Atticus

by S. Bennett

  Hazel keeps a bright smile on her face all the time. She tries to cook the most tempting meals for Oley, even though he doesn’t have much of an appetite these days. She runs him to doctor’s appointments, and they sit on the patio some nights and have conversations that are so deep and long I always fall asleep. The only time she leaves is if Jack takes her somewhere for a little bit, but other than that, she’s devoted to Oley.

  Trotting up to Hazel, I head butt her in the hip.

  I give her the look. Give me food, woman.

  She gives me a head scratch instead, and that’s fine. Not quite as satisfying to my belly, but totally fills my soul up.

  “Maybe you should make a move on him,” Liz suggests.

  Hazel’s eyes shine with amusement, but she gives a firm shake of her head. “It’s not the right time. I’ve only got enough room in my life to care about one man right now.”

  Liz’s face goes soft, and she reaches out to squeeze Hazel’s hand. “I know it’s hard.”

  “It’s fine,” Hazel says in that way where she always tries to be strong.

  Only I know, though.

  When Hazel goes to bed, many nights she does so crying into my neck with her arms wrapped tightly around me.

  CHAPTER 51

  Hazel

  God knows I’m happy to see Oley’s kids and grandkids come in to visit him, but did they have to pick the weekend of my dog’s birthday? Well, his half birthday. Ever since we celebrated his six-month birthday on that July 4th four years ago, Atticus has been the recipient of two birthday parties each year, and having Oley’s family here kind of takes the specialness out of it.

  The minute that wretched thought enters my head, my skin flushes with guilt. That’s incredibly selfish of me. It’s not about Atticus or me, but about Oley.

  Except… I know he’s had his fill of them and can’t wait until they leave after the party. I know this because he told me so. He loves his family, but they also don’t fit very well into his life. I watched them putting their father off with one excuse or another for years, and now that he’s dying, they’re hovering is kind of oppressive to him. This is the second time they’ve visited since his diagnosis.

  Regardless, Oley and I decided to move forward with our birthday plans for Atticus despite his kids dropping by very unexpectedly. As in, Tara called as they were leaving Raleigh. I had to rush out to the grocery store and buy more chicken for the grill.

  “What can I get you, Oley?” I ask as I bend over his rocking chair. It was a terribly hot day, but at least now that the sun’s gone down it’s just a tolerable mugginess. The ceiling fans on the patio help.

  We’re having the party out here because there are too many people to fit comfortably inside Oley’s house, but also because Oley gets cold sometimes. He says the Carolina heat makes his bones feel better.

  “I’m good, Hazel,” he says, keeping his eyes on the kids running around the backyard with Atticus and Scout. Benji, Monica, and Tyrone, Jr. are wearing their butts out, but what dog doesn’t love chasing kids and playing tug-of-war?

  “I’ll take another beer when you get a moment,” Bernard says from beside Oley. He’s rocking his chair to the exact same cadence as Oley’s.

  “Gotcha,” I tell him with a smile.

  Glancing around, I try to see if anyone else looks like they need anything. The barbeque was a success. I served grilled chicken, mounds of my potato salad, and a huge pot of baked beans.

  Tara, Cameron, and their brood sit at one of the picnic tables under a nearby oak tree. Jack and Carl are playing a game of horseshoes with Tyrone and Trey. Liz, Carina, and my mom are sipping margaritas at a folding table I’d set out. The only ones missing are Charmin and Shane, but her due date is next week, and she didn’t want to risk being away from the hospital and their doctor this close, which is totally legit. She did send a gift for Atticus, though, and I let him open it this morning.

  It was a new super-sized Kong I immediately filled with peanut butter. He went to town on it while I took a shower and got ready for the day.

  My heart swells, taking in all of Oley’s friends. Some who are newer than others, but all came out to celebrate my dog’s half birthday not for my dog, but for the man who once saved my dog and me.

  I step inside the kitchen, wanting a cooling respite from the heat. In a bit, I’ll pull out the doggie cake I’d made for Atticus along with the people cake I’d also made, and we’ll make a big deal out of the birthday boy for a bit. He’s officially four and a half years old. I’m not sure if it’s because Oley’s got a limited number of days left on this earth, but I find myself worrying about my dog’s own days more than usual.

  The french door opens, and I turn to see Jack stepping inside. I might be all kinds of a fool, but I can’t help that my pulse always quickens just a bit when I’m close to him.

  He gives me a big smile as he shuts the door. “It’s hot as hell outside.”

  “Not so bad under the fans,” I reply as I lean back against the counter.

  “Came to get a few more beers.” Jack says, but he comes to stand beside me. He reaches a hand out, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, which gives me goose bumps and an unbearable need to shiver.

  He stares at me a long moment before he asks, “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I murmur.

  “No.” He turns, steps in front of me, and moves his face in closer to mine. “Seriously… are you doing okay? And for once, be honest when I ask that question.”

  Jack does ask me that a lot. We see each other once or twice a week, and we talk on the phone or by text in between. He’s the only one—besides perhaps Atticus—who keeps an eye on my mental health.

  “He’s going downhill,” I finally manage to breathe out.

  “Yeah,” he says with a heavy sigh. “He’s not looking good.”

  It made me think about when Tara showed up yesterday. She’d hugged her dad and told him how good he looked. And maybe he did in that moment because he was happy to see his kids.

  But she doesn’t see how he eats barely enough food to sustain a toddler each day. Or how he gets cold, and then really hot. Or how he’s constantly thirsty, but nothing seems to satisfy him.

  She certainly hasn’t made mention of the fact his skin is yellowing with jaundice as his liver is being killed off by the cancer.

  Jack brings his hands to my shoulders, and for a moment, I stiffen involuntarily. He’s never touched me like this before. Every time we get together for a meal or to go see a movie, it’s totally in the friend zone. Sure… I get a hug from him in greeting or in farewell, but it’s always brief and brotherly.

  His hands feel warm and heavy on me, and so very comforting. “What can I do to help you?” he asks.

  I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from saying, “Kiss me.”

  God, that’s inappropriate.

  “Just continue being a good friend, Jack,” I say. I bring my hands up to circle his wrists, giving him an affectionate squeeze.

  He smiles, but then dips his head a little closer. “That I will always do for you. But you do know, Hazel…” His voice goes deep and low, sending a shiver down my spine when he finishes. “That I want to be more than your friend, right?”

  I blink and blink and blink while I try to process those words. Things seem to go all slo-mo on me.

  “But it’s more important that you get through this with Oley,” he explains. “You have the world’s biggest burden on your shoulders, and I don’t know how you do it. I’m in constant amazement at the way you just so effortlessly handle things.”

  More blinking.

  His gaze grows softer. “But I know it’s not effortless to you. It’s taking a toll. So whatever you need, I’m the person you call first, okay?”

  Three more blinks.

  “Hazel,” he chides. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Good,” he says with a satisfied smile, cupping the back of my neck with
his strong hand. Leaning in while tugging me closer, he touches his lips to my skin for the very first time.

  Right on my forehead, and it’s the best first kiss I’ve ever had. My hands tighten on his wrists, and I want to keep him there forever.

  The kitchen door opens, and Bernard calls out, “What happened to my beer, Hazel?”

  Jack doesn’t jump away from me, but rather releases me slowly with an added wink before he turns toward the fridge.

  Slow motion is gone now, the world back to real time.

  “What you drinking?” Jack asks Bernard as he opens the refrigerator.

  My mom comes in behind Bernard, gently pushing him to the side as he just stands in the doorway. She beams at me. “Want to get the cake served, honey?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I answer. “I’ve got them locked upstairs in the guest bedroom.”

  No way in hell was Atticus going to get into them before we were ready.

  Liz and Carina walk in, carrying their empty margarita glasses. “Any left?” Liz asks.

  I nod toward the fridge, then Jack is pulling the pitcher out and handing it to them. “You ladies better watch it. I don’t want you getting crazy on us.”

  Everyone laughs.

  There’s chatter.

  Mom pushes me toward the hall that leads to the cakes. I take one last, lingering look at Jack, but he’s talking to Bernard as he hands over a beer.

  For the first time in a long time, my heart feels really good, and I’ll take that feeling for however long it may last.

  CHAPTER 52

  Hazel

  The chicken coop has long been finished, thanks to Jack’s guidance with Bernard and Oley, as well as his patience. Oley even insisted on stocking it with actual chickens. I dutifully collect eggs each morning, keeping a few for myself, but giving most away to either Bernard or the staff at the clinic.

  The mood there has been somber. Things have been tidied up nicely with Marsha buying the practice. It was one of the first things Oley did after he decided almost four months ago not to fight the cancer. They agreed upon a fair price, and had a lawyer draft up the documents. While I didn’t think it was any of my business, Oley had me involved so I understood very clearly that part of the sales agreement included a condition I remain employed there for at least three years after his death.

  I didn’t foresee that as a problem. Marsha and I get along very well, and she’s as dependent on me to run the business side of things as Oley was. Still, it was a very sweet gesture from a man who has infinite sweetness inside of him.

  Oley moans, his face screwing up in pain. It’s amazing how efficient I’ve become at caring for him. The hospice nurses have been wonderful in teaching me the mystic arts of helping someone die.

  It’s been almost a week since Oley stopped communicating. He’s in what appears to be a deep sleep most of the time, but there’s also pain and discomfort. I have to gauge how much by sounds and movement.

  Within moments, I have a dose of morphine delivered to him subcutaneously as I was taught by the nurse. There are no IVs because Oley didn’t want any hydration to prolong the process. When he was awake and had more strength to swallow, I could dribble the medicine in his mouth with an eye dropper. Now he can’t be depended on to swallow the grace morphine gives, so I inject it under his skin.

  While I’m up and attending him, I check his diaper. It’s dry, which is not surprising. No food or hydration will do that. I step over Atticus who spends most of his time lying beside Oley’s hospital bed. We’d put it in the living room, so he could watch TV on his better days. I still put the Braves on any time they’re playing, and I’d like to think some part of Oley knows and appreciates it.

  Grabbing an oral swab, I start to dip it into a glass of cold sweet tea that’s always sitting by his bed. It’s right next to a sealed letter. The envelope has my name written on it, and it’s from Oley. When he started the downward spiral and became bedridden, he made me promise not to read it until he died. Of course, I agreed.

  Oley’s mouth is open, as it usually is, with his tongue slightly peeking out. I gently pull down on his chin to get it a little wider and with great care, I swipe around the inside of his mouth to moisten it. I doubt he can taste it, but it makes me smile to know he’s getting his beloved sweet tea right until the end.

  This past week as been tough. I’ve been by his side the entire time, sleeping on the couch for stolen snatches. I’m able to shower and have an hour to myself when either Jack, Bernard, Liz, or my mom comes by to sit with Oley.

  He has all the signs that death is bearing down on him that we were taught to be on the lookout for. First, it was weakness and disorientation. The agitation was terrible to watch, but they have drugs for that. The cocktail that seems to give him the most relief is a mix of Ativan and Morphine.

  He lost consciousness for great periods of time. All the while, I’d sit by him and talk, hold his hand, or rub his arms. I called Tara and Cameron to come, as I thought we were getting very close. For three days they sat by his bed while I did the medical care as hospice had taught me. Swabbing his mouth when asleep, encouraging ice chips when he was awake. Changing his diaper and bed linens—usually when the hospice nurse came by as it was easier with two people. Rubbing lotion on his dry skin and combing his hair.

  On the fourth day after Oley had stopped communicating, Tara and Cameron left. Cameron had work duties, and I think Tara couldn’t take it any longer. I didn’t hold that against either one of them. The business of watching a loved one die is truly the most horrific experience ever. I felt bad for them, seeing years of regret etched upon their faces.

  I hugged both and promised I’d call them as soon as he was gone. They both love me dearly right now.

  Over the last two days, Oley’s gotten worse. The hospice nurse was just here a few hours ago, and she doesn’t seem to think it will be much longer. He’s got fluid sitting at the back of his throat because he can’t swallow. It makes an awful gurgling sound when he breathes, and I was terrified he was drowning. The nurse assured me he was not, but gave him some Atropine to help dry it up some. We also elevated his torso to help. His breathing is erratic. Cheyne Stokes, the nurse called it. He’ll breath fast for a while, then it will slow until he’s barely breathing at all. I’ll sit poised by his bed, gripping his hand, thinking it’s the end.

  Then he starts breathing normally—albeit shallowly—again.

  It’s pure torture just waiting.

  I run my hand down Oley’s arm. It’s getting colder to the touch. Another sign. His skin is paler today with almost a bluish cast to it.

  I lower the bed rail, sitting down by Oley’s bum hip. That stupid hip I thought was the bane of his existence when it was really cancer.

  Atticus pushes from the floor and rests his head on my leg, regarding Oley with soulful eyes. I’d read there was an old Indian legend that dogs with bi-colored eyes were said to be able to see both heaven and earth. I wonder if that’s true. I know the truth teller sees things that normal beings don’t, so maybe.

  Atticus gives a baleful whine.

  It makes me smile. “Want to come up here?”

  He chuffs. With a gentleness that I didn’t know this big, goofy dog possessed until Oley became sick, he gets his front legs up and over my lap, resting most of his weight on me but lets his head go to Oley’s stomach. I reach over, taking Oley’s arm to pull it so it’s in reach of Atticus’ face. His tongue comes out, and he licks the back of Oley’s hand.

  I’m startled for a moment when Oley’s eyes flutter and then open. His eyes are watery, the color of his irises lackluster. In the mounds of literature I’d read from the hospice people, I learned patients can sometimes have a surge of energy or a moment of supreme clarity before the end.

  I lean forward slightly, and Oley’s gaze clears a bit before focusing on me.

  “Hey, Oley,” I say softly, my voice barely able to squeak the words out. His expression glazes for a moment, and I think he mi
ght slip back under.

  But then it clears again, and his mouth moves ever so imperceptibly into what might be an attempt at a smile.

  Then he looks down his body at Atticus, the dog’s own eyes focused with an almost scary intensity back at Oley.

  His hand moves. He gives Atticus a pat so weak it barely touches the fur at the side of his head.

  I’m stunned when Oley’s mouth opens and closes a few times as if he’s trying to push words out. I think about getting a swab to moisten again, but then he talks.

  The words are stilted, raspy, and barely audible. But I understand him perfectly.

  “Thank you, Atti. For bringing Hazel. Into my life.”

  Tears fill my eyes, flowing freely down my face. Another roundabout way that Oley gives me a compliment.

  He manages another weak pat before his eyes slowly close. When he pulls in a watery-sounding breath, it comes out as a relieved sigh.

  Oley then slips away from us.

  Atticus and I sit there a while, immersed in a mutual grief. I’ve cried a lot this past week, but there’s still tears aplenty for me.

  But I also have a sense of peace within me. Oley’s not suffering anymore, and has moved on to a better place. I’d like to think Atticus can see him in heaven, hopefully waiting for us one day.

  We finally get off Oley’s bed. Pulling the sheets up to his chest, I tuck him in. I call the hospice nurse who will come over to verify his death, then she’ll work with the funeral home to come get him.

  My next calls are to Tara and Cameron, as is their right.

  I call Bernard next. He weeps quietly for a few moments. But as we had planned, he starts the call chain to inform Tyrone, Liz, my mom, and Charmin.

  Lastly, I call Jack. He tells me that he’s on his way.

  I grab the envelope with my name on it, heading to the couch. Atticus curls up beside me without his usual need be all over me. I think it’s enough for us at this point to just have each other close. It’s like he understands the solemnity of the moment.