by Nick Trout
Is this what Lewis meant? Is this what I left behind? Empathy?
“You didn’t answer me,” says Harry, ignoring the tears and mucus and fur plastered across his face.
“What?”
“I asked about what we could do.”
“Right. Well, it’s not coming out through her mouth,” I say. “Way too risky trying to grab it and yank it backward. Something’s going to rip or tear. I can call around and try to find a surgeon who’s prepared to open her chest, take it out that way, but I’m guessing it will have to wait until tomorrow.”
“She won’t last until tomorrow. She’s ready to leave me. I can see it in her eyes.”
“Then, I’m sorry to say, there’s not much else I can do.”
Amy steps closer to me. “That’s it. You’re giving up.”
I look over at Harry. His eyes are pinched shut, but they’re still leaking tears. I lower my voice. “First do no harm, you know?”
Her heterochromic eyes come into some kind of focus on mine, penetrating and resolute. “ ‘Strong reasons make strong actions.’ ”
She pauses, maybe for effect. Truth is she didn’t need to say a word. What lies behind her stare says it all. It’s the push I need.
“Shakespeare?”
She nods. “King John.”
No time to comment on her impressive knowledge of the more obscure works of the Bard. “It might be possible to push the bone into the stomach.”
Her eyes narrow, chin tilting up and to the right.
“But it’ll still be stuck inside her,” she says. “How long before it gets hung up on another part of her guts?”
I shrug. “Stomach acid and digestive enzymes should be able to break it down. I’m more worried about what will happen if I try to make it move.”
“A tear?” Amy whispers.
I nod.
“Fatal?”
“If untreated, yes.”
She straightens up, looks over at Harry and Clint. “Give me a moment.”
I watch her go to Harry, fishing for tissues in her coat pocket, easing him away from his dog, enough to wipe down his raw cheeks and silver-stubbled chin. They talk quietly for a few minutes, fear and trust and pain and love bouncing back and forth between them until they embrace in a hug that has Harry crying again.
“We want you to try,” Amy says. She strokes a finger below her right eyelid, the brown one, before I can say for sure that a single tear got away from her.
I come over to Harry, and do something rash, something I would never ordinarily do. I reach out, place my hands on both his shoulders, and squeeze. When Lewis held me at my mother’s graveside, he couldn’t stop the pain, but what he could do was make a physical contact that let me know his intent to try. After what happened today, it’s dangerous for me to look too long into the old man’s milky blues, so I’m quick to pull back.
“I need something long enough to get down there.”
“What are we talking?” Amy asks.
I come around to the front of the table, touch the tip of Clint’s dry nose with one index finger and, like a tailor measuring for a suit, stretch my other index finger down to the back of her rib cage.
“Couple of feet. And I need something perfectly smooth, no rough edges, something round, tubular but not too big in diameter.”
“What about a length of garden hose?” Harry asks.
“Probably not stiff enough. I need something more rigid.”
“What about a broom handle?” Amy asks.
And for some reason, the cogs interdigitate, the wheels turn, and something inside my head falls into place. “Hang on a minute.” I disappear through the waiting room, the unused storage room, and go down to the basement. I need the roof rake, or should I say, I need one of the individual tubular aluminum segments that make up the roof rake.
Lewis has put it back where he found it. I grab a segment, a hacksaw hanging over the workbench ( just in case it’s too long) and yes, I glance over at that empty space where the collage of photos used to hang. It’s enough to imagine the only smile my father left behind, the one I get to keep, the one with his eyes half closed, the one that makes me think to ask, what would you do, Dad?
I make a silent promise to hang it someplace where I can seek his advice on a regular basis. Force him to be there for the tough calls, the difficult cases. What would he make of Clint? I’ve got nothing, but for today I’m going to believe that he’d want me to have a go.
“I think this might work,” I say, handing a segment to Amy for her inspection. “Light, strong, nice diameter. Put some strips of white tape over the cut end and make sure there’s no sharp edges.”
I realize too late that I’ve given an order, as if I’m her boss and Amy’s a fully trained veterinary technician. I’m relieved when she goes along with it. “Harry, I need your help placing a catheter. Okay?”
Harry nods, and it strikes me that I should have done this sooner, started Clint on fluids, got Harry involved and distracted and doing something physical to help his best friend. It’s also better to be working with him and not Amy, so I don’t have to feel her scrutiny as my hands shake, blowing a vein in Clint’s right foreleg before I manage to get it in on the left.
“This do?”
Amy hands me the tube and I check her work, the way she’s cushioned the end that must coax the bone into Clint’s stomach. “Feels good. Here, hold this bag as high as you can and squeeze it as hard as you can.”
I pass her a liter bag of warm fluids that’s hooked up and running into Clint’s vein. I want to get it into Clint’s circulation as fast as possible. “Okay. She’s pretty out of it, but I’m sure she’s going to fight this tube going down. I’m going to give her a little something to keep her calm.”
I find the drawer containing the anesthetic agents—what little we have left—and pull out a small bottle of what looks like milk. I read the drug dosage information written on the label, guesstimate Clint’s weight, and draw up the appropriate volume in a syringe.
“What’s that?” asks Amy.
“Propofol.”
Nothing registers on Harry’s face, but Amy’s eyebrows are up like hackles. “Propofol. Isn’t that the stuff that killed Michael Jackson?”
There’s not much that gets past Amy. “Look, I don’t want her to struggle or panic. I’m going to titrate it very carefully.”
I say this casually, with certainty, like a doctor in control, even though Amy has unsettled me. I don’t know if I’m actually prepared for what I’m about to do. I’m not sure I will ever be. I pull over our antiquated anesthetic machine with its supply of oxygen and grab a selection of tubes to place in Clint’s airway if she decides to stop breathing for herself. There are probably a dozen other things I should be doing, and the fact that this is the only preparation that comes to mind does little to improve my confidence. “Right then, you want to stay, Harry, or you want to take a seat in the waiting room?”
Harry shakes his head and hugs Clint a little tighter.
“That’s fine, but maybe you can pat her back end. Amy, I need you to hold her head up, neck outstretched as far as you can go, giving me a straight shot down her throat.”
Amy does as she is told and I inject a small amount of milky liquid into the catheter in her vein, wait ten seconds, and see how Clint relaxes into Amy’s grip. I press a finger down on what’s left of Clint’s rock-chewed incisors and appreciate the slack jaw of a semiconscious dog.
Pulling Clint’s tongue toward me I push the aluminum tube dripping with K-Y jelly into the back of her throat, gently advancing it down and down. It keeps going and Clint’s not swallowing or fighting and her color looks fine, and Amy’s eyes begin to widen, as though I’m performing some bizarre sword-swallowing trick with her grandfather’s dog and suddenly, I stop.
“I think I’m there,” I say, sniffing the open end of the tube in my hand. I inhale deeply, drawing in the fetid air of rotten tissue that tells me I’m in the right place. I
wince.
“Now what?” asks Harry, his head turned away, his arms clutching Clint around her hips as though he thinks she might be about to buck and leap off the table.
I’m not listening. I’m feeling. I have no point of reference for what I’m about to do but I close my eyes and see a shard of pork chop bumping up against the end of my aluminum tube. I poke it, feel its resistance, and know I can’t coax it, can’t simply persuade it to let go and drop into the stomach, so I push, I push hard, harder than I ever imagined possible.
I wonder if Harry notices the way Clint has come around enough to squirm, to fight whatever it is I’m doing to her. I wonder if Amy thinks she hears the rip, the bone driven into Clint’s chest, bouncing off the inside of the dog’s rib cage, a fermenting broth of bacteria basting her heart and lungs. The thing is, they don’t feel what I feel, a distinctive pop, and then Clint letting go with a moan of relief as the resistance disappears, the bone pushed on and into her stomach.
I have the tube out of her throat in seconds. “I think I did it. I felt it go.”
Amy’s expression tells me she doesn’t know whether I’m talking about a tear in the esophagus or the bone being pushed into the stomach.
Harry hears none of this ambiguity. He’s up and coming toward me, the look on his face already telling me his version. “She’s all set, right?”
“Maybe … I don’t know. We should take another X-ray to make sure I didn’t cause any damage.”
“I thought you said you might not find a leak even if there is one,” says Amy.
“I did, but I was talking about the liquid barium. Now I’m talking about air. If there’s a tear, air will get through where the bone used to be. We should see it on the X-ray.”
Harry can’t believe it, can’t believe it’s not over, that there’s still another hurdle to jump. He reaches out to the exam table for support.
“Give me a hand.” Once more Amy helps me to position Clint and once more I run the film. Clint seems to be hanging in there, not better, not worse, but who knows what gore exists deep inside. It’s got to be the longest four minutes of my life. I can’t imagine how long it feels for Harry.
When the film finally falls from the processor, I don’t want to touch it. It’s like the letter from the college of your dreams—acceptance or rejection—about to change your life either way, and though you want to rip it open you’re hanging on to this moment, this now, because it might be the only hope you have left.
I pick up the film, clear a space on the viewing box, and Amy slides in on my right, Harry actually leaving Clint’s side to hover on my left. The three of us share the silence as I put the image up on the screen.
No one speaks. If they’re looking at me, I don’t notice because tunnel vision makes everything fade to black except the shades of gray inside Clint’s chest. Overall impressions distort into details, what I can’t see more important than what I can. I can’t see black striations, black commas, black pockets, black bubbles, or black lines. But beyond this moment, and most important of all, my mind’s eye does not see an old man sitting next to an empty dog bed where his best friend used to lie.
“Looks good,” I say, as though that’s it, no big deal, just another day at the office when what I really feel is the crash, the aftermath of adrenaline being turned off, the switch thrown. And for the second time today I want to drop to my knees.
Harry’s on me like a long-lost relative, hugging me to him. My arms are trapped by my side and his tears run down my neck. I’m looking over at Amy. She hesitates, takes me in as I’m being bear-hugged to death by her grandfather, and an understated delight begins to shape her lips. I don’t know how best to describe it.
Harry releases his grip and moves past me, back to Clint. He’s in her face. “You’re going to be fine, my love. I might never forgive myself, but you’re going to be fine.”
I join him. “I’m going to continue her on fluids, start some antibiotics, antacids, and give her something for the pain.”
Harry looks up at me, and I can tell there’s no point in me trying to warn him that we need to keep a close eye on her for the next couple of days.
“Doc, tell me, what can I do to thank you?”
I look down at him, clinging to his dog, relief written across his face, and I think to myself, you just did, this moment, this scene, this memory, it’s all the thanks I will ever need.
Then, as I sense Amy closing in behind me, a reckless idea begins to evolve and I find myself cupping a hand to Harry’s ear.
“You could convince your granddaughter to come out to dinner with me.”
20
D-Day has finally arrived, and in my world the D could stand for dreaded, debt-ridden, or doom, take your pick. Somehow, by close of business, Bedside Manor needs to have generated enough income in my first week on the job to fend off the money-grubbing Mr. Critchley and his repo men from Green State Bank. And by my reckoning, despite the hush money from Crystal Haggerty, we’re still not even close.
Not that I’ve given up. I’ve managed to establish a new line of credit with our medical supply company. I’ve signed a new maintenance contract for the X-ray and the anesthetic equipment. I’ve convinced the medical waste facility to give us a second chance. Doris swears she’s making headway with the bad debt, doing what she does best—badgering. I’ve got three estimates pending from contractors to convert the supply room into a second exam room. I’ve got Clint curled in my lap, her tail keeping a beat as she devours a slurry of liquidized dog food as if it were filet mignon. And, last but not least, I’ve got a seven-thirty dinner reservation for two at the Inn at Falls View Farm.
To be honest, this positive attitude has nothing to do with dreamy notions of a financial miracle in my future or Critchley saying, “Hey, no worries, you can slide another week.” It’s driven by Lewis, and the way he seemed irrationally undaunted by the prospect of failing to make our good faith payment or taking on more credit when I discussed my plans with him this morning. “Doris tells me I’m busy, booked solid, so do what you need to do, but make sure you’re around to see your cases later this afternoon.”
He had folded his arms across his chest and delivered a stiff downward nod, like a father who insists his son get home before curfew. I didn’t question the demand or his confidence in our future beyond close of business today. I assured him I’d be there. Even if I still feared the waiting room would remain as empty as always whenever it was my turn to be on duty.
By three o’clock, convinced I’m on a roll, I take a shot at redemption. I drive out to the home of Ginny Weidmeyer. And don’t think this new outward vitality makes my fears and foibles any less. I’m still bracing for the call from the Vermont State Veterinary Board and still haven’t heard any word from Brendon Small regarding Frieda. If the last twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s the realization that “out of sight, out of mind” is a Band-Aid on a wound that needs to be stitched up. I was the veterinary pathologist who embraced an isolation that deadened his pain. But the past is a bully who always circles back, picking away at the weakness of an easy mark. Eventually you can’t ignore it, leaving you with two options—run away, or face it head-on. Facing Ginny Weidmeyer is the right thing to do, and besides, I need all the practice I can get learning to say “I’m sorry.”
Lewis told me he left several messages with Ginny but she hadn’t called him back, and as I reach the ornate fountain outside the mansion I see it’s no longer running, Triton’s gaping maw is now dripping with icicles. The black Range Rover with the ONFYA license plate is gone.
Have Ginny, Chelsea, and Steven absconded to St. Barts? Leave the unpleasantries to the lawyers?
I ring the doorbell. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik has been replaced by the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.
The door opens and there’s Ginny—immaculate makeup, cashmere sweater, cheerful silk scarf around her neck—with Chelsea in her arms.
“Ms. Weidmeyer, you’re here … sorry
… I thought you might be … I should have called, but I wanted to tell you in person how very sorry I am about what …”
Ginny raises a hand, stopping me in my tracks, but it comes over as a polite request. “Come in, Cyrus. I need to show you something.”
Her use of my first name is not lost on me, neither is the sadness in her voice as she leads me to a different sofa in front of a different fireplace in her country club of a living room.
“Sit down and take a look at this.” She pats a cushion next to her. I do as I’m told as she opens the lid on a laptop, angling the screen my way. The screen is divided into four images of high-definition, surveillance camera footage. There’s the white rug in front of a fireplace, the bottom of a king-size bed, an aerial view of a room full of saddles and bridles, and a tiled floor featuring food and water bowls.
“These are the four most likely places to find Chelsea at any given time. When I’m out, all I have to do is check my cell phone. Usually I just use real time, but I went back to see what had been recorded.” She presses a button on the keypad. “The screen in the bottom right-hand corner.”
A digital clock and calendar tells me it’s from two mornings ago. There’s a hand picking up a bowl and returning it to the floor a few seconds later piled high with brown, meaty mounds of canned cat food. Chelsea pounces as soon as it hits the floor.
“Doesn’t look much like dry prescription cat food, does it?” She closes the lid, places the laptop off to one side, and turns to me. Ginny holds Chelsea like a mother cradles a child, the cat facing the other way, resting her furry chin on Ginny’s shoulder. I think of the pictures in the collage, of Ruth carrying me, so instinctive for a mother, so strange for a cat, and yet Chelsea seems to have come to appreciate the security of this embrace, come to love it even. She purrs into the palm of Ginny’s left hand, and I realize it’s missing. The engagement ring is gone.
