by Jane Peart
An involuntary shudder shivered through her. It was happening, irrevocably. More missing pieces all the time. Coryn couldn’t deny it, even though she wished she could.
She wished she had someone to confide in, someone who would understand, just by listening. She couldn’t bring herself to go to one of her girlfriends. Their lives were full, happy, and they had their own problems. No one wanted to carry another’s burden. Especially this kind. The kind that ended only in tragedy.
Who had called? Coryn wondered. Could it have been Mark? It had been weeks since he had come on his sad “mission of mercy.” He had seemed-what? As if he wanted to explain or apologize for not calling. That had made her feel embarrassed. She didn’t want him to feel obligated. Yet there were so many unresolved things between them. She wondered about Ginny and the new kitten.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Face it Whatever had almost happened between them had been abruptly cut off. His choice. Obviously. Maybe it was better this way. She had nearly fallen in love with him. Correction. She had fallen in love with him. And Ginny. She had truly loved the little girl, wanted to make life more-everything for her. For a few weeks, happiness had seemed possible for the three of them. She had sensed Mark felt that, too, but…Well, she had been wrong before.
Mark sat at his desk in the newsroom of the Rockport Times. His In box was overflowing, his Out box just as full. His computer was booted up, but the monitor was blank. He couldn’t concentrate. He flipped through his notebook. He had dozens of scribbled pages of notes taken for the story he was working on. The feature the managing editor was waiting for. It looked like Chinese. He reached for the phone, dialed the number and waited. The buzz of a busy signal came. He put down the phone, waited a few minutes, tried again. The same irritating buzz.
How could it stay busy so long? He slammed down the receiver, frowning. He keyed in a header, typed “by Mark Emery.” That’s as far as he got He reached for the phone again. This time he stayed with it even though it still gave off the busy signal. Forget it. Get to work. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all, to try to reach Coryn. Maybe he’d burned his bridges with her. Maybe…
But maybe there was still a chance. He picked up the phone and dialed again. This time it rang!
Good! He tapped his pencil on the desktop, waiting. Waiting. There must be someone there. It had been busy only seconds ago. Why didn’t someone answer? Frustrating.
Abruptly he replaced the receiver. Turned off the computer. Stood, grabbed his jacket, shrugged into it and walked through the room humming with other reporters’ activity. Someone must be at home at 183 Chestnut Hills Drive. He’d take a chance it was Coryn.
There was something wrong with Ranger. For a few days he had hardly stirred from his pillowed basket in the utility room.
The morning after her parents left for Napa Valley, Coryn opened the door from the kitchen and looked in. Ranger lifted his head, his tail wagged feebly. At once she was kneeling on the floor beside him, stroking his head. “What’s the matter, old fella?”
At the sound of her voice, he raised clouded eyes adoringly. She touched him gently and he struggled to move, but could not. Coryn let her hand smooth down over his body, his hind legs, to see if he was in pain anywhere. He did not seem to be. He simply could not get up.
Worried, Coryn refilled his water dish then brought it back and placed it within easy reach. But he did not make any effort to drink. Should she call the vet? Or try to take him to the animal clinic? Hands shaking she looked up the number in the phone book and called.
When she explained her concern and described Ranger’s condition, the vet’s secretary said, “Well, our records show he is fifteen, Miss Dodge. That’s quite an age for a dog.”
Coryn felt instant resentment. What was that supposed to mean? The dog was sick, not dying…then she felt herself tremble, or was he?
“If you want to bring him in…” The crisp voice on the other end of the line sounded dubious, “We can schedule him in at three-thirty this afternoon.”
Eight hours from now! Anything could happen before then. She hung up numbly and went back to Ranger. She sat down beside him, feeling helpless, infinitely sad. Ranger gave a long shuddering sigh that quivered the length of his body. Automatically she scratched behind his ears, smoothed his fur. After a while he shut his eyes and seemed to sleep. Coryn got up, tiptoed into the kitchen. She poured herself coffee, tried to swallow it over the hard lump in her throat.
She stood looking out the kitchen window. Ranger had been a large part of her life ever since the day her father had brought the silky black, wiggly Lab puppy home for her. They had run, romped together, he wheeling, jumping and barking when she used the swings in the backyard or threw balls into the basket over the garage door. He was always waiting for her at the gate when she got home from school. Her mother said when Ranger heard the school bus, his ears jerked up and he went to the door barking to be let out to run to meet her.
When she came home from college for vacations, he seemed ecstatic with happiness. He was always eager to go with her, walking or in the car…until this time. Coryn felt guilty that when she was in L.A. she had hardly thought about him. She had been too preoccupied with Jason…
She turned and went back where Ranger lay. His breath was coming in slow trembling sighs. He’s going, Coryn thought. He’s going to die. Oh, Ranger. She stifled a sob.
She heard the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway and hurried to the window in time to see the Sanders Landscape Service truck pull to a stop in front. Her parents employed Joe Sanders to take care of the lawn, to keep the hedges trimmed and the flower beds weeded. Her father didn’t have time anymore. She saw Joe get out, pull his tools from the back of the truck.
It was comforting somehow to see Joe, the solid, steady strength of him out there while she kept her vigil inside. It wasn’t long. When she went back to sit beside Ranger again, he had stopped breathing. He had died quietly. Coryn let the tears pour down her cheeks.
She covered him with an old soft blanket then went outside to where Joe was pruning the branches of the pyracantha bushes.
Her voice shook as she told him what had happened. “I’m going to bury him up on the hillside behind the house,” she said. “But I’ll need your help to lift him and get him up there.”
“Sure, Miss Dodge, be glad to. We can put him in the wheelbarrow, that’ll make it easier.” He put down his clippers and went to his truck. He wheeled close to the back door then followed Coryn inside. Together, they carried Ranger’s body, wrapped in the blanket, outside and placed it carefully in the wheelbarrow.
“Would you want me to bury him for you, Miss Dodge?”
Fighting tears, Coryn shook her head. “No, thanks, Joe, he was my dog. I want to say goodbye to him by myself.”
“Yep. I understand. That dog was sure enough your dog.” Joe nodded. “But I can wheel him up there, can’t I? It’s pretty heavy.”
“Thanks, Joe, that would be fine.” Silently they made the journey. Coryn carrying the shovel Joe had handed her, he pushing the wheelbarrow.
He lifted the dog out of the barrow and placed him on the grass. He took off his duck-billed cap for a moment before replacing it then walked back down the hill.
Coryn began to dig. The earth was moist from the recent rains, but it was still hard work. She was breathing hard, and perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip. Ranger was a big dog. She wanted his grave to be long and deep enough for him. She dug hard. Her heart was pounding, she was panting with the exertion. She wasn’t sure how long she had been digging, when she heard movement behind her, her name spoken. “Coryn.”
Her shovel midair, she spun around and saw Mark coming up on the crest of the hill. She let the shovel drop, leaned on the handle, slowing her deep breaths. Finally, she gasped, “Mark!” Then, “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been trying to get you. Tried to call last night, but there was no answer. Then this morning, I called
several times and the line was busy. I thought I’d just take a chance, come by this morning and see you.”
Coryn stared at him, bewildered. Why had he been calling her? Trying to reach her? It didn’t make sense. She glanced at Ranger’s blanket-covered body then back at Mark.
He nodded. “Joe Sanders told me what happened. I’m sorry.” He paused. “Really sorry.”
At the sincere sympathy in his voice, tears rushed into her eyes again. She couldn’t stop them, and a harsh sob thrust from her throat.
In a minute, he was beside her, arms around her, holding her close, his chin on her head She leaned against him, sobbing. “I know, I know,” she heard him whisper soothingly.
In a world of terrorist bombs, civil wars and upheaval all over the globe, to some it might have seemed almost shameful to cry over the death of an old dog. Mark had lost his wife! What must he think of this grief? But as he continued to hold her, gently stroking her hair, her cheek resting against his shoulder, Coryn had a revelation. Mark knew how she felt. By his knowing, he made it not seem foolish to grieve so for a dog. In fact, his empathy made it seem right to mourn for a dog you have loved.
After a while, her sobs had turned to long, drawnout gasps. He handed her a clean handkerchief to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Sniffling, she said, “I didn’t mean to dump on you like that”
“Not at all. I’m glad I was here. I understand.”
Coryn looked up at him and knew he did.
“Let me help,” he said quietly. He took off his tan corduroy sport coat and laid it on the ground. Then he picked up the shovel she had let drop, and began lifting large shovelfuls of dirt.
She leaned back against a nearby tree, watching him work in a smooth, even swinging movement.
At last the hole was dug, long and wide enough to gently lift Ranger and place him on a pile of leaves Coryn had gathered to cushion him in the ground. They both stood looking down at him for a minute then Coryn felt Mark take her hand in his, press it. She felt he was joining her in a silent prayer. Her heart was so full she could not voice the words. But it was a prayer of thanksgiving to God for having had Ranger as long as she had. From the time he had been a shiny, black puppy, through all the years of loving companionship. A prayer for allowing her the privilege of seeing him out of life with dignity and affection.
After that quiet moment, slowly they took turns shoveling the dirt over him, packing it down. They both searched for stones to circle the spot where he lay.
“I think Dad will want to have some kind of marker made for him,” Coryn said. “Thank you for coming, Mark. Your being here just now-well, it meant a great deal.”
“I’m glad I was here,” he said. “I want to be here for you, Coryn. That is, if you’ll let me.”
Coryn felt too worn-out, her heart too bruised to take in all that might mean. Maybe later, when she had had time to heal a little, she would remember and think about what was unspoken between them. Now it was enough to appreciate his sensitivity and compassion for what she was feeling.
Mark replaced the shovel in the wheelbarrow and together they walked back down the hill.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The rain splashed noisily on the flagstone patio, played a staccato drum on the windows. Coryn was curled on the living-room sofa, reading. Earlier, her father had called from Silverado Country Club saying they were going to stay a few days longer.
“Your mother’s really enjoying being here, looking tanned and rested. I think it’s done her a world of good.”
Coryn found herself puzzled by her father’s confidence. Was her mother really doing that well? She had her good days and bad days and maybe that’s what he was reporting. Today. It was just as well. To live each day as it came, praying for strength to get through whatever lay ahead. That’s what she was trying to do.
Since Dr. Iverson had confirmed her mother’s diagnosis, Coryn had read everything she could find about Alzheimer’s. The Caregivers group had been immensely helpful. She had tried to persuade her father to come to one of the meetings. So far he hadn’t. Was he still in denial in a way? What she had learned was that Alzheimer’s disease was a treacherous one that affected the entire family. The unknown was the frightening part. It was, she thought, like those antique maps of the world where at the edge of the known world was printed the warning, “Beyond this point lie sea dragons.” Coryn felt the more she learned the better she could anticipate these “dragons” and help her mother.
She had also bought inspirational tapes to listen to on her tape player earphones while out on her long walks. She knew she had to be strong and resourceful. It was necessary for at least one person in a family who had a member suffering from this illness to be as knowledgeable as possible.
Coryn had had to accept the harsh fact that as each day slipped by, more and more of her mother’s world became blurred. Little by little the person Coryn had loved was becoming a stranger.
This acceptance had not come easily. It had come with anguish, weeping bitter tears long into many nights. In spite of her own pain, Coryn knew she had to be strong. She couldn’t fall apart. Her father leaned on her. Most of all, she wanted to be able to see her mother safely home.
After she hung up from her father’s call, she went back to the book she was reading. It was one she had found quite by chance. Or had it been? Coryn was beginning to find out that nothing in life was solely by chance. In this case, it had turned out to be exactly what she needed.
While browsing in a bookstore, she had discovered C. S. Lewis books. In his works she had found a treasure trove of help. She had seen the movie Shadowland and been much moved by Lewis’s love story with Joy Davidson. She hadn’t realized he had written so many books, most of them spiritual. The title A Grief Observed seemed to leap out at her from among the others.
Although the content was profound, the writing style had such clarity it spoke to the very heart. Now she went back to what she was reading when the phone had rung.
In the poignant, poetic words the author warned that to love anything—even an animal—means risking heartbreak and pain. But the alternative, not to love at all, sealing your heart away in a coffin of selfishness, would change a feeling heart into something unbreakable, impenetrable. Even inhuman.
Coryn drew in her breath, put her finger in between the pages to mark her place, closed the book for a moment, letting the truth of those words sink in. That is exactly what she had been doing. Afraid of being hurt, she had withdrawn, closed herself off. Not even let herself feel the exquisite pain of Ranger’s death fully. She had not allowed herself to love Ginny. She had never taken her the dollhouse family. What did it matter if Mark didn’t feel romantically toward her, she still could be a friend to his little girl. And even to Mark. Certainly he had shown himself to be her friend and a friend to her family, when he had come to tell them the rumors about Clare, offer help.
He had surely been a friend the day she buried Ranger. Even before that…maybe. He said he’d been trying to get in touch with her, she had pulled back. Why? Wouldn’t being friends with a person of Mark’s caliber be a good thing? There were other kinds of love. Valuable kinds, enriching kinds. C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidson had started out being friends. Anything was possible if you allowed yourself to be open to it.
Just then the front doorbell sounded above the thundering downpour. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was after nine. Who could be coming by this late in the evening?
She turned on the porch light and looked through the peephole. She saw a man’s figure, shoulders hunched against the wind and rain. She thought she recognized him. She unlocked and opened the door. A gust of rain-driven wind tugged at it, and she had to grip it with her other hand to keep it from blowing back upon her. It was Mark.
She became suddenly conscious of how she looked. She had on one of her dad’s old flannel shirts, stirrup pants, fuzzy bedroom slippers. But she couldn’t let Mark stand outside in the pouring rain.
“Coryn, I
hope I’m not disturbing, interrupting anything?”
“No. Come in before you get soaked.”
“Sure it’s not a bad time? I came—on the spur of the moment. I was working late, or trying to, and was on my way home when—I think we need to talk…Is that okay?”
“Of course, come in.” She ran her fingers through her hair self-consciously.
He stepped into the foyer, his raincoat was dripping. “I know I should have called but—actually, I drove around the block several times before stopping.” He halted.
She was thinner than he remembered, looked as though she’d lost weight. Her eyes seemed larger than ever and her mouth, the mouth he had loved kissing, looked more vulnerable.
“Why don’t you take off your coat, it’s soaked.” Coryn tried to sound normal. She felt tense, wondering what Mark had come to talk to her about. Whatever it was, it must be important. “Come into the living room, I’ve got a fire going.”
He shrugged off his coat, handed it to her. She hung it up then he followed her into the living room.
“Are your parents here?” he asked.
“No, they’re still away.” She gestured to the armchair on the other side of the fireplace and Mark sat down.
“How are things going? I mean, how is your mother?”
“At the moment, at least, Dad says she’s doing fine. They’re at the Silverado Country Club. Long, lazy days in the sun. He’s playing a few rounds of golf. She’s resting on the terrace.” Coryn paused. “There nothing’s demanded of her. She doesn’t have to perform even ordinary household tasks. So I think Dad feels she’s improving.” She sighed. “Of course, we know that’s impossible.”
“That’s tough. I know you’re going through some really hard times.”
“I guess no one escapes. Everyone has something in their lives…” She paused, thinking of Mark’s losing his wife just when everything seemed to be going so well for them.