by Nick Trout
If I shuffle across the seat to the window I can see Ethel and her dog, still standing at the pay phone. “I can take a message,” I say.
A pause. I see Ethel dithering. “You sure?”
“Of course.”
“See, I want her to order me some more of that food you gave me for Kai. Now I’m not saying it’s working or anything, but I am saying he will eat it. At least he did this evening. And there’s no point in trying it if you lot run out.”
I bite my lower lip to keep the smile inside. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Silverman, I’ll make sure we order in enough for the next few weeks, enough to find out whether it works or not.”
“Well just you be sure to do that,” she says, and before I can add another word, she hangs up.
Outside the window I can see a young husky making a yellow connect-the-dots drawing in the snow before his owner drags him off down the street. Inside the diner people are chatting, enjoying their food. On the wall next to me there’s a framed black-and-white photo of the Three Stooges and a sunlight-weathered poster for Moxie Cream Soda.
Mom refused to have soda in the house, but here in this diner she’d weaken and treat me to a Moxie.
Knife and fork in hand, I tuck in.
“Room for dessert?” asks Amy, picking up my empty plate.
I meet her eyes. Actually that’s not quite right. My gaze fixes on her left eye and then moves to her right.
“We do great pies. Boston cream, chocolate cream, coconut cream, lemon meringue, apple.”
I should be going, but some part of my brain is reaching out to another part, making connections, willing me to find reasons to stick around.
“Maybe another time,” I say, silencing the fickle chatter inside my head. “I really should be going.” The berserk snowplow barrels past the window, spraying up another wall of slush. “That guy’s nuts. Who is he?”
“Oh, that’s Skippy,” says Amy. “Skippy De Tora. Usually rides around with his cat on his lap.”
“His cat?”
She nods. “The Chairman,” she says, barely pausing to add, “Chairman Meow.”
We look at one another and let our eyebrows do the talking. I end up staring a little too long.
“What?” asks Amy, but in a gentle, curious way.
“Sorry … it’s just your eyes … they’re really …” She’s waiting, and as I try to find the right word the noise around us seems to recede. “Unusual. They’re really unusual.”
If I didn’t know better I’d say her features switched from momentary concern to something approaching relief, even pleasure, as though Amy actually approved of me avoiding a compliment.
“Thanks,” she says, adding, “I guess.”
“Presumably you were born with two blue eyes and, in early childhood, one turned brown. No history of trauma to the eye?”
“That’s right. So you know as much about humans as you do animals, Doc?”
At first I’m confused until I realize that she must know that I am the new veterinarian in town. Of course she does, this is Eden Falls.
“What,” she says, “you thought I thought you were a lobster fisherman?”
Amy laughs, tugs on the front of her uniform, reminding me that I’m dressed like I’m headed for the Atlantic Ocean. I grimace and pull the itchy woolen collar away from my neck. Chief Matt is leaning into the low backrest of the booth. He’s been playing with his second slice of pie, biding his time, listening in to what the stranger is saying that his girl is finding so funny.
“Anyway, here’s the bill.”
I pull out cash and hand it over.
“You need change?”
“No, that’s for you,” I say, realizing too late that a tip of close to 50 percent is far more than I can afford and embarrassingly conspicuous for a local diner.
“Thanks,” she says, stuffing the bills into her breast pocket. “Welcome to Eden Falls. And please, do come again.”
I watch her glide away to another table. Was that the promise of another big tip speaking or does she genuinely want to see me again? A sensible inner monologue is quick to point out that romance will not pay my credit card debt, stave off eviction from my rented apartment in Charleston, or generate the cash I need to appease the money-hungry Mr. Critchley by week’s end. Besides, I haven’t been out on a date for years let alone engaged in anything approaching a romantic entanglement. Way too awkward.
Extricating myself from the booth, I walk straight past the Chief. I can see his reflection in the glass of the diner’s front door. He’s watching Amy, who looks up to see me go.
The world outside sucks the air from my lungs, the cold feasting on my nose, ears, and cheeks after the genial glow of the diner. Winter wonderland. More like polar purgatory! I cross the street and my pager goes off for a second time. I thought Lewis said he forgets he’s even on call.
I’m past the pay phone—no Ethel Silverman. I dial the number on my cell.
“Hi, this is Dr. Mills, someone paged me.”
“Doc, it’s me.” It’s a woman and she’s clearly on edge. “Denise, remember. Tina, my cat, she’s like, in labor. I think she needs a C-section.”
I hear the plea for help and I hope I kept the four-letter expletive on the inside of my head, but I’m not sure.
“Where are you?”
“I’m driving over to your place. I’m like, five minutes away.”
This time I’m certain the curse gets away from me. “Sorry about that. Look … um … don’t worry. I’ll be waiting for you. Denise?” Denise is no longer on the line.
I check my wristwatch, it’s just after nine. Crap. This is not happening. Doc Lewis is still at least an hour away. Jogging back to the clinic, opting for the superior traction of the plowed street over the glassy sidewalk, I’m beginning to pant when a couple of headlights appear from somewhere behind me, lighting up my path. I stick out an arm to wave them past and the snow suddenly turns a brilliant blue. There’s a whoop-whoop sound from a siren, and over my shoulder I see a police vehicle.
The driver’s-side window powers down. “Everything okay?”
Chief Matt actually sounds genuinely concerned. “You look like you’re in a hurry to get somewhere.”
“I’m trying to get back to the clinic. I have a client with an emergency waiting for me.”
The cop studies me. It’s pitch-black out, but I feel like a skunk wandering around in the daytime and he’s trying to figure out whether I’m rabid or not.
“Hop in,” he says. “I’ll give you a ride.”
I thank him, come around to the passenger side, and a thought crosses my mind. Just like Amy, he never asked who I was, which suggests he already knows.
“Thanks,” I say again. “Appreciate it. I’m Cyrus, Cyrus Mills.”
I offer my hand and we shake. No two ways about it, the man who teased and taunted me through some of my most formative years has turned into a handsome devil, like a model that stepped off the cover of a romance novel, like Fabio only balding. With the interior light on and not yet faded away, the Chief takes a closer look, far more than I might expect with a casual how-do-you-do. If he’s going to recognize me, now’s his chance.
“Matt Devito. Have we met?”
Say hello to my little friend.
“Don’t think so. Not unless you’ve been to South Carolina.”
Matt Devito has to think about this, as if he’s wondering whether he might have been on a road trip and maybe we bumped into one another at Shoney’s or Popeye’s. He shakes off the notion, waits for me to belt up, and guns it. I’m reckoning this ride will take ninety seconds, if that.
“Must be strange for you, moving this far north? All the snow, the cold?”
“Yes.” I think he’s hoping for more, but I’m playing hard to get.
“Doc Lewis has been talking about finding just the right person to replace Doc Cobb. You think you’re the one?”
Another one who said “Doc Cobb,” not “your father.” I feign
deliberation, trying to buy some time. “Maybe.”
I catch him nodding to himself. “Won’t be easy to fit in. This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”
He makes this synopsis of life in Eden Falls feel slightly menacing, like I’m trying to join an exclusive club and there’s really no chance that I’ll be accepted, so I shouldn’t even bother. I wonder if this is really his way of warning me off Amy.
We turn into the practice’s parking lot.
“Appreciate it,” I say, getting out and feeling the same sense of relief I felt in high school when I got to keep my lunch money or avoided a swirly.
“Be seeing you,” says Devito, but it sounds more like, I’ll be keeping my eye on you.
“Right,” I say, and before I can close the door, we both catch sight of Denise extricating herself from her VW.
“Ah, I see the very pregnant Ms. Laroche needs your help.” Devito leans my way. “Don’t expect to be paid.” He fixes me with arching dark eyebrows, as though I should consider myself warned, before wheel-spinning out of the lot. I’m left standing in a cloud of oily blue smog.
“Sorry,” says Denise as I approach. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing,” I say, reaching for Tina and taking Denise by the elbow. “Let’s get inside and have a look at her.”
In the examination room I spread a clean towel on the table and place Tina down on top of it. The cat is trembling and weak, happy to let her head fall flat.
“She’s exhausted,” I say.
Denise appears too afraid to speak. I will myself to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. I couldn’t feel more awkward, but I’m sure this is what Lewis would do.
“I need to find out what’s going on inside her.”
Denise nods and makes a hollow sucking sound within her mouth as she ravages a piece of pink gum between her molars. “I didn’t leave it too late, did I?”
I don’t have an answer so I just reach for a sterile pair of gloves and what seems to be the obligatory tube of K-Y. Denise cradles Tina’s head as I lift up the cat’s tail and carefully insert a lubricated pinky finger into a tight birth canal. Instantly, I make a startling discovery—claws. Tiny, soft, and perfectly formed claws. Gently I push a little farther, feeling an ankle and a knee.
“She’s breached,” I say.
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean the kitten’s coming out backward.”
“Is that bad?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s common for kittens and puppies to come out back end first.” Thankfully I read the entire chapter on small animal birthing disorders while no one showed up for appointments.
“So don’t you have to cut her open and, like, pull the kitten out or something?”
Denise notices me glancing at my wristwatch. It’s not even nine fifteen.
“In theory, yes.”
I watch the expression on Denise’s face ratchet up from concern to distress. I’m guessing she was hoping for a more confident, decisive answer. The thing is the literature on this subject is perfectly clear—Obstruction of the birth canal, regardless of cause, is an indication for cesarean section—but I dare not anesthetize this cat let alone put scalpel to skin. Just because I know all there is to know about a recipe, doesn’t mean it will turn out like it was cooked by Martha Stewart. And that stupid idiom, See one, do one, teach one, is about as useful as snapping my fingers and shouting Hey Presto. I’m a doctor with zero surgical dexterity and no previous experience.
“Don’t,” screams Denise. “Please, please don’t look afraid.”
I guess I wasn’t doing such a great job of hiding my fear. It’s not her panic that gets to me but the disappointment broadcast from eyes embellished by black eyeliner. And unlike so many other difficult times in my life there’s the certainty that this time I cannot turn my back or wriggle out of this one. A mixture of guilt and shame threatens to overwhelm me, and it seems as though the best, the only thing I can do is to come clean.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” I admit.
Though I didn’t think it possible, Denise’s expression amps up to bewilderment.
“Shut up,” she shouts. “You’re, like … old. How can Tina be the first pregnant cat you’ve ever seen?”
“I’m saying I’ve never delivered kittens myself. In fact, I’ve never seen it done.” Then, purely to provide clarification, I add, “But I have read about it.”
Tina’s eyes are closed. Denise continues to stroke her cat’s head with bitten and cuticle-chewed fingers, the pace more frantic than soothing. For a while we say nothing, our collective silence interrupted by the rhythmic smack of gum. I can smell something fruity, maybe watermelon.
“Okay,” she says, as though a period of rumination has helped her come to a decision. “Then we’re still good, right? I mean you’re still up for this?”
I peer into a young face full of artificial holes pierced with shiny metal, but what I see is a kid smart enough to recognize pity as wasted energy. I reckon this girl with no horizon lives in a permanent state of worry, yet she does so with a stubborn conviction that everything will eventually be okay. When was the last time her life went according to plan? What she’s really saying is, You’re all Tina and I have got, so step up.
“You ever seen Gone With the Wind?” I ask.
“No. What kind of music do they play?”
I’ll pretend she didn’t say that. “It’s a movie, actually, and in it there’s a line: You cannot be brave without being scared.”
From the puzzled expression on Denise’s face, I’m guessing she didn’t get it.
“In answer to your question, sure, I’m still up for this.” I say this not because I want to, but because we both know I have no choice.
Denise digs deep and makes me feel buoyed by her gritty smile.
I grab a urinary catheter, a long, soft, red rubber tube that would normally be threaded into the bladder to divert urine out of the body. In this instance, I’m inserting it into the birth canal and using it to inject boatloads of lubricant around the back legs of the kitten. The concept is simple, like extricating the kid who gets his head stuck between metal railings. With everything slippery and slick there’s less chance our little furry friend will get hooked up. The trouble is I still need Mom to help out with a grunt and a push, and judging by the way Tina’s head has flopped into Denise’s hand, I’m pretty sure this little cat is going to need much more than words of encouragement to bear down.
“I’ll give her a shot. See if that helps.”
I consider oxytocin, the hormone that increases the frequency of uterine contractions, but if the fetus is truly obstructed, oxytocin is absolutely contraindicated because it risks tearing the uterus. Instead I opt for an injection of calcium gluconate. It’s probably less effective, but it might help with the force of uterine contractions and it’s a whole lot safer. I keep my pathetic, ulterior motive to myself: a basic need to feel like I’m actually doing something.
For the next few minutes I keep busy, placing an intravenous catheter, giving Tina fluids, monitoring her pulses and her breathing. The whole time Denise offers a whispered abiding promise that we will not let Tina down.
“It’s not working. How much longer are you gonna wait?”
Once again, I heed Lewis’s sage advice on how best to handle the pet owners of Eden Falls.
“You’re right. I thought the calcium shot might have kicked in by now, but Tina’s giving us nothing.” Again I check my watch. Damn, still not nine thirty.
“She’s getting so weak, I can tell, she’s… .”
And that’s it. That’s all she’s got. Denise has reached the breaking point. The fight has ebbed from her voice. She’s done pretending to cope, trying to be strong, make believing everything’s going to be okay. I look on as the hard glass exterior of this young girl shatters and the tears come.
At point-blank range, the expectant grief of this expectant mothe
r slices through my defenses. For the better part of my life, when someone cries for help, I’ve been the guy who dials 911. Here and now, Denise and Tina need me to be the guy who doesn’t think, who simply acts, who tears off his jacket and runs into the burning building.
“Let me have one more try,” I say, putting on a new pair of gloves. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll perform a C-section.”
The dangers of trying to pull a newborn kitten out of the birth canal had been highlighted in Lewis’s textbook, as though one reader had learned the hard way, having gone too far. Fetal limbs are too fragile to handle anything more than the gentlest form of traction. Pull too hard and the kitten will tear apart. Or the mom.
I look to the heavens as I sense the fourth and pinky finger of my right hand separating oh so slightly and between them I can feel two feet, two ankles, and two knees. This is new. Tina must have pushed because her kitten has slid about another centimeter or two into the birth canal. I glance over at Tina’s pointy little face and see her eyes are shut tight. I pray she’s still in this.
“Come on, Tina, come on sweetheart, just a little more.”
I begin to air my inner monologue.
Traction is only advised if the veterinarian can position his fingertips around the fetus’s shoulders or hips.
Denise leans into the table, her face in Tina’s face. “Please, Tina, please,” she whispers, big tears dripping onto her cat’s whiskers, causing Tina to snuffle and grunt. Believe me, it’s hard to tell, but I think something has moved, no, something has definitely moved because right now I can touch something firm and bony. It could be a hip. I give it the tiniest tug imaginable.
And it’s like flipping a switch. Tina is back from the dead, raising her head, meowing, pushing with purpose, and I withdraw just in time to catch a lifeless black blob with pink feet.
Denise and I are frozen, unable to move. We look on as maternal instinct kicks in and Tina gets busy with her barbed pink tongue, chewing off membranes, licking life into the kitten. As I register the soft sound of newborn crying I realize that I am actually basking in a state of wonder, amazed that I can still feel amazed by what I am supposed to do for a living. I did nothing, yet the sight of this tiny angry creature tells me that somehow I did enough. In the deep and complicated relationship that exists between this frightened young girl and her best friend, I, a complete stranger, a transient nobody, have somehow inserted myself into this small but precious moment, a moment the three of us will forever share, a moment that against all expectations, I know I’ll treasure.
