He lifts up his front flipper again and gives it a hasty shake like he did before.
“Exactly,” I say. “I should go early and spend a few hours righting karmic wrongs. Rewarding people, punishing people … Maybe that would make me feel better. I mean, surely, all the justice I’ve doled out so far hasn’t ended up being complicated. Most people deserve what they get. Right?”
In response, Lennon scoots closer to me and drops his head onto my thigh.
I inhale sharply and go very still. My heart was already going to burst when he waved at me, now I think it might have happened. It feels like warm gooey joy is flooding through my whole body.
“Okay, scratch the performance-duo idea,” I mutter. “You can be my therapy sea lion. I’ll get you a license, okay?”
I start petting the top of his head again and he rolls onto his side, almost like he’s snuggling.
“Aw, man. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I shake my head a little sadly. “But I really hope this doesn’t permanently mess you up for life in the ocean.”
“So you are concerned?”
I startle, and only Lennon’s head on my leg keeps me from lurching to my feet.
Dr. Jindal is standing outside Lennon’s enclosure, watching us, her arms crossed over her chest.
THIRTY-ONE
Panic jolts through me—could I get fired for this? Do they fire volunteers? “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I know we’re not supposed to interact with them. But…” But I couldn’t help it? But this cute little face was irresistible? But he is kind of my sea lion, so …
The words die on my tongue. I have no worthy excuse.
I should probably get up. Not just because sitting feels a bit disrespectful or because to stay motionless might suggest I’m not that sorry for breaking the rules—which I guess I’m not, really, even though I think I should be.
Plus, my backside is starting to hurt and there’s dampness seeping in through my jeans. But Lennon still has his head on my lap, so I stay put.
“It’s all right, Prudence,” says Dr. Jindal. “I won’t tell on you. I know how easy it is to get attached, especially to the ones you helped rescue.”
Despite her kindness, I still feel chastised.
“Besides,” she continues, “with Lennon here, it isn’t going to make a difference.”
I frown, petting Lennon’s back again. I feel his muscles relax under my touch. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t read his chart?”
“No,” I answer, glancing at the wall, though from here I can’t see the clipboard that holds Lennon’s medical information, from how much he weighs to the types of treatments he’s received. The reports are pretty dry reading, so after the first couple of days at the center I stopped perusing them. “Why?”
Dr. Jindal sets down a stack of mail that I hadn’t noticed her carrying. She unhooks Lennon’s chart from the little peg, then unlatches the gate and lets herself in.
Lennon lifts his head. Probably hoping for a snack.
“He has an eye infection,” says Dr. Jindal, crouching beside us.
I look into his eyes. Sweet, soft, intelligent eyes, still glazed, still cloudy. And now I can see a hint of yellowish goop in the inner corner of one eye.
“He’s entirely blind in his left eye,” says the vet, “and the infection has spread to the right eye now, too.”
My heart convulses. “Is it painful?”
“Not at this stage. But there isn’t much we can do. He’s eventually going to go entirely blind.”
“But if he’s blind, how will he hunt? How will he survive?”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “He won’t. Not out there.”
Understanding spreads through me. Lennon can never go back to the ocean.
As if bored with our conversation, Lennon gets up suddenly, turns, and waddles back to his blanket.
Using the wall for purchase, I climb back to my feet. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“We’ll do our best to care for him and make him comfortable, like with any of our patients. And when the time is right, he’ll be sent off to a new home.”
“A zoo.”
“Perhaps. There are also aquariums and sanctuaries. Rosa has a lot of good connections. She’ll find the best place for him.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “You still saved his life. It’s just going to be a different life than he’s known before.”
I nod. “Thanks, Dr. Jindal. But saving him was kind of a group effort.”
“They always are,” she says, laughing. “And you’ve been here for a month now, Prudence. You can call me Opal.”
Have I really been here for an entire month? It’s gone by so fast.
I understand now why she wasn’t upset with me. If Lennon is going to a zoo, he’ll be surrounded by humans all the time, everything from zookeepers to rowdy children. The more acclimated he can become to the presence of humans, the better.
“Don’t worry about him,” she adds. “He’s a fighter. I can tell.” She gives me a look, and I have a feeling she feels this way about every animal that comes in here, no matter how bad off they are. “And this does all come with a silver lining.”
“It’s okay for me to visit with him,” I say.
She pauses, and then chuckles. “Yes, actually. Two silver linings, then.” She lets herself out of the gate.
I follow behind her, confused. “What’s the other one?”
“Lennon isn’t the only animal we have that can’t be released. We’re going to introduce him to Luna this evening. If they get along, we’re hoping that we can find a permanent home that will take them both.”
I brighten, immediately relieved to think of Lennon having a friend that will stay with him when he leaves the center. “Why wouldn’t they get along?”
She shrugs. “Just like with humans, some animals just … rub each other the wrong way. But they can also grow on each other with time. If the sparks don’t fly tonight, we’ll keep trying. We’ll have to see what happens.”
I latch the gate and Lennon glances up briefly before flopping over onto his side. “Rest up, buddy,” I whisper to him. “Sounds like you’ve got a hot date tonight.”
Opal snickers. “You volunteers and your matchmaking.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lennon and Luna … it has a nice ring to it.”
“I confess, when they told me what you’d named him, that was the first thing I thought.” She smiles, then gathers up the stack of bills and catalogs. “They’re out prepping a pool that the two of them will hopefully be sharing soon. I know you’re probably off the clock, but you could stay and watch the meeting if you wanted to.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
With a nod, Dr. Jin—er, Opal—heads off toward the stairs. I turn back to the enclosure and watch Lennon for a few more minutes. I want to believe that he looks content, even in this tiny cubicle, which is nothing compared with the pool he’ll be given wherever he ends up in. I know it will never be the same as the open ocean, but I have to believe he’ll be okay.
I hope Rosa finds someplace that isn’t too far away, so I can maybe go visit him from time to time. I wonder, when I do, whether he’ll remember me.
“I’ll always remember you,” I whisper.
His back flipper kicks out a few times, and I hope he’s having a good dream.
I’m about to turn away when a slip of yellow paper catches my eye. I crane my head. An envelope has fallen down into the pen.
I open the gate as quietly as I can so as not to disturb Lennon and grab the envelope. It must have fallen from the stack of mail that Opal was carrying.
I flip it over.
The card wasn’t sent to us. Rather, the center is the return address. This card was supposed to be mailed to …
My heart leaps into my throat.
Grace Livingstone
612 Carousel Blvd.
The address, however, has been crossed out wi
th a thin red marker. Beside it, someone at the postal service stamped the card: DECEASED: RETURN TO SENDER.
Livingstone. Could Grace Livingstone be Maya’s grandmother? But if so, what connection does she have to the center?
I’m peeling open the envelope before I know what I’m doing. Inside is a white card with a watercolor print of a sea turtle on the front, and words in flourishing script: Thank You.
I open the card and recognize Rosa’s handwriting, which I’ve seen plenty on the weekly schedules.
Dear Mrs. Livingstone,
It’s occurred to me that in all the years in which you’ve been a dedicated supporter of our center, I have never personally expressed my gratitude. We’ve received your most recent donation, and I want to tell you how your monthly contributions have made an enormous impact on our ability to rescue and care for our patients.
Per your recent note, I am so saddened to hear about your declining health, just as I am incredibly honored to hear that you’ve thought to include our center in your will. I promise that you and your generosity will not be forgotten, and that we at the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center will do our best to honor your legacy by being careful stewards of such a gift.
Thank you, thank you—
Yours most sincerely,
Rosa Erickson
I read through the letter three times. Recent donation. Monthly contributions. Honor your legacy.
Deceased.
I tuck the card back into the envelope, dazed. Though I can’t know it for sure, I have no doubt that Grace Livingstone is—or, was—Maya’s grandmother. And the fact that she gave money to the center every month …
It’s too coincidental.
It’s a sign.
A sign from the universe.
Suddenly, I know what the right thing is.
That money that was donated at the cleanup doesn’t belong to the center. It needs to go back to the pawn broker, and that earring needs to go back to Maya. Its rightful owner.
And it’s okay—it’s fair—because Grace Livingstone’s legacy will live on. Her generous contributions to the center will continue.
I know what I have to do.
* * *
I check first to be sure that Shauna and Rosa are out in the yard. I wait until the last of the volunteers have finished with their lunch and gone back downstairs.
Even though I know I’m doing the right thing—that the universe has my back in this—my heart is still drumming as I open the door to Shauna’s office.
The glass jar is sitting on the corner of her desk, still full of green bills and spare change. My palms are clammy as I shut the door, leaving it open just a crack so that I’ll be able to hear if anyone is coming.
Okay. Let’s make this quick.
I slip over to the desk and untwist the jar’s lid. I reach inside and grab a fistful of cash. I drop it onto the desk and start sorting through the bills, but it’s slow-going. Much slower than I thought it would be. People don’t just throw money into these donation jars. No. They fold and roll them, like little origami trinkets. I have to unfold each one, smoothing it out and stacking like bills together.
On first glance, the amount in the jar had looked extremely promising, but the more money I pull out, the more skeptical I become. It’s almost entirely one-dollar bills. A few fives, a handful of twenties. But mostly ones.
Probably the beachcomber would have dropped her donation in all at once, but there is no stack of hundreds or fifties. I keep digging. Keep unfolding. Keep sorting.
Sweat is beading on the back of my neck. Anxiety claws at my throat. Every time the animals start yelping down in the yard, it makes me jump out of my skin.
I’m not guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not stealing. I’m just helping to return that earring to Maya, without hurting anyone. And this doesn’t hurt the center, I tell myself. No one will even know that some of it has gone missing, and what they don’t know can’t hurt them.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, all the while silently promising to work extra hard on the next fundraiser to make up for it.
I hear clomping, uneven footsteps. Someone is entering the break room.
I freeze.
I listen as whoever it is gets something from the fridge.
Water runs in the sink.
More footsteps. Someone else comes in—
“Oh, hey! You’re back!”
My breath hitches. Quint.
“Yeah. Finally,” says a female voice. “Still lugging this thing around, though.”
There’s a loud thud.
“I like that you went with the bright pink. Gutsy choice.”
I dare to crane my head, peering through the gap in the door. I can’t see Quint, but I catch a glimpse of the girl. It’s Morgan, sporting a fluorescent-pink cast on her leg covered with doodles and words. Two crutches are propped up against the counter as she sips from an aluminum water bottle.
She glances my way.
I jerk back. I’m trying not to breathe, but the pressure from unspent breaths is building up inside my chest. I try to let the air out slowly, silently, but it only seems to make it worse.
“I feel like you’ve missed a lot,” says Quint. “It’s been exciting around here lately.”
“Yeah, I heard there’s some new girl who’s been shaking things up.”
“Prudence. Yeah. She’s…” He pauses. I strain to hear what he’s going to say, but whatever it is he’s thinking, he must change his mind. “You’ve met her, actually. When we went to that place with the karaoke? She’s the one that slipped and hit her head.”
“Oh. Right. Is she doing okay?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Cool. That was a weird week. Hey—that reminds me. The petition I was working on that night? You know, to shut down that so-called farm? Sounds like we might be making progress. The USDA says they’re going to investigate it.”
“Nice,” says Quint. “Congratulations?”
“Nothing’s changed yet, but yeah, thanks. Anyway. I guess I’m on chart duty until I get this thing taken off. Still, it’s good to be back. I missed all those little guys down there.”
“They missed you, too.”
More clomping as she and her crutches head back toward the stairs. I listen until Quint leaves, too, before finally releasing my breath, and just as quickly sucking in a new one. Gah, that was the longest two minutes of my life.
I turn my attention back to the stacks of money I’ve laid out. There’s still plenty of change in the jar, but I ignore it. The beachcomber did not give us twelve hundred dollars in quarters.
But this doesn’t look like enough.
I count through it, starting with the solitary fifty-dollar bill, then working my way through the twenties. The tens. The fives.
I know long before I start in on the ones that something is wrong.
This isn’t going to add up to anything even close to twelve hundred dollars.
I pick up the tall stack of ones, but I don’t bother. It’s fifty dollars at most.
What the heck? Did that woman lie to me? Did she just say that she gave the money to the center so I wouldn’t pester her about taking it back to the pawnshop?
But she seemed so sweet. So genuine.
It doesn’t make sense.
And honestly, even without the twelve-hundred-dollar windfall I believed was in here, shouldn’t there still be more than this? There had to be hundreds of people who put money into this jar.
But maybe I miscalculated. Or maybe I’d naively thought that most people would be handing over fives and tens, even the occasional twenty, when in reality, it was just the loose change at the bottom of their pockets.
Someone knocks at the door.
I gasp and look up as the door swings open—agonizingly slow.
Quint stands there, his hand still raised.
He blinks at me and looks from my face, which is already reddening, to the stack of dollar bills in m
y hands, to the near-empty donation jar.
THIRTY-TWO
“Prudence?” he says, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry!” I spout, even though I haven’t done anything. Haven’t taken anything. Even though I have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.
I start shoving the money back into the jar.
“I was just dying to know what we made!” I laugh, and I know how nervous it sounds, how incriminating. My hands are shaking. “The suspense was killing me.”
He chuckles, a little uncertainly. “Yeah, right. I asked Shauna earlier and she said she hasn’t even gotten to it yet. That she’ll let us know tomorrow.”
“Gah, tomorrow! That’s, like, ages away!” I’m laying it on too thick. I try to calm myself down as I twist the lid back onto the jar.
“I know. So?”
I stare at him. “So?”
His eyebrows lift and he gestures at the jar. “How did we do?”
“Oh! Uh…” I shrug helplessly. “I’d only just gotten everything sorted. I didn’t have time to count yet.”
“Oh.” He still looks skeptical, even as he nods. “I guess we’ll both be surprised, then?” A moment of awkward silence passes between us, before Quint’s face starts to clear. “Regardless of how much it is, I know everyone is really happy with how the cleanup went. Mom said she’s even had a few people call about volunteer opportunities.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“Yeah.” He presses his lips together and I can tell he wants to say something, but I’m still too agitated to guess what it is. Too freaked out that he’s about to accuse me of stealing. Which … I didn’t do. Which … it wasn’t.
Was it?
No. No. I’m not a thief. Thieves are bad people. I am not a bad person.
I clear my throat and intercept whatever it is he’s wanting to say. “What are you doing here?” Then, realizing that’s a guilty-sounding question, I amend, “I didn’t think you were on the schedule today.”
“I’m not.” He leans against the doorjamb. “Has anyone told you yet? About Lennon?”
Instant Karma Page 28