by Sonja Yoerg
Ella visited the Build-A-Bear dispensary and took a couple hits. Then she flopped on the bed and rolled onto her stomach, looking idly at her desk. Oops. The SAT prep book. She was in such deep shit. Good thing her phone said she had time for exactly one test from the writing section before her mom came home and ordered her execution. It was nine less than she was supposed to have done, but it was better than nothing.
Twenty minutes in, she ran into the sort of question that often tripped her up. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because the five options for completing the sentence were so lame:
8. It will be hard to ————— Leonid now that you have so ————— him.
The answer was “mollify—incensed,” but how boring was that? What about, “It will be hard to make an Olympian of Leonid now that you have so disabled him”? Or, “It will be hard to get a decent settlement out of Leonid now that you have so totally screwed him.” She was finally enjoying herself. She moved on to the next question:
9. He was normally entirely —————, but in the embarrassing situation in which he found himself he felt compelled to —————.
Tempted as she was to get creative, she told herself just to finish the damn thing. She scanned the choices and lingered on the word indolent. Not the answer but it gave her a kind of déjà-vu feeling. What’s that about? Then it hit her. Indolent. Perfect. She dug through her backpack and took out the most important object in her world—her poetry notebook. She flipped to the last marked page—a mess of crossed-out lines, bubbled ideas, doodles, and a very large “ARGH!” But it was her beautiful mess, and so close to coming together. Like one of those optical illusions where the background and the foreground can switch. First it’s a vase; then it’s two people facing each other. Right before you suddenly see it the other way, if you pay attention, you can feel it about to happen.
The last line was “The slumbering notions of a half-starved god.” She crossed out slumbering and wrote indolent. She put her pencil down and read the line aloud. Leaning back in her chair, she laughed. The printout on her bulletin board said the date for the poetry slam in the city was May 26. Today was the thirteenth, so she’d definitely be ready.
There was a commotion at the front door, then footsteps down the hallway. She was still trancing about her poem when her mom knocked. She grunted and her mom came in.
“Hi. We just got home. Thanks for leaving the lights on.”
“Sure.” She closed the poetry notebook very casually. “Nana here?”
“Dad’s with her in Charlie’s room.”
Her mom scanned the desk. Swear to God, her mom missed her calling as a cop. She pursed her lips and frowned, but didn’t say anything. Normally she’d be all over Ella’s case about something: not doing her SAT or her homework or cleaning the bathroom or whatever. She didn’t usually yell or lecture. Not exactly. More like a concise review of the facts, the rules, the goals, and—wait for it—the Consequences. Ella was pretty sure that was one of her first words. Dada, Mama, doggie, and consequences. When she was little, the review went like this.
Fact: Toys belong in the toy box.
Rule: When you are done playing with a toy, you must put it away in the box.
Goal: To keep the house tidy so we always know where everything is.
Consequence: Toys left out will disappear for one week.
As she’d gotten older, things had become a little more complicated. Take the SAT, for example.
Fact: Higher SAT scores will help you get into the colleges you want. (Complication: She wasn’t sure she wanted to go to college.)
Rule: To score higher, you must practice, then review and understand your errors. (No argument there, unfortunately.)
Goal: To complete as many practice tests as possible for the highest possible score. (Complication One: Her estimate of her highest score was lower than her mom’s. Complication Two: Her sense of how many tests she could complete without going stark raving mad was lower than her mom’s.)
Consequence: She was thinking of telling her mom to shove it.
But that evening her mom didn’t even ask about the tests. The day was overflowing with miracles.
Then she noticed her mom’s nose.
“What happened to your face?”
Her mom touched it like she didn’t know she had a face. “Oh, that. Nothing. Just a little bump.”
She thought about telling her about the poem but didn’t want to press her luck. Her mom didn’t seem to care about poetry anyway. Instead Ella checked her phone for messages.
Her mom sighed. “Come say hi to Nana. Then you can return to whatever you were doing.”
CHAPTER NINE
HELEN
No one had asked Helen if she wanted to go to Geneva’s. Her children made it sound as if they were asking, but the train had long since left the station. She couldn’t deny they had a point about the money—the bills Dublin showed her made her head spin—and she regretted canceling the darn insurance. Put her in a position of depending on them, and that wasn’t how she preferred it. First they’re helping you out; then they’re telling you what to do.
Not that she wasn’t grateful. It wasn’t every grown child who would lend a hand to her mother, not these days. She only wished it could have been her son. He was easier. Always had been. Fidgety, the way boys often are, but he couldn’t hold on to a foul mood if it came with a handle and a lid. And so eager to make a person laugh. Nothing seemed to bother him, not disorder, not noise, and not flying by the seat of his pants. Helen preferred more order than that, but had learned people like Dublin were easier to drink around. They were more forgiving, or too disorganized to realize there was anything to forgive.
When she came out to California she had the notion she’d be the one helping Dublin out. Right off she’d said she’d sit with the boys. But Talia put the kibosh on that. Dublin said they’d both decided she wasn’t safe with the children, but she figured it was only Talia. All because she’d put a bit of vodka in Jack’s bottle when he wouldn’t quit crying. Talia being Russian, Helen had reckoned it would pass for standard procedure. And now it turned out her grandson was catawampus. Could have filled his bottle with booze and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Little feller was wired up wrong. It put a terrible strain on their lives, but if they wouldn’t let her help, then that was that.
Now Helen was the one in need of assistance, and she was stuck with Geneva. As much as her daughter kept her feelings to herself, Helen could plainly see she had a knot in her tail about inviting her in. That girl was as similar to Dublin as vinegar is to honey. She had to have her ducks in a row, numbered in sequence, and ready to swim. Geneva must’ve been cornered into taking her in by that husband of hers, a family man through and through, and good-looking besides. Geneva had been lucky to land him, with her so fixated on her career and spending more time running after animals than men.
Helen was hard on Geneva—she confessed to that. Didn’t help that her youngest daughter was the spitting image of Eustace. If you took him and prettied him up a little, you’d end up with Geneva. She had the same thick dark hair, strong chin, and squared-off shoulders, and was tall to boot. Carried it well—she gave her that. Problem was, Helen didn’t want reminding of Eustace. She didn’t want it right after he died and she didn’t want it now. It wasn’t Geneva’s fault, but a ghost was a ghost.
• • •
They’d put her in the boy’s room. She’d expected the girl’s room but Geneva said the other was closer to the bathroom. When they came into the house, Tom wheeled her past the girl’s room. She’d caught a glimpse of all the paper hanging from the ceiling and decided she could tolerate the posters of sports cars and the musty scent of boys coming into their manhood. The boy—Charlie, she remembered now—was sent off to sleep in the den. He didn’t grouse. On the face of it, he resembled Tom, but nevertheless reminded her o
f Dublin. She hadn’t spent much time with Geneva’s children, but Charlie, at least, might help these weeks pass.
• • •
She woke up the first morning at Geneva’s with a crick in her neck. Same thing happened most mornings since the accident. Between strange beds, her arm in a sling, and her sore leg, she couldn’t get comfortable. At least in the hospital and the rehab center they’d given her a healthy dose of pain meds—until they suspected she might be exaggerating her suffering. She wasn’t counting on her daughter handing out pills like candy. No, she’d have her fist tight around that, same as everything else. Helen had been craving a drink since her first moment of consciousness in the hospital and couldn’t see surviving at Geneva’s house—or anywhere else for that matter—sober as a judge. Charlie, with that long, smooth smile, appeared the sort who could work out real quick which side the butter was on. Maybe he’d be willing to help—for a price. There was always a price.
She could see out one corner of the window without moving her head. The weather was much as she’d left it the night before: fog thicker than day-old porridge. She wished she’d brought sunshine and a palm tree with her. And it was so quiet here. No street noise, no ambulances, no miscreants yelling at children by the pool. Big trees and wide, wide quiet. Some folks would call it peaceful, but she wasn’t one of them. Reminded her of Aliceville—the house she’d been born in, not Eustace’s. Stuck on the edge of the woods, with all manner of critters traipsing through the yard, her daddy lifting his shotgun at them from the narrow porch, swaying with drink, as likely to kick up a clod of dirt as kill anything. The ramshackle house never looked like it meant to stay. Any moment it might get strangled by vines or sucked into the woods by a fierce wind. She had been relieved to move into Eustace’s house in town, where the streetlights shone nice and bright. Of course that was before the trouble started, when her idea of scared became the things you couldn’t see.
Still, her childish notions stuck. The redwoods surrounding Geneva’s house made her anxious in a way L.A. never did. Sure, L.A. was full of no good—any fool could see that—but it was no good you could lock your door against, not the kind that comes sniffing under your window while you sleep.
• • •
Someone pushed open the door. The light was dim, but she couldn’t mistake the dog’s boxy head. What was his name? Daisy? No. Dazzle? Almost.
“Diesel,” she whispered. “Come here, boy.”
He cantered over like a small horse. Helen pushed herself upright, pulled the covers up, and stroked the dog’s head.
“You’re a fine dog. Put me in mind of the one I gave Paris.”
Diesel sat and laid his snout on the bed, ready for as long a story as she wanted to tell, so long as she kept up the stroking.
“He came from a shelter, like I reckon you did, knowing Geneva. His owner had passed away unexpected. Barely a year old he was. Pure German shepherd, with feet the size of saucers and a knowing look in his eye. I got him for Paris when she was sixteen, for Christmas. Didn’t mention it to anyone, not even Eustace. Especially not Eustace. But once Paris had her arms around him, there wasn’t a thing to be done about it. Not a thing.”
Diesel’s breath was hot on her hand. Helen recalled the look her husband gave her when Paris buried her face in the dog’s neck. He pulled his shoulders back, raised his eyebrows, and glared at his wife as if she was a long-shot racehorse who’d snatched the lead from him. Stared her down for an eternity until she was compelled to look away. Then he left the room without a word.
Paris didn’t notice a thing. Her attention was all on the dog. “Does he have a name, Mama?”
“Argus.”
The dog looked at Helen expectantly.
“That’s a funny name.”
“From Greek mythology. You remember me reading those stories, don’t you? Once you found out there was one about Paris, you had to hear a story every night. Got real ornery when it turned out Paris wasn’t a girl.”
“So who’s Argus?”
“A giant with a hundred eyes. Hera—you remember her, don’t you?—sent him to guard Io. He did such a good job she put his eyes on the peacock’s tail for all of time.”
“Who was Argus guarding Io against?”
“Zeus.”
CHAPTER TEN
GENEVA
Following the weekend journey to L.A., Geneva resumed her morning swim workouts. Monday’s called for length after length of butterfly stroke. Normally she dreaded butterfly, but today she welcomed the absolute exhaustion. When she completed the laps and hoisted herself out of the pool, she almost fell back in. Exactly what her body—and her mind—needed after long hours in the car and with her mother.
She drove home and ate a bowl of granola at the counter with Charlie. Tom wheeled her mother out to the Cherokee while Charlie chatted amiably with her about the Battle of the Bands and said he was sure he’d get to sing in his cousins’ group. She put their bowls in the dishwasher and kissed him on the cheek, a gesture he still tolerated. After shouting good-bye to Ella’s closed door, she left to take Helen to physical therapy.
As they passed Pickleweed Inlet, she thought about telling her mother she often stopped there to look at birds with the binoculars her father had given her. It seemed she should be able to say it, and her mother should welcome the connection. The few times Geneva had mentioned her father had gone nowhere. She had no concrete reason to feel this way, but nevertheless felt that the path to her mother, if there was one, was through her dead father.
They crawled north with the traffic and turned off in Petaluma.
“Almost there,” Geneva said.
“What are you going to do while they’re putting me through my paces?”
“The animal shelter is not too far. There’s always something for me to do there.”
Her mother said lightly, “More caring for the wounded and abandoned.”
She laughed. “I guess you could say that.”
“I don’t like being a nuisance.”
“It’s okay.”
“I know how you like things orderly, and I’m, well, a fly in the ointment.”
“Don’t say that. I should learn to be more flexible.”
She pulled up to the entrance. A man approached, pushing a wheelchair. “Curbside service,” he announced.
“I’ll park and see you inside, Mom.”
Geneva took care of the paperwork, then drove to the shelter. Her best friend, Drea, was the director. They’d spent long hours together developing behavior assessment protocols for dogs and cats. When pets entered the shelter, either as surrendered animals or strays, the personnel evaluated their suitability for adoption. Geneva and Drea agreed it wasn’t a question of yes or no, except with dangerously aggressive animals, but rather a matter of matching pets with owners. They had already trained a handful of staff and volunteers on the rigorous protocol. Geneva tried to visit the shelter once a week to train others and, if she had time, evaluate a dog or two. The shelter was perpetually crowded, and she felt gratified to move a good dog on its path to a good home.
She found Drea in her office.
“Hey, Genie. How’s your mom?”
Geneva didn’t appreciate nicknames, but she made two exceptions: Dublin and Drea. “So far, so good.”
“You don’t look as though you’ve pulled out all your hair yet.”
“We’re all on our best behavior. Long may it continue.”
“You here to chitchat or can I put you to work?”
She bowed. “At your disposal.”
“There’s a new one in number five. I had a quick look at her and have a hunch, but she needs testing.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I don’t want to bias you.”
“Ever the scientist.”
Drea smiled. “I learned from the best.” She handed
Geneva a clipboard with an evaluation form. “If you have time, stop by when you’re done. And maybe we can have lunch sometime.”
“I’d love that.”
She pushed through the double doors into the kennels. Several dogs barked. A young couple stood in front of a cage that held a pair of boxers. She waited until they left, then walked slowly to number five and pretended not to look inside. A golden retriever lay on a mat, her head on her paws. The dog got up and approached Geneva, who noted her loose walk and drooping tail. She bent over, met the dog’s gaze, and held it, then crouched with her shoulder against the cage.
“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Everyone’s going to want you.”
The dog cocked her head and pushed her nose into the wire mesh at Geneva’s shoulder.
“Lonely, huh? That’s not fair.” She unhooked a leash from the cage, undid the padlock, and slipped the leash on.
In the evaluation room, she removed the leash and ran the dog through the battery of tests. First she ignored the dog and kept track of how many times it made social contact with her. She petted the dog for twenty seconds and examined her teeth.
A typical amiable retriever, about three years old. She wondered why Drea wanted her to do the evaluation. Geneva performed a mock physical, running her hands down the dog’s legs and under her belly. When she looked in the dog’s ears, she felt the dog stiffen slightly and noted the whale eye.
The dog followed her to a container of toys. Geneva threw a ball onto the floor. The dog chased it down, mouthed it, then dropped it.