Leftovers

by Laura Wiess

  “Yet,” she says and whisks out.

  So you target your father, waiting up until he gets home and pestering him until he can no longer avoid a confrontation. You beg not to move and follow him through the house, pointing out all the memories you’ve made there.

  The hallway where, when you were five, you carefully pasted vintage stamps from his collection onto the wall, then enclosed them in a wavy, red crayoned heart. You were proud of your handiwork but he was furious and wouldn’t even talk to you for a week.

  Halfway through the memory you realize your mistake and rush him on to others.

  The thin grooves carved into the kitchen doorway molding, the right side for you, the left for Wendy, one for each year of your lives, showing how tall you’d grown from twenty inches at birth and Wendy from ten inches high as a puppy.

  The window at the breakfast bar where, ages ago on an Easter morning while your mother was making cheese omelets and you were filling up on jelly beans, your father lifted the screen, reached out, and snapped a slim, supple branch off the flowering forsythia bush, then gave it to your mother because it was almost as pretty as she was.

  He listens to it all, expressionless. “You’ll make memories in the new house, too,” he says when you pause for breath, and then sends you to bed.

  You’re not willing to give up, so you change tactics and pitch a fit, but it doesn’t matter because nobody’s listening. You don’t make the money, so you don’t have a vote.

  Miserable, you sulk, draw a skull and crossbones on the calendar over “moving day,” and confide your worries to Wendy, who creaks up off her special mattress, wags her tail, and nuzzles your face. You smooth her silky, blonde hair, gaze into her soft, chocolate eyes, and love her more than anything. She’s the sister you never had, and you don’t care if she’s starting to have accidents in the house, because that’s what paper towels are for.

  Except on the Thursday before the Monday move your parents show up at your bedroom door together. This sets off an alarm inside you because they’re never home at the same time anymore and they never, ever stand in your doorway in a two against one.

  “We hope you’ll be mature about this, Blair,” your mother says, rubbing the end of her eyebrow where the mole used to be. The melanoma was caught in plenty of time and the scar is barely noticeable but she worries it when she’s tense; it’s a constant, bitter reminder that silent mutinies are the most dangerous.

  “It’s for the best,” your father says, avoiding your gaze.

  You slide off the bed and onto Wendy’s mattress as the clenched fist in your stomach digs deeper. Sling your arm around her neck, press your cheek to hers, and wait.

  “I know how attached you are and I’m sorry it has to be this way, but she’ll be happy in her new home,” your mother says, and now her words are brisk and purposeful.

  “No stairs to climb,” your father chimes in with a big, fake smile.

  Your mother looks at him and they exchange a quick, silent eyeball message.

  Wendy Darling is trembling. Or is it you?

  “She’s old, Blair, and she’s incontinent,” your mother says, stepping into the room and stopping at the look you give her. “I found another puddle by the door last night.”

  Incontinent. The word in adult diaper commercials that means peeing yourself, and worse.

  “She’s already ruined half the rugs in this house, and we can’t allow it in the new one. Not after spending so much money.”

  “What are you saying?” you ask in a voice helium-high.

  Another eyeball message.

  Your father the corporate attorney, the interpreter of contracts packaged in Ralph Lauren glasses and a Brooks Brothers suit, says,

  “We found a home for Wendy, Blair.”

  “She already has a home,” you say, because they know how it is with you and Wendy. You’re each other’s history, she’s your other half, and the house you come home to after school is never empty or lonely because she’s always there, happy and—

  “She can’t possibly come with us.” Your mother’s precision-trimmed hair swings as she shakes her head, then settles flawlessly back into place. “The new house is in showcase condition and it has to stay that way. I won’t have her ruining what I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.” Frowning, she picks a dog hair from her navy blue suit jacket and drops it in your wastebasket. “There really is no other choice.”

  “Because she’s incontinent,” you repeat, blinking back tears. You know that emotional witnesses lose credibility.

  “She’s old, hon,” your father says, “and whatever time she has left should be peaceful. Put your feelings aside and do what’s best for her. She’s not going to live forever, you know.”

  No one is, you jerk, you think, but the thought is swept away on the panic swirling inside your head. You rise, pick up your phone, and dial. You have no words until the call connects and then you know exactly what you’re going to say. “Hello, Grandma?” Your voice wobbles. “I’m sorry, but you can’t bring Grandpa to our new house because he’s incontinent and he’ll ruin the rugs, and my mother—”

  Your mother snatches the phone from your hand and smoothes things over while your father gives you his “gravely disappointed” look.

  You tune them out and hunch down on the mattress next to Wendy. They won’t give her away. They can’t. She’s all you have.

  Your mother hangs up. Her mouth is tight and her cheeks red, the way they always are whenever she has to talk to Grandma, only now it’s aimed at you. “Well, that was rude. You’ll have to call and apologize or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  You close your eyes and bury your face in Wendy’s shoulder.

  “Did you hear me, Blair? I just defended you and now I expect a little cooperation in return,” your mother says, panty hose swishing as she brushes by, leaving a faint jasmine scent in her wake. “Let’s not make Wendy’s departure any more unpleasant than it has to be, all right?”

  “No.” Your voice breaks. “Don’t, Mom. I’ll take care of her, I swear. I’ll take her out every hour, or we could sleep in the kitchen, or I could—”

  “This isn’t resolving anything,” your father says, checking his watch. “Why don’t we talk about it again tomorrow?” After a long, pregnant moment, they leave you to yourself.

  When you finally stop crying, you brush Wendy’s hair until it glows and scratch her favorite itchy spot. You fluff her blanket and take her out three times so she doesn’t pee in the house and your parents will see that yes, there is another option and you’re responsibly pursuing it.

  When you get home from school on Friday the air is full of Wendy but the rooms are vacant. At first you think she must be hiding somewhere among the moving boxes, but while you’re ripping through the house you notice her squeaky toys are gone. Her orthopedic mattress is gone.

  Everything is gone.

  You close your eyes, put out your hand, and invisible molecules gather and curve beneath it to form the sleek contours of her head. You know her by heart, you’ve spent your life learning her by heart, and now your heart is gone.

  You jab out your father’s office number.

  “Where is she?” you say when he answers.

  “Calm down,” your father says. “Your mother said everything went well and Wendy’s resting peacefully in her new—”

  “Where?” you demand as a roaring rage fills the pit where your heart used to be.

  “It’s a very nice place,” he says.

  “WHERE?” you scream, because he’s avoiding a direct question, and you’ve heard your mother say a thousand times that evasiveness is a red alert. “What did you do with her?”

  “Don’t shout at me,” your father says, shocked. “I’m not telling you where because you’re not going to see her and raise false hopes. Your mother and I agreed that if you want a new dog we’ll find a reputable breeder and pick out something small, with a pedigree and a return policy in the event of defects. Maybe
a Westie or—”

  “I don’t want another dog!” You slam down the phone. The room shimmers with queer, black speckles and you blink, but they stay. You stagger out to the garbage cans at the road and pry off the lids, throwing them into the street and digging through bags until you find what you were hoping desperately not to see.

  The orthopedic mattress.

  You pull it out. Smell the sunny, grassy scent. Dig deeper and find the toys, the unused dog food, the blanket, chew bones…and her outside lead.

  You dump the cans out onto the driveway and sort through the rest, but it’s no use. Her leash and collar are gone.

  You pile her things inside the fuzzy, plaid blanket and carry it away, leaving the trash strewn across the sidewalk and the empty cans rolling in the road. Dread drives you stumbling to the telephone.

  You call Wendy’s vet and say, “I’m calling about Wendy Darling Brost. She was brought in t…today…p…p…put to sleep there t…today…” You pause but no one interrupts to say you’re wrong and your knees dissolve to gray water.

  “Yes?” the voice says politely, urging you on because there are other animals, live animals, to care for now. “How can I help you?”

  You can’t, you can’t. “I want her cremated,” you say when you’re able to speak. “I want her ashes put in an urn.”

  “Mmm, it’s a little late to change disposal plans. Her remains may have already been picked up. Hold, please.” She clicks off.

  Her remains. Wendy died without you. When? Why didn’t you feel it, why didn’t your heart skip when hers stopped?

  The voice returns. “You’re in luck. The pet service is making a run to the crematory and she’ll be ready tomorrow. How do you want to pay for this?”

  For a minute, all you can think is that Wendy’s still there and you should go to her, tell her she’s not alone anymore, that you’ve found her and will bring her back home where she belongs.

  But you’re fourteen. You have no money and no ride. She weighs eighty-four pounds and she’s dead. The vet will never send you home lugging a corpse in a giant Hefty bag.

  Your parents knew she was going to die. They knew.

  “Mrs. Brost?” the voice says impatiently. “How did you want to pay for this?”

  Oh. She thinks you’re your mother. You decide to let her.

  “How much is it?” you ask, hoping it’s at least three thousand dollars, the price of one bedroom’s new carpeting.

  But the figure’s low, only two hundred dollars. You tell her to hold on and run to the filing cabinet where your mother keeps the paid credit card bills. Grab one, return, and read her the Visa number. Hold your breath until she says fine.

  Good, because now you also want the ashes put in the prettiest container they have and FedExed to your new address. Charge everything.

  You request a lock of hair from Wendy’s sweeping, feathered tail.

  The voice says, yes, of course, I’ll include it in the package with her ashes.

  You hang up and drag to your feet. Think about calling your father back and screaming, “Liar!” but then he’ll know you know, and he might call the vet’s and discover what you’ve done. So you replace the Visa bill, trudge back outside, and clean up the scattered garbage with your bare hands. Right the cans and jam on the lids.

  And you learn how completely you can hate.

  Alone now and surrounded by silence, you sink deep into your memory, where Wendy romps without arthritis, licks your chin, and solemnly offers you her paw, where you can close your eyes, rest your head on her shoulder, and weep.

  You don’t talk to your parents when they get home, no, you don’t even see them because if there is any fairness in the world, then they will no longer exist.

  So you erase them but you don’t leave them alone because you want them to see you, you want to remind them that they killed your heart and now you will ruin their anticipation. Your ominous silence roils with accusations and you become the big, indigestible lump in their oatmeal, the unanticipated glitch spanning the trade between the McMansion and the murdered dog. You can’t let it go and they hate it.

  And you feed on that.

  You meet the movers at the house on Monday and lug one special carton up the center hall staircase to your cavernous room. FedEx arrives and you intercept the package. Carry it to your room, where you open the carton and lay the orthopedic mattress in the corner near your bed. On it you arrange squeaky toys and the plaid blanket.

  From the bottom of the box, you remove the “Rainbow Bridge” poem you printed off an online pet memorial site and the pack of pushpins you’re going to use to punch holes in the perfect, unspoiled length of wall. Read the poem, most lines silently, some escaping in a broken whisper.

  “…never to be parted again…you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet…then you cross the rainbow bridge together.”

  You wipe your cheeks and tack the poem on the wall near your headboard. Open the package and lift out an iridescent glass urn lit with the warm, glowing hues of late-afternoon sunlight.

  “Blair, what came FedEx—”

  You lift your head and watch your mother’s gaze bounce from the urn to the blanket, watch her face register shock, guilt, then settle into her watchful attorney mode. She pulls the bill of lading from the sleeve, skims it, and rubs her eyebrow.

  That’s when your anger opens wide.

  “Murderer,” you say.

  “Watch your mouth,” she says, folding the bill and wedging it in her back pocket. “I know you’re upset, but you need to remember who you’re talking to.” She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears. Her nail polish is perfect. “All right, Blair. I’m sorry Wendy had to be put down, and I’m sorry you felt obligated to discover it. I was trying to make it easy on you. She lived a long, full life, and I promise she didn’t even feel it.”

  “How would you know?” You can’t stop seeing her arms locked around Wendy, holding her down as the deadly needle punctures the vein. “You’ve never been murdered by someone you trusted.”

  “Oh, haven’t I?” she mutters, then flicks a dismissive hand. “Listen to me. I know right now it feels like you’ll never get over this, but you will. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices to gain things of greater value. Unfair but true. This is a new beginning for us all and there are some wonderful opportunities waiting to be claimed.” Her words are calm and deliberate, a logical, well-rehearsed speech doled out in a tone that implies any further argument means you’re either brain dead or asking for trouble.

  You feel like kicking her.

  “Look around you. Look at this magnificent room. At this house.” Now her voice swells, alive. “Your father didn’t make this happen, Blair. I did. I’m a damn good defense attorney and the youngest person ever to make partner in my firm, not to mention the first woman. All eyes are on me now and there’s no room for error. There’s already been talk of my being nominated for a position on the bench.” She paces and your bedroom becomes a courtroom stage. “I’m willing to do what it takes to make that happen. Win high-profile cases. Cultivate powerful connections. Kozlowski may be the golden child now, but this is the big league and she’s playing hardball with the best. Me.”

  You tilt the urn and something inside it clinks against the glass. A bone? A tooth?

  “So from now until I make judge, everything has to be perfect. We need to shine. We couldn’t do that in our old house and we certainly couldn’t do it with Wendy making a mess everywhere.” She shakes her head. “It’s a shame, I know. She was a good dog and we’ll miss her, but we have to keep moving forward. Do you understand?”

  No, and you don’t care to. This isn’t about her life; it’s about Wendy’s death.

  “Blair? I’m talking to you.”

  The urn is cool beneath your fingers. You wonder how long and hot a fire has to rage to leave nothing but ashes.

  “All right, fine. Be angry, if it makes you feel better. My workload has doubled, so you won’t be
seeing much of me for a while anyway,” she says, frowning at the poem tacked to the wall. Tomorrow you know she’ll order an assortment of color-coordinated picture frames. “Your father’s going to try to get home from his office a little earlier to compensate, but you know the kind of behavior we expect and you’re old enough to handle your time wisely. The interior decorators will be in this week and I’ve hired a housekeeper who’ll come during the day. I’ll show you how to set the alarm so you’ll feel safe after dark—”

  “So you planned to kill her a long time ago,” you say, placing the urn on the nightstand so your grip doesn’t shatter it. “That makes it premeditated.” Her leaden silence affords you a moment of mean pleasure.

  “I don’t know why I even bother to try,” your mother says finally, rubbing her forehead. “Go ahead, play the victim. Ignore all the wonderful things this new life has to offer and cling to the one sacrifice you had to make to get here. But I’m telling you now, Blair, you’re not going to ruin it for the rest of us.” She looks away, waiting.

  You wait, too, clinging to the memory of your sacrifice and letting the silence speak for you. There is nothing she can say that will ever alter what she and your father have deliberately done. You’ve spent years listening to her discuss the various levels of intent and you know how damning it can be. A screwdriver is an inanimate object, until wielded by a hand with violent intent and stabbed into someone’s eye. A syringe full of poison will lay on an examining table forever, harmless until someone wants to kill a dog.

  The stalemate stands. She leaves.

  You close your door after her. Lock it.

  And dwell on intent.

  Thank you. I’m sorry about Wendy, too.

  I’m glad you didn’t say, “Be reasonable, Blair. She was just a dog.” I would have hated to start hating you.

  Yeah, I know I’ve changed. Nothing gets to me anymore.

  Well, okay, except for the stuff in the past. Back then I was all innocent and trusting and didn’t know anything. Now I know plenty and you can’t fucking touch me.