She smiled with only one corner of her mouth. A lot like the way Paul sometimes did.

  “No wonder he likes you so much,” she said.

  In the morning, I woke up and started to jump out of bed. Force of habit. I was going to go help Paul get Rigby out to pee. I was already half sitting up, swinging the blankets off, when I remembered.

  I lay back down and covered up, and tried to understand the idea that there was no Rigby anymore, not anywhere in the world. That she’d gone from existing to not existing. I knew all about it in my head. But, in my gut, it didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

  When my father died, I’d spent months doing the same thing.

  Now here’s the weird part. It had been ten years since my father got killed, and I realized I still hadn’t made any progress with that. Oh, I was used to it. It didn’t surprise me or anything, and I accepted that it would always be that way. But in my gut, going from existing to not existing still didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

  I just didn’t get the whole dying thing. I wondered if everybody felt that way or just me.

  On the second full night after Rigby died, we heard a little rustling noise on the landing outside the apartment door. I was in bed, and so was my mom. I wasn’t asleep, though. I didn’t know about her.

  Until she said, “Did you hear that? What is that?”

  “I don’t know. Wild animal, maybe?”

  I waited, but she didn’t answer.

  So I said, “I should go look.”

  “No, don’t. It could be dangerous.”

  “I’ll put the chain on and peek out.”

  I got up, a little cold in just my pajamas and bare feet, and locked the safety chain and then opened the door just a crack. Sophie was waiting on all fours on the landing, her teeth chattering. Wearing the clothes I’d put her in that morning, but no coat. She must have gone out through the doggie door, and Paul and Rachel must not have known she was gone.

  I closed the door and undid the chain, then opened up wide, letting a blast of cold air in. Sophie wandered in and took up a spot on the rug, right where she used to lie with Rigby.

  “Huh,” my mom said.

  I sort of expected her to say more. But, really, I’m not sure what more there was to say.

  I rubbed Sophie’s little hands between mine until they warmed up, took off her sneakers and her pink socks, and rubbed her feet. Then I covered her up with a spare blanket and left her there to sleep.

  A few days after that, at about ten o’clock in the morning, Rachel came to the door of our apartment to tell me she was leaving and to say goodbye. Fortunately, my mom was at work. It was just Sophie, lying on the rug, and me.

  “I could have stayed longer,” she said. “But it’s been six days, and I think he’s all right. I think he just needs time to process. You know. Alone. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s getting sick of me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” I said.

  “You know how he is. A bit of a loner.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She looked at me strangely. “You don’t agree?”

  “I think he might be changing. Some, anyway. So… six days. That’s a nice long visit. You must have had plenty of time to talk.”

  I watched her face for a moment. But she didn’t know what I was talking about. It was a disappointment I could feel all down through my chest, like I was a sword swallower. I thought, Why can’t he just tell her?

  Not that I thought it was easy or anything. But I would have done it by then, and I’m the world’s worst spaz about things like that. Well. About everything.

  “We talked, yes,” she said. “Mostly about the dog. But different things. Nothing special. Why? Was there something else?”

  “No. Not really. I just… I know what good friends you two are. And how much it meant to him to have you here. Do you want to come in? It’s cold, and I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No, I really should go,” she said. “I don’t have the best night vision, so I want to get home before dark. But before I go, I want to tell you how much it means to me to have you here. I feel so much better leaving him here, knowing you’re here to help.”

  “How’s his back?”

  “Getting a little better.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and I knew she was ready to go.

  So, nice and fast, before she could get away, I said, “You should come visit more often.”

  “I’d like that. But I can only come up as often as Paul invites me.”

  “I think he wants to invite you more. But I think he feels like maybe it’s imposing… to ask you. So if you ever wanted to suggest it…”

  She looked into my face for a long moment, like she’d lost something there. I looked down at the snowy landing. I was worried I’d said too much. Given too much away.

  “I just might do that,” she said. “Maybe I will. Happy New Year.”

  Then she kissed me on the forehead and headed out down the stairs, being careful not to slip.

  I watched her and thought it was no wonder Paul was in love with her. If I was in my sixties, I figured I’d probably be in love with her, too. She was one of those women who just almost made it too easy to fall.

  “Happy New Year,” I called after her.

  At first, I left Paul alone. I wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted me to. But we had a phone by then. And he didn’t exact
ly live far away. So I figured he’d let me know if he wanted company.

  He called me in the early evening about three or four days after Rachel left. Asked me if I wanted to play a few hands of Gin.

  “Anytime,” I said. “Always. I just didn’t want to bug you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But now would be good.”

  “I’d have to bring Sophie. My mom is out with her friend Jenna from work.”

  “Not a problem. Back door’s open. Just come in.”

  So I picked my way down the snowy, icy driveway and up his back stairs. Holding Sophie’s hand so she wouldn’t fall. I led her through the back door and the back bedroom, and then she pulled her hand out of mine and ran to Rigby’s old dog bed and curled up tight.

  Paul showed up in the bedroom doorway with me, and we watched her for a minute.

  “I’m glad you didn’t get rid of it,” I said.

  “Sophie was a good excuse, but really, I think it would have broken my heart if I’d had to throw it away.”

  “Maybe you’ll get another dog sometime.”

  “Maybe.” We watched her in silence for a minute. Then he said, “What do you think Sophie would think of a new dog?”

  “Pretty sure she’d hate him. And that we’d have to protect him from her.”

  “Oh. Well. Cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  We wandered into his kitchen and sat down at the table. He’d set a glass of iced tea by my plate, which was my favorite. He made good iced tea.

  He shuffled the cards.

  “So,” I said. “You got lonely.”

  He looked up from the shuffling like it required a lot of concentration and I’d distracted him.

  “Did I? I thought I just got bored.”

  “You never got bored when Rigby was around.”

  “Oh. Good point, I guess.”

  He dealt the cards, and I reached out and put my hand on his arm before he could pick up his hand.

  “Wait, don’t look at your cards yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “How about if we play for money?”

  He looked into my face, his eyes dancing with this weird amusement that might have been partly critical. “Money? Since when do you have money to burn?”

  “I don’t. I only get ten dollars allowance a week.”