Just Breathe

by Susan Wiggs

  This was her family, she reminded herself. She had been too long without them. She needed to learn how to let them into her life again. Maybe that included listening to them and taking their advice. But...a dog?

  Taking a deep breath, she started with a terrible admission she didn’t even like making to herself. “All right. The real reason I’m resisting adopting this dog is that Jack and I had always planned on getting a puppy for our kids. I’m trying to get past that time in my life, and having this fur ball in my face every day would remind me of...everything.”

  Kyle cracked open a beer and took a sip. “Don’t play that card, Sarah. You’re going to stew about what happened, dog or no dog.”

  That old, vaguely competitive feeling Sarah had for her brother crept into her heart. Kyle had always been the golden child. The perfect son, happy to plunge into the family business without feeling any of the resentment and anguish Sarah had experienced, growing up. Hard times had required them both to work the oyster farm as adolescents but while Kyle had embraced it, Sarah had seethed with shame. She’d hated going to school each day with ruined hands, red and chapped from the harsh work. She wished she’d been more like Kyle, finding not just acceptance but pride in the family enterprise.

  “How do you know I’m going to stew about what happened?” she asked.

  “You seem to pick the toughest way to deal with things,” Kyle said mildly. “You always have.”

  She glanced at her father but already knew he wouldn’t defend her. Everyone—herself included—knew there was a grain of truth in Kyle’s observation. “The whole kids-and-puppy thing is a real sore spot with me. I can’t believe I was so naive about...everything. I still lie awake at night and wonder what it was Jack and I thought would happen once the kids materialized. And I feel like an idiot for not clearing up a few key issues, like why we even wanted a family when we barely knew each other anymore.”

  “My little sister’s not an idiot.” Kyle tipped his beer in her direction.

  “Thanks, but isn’t it true that most women ask themselves these questions before they embark on some giant campaign to get pregnant?”

  LaNelle handed her a page torn from the Bay Beacon. “Don’t take this wrong, Sarah. When I came across this, I thought of you.”

  There was a circled item for a divorce support group meeting in Fairfax, a half-hour drive away.

  “I’m not the support group type,” said Sarah. “This whole family—” she encompassed Kyle and her dad with a look “—we kind of avoid that sort of thing.”

  “This is West Marin. Nobody here avoids that sort of thing,” LaNelle insisted.

  Her brother and father shuffled their feet, united in male sheepishness.

  “I’ve been away too long,” Sarah said. “I’m more Chicago than Marin.”

  “So how do people in Chicago handle something like this?”

  “It’s hard to generalize. Some might go out and get drunk, or talk about the issue with people who have been their neighbors and friends for a hundred years.” She pictured the neighborhood where she’d lived with Jack, the people as friendly and open as the Midwestern prairie. “It doesn’t matter. I’m dealing with things on my own.”

  No one said anything to that, but Sarah could guess their thoughts: And you’re doing so well with it. These days, Sarah cried a lot. Anything might set her off—a certain song on the radio. A Hallmark commercial on TV. The sight of two people holding hands or worse—holding a baby.

  “Besides, my personal life is not the issue here,” she added. “I’m trying to give away this perfectly good dog.”

  “No, you’re not,” Gran said. “You’re keeping it.”

  “I can’t even keep the flowers in the window boxes alive.”

  “The dog doesn’t know that,” Gran said. “Sarah, listen. And pay attention, because this is important. Love comes into your life in its own time, not when you’re ready.”

  Sarah knew her grandmother was right. She already loved this dog. Still, she was terrified of taking on such a huge responsibility when her life was a mess. “I ought to take the thing to the shelter in Petaluma,” she pointed out. “They’ll find her a good home.”

  “You wouldn’t abandon this dog,” her grandmother said.

  “That’s right.” Aunt May nodded in agreement.

  “And why would you want to, anyway, honey?” her father asked philosophically.

  “You can’t argue with your elders,” Kyle added.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her family could be a stubborn, insistent bunch; she had nearly forgotten that about them. After the years in Chicago she had begun to think of Jack’s large family as her own, but once she left him, she learned otherwise. No one from the Daly clan had called her, not even a sister-in-law by marriage. Like pioneers on the Great Plains, they had circled their wagons, determined to keep outsiders where they belonged—on the outside.

  “What makes you think I won’t take this dog to the shelter?”

  “You’re our Sarah,” her father said indulgently. “You’d never do that.”

  * * *

  “Her name is Franny,” Sarah told the vet the next day. She and Franny had been busy. After surrendering to the idea that she had no choice but to keep the dog, she had spent hours grooming her and fixing her a soft bed of cushions in a corner of the house. The dog, starved for attention, seemed delighted by it all.

  Though clearly eager and housebroken, Franny was otherwise untrained. Sarah had been watching The Dog Whisperer on TV, and she studied a book by the monks of New Skete, who were experts in dog behavior. So far, Franny had learned to sit and lie down, and Sarah had learned calm, assertive behavior. Franny was balky on a leash until Sarah took to keeping treats in her pocket and doling them out when the dog cooperated.

  Dr. Penfield estimated that Franny was about two years old, and in excellent health. “Franny,” the vet continued. “Any reason you picked that name?”

  “Not really. I considered names from mythology, like Ariadne or Leda, but they all seemed pretentious for a dog.”

  “Not to mention hard to spell.” Dr. Penfield grinned. “However, Leda would have been appropriate. She was the mother of Gemini.”

  Sarah pretended she was aware of that, though in reality, she wasn’t much for constellations. “Why do you say it’s appropriate?”

  Dr. Penfield was gently palpating the dog underneath. “Because she’s expecting, and there’s definitely more than one.”

  It took Sarah a moment to process this information. “Oh, lovely,” she said, her heart sinking. “I was going to ask about having her spayed.”

  The vet was quiet for a few seconds. “That is still an option,” he said quietly.

  “Not for me.” A chill ran over Sarah. “I mean, I could never...I’ll find a way to deal with the puppies when the time comes.”

  He nodded, regarding her kindly. “Nature does all the work. The pups will need to stay with her for about eight weeks after they’re born. Then they can be adopted, and you can get your dog spayed.”

  Sarah stroked Franny under the chin. “An abandoned, unwed mother,” she murmured. “No wonder you were so skittish.”

  The vet handed Sarah a sack of product samples. “I think she’ll be all right now.” She stopped in at her grandmother’s house on the way home.

  “I have a special delivery,” she said to Gran and Aunt May, finding them in their garden cutting flowers. “And Franny has news. She’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, my,” Gran said, taking off her pink gardening gloves. “That’s more than you bargained for.”

  “We’ll be all right.” Sarah slipped the dog a treat. She felt enormously tender for Franny, who had been through God-knew-what. “But, Aunt May, it’s more than you bargained for, too. We can find someplace else to live.”<
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  “Don’t even think about it,” Aunt May said. “You’re staying for as long as you need it.”

  Sarah handed her a framed drawing she’d done. “I thought you’d say that. This is a thank-you gift. For letting me use the cottage.”

  Gran and Aunt May admired the picture. It was a sketch of them both, seated on their porch across from a cartoon Sarah. There was a speech bubble coming out of Gran’s mouth that read, “The older you get, the smarter we get.”

  “Oh, that’s just lovely,” said Aunt May. “We’ll put it up over the mantel.”

  “There’s really no way to thank you,” Sarah said. “I don’t know what I’d do without both of you, and the cottage, and all your kindness. In the middle of the mess I’ve made of my life, you girls are a lifeline.”

  “Dear, you didn’t make a mess,” Gran said.

  “I made some bad choices.” Sarah watched a bee droning around a lily blossom. “I feel like my years with Jack were such a waste, after all this.”

  “Never say that,” Gran told her in a firm voice. “No moment you spent loving someone is ever wasted. Your time with Jack enriched your life in ways you can’t always see.”

  “She’s right,” Aunt May agreed. “Don’t have regrets.” She indicated the drawing. “Promise us that, all right?”

  Sarah nodded, hoping one day she’d be able to think of her marriage without all the anger and raw pain. “I promise,” she said.

  * * *

  Sarah still felt vaguely foolish, even a bit like a phony, walking a dog. Surely any onlooker would assume she was only playing at being a dog person. Dog people had settled lives and goals and regular jobs. They didn’t live in borrowed beach cottages and keep weird hours and wonder what lay around the next corner.

  Despite her reservations about keeping Franny, one thing was nonnegotiable. The dog had to be taken out. Staying inside like a hermit was no longer an option. Sarah’s self-imposed isolation had come to an end. There was an area of the town park where dogs were permitted so long as they were kept on a leash. It was a great spot for people watching. Benches lined the walkways, which were shaded by massive oak and laurel trees. At concrete tables inlaid with chessboards, pairs of players often sat down to match wits. Near the swing set and teeter-totter, young mothers would stand together for hours, chatting away while their children played. Sometimes the kids would grow bored or cranky, but the mothers seemed reluctant to part. It didn’t take Sarah long to realize that bringing the kids to the park was as much about the mothers’ social life as it was the children’s.

  After an hour of chasing a driftwood stick, Franny lay in a patch of sunlight and was soon drowsing. Sarah flipped to a fresh page of her sketchbook. A few swift strokes of her pencil rendered the two young women across the way, seemingly absorbed in one another as their children dug in the sandbox. The sketch captured their absorption in the conversation as well as their watchful, protective stance over the children, the peculiar dichotomy of young mothers.

  Drawing was one area where Sarah had plenty of confidence in herself. People were often startled by the differences between her comic strip, which created strong impressions with a few bold lines, and her studio art, done with considerable technical expertise and subtlety.

  The afternoon school bus disgorged a group of half-grown kids. A slender, dark-haired girl approached Sarah. Franny, who had been dozing under the bench after a good run, lifted her head, then flattened her ears as a growl rumbled in her throat. The girl kept her distance as she shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  “Sorry about her,” Sarah said. “I just adopted her, and she’s still in training.” She made a scolding sound at Franny and the dog went over on her side, instantly contrite. “Have a seat,” she said.

  In a flicker of recognition, she realized it was the schoolgirl she’d seen around, the one she thought of as a Disney princess. The girl sat tentatively at the opposite end of the bench and was craning her neck at Sarah’s drawing.

  She angled the drawing toward her. “I was making a sketch or two,” she said.

  Color surged to the girl’s cheeks. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to seem nosy.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “You’re really good.”

  “Thanks.” She deepened the shading around a key figure in the drawing. “My name’s Sarah.”

  “I’m Aurora,” said the girl. “And actually, I know who you are—Sarah Moon, right? You have that comic strip, Just Breathe.”

  Sarah lifted her eyebrows. “News travels fast.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not a stalker or anything. Nothing else happens around here. My friend Edie’s mom, she teaches at the high school. Mrs. Armengast. She said she was your English teacher.”

  “I remember her.” Mrs. Armengast was an anal-retentive, humorless taskmaster whose success record for AP English was legendary.

  “She remembers you, too.” The girl toyed with a zipper on her backpack. “Um, I’m doing this project for school, about jobs in our community. I’m supposed to interview somebody about their job. So I was wondering if I could interview you.”

  Sarah nearly choked on the irony of it. “I’m flattered, but the truth is, I barely have a job.”

  “Drawing a comic strip isn’t a job?” Aurora looked crestfallen.

  “You know what?” Sarah said, feeling a stab of defiance. Why let the kid think she was a loser? “It is. I’m self-employed, like a subcontractor. And yes, drawing the strip is my job and I’d be happy to tell you about it.”

  “Can I take notes?”

  “Of course.”

  Looking adorably efficient, she scribbled down the vitals—Sarah’s name and age, where she’d gone to college and what she’d studied there. As she gave Aurora a rundown on her career as an illustrator and comic strip artist, a curious thing happened to Sarah. She started feeling marginally better about herself and grew more animated, describing her computerized comic strip layout and her routine of writing in the morning and drawing in the afternoon, staying two months ahead of publication. When she mentioned that her handwriting had been digitized to create her own font, called “SWoon,” Aurora’s expression turned to something like awe, even after Sarah explained that it was common practice in the industry.

  The conversation with this girl reminded Sarah that she had a long list of accomplishments, yet somewhere along the way, she’d stopped taking pride in them. She’d been so wrapped up in her marriage, Jack’s illness and recovery, and her quest to get pregnant that she’d lost the dreamy-eyed artist she’d once been. She had even begun to buy into Jack’s assessment of her career as an unstable and unprofitable pursuit to be regarded more as a hobby than a career.

  “A lot of people think you can’t support yourself doing art,” she said. “Especially people outside Marin. I say it’s possible, even though it might not be easy. Art has to be studied and practiced, just like everything else. Before that, you have to love it, plain and simple. You have to love it and let it mean something to you.” Sarah couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t trying to draw something. Her earliest efforts were stick figures scrawled on the backs of church collection envelopes. When she was tiny, her mother used to give her a pencil to keep her quiet during services. In high school, she had turned her lousy social life into fodder for an underground comic strip that had turned out to be more popular among students than the yearbook.

  She let Aurora flip through her sketches. The girl paused at a swift rendering of Shirl with a think bubble over her head with the age-old question, “Paper or plastic?”

  A burst of adolescent laughter sounded, and Sarah saw the girl’s attention lift toward it.

  “Friends of yours?” Sarah asked.

  “Nope. Just some girls from my school.” Yearning in her brown eyes.

  So that’s how it
is, Sarah thought. She wondered how this gorgeous creature could ever be considered an outcast.

  Aurora glanced over as Sarah was studying her.

  “I didn’t mean to stare,” Sarah said, then frowned a little. “It looks like you have a bruise on your cheek.” All sorts of possibilities flitted through her mind.

  Aurora frowned. Using her sleeve, she rubbed at her face.

  To Sarah’s relief, the bruise disappeared. “Didn’t mean to worry you,” Aurora said. “I was doing a charcoal drawing in art class today. Art’s my favorite subject.”

  “It was mine, too.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She blushed again. On the far side of the park, a blond woman in a Volvo pulled over to the curb and the group of laughing girls got in.

  “My mother works in Vegas,” the girl said, though Sarah hadn’t asked.

  “Oh. Is that where you live?”

  The girl hesitated. “I’m staying with family here,” she said. “Just until my mother gets settled, you know?”

  “I bet you miss her,” Sarah commented. “But it’s great that you have family here, too. That’s nice. It’s lucky.”

  “Yeah, well, Vegas is all about luck.”

  Sarah watched the pair of young mothers rounding up their toddlers from the swing set and sandbox. She closed her sketchbook and took out a Kleenex to wipe her hands.

  “We’ll probably all move to Vegas pretty soon,” Aurora said.

  “All of you. Does that mean you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Nope. It’s just me and my dad. He really misses my mom.” She twisted her small gold stud earring.

  Sarah couldn’t stand Vegas, although she could see how the glitter and flash might appeal to a kid, even someone too young to gamble. She felt a twinge of bittersweet envy at the girl’s words. He really misses my mom. Having parents who loved each other gave a child such a sense of security.

  “I better go,” Aurora said suddenly, slapping her notebook shut and stuffing it into her backpack. “Thanks for the interview.”