A Christmas Rescue

by Diane Michaels

  I came to Australia to take care of my grandmother, yet everyone I’ve met has made my wellbeing their business. Jojo is the only person I ever reveal my secrets to, and trust me when I say we still keep many, many secrets from each other. Discussing bodily functions and other private matters is not normal for my family and friends. Even thinking about intimate topics is not normal for me.

  How did my grandmother arrive at the conclusion Brett is the cause of my problems? I’ve told her next to nothing about him and made sure what I did share painted our relationship in the best possible light. Our most recent conversation was reassuring, too. I can’t blame him for my propensity to procrastinate whenever I sit down to work.

  “Whatcha thinking?” Taara sets a full glass of Prosecco in front of me, and I take a greedy gulp of it.

  “I’m just imagining ways to decorate Xave’s property for the fundraiser.”

  “We love that you’ve taken such an interest in the shelter, but don’t go crazy planning our event. I’ll admit your ideas for coordinating the food are better than what we’ve done in the past, but the rest doesn’t need to be fancy. Keep the mood fun.”

  “For me, planning is fun. I’ve been gathering ideas in a scrapbook for my wedding since I was sixteen.”

  She pulls away from the table, raising an eyebrow. “Before you had a groom?”

  Jojo reacted the same way when I first showed her the binder I bought in high school. But now she’s used to hearing me prattle on about color schemes and hors d’oeuvres. “The groom isn’t always involved with a lot of it. I’ll add in details to suit Brett when the day comes, but I love daydreaming about table decorations and menus. I’m dying to throw a huge party.”

  “Better you than me. If I ever get married, it will be simple and come together in the moment.”

  “You, Xavier, my grandmother, you’re all so Zen. I feel lost without a plan.”

  Taara takes the last sip of her wine. “But what happens if your plans don’t work out? Or if you discover the life you’ve planned isn’t the one you want?”

  I’m still thirsty even after I drain my glass. “I know who I am. I’m not worried.”

  My hands cover the spot on my chest where my grandmother found my heart chakra. My heart rate is higher than normal. It has to be the endless internal searching everyone has me doing. None of them is a close friend of mine, which is why hearing their observations and odd bits of advice is setting me off-kilter. I’ve never been so unsure about my life, and I blame my trip to Australia for messing with my head.

  CHAPTER 14

  The plans for the fundraiser are coming along well. Much better than my translations for my actual paid job. I’ve made some progress, especially after the grilling from Grandma the other day, but I’m still struggling to rally any sort of enthusiasm. I mean, working at a computer to translate the use of a car’s steering system versus snuggling with Xena, the baby possum? I’m sure I’m not the only person who would choose the latter.

  It’s another sweltering day, and I dream of going back to the beach. Xave told me most people around town have swimming pools, but apparently that doesn’t apply to the properties in the immediate vicinity. He did say I was welcome to take advantage of his outdoor bath and shower anytime I wanted. I assume he means while I wear a swimsuit, but who knows with the people out here?

  I haven’t seen his house yet, apart from the outside. There’s been no reason for me to go in there, as most of my interactions with him have been professional. Well, sort of. I never put sunblock on my boss’s back in Michigan. I can’t seem to forget that afternoon, and it makes me feel a little guilty that I had so much fun without Brett.

  My boyfriend has called once more since our last conversation, and it was nice. It did verge on impersonal, with us exchanging stories about our various adventures since we’ve been apart, but I still felt good about it. I feel good about us. When I get home, I’ll suggest we immediately start looking at new places together. He might even be able to get out of his current sublet.

  I finish up all my work at the shelter for the day and head back to Grandma’s house. She’s made up a jug of something and is sitting on the patio sipping a glass.

  “Help yourself,” she says, motioning to the jug. “It’s Pimm’s Punch.”

  “Thank you. I think I will.” I head inside and drink a glass of water before I go back and fill it up with punch. I sit beside Grandma and take a long sip.

  “This is perfect. Am I going to get drunk if I have more than one of these?”

  “You might,” she says, smiling. “But we don’t have to go anywhere, so there’s no harm in getting a little tipsy.”

  I’ve avoided any deep and meaningful conversations with my grandmother since she told me to… um, “release the tension” in my body, but today I’m feeling a little more open-minded.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “Wonderful. How about you?”

  “I’m fine. But I was referring to your injury. Are you keeping up with your rehabilitation exercises?”

  “Pfft. Are you my doctor now?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re not doing any further damage and that you get back to full functionality as soon as possible.”

  She holds up her arm, still in the sling. “Does is look like this thing is holding me back?”

  “Well, no. But kind of. You still need me to do a lot of the work around the house. And I know you don’t want me to notice, but I can tell you’re still in a lot of pain. I’d worry about you if I went home before you were one hundred percent.”

  “I’ve always gotten by fine. You know, your grandfather died when I was only forty-five, which means I’ve had more of my life without him than with him. A person learns to be self-sufficient when they’re on their own so much.”

  I’m quiet for a moment. I can’t imagine spending thirty-six years without my husband, especially with my daughter in another state and my son on the other side of the world.

  “I’m glad you have Xave here. And the other volunteers.”

  “Oh, I’m not lonely. But it is nice having an attractive young man around the place. It would be even nicer if he eventually became part of the family.”

  “Grandma! We’ve been through this. You cannot play matchmaker with someone who already has a partner.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just a habit. I’ve successfully paired up almost a dozen couples in this town over the years. And not one of them has split.”

  “That’s impressive.” I wonder if it’s really true, but I let it go for now.

  I’m just draining the last of my glass and contemplating another when Xave comes running up. “Hannah. I need your help. I let everyone else go home because I thought Rosie was fine, but now I’m worried one of her puppies might be breech.”

  Rosie is a pregnant rescue dog—a Staffordshire terrier—and I knew she was in labor, but I had opted to forego witnessing the birth. Still, the urgent tone in Xave’s voice makes me realize I might not have a choice now.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll explain on the way.”

  I turn to Grandma, but she shoos me off. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  Xave and I jog over to the shelter. “She’s already had two of the puppies, but the third one is proving difficult, and there are still others to come after that. I’ll need you to help keep an eye on the puppies and get some fresh towels and other supplies while I try to maneuver this new one into the world.”

  It goes to show how far I’ve come in such a short amount of time that it doesn’t even occur to me to be scared. But also, I hate to see anyone or anything in discomfort, so if there’s something I can do to make Rosie’s life easier, I want to be there.

  Xave has set up a quiet area in the corner of the shelter with something he calls a whelping box. Rosie is lying in it, breathing heavily, and two of her puppies are squirming around beside her.

  “There are fresh t
owels in the cupboard next to the office. Also, get some hot water bottles and fill them up. And I’ve run out of iodine. There should be a new bottle in the medicine cabinet in the laundry.”

  I spring into action. I’ve always been good in pressurized situations as long as I know what needs to be done. I easily find everything Xave has requested and join him over at the whelping box. He instructs me to wrap the hot water bottles in towels and put them beside the babies. In the meantime, he works on massaging Rosie’s abdomen and attempting to keep her calm.

  “Do you need to call a vet?” I ask.

  “I do have a guy I can call if things get any more complicated, but I think I’ll hold off for a bit longer. We should be able to sort this out on our own.”

  I watch as he talks softly to Rosie, and my heart melts. I wonder if this is the dissolving of the energy block Grandma mentioned.

  Perspiration trickles down the side of Xave’s face, and I find a clean cloth to mop up his forehead. He looks at me, smiling gratefully. “You’re a pretty good assistant.”

  I blush. “I’m hardly doing anything.”

  “You’re doing plenty.”

  I look away and fold some fresh newspaper into the corner of the box. I’ve never been great at taking compliments. Brett occasionally tells me I look nice when I’ve dressed up to go out to a restaurant with him, but I’m not used to people freely telling me I’m doing something well.

  Rosie whimpers a little. “I think I can see the puppy’s legs,” Xave says. He gently reaches down and starts guiding it into the world. I watch, mesmerized. I’ve never even seen an animal give birth on the National Geographic channel. There’s something almost sacred about it.

  The rest of it slithers out, and Xave expertly cuts the umbilical cord and ties off the part still connected to the puppy with some dental floss. He then dabs some of the iodine around the puppy’s abdomen.

  Xave looks at me. “You can wrap her up now.” He turns back to Rosie to make sure the next one is coming along without any complications.

  I look down at the tiny creature in front of me and drape a small towel over her, tucking in the sides. She squirms a little but stays put for the most part. Is this what parenting is like? If so, I could easily imagine Xave being a great dad.

  And then I catch myself. What about Brett?

  He’s definitely a capable person. He knows how to live independently and get stuff done.

  But would he be a caring father?

  I’d like to think so.

  CHAPTER 15

  An hour following the difficult birth of puppy number three, Rosie finally rests after her fifth and last baby arrives. If nursing a full litter can be considered restful. Her puppies wriggle and squeak, jockeying for the best position at the belly buffet.

  I’m on my knees, enraptured by the box of dogs. I beam at Xave. “You were amazing! Rosie is lucky she had you to assist with the delivery.”

  He stuffs the dirty towels into a trash bag. “She would have been luckier had the people who adopted her when she was a puppy spayed her. Or kept her rather than letting her wander the streets.” His voice surprisingly doesn’t rise with emotion.

  “I never gave animal rescue much thought until I met you, and after only a couple of weeks, I’m starting to hate people who fail to care for their pets. How do you not go nuclear on bad pet owners?”

  “Anger might have motivated me to open the shelter, but you can’t hold on to it. Yelling at bad pet owners won’t turn them into responsible ones. Better we be gentle advocates than hate the people who keep us in business.”

  The people in my life at home haven’t turned compassion into a vocation. My parents and I work in the automotive industry. Brett works in finance. Jojo is a beauty therapist, which I suppose helps people in a way, though not on the same level as protecting wildlife. And so it goes for my school friends, too.

  My father turned his dream career into reality, and I purport to love any job in which I can use my knowledge of the German language. But unlike Xavier, we haven’t chosen careers in which giving of ourselves or caring for others is our primary (or even secondary) objective.

  Admittedly, Xave doesn’t receive a salary for running the shelter nor does he need to work to support himself. But it’s impossible to imagine him at a job where he would detach himself emotionally from what he does. Which makes him appear much more, oh, I don’t know, alive than my friends and family.

  I stretch my back. “What happens to the puppies now?”

  “Short term, we weigh them twice a day, and I’ll bring them to the vet in two days. While they will be ready to leave Rosie in eight weeks, my policy is not to put puppies up for adoption until they are four months old. Puppies are especially impressionable around the three-month marker. Without the proper socialization—with people and other animals—at that age, they’re more likely to develop fear-based issues. Too bad you’ll miss out. Puppy training is pretty much as fun as it gets around here.”

  “Even more fun than nursing Xena?”

  “She’s a cutie, but she doesn’t do anything. Puppy socialization involves a lot of patting, cuddling, and introducing them to odd things like vacuum cleaners. Basically, it’s playtime with props.”

  Now I can’t stop picturing Xavier teaching five tiny puppies not to be afraid of the vacuum. “I can see how helping puppies discover they have no reason to be fearful might help me overcome my fear of dogs.”

  “I think Gus is already succeeding in teaching you not to be afraid of his species.”

  His smile highlights the splash of pink on his cheekbones. I catch myself before I blurt out something stupid, like that he has been an even better teacher. “Speaking of learning, have you ever considered studying to be a vet? You appear to be a natural.”

  He shakes his head. “School and I are a bad mix. I never could sit still long enough to pay attention. And studying for hours every night?” He wrinkles his nose. “Nope. You need an organized brain to go into medicine. I’ve sworn never to pursue any activity that requires me to color-code anything or stick to a schedule. Why do you think I’ve outsourced Xena’s feeding schedule?”

  “Didn’t you say you’ll weigh the puppies twice a day?”

  “I’m glad you mentioned it. I have a project for you.”

  “Let me guess: puppy weigher?”

  He breaks into his infectious, deep laugh. “Ding, ding, ding! Would you be interested in the job if I told you it requires making a chart?”

  “Now you’re speaking my language!”

  “I’ve scribbled descriptions of each puppy and their birth weight on a piece of paper.” He hands me a crumpled page smeared with what I’m guessing is an unhygienic remnant of the birthing process. I pinch the corner between my thumb and pointer. “Can you turn this into a chart with their physical identifiers going in one direction, dates and times going another, and room for their weights in between?”

  “I can. But you have to let me name them in exchange.”

  “Sounds like a fair tradeoff.”

  I stroke Rosie’s head while studying the squirmy mass of adorableness finishing their first meal. “Who are you? Let’s see. I need R names. Roscoe? Rihanna? Rupert?” One pudgy boy has fallen asleep, a dribble of milk sliding down his chin. “You, sir, are definitely a Rupert.”

  “I agree.” Xave checks his phone. “I’ve taken up the last two hours of your day. You haven’t had dinner. Which means neither has your grandmother. Why don’t you head home?”

  “You sure? I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning to weigh Rupert and his siblings, but if you need me before then, say the word.”

  “You got it. Thanks so much for assisting me, Hannah. See you tomorrow!”

  ❅ ❅ ❅

  I seriously could have spent the entire day with Rosie and her pups after weighing them the next morning. She’s such a caring mother. Their eyes won’t open for maybe another two weeks, and their legs are useless. The one part of them operating at full c
apacity is their appetite, but Rosie doesn’t complain when they slither against her and nudge each other in their endless search for their next meal.

  Despite having fallen in love with the litter, I harness my discipline and return home to tackle the ten pages I swore I would translate before the end of the day. And manage to make it partway through the third page before being distracted by the doorbell.

  My grandmother races to answer it. “That will be for me.”

  I continue staring at the technical terms swimming before my eyes. She returns to the kitchen table where I’m working, palming a vase containing a dozen red roses in her healthy hand.

  “Who sent you roses?” I ask.

  “No one. They’re for you.” She presents me with the flowers.

  I set them on the table and pull the card from the envelope dangling from a piece of pink curling ribbon tied around the vase.

  Dear Hannah,

  I wish I could surprise you in person, but I can’t take time off from my new job. I hope the roses remind you how beautiful I think you are. I’m counting the days until you come home.

  Love,

  Brett

  I lean over the flowers, inhaling their fragrance. They smell better than the roses Brett has bought me in the past. These flowers aren’t from a supermarket; they’re plump and fragrant, bursting with life like everything and everyone I meet in Noosa.

  My grandmother hovers behind me, attempting to read the card. “Are they from your man?”

  “They are from Brett.”

  Grandma weighs my answer with a hmm. “Good. You deserve a man who sends you roses.”

  “He is a good man.” I silently count the remaining days according to the timeline I originally set for myself: nineteen, wishing I knew for certain when I would reunite with Brett.

  My father still refuses to set a return date for me. The entries I’ve made in the spreadsheet created to evaluate my grandmother don’t lean in the direction he and my aunt expect. Pretty much everything I observe about her is more of a personality quirk rather than an indication she can’t take care of herself. I haven’t given him reason to extend my stay on that count. Regardless, he has decided that until my grandmother can use both hands to prepare a meal and perhaps even drive, I need to continue to be her caregiver. Her physiotherapist lacks my optimism that she’ll be ready by New Year’s.