Walk the Dog

by Isabel Jolie

  A calmness sweeps over me as the cab approaches Clarkson Street. I refuse to let her break us up. For the first time in my life, I will stand up to Melinda Daniels.

  I take the elevator to the fourth floor, which is the floor my bedroom is on. It’s 10:30 in the morning, and I don’t have much time to shower and prepare for my mother. I charge down the hallway to my bedroom, and as I pass the staircase that connects all three floors of my condo, I hear my mother’s voice from above, echoing through the stairwell.

  “Delilah, is that you, dear? Come up here, darling. I’m in the kitchen.”

  I exhale and pause in front of one of the hallway floor length mirrors. I pulled my hair up into a bun this morning, but flyaways dart out all along the sides. I’m wearing a gray plush sweatshirt and jeans I purchased yesterday in the little Montague Street shop, and my brown boots with the peekaboo toes. Shoes meant for warmer fall days than today. Mom will either critique the boots or the hair. Since the hair speaks to my not having stayed in my apartment last night, I’m betting on the hair.

  I smooth my palm over the flyaways, although without hairspray it’s a fruitless endeavor. Might as well face the demons, as they say. I pull my shoulders back and climb the stairs. She must have landed earlier than estimated and has already had time to get settled in one of the guest rooms on the sixth floor, which means she’s already scoped out the entire place.

  As I reach the fifth-floor landing, I face my mother. She sits on a stool in front of my kitchen bar, her straight, angled bob absolute perfection, not a hair out of place. Tears run down her cheeks. Her mascara doesn’t run, and for one bizarre moment I want to ask her what brand she uses, but I blow out air to clear the inane thought. “Mom, what is it?”

  She lifts her head, and light blue eyes, replicas of my own, shimmer through the tears. “Oh, honey. It’s your father.” Tears gush forth, and I wrap my arms around her. She rests her head on my chest as she sobs. “Honey, he’s dying.”

  Chapter 15

  Delilah

  The brown cardboard box human resources offered sits on my desk, empty. I stare at it, numb. In another life, this box held wine bottles. Judging by the shape and size and the circular indentations on the bottom, it held a dozen. A spiderweb crosses from one side, covering a corner. The thin strands can only be seen when light reflects on them, and the pattern breaks near the center. A soft tap on my door tears me away from my deep box inspection.

  “How’d it go with Margaret?” Anna stands in the doorway, her brow furrowed in concern. I wave her into my office.

  “Fine. She wouldn’t let me resign. Talked me into a personal leave. Three months, and then we regroup. The senior art director position may be filled if I come back, but they will hold my current position for me.”

  I pick up a silver bamboo frame from my desk. The picture’s of Moxie, my childhood dog, an American Water Spaniel. She was a good dog. Come to think of it, she never, ever overate. I place the cherished memory in a large cardboard box. “I don’t think I’ll be back, but Margaret wouldn’t listen to me. She said it’s all too new, and if I need to resign, then she understands, but for me to go home and find out more before making any decisions.”

  Anna perches awkwardly on the arm of an office chair across from my desk. “What can I do?”

  I pull my desk drawer, which requires jiggling because it’s crammed with Post-It notes, pens, receipts, paper clips, gum, hair ties, rubber bands, and a gazillion other objects. I stare at it and think I see the corner of a tarot card. “If I don’t come back, maybe clean out this office for me?”

  She drops into the seat and pulls one leg up to her body. “What does he have? You only told me he’s sick.”

  Tears build up as I stare at the framed picture of a slow loris, a type of small, endangered primate, hanging on the wall behind her. The round black glass pupils speak to me. I adopted one, not for real adopted, but sent money in to save one on the island of Java in Indonesia, hoping to remove it from the endangered species list. The other framed picture in my office is of Chevy Chase circa the seventies, and a framed photo of Nina Simone hangs closer to my desk.

  “Mom couldn’t stop crying, and I stopped asking. She told me I have some time, that I could wrap up this week, but they need me. My plan is to get home, see my dad, talk to his doctors, then do research. New Orleans is great and all, but depending on what he has, he may need to see doctors from a larger hospital. My folks tend to refuse to believe you can do better than New Orleans—well, for most things. Mom’s full-on accepted there’s better shopping in New York.” I force a smile until Anna steps up and wraps her arms around me, causing me to completely lose it, crying so hard snot drips from my nostrils.

  Anna grips my hair bun, placed low on my head because the high bun didn’t feel right this morning, and she tugs hard to get my attention. “I want to tell you he’s going to be okay.”

  My bottom lip quivers because all I can think is, he’s not going to be okay.

  Anna holds me as she continues. “But you still have time with him. Go home and be with him, okay? Be there for him. Share memories. Talk about the good times. Enjoy the time you have left. And know he will always, always be in your heart. He’s a part of you, for always.”

  I nod and reach for a tissue. The loud wonk of my blow forces me to laugh, then the snot spilling out from the sides of the tissue has me spurting out, “Eewwww.” Anna laughs as she passes me the tissue box.

  My phone vibrates.

  Mason: Up for company tonight?

  I told him about my dad via text. Mom and I spent yesterday in the apartment. At first, we cried. We cried so much. Then she orchestrated plans for my transition to New Orleans. She sent off text messages to Realtors, picked a pack-and-ship moving company, and quizzed me on where I’d like to live in New Orleans. I told her I’d stay in the carriage house to start. If Dad’s going to be sick, being as close as possible makes sense. The carriage house, which only carries the name due to its history, serves as a guest home overlooking my parents’ swimming pool. Governor Kennedy and his wife once stayed there. It’ll work for me. Besides, I can’t fathom house hunting while Dad is sick.

  Me: Sure. I need to pack but would be good to see you. My flight home leaves tomorrow morning.

  Mason: I’ll bring dinner. What’s your favorite comfort food?

  Me: Chicken and dumplings

  Mason: On it. Mom’s keeping Kara.

  I type out my reply.

  Me: Bring her. I have to tell her goodbye.

  Then I erase before sending. I haven’t made it clear to Mason that I’m moving yet. Packers are in my apartment today boxing up clothes. Mom stayed this morning to get them started before returning home to Dad. When Mason gets to my place, it’ll be obvious this isn’t a short visit.

  Anna has her arm wrapped around my shoulder. She’s reading the text exchange and squeezes when she sees me erase my words. Tears fill my eyes once again. It’s difficult to swallow through the emotion.

  “Hey, it’s not goodbye. You can come back to New York.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. But I can’t imagine leaving Mom alone in New Orleans once he passes. And I was going to move home one day, anyway. It’s always been the plan.”

  “Do you think you’ll try long distance?”

  My chest aches. I have no idea if the pain ripping through my chest is from the prospect of ending things with Mason or my father. But, my god, it hurts. My whole chest throbs. I exhale, then sniffle, then grab a tissue and blow. “Long distance. How would that work?”

  “However you two decide you want it to work.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Anna. He has a child. He couldn’t very easily take off for a weekend, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away. And this isn’t a temporary move. I mean, after my dad...” A sob breaks out, and I can’t say the words. “I won’t leave my mom alone.”

  An email notification catches my eye. It’s from a secretary at Dad’s office. I scan the
formal, curt meeting request. His partners want to have lunch with me. And Dad’s not included on the email. It’s as if the sharks smell blood in the water, so now there’s a new level of aggression.

  “Don’t make decisions right now. This is all new and fresh. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Go home, get the information, let all this settle before you do anything. Promise me, okay?”

  She tilts my head and forces me to look at her. Then, with one hand on the top of my head and the other on my chin, she forces me to nod.

  “You are agreeing. You are promising me. You are not going to make any decisions today. You have time.”

  Everything in the room blurs once again, as tears blot my view, but the heavy, excruciating pain in my chest lightens ever so slightly for the first time since yesterday. The notion that nothing is final, that no decisions have to be made soothes my aching lungs. A sliver of hope breaks through the surges of pain weighing me down.

  Chapter 16

  Mason

  A strong, cold wind gusts down Clarkson Street. The bare tree limbs bend under the force of the wind, and I clutch my scarf and coat. The walk from my clinic to Delilah’s isn’t a long one. I lower my head as I barrel forward headfirst into the night. Delilah hasn’t shared much, she doesn’t seem to know much, and she needs me.

  My mom graciously agreed to let Kara stay with her tonight. I can’t imagine how I would handle this single parent thing without my mom. It’s a wonder to me she managed as a single parent, always there for me but also working multiple jobs at times to keep a roof over our heads and food in the refrigerator. Then, less than ten years after I’m out the door and she gets to live her life for herself, I get drunk, don’t wrap it up, and she’s re-arranging her life for me, yet again, helping me out. If anyone has ever owed their mother, it’s me.

  I open the heavy metal and glass door to Delilah’s apartment building, and dry heat blasts over me. As I loosen the scratchy wool scarf, I stride to the reception desk where a uniformed doorman in a pressed navy jacket with a narrow brass nameplate greets me. The nameplate reads T. Reids.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Delilah Daniels.”

  “One moment...” He dials the phone. “Ms. Daniels, there is a gentleman here to see you.” He listens for a few seconds. “She says for you to come up to the fifth floor.”

  When he hangs up the phone, he directs me down the hall and around the corner to the Penthouse C elevator bank.

  Penthouse? I’ve lived in the penthouse a few times myself, but always in a fifth-floor walk-up, without a doorman, and where we applied the name penthouse because it was on the top floor. As I follow the directions, ignoring the row of elevators for the masses, I mentally catalog some of the finer points of her building. Doorman. White marble everywhere. White lobby furniture. Fresh, white orchids. These details didn’t strike me exactly the same way when I didn’t associate the words penthouse and private elevator with Delilah.

  A raised plaque and the words “Penthouse C” in script identify her elevator. Looking farther down the long hall, I see additional elevator entrances. Presumably other private elevators. I step into hers, and the panel offers a 4, 5, 6, L, P1, and P2. I press 5 and wait.

  When the doors open on the fifth floor, I step out into an apartment. To my right, there’s a wall and a small table with a massive white orchid, and to my left is a long hall that opens into a haze of light. I turn left and follow the hall, bypassing a long built-in for coats, scarves, and a bench with a basket of gloves.

  “Hello?” I call.

  Delilah rounds the corner at the end of the hall, a small smile on her face. “You’re here. Thanks for coming over.”

  She places her hand in mine, and I pull her close. I’ve been worried about her all day. I busied myself with patients, mostly a non-stop rush of well-checks mixed in with a few geriatric animals fighting the wear and tear of age. In between each patient, I’d check my phone for any new texts.

  Color left her face when she read the text yesterday. The moment I stepped into the den, hot scrambled eggs steaming in the bowl, I sensed something was wrong. She clutched her phone, shoulders down, looking like someone sucker punched her.

  I wanted so much to follow her home, to be there for her as she met her mother and learned more about what was going on. But I had Kara, and the scene that was bound to play out between Delilah and her mother was no place for a child. It also wasn’t the time or place for Delilah’s mother to meet Kara for the first time. These things I understood, but understanding didn’t make letting her leave any easier.

  The tension in my shoulders subsides as I inhale Delilah’s floral aroma. Her long blonde mane sits at the nape of her neck today, instead of piled on top of her head, as if she’s signaling to the world it’s not a top bun day. Her gray sweater bears holes around the seams, and her jeans are riddled with artfully places tears, as if she bought them ripped. She’s wearing thick socks instead of shoes, and she falls much lower to my chest. She holds on to me as if she’s clinging to me for life. I want to wrap her up and promise to take care of her, to say her father will be okay, and we’ll find a cure. But, as a veterinarian, I know all too often there is no cure. All too often, the strategy shifts from seeking health to lessening pain and making the most out of the gifted days that remain.

  In my practice, we light a candle when it’s time to say goodbye, so others speak in low voices. A lighted candle is our silent way of sharing what is happening behind a closed door. Someone is saying goodbye to a family member. It happens too often, and it’s never easy. I’m always grateful when an owner stays while I inject the medicine to end the pain because I know when they leave the room, their pet searches for them. In my core, I believe it’s so much better for a pet to be held by their owner as they fall asleep for the last time.

  We stand there, holding each other. She rubs her face into my shoulder, and as she pulls away, I notice dark, wet marks on my shirt. She tugs my hand, and I follow her around the corner then stop. Outside, it’s gray and dreary, but her kitchen is enormous and bright. White, shiny cabinet doors with silver pulls offset by a navy tile backsplash run down both walls of the kitchen with an enormous gray island in the middle. The end of her kitchen boasts glass sliding doors that open onto an outdoor terrace ensconced in floor to ceiling glass. Oversized rectangular gray ceramic tiles line the floor. An abundance of green plants fills the room at the end and provide the only source of non-white, gray, silver, or navy color. This one area might be larger than my entire apartment. She has not one, but two stainless steel chef kitchen refrigerators. Not one but two white porcelain farm sinks. The ceiling in the kitchen curves upward into a dome, and prominent silver pendants fall from the middle, cascading light throughout the spacious kitchen. The kitchen could easily grace the pages of Architectural Digest.

  “Nice place.” No wonder she seemed so puzzled my bathroom wasn’t attached to my bedroom. Her reality differs dramatically from the majority of New Yorkers. And mine.

  She points me to a stool and wordlessly offers me hot tea by picking up a white ceramic mug and angling her eyebrows at me in a questioning manner. She speaks volumes with her hands, eyebrows, and head. I nod to indicate I’ll have some.

  With her back to me as she pours hot water, with a defensive air, she says, “I know. It’s a lot. My parents bought this place when I moved here. Or, well, my dad’s business did. My dad views it as a real estate investment. And any of the partners can stay here if they come to the city.” She opens a cabinet and pulls out a flat wooden box. She pushes the mug of water and the box toward me across the island. The box holds a restaurant’s worth of teabags. I pick Moroccan mint and close the box, sliding it back to her.

  “What does your dad do?”

  “Real estate. It’s a second-generation family business, but he’s taken it to the next level. He’s kind of big shit in Louisiana. But no one cares here. It’s nice.”

  I take in th
e kitchen as she talks. I will never, ever be able to afford a place nearly as nice as this one in Manhattan. Ever.

  “Did your Mom make it home okay?”

  Her lips turn downward, and she sniffles. “Yeah. She texted right before you arrived.”

  I rap my fist against the counter. “I didn’t know where to get chicken dumplings. I thought we could order dinner in. Maybe I should have picked up something and brought it with me.” She stares at me with a blank expression. “Do you have some menus?”

  She leans across the counter, and the giant bun on the nape of her neck shifts. I miss the top of head bun and grip my coffee mug to prevent myself from reaching over and re-doing her hair.

  “Oh, yeah, here are some menus.” She pulls out a jam-packed drawer stuffed with menus and flips through them. “Do you mind if we order Italian? I’m kind of craving chicken parm. This place, Mama’s, you’d never want to eat there because it’s kind of a hole, but, oh my, they have the best marinara sauce. Buttery garlic knots too.”

  When she locates the correct menu, she whips it out, victorious, and catches my eye as if to ask if it’s okay. I give her a nod, and she tosses the menu my way.

  “They have an app. It’s easiest to order on the app. They have so many freaking options, ordering by phone can take forever. Drives me bonanzas.” She flicks away on her phone then glances up at me, waiting. I tell her I’ll have whatever she wants, and she half waves her hand and shifts away from me as if she’s having an entire conversation in her mind, and something about the twist of her head and the attitude as she pounds on the phone has me suspecting I’m not faring well in the conversation.