She’d been suffering and I hadn’t noticed. The thought made me gag. My legs faltered. Gyver pointed to a chair and blocked my view of the exam table where Jinx shivered and vomited.
“Why don’t I give you a few minutes to make your decision?” the vet said while mopping up the mess. “I’ll go try your parents again. Come find me when you’re ready.” He gingerly picked up Jinx and set her on a clean blanket on the table.
It was impossible not to make the connection between my dying cat and me. She was sick. She was in pain. And there was no way I could help her. She stared at me through barely open eyes. Did I have enough courage to be merciful?
“Do you want to wait for your parents? Your dad might be home soon,” Gyver said.
I didn’t answer, but went to stand beside her at the table. I was too busy memorizing the whirl of hair on her nose and the contrast between her eraser-pink tongue and midnight fur.
“We could bring her home now, and you could come back later with your parents. Or you could try the drugs,” he suggested.
Jinx yawned, crying out again from the motion. Her eyes, rimmed with gummy discharge, were full of trust and agony. One of her paws batted against my arm. I touched it softly and she flinched.
“I can’t.” I turned my head away and muffled the rest of the words in the shoulder of the sweatshirt. “We have to do this now. I can’t make her suffer anymore.”
“I’ll get the vet.” He paused to trace a finger around the edge of Jinx’s ear. She tried to purr, a reflex reaction, but the sound was stuttery. Gyver rushed out of the room, and I kissed her nose and wiped my eyes on her fur.
The vet entered, followed by a stone-faced version of my best friend. He crossed the room and stood with his back toward me, engrossed in the pet medication flyers tacked to a bulletin board, his arms tight around his chest, gripping handfuls of shirt.
The doctor began to explain how Jinx wouldn’t feel a thing. “It’s like falling asleep. You can even hold her while I administer it.” Tears flooded my cheeks, and I tightened my grip on the nearly motionless bundle on the table, clutching at the last moments I’d have with her.
“This is an emotional decision. I spoke with your father while I was out of the room. He and your mother can’t get here before we close tonight. I’ll understand if you want to go home and come back with one of them tomorrow. Or I can recommend a twenty-four-hour vet.” I shook my head. “I don’t want you to have any regrets, Mia. If you’d prefer, you can wait in the lobby.”
“No!” The word was knotted in a sob and shaken from my chest. Gyver turned and it was spelled in the set of his jaw and the shroud of his eyes: his heart was equally broken. “She has to know I’m here.”
And Gyver was there too. At my side in four strides, arm around me and supporting me as I stood at the exam table. I was trembling, but he was steady. I gave Jinx a last kiss, whispered in her ear, and Gyver did too. Then I gave her a last, last kiss. With the dregs of my courage I turned to the doctor. “Ready.”
If Gyver’s hands hadn’t been under mine, I would’ve sagged to the floor. I would’ve run from the room.
When it was over, he had to nearly carry me to the lobby. He filled out the paperwork while I sobbed in the corner, pulling the hood up over my face. Turning to lean my forehead against the wall when an eight-year-old and his mom came skipping in with their calico kitten.
By the time he said, “We’re done. Let’s go home,” my eyes were swollen to slits. He put an arm around my shoulders and led me to the car.
I pulled my feet onto the seat. With my face lowered onto my knees and the hood obscuring everything, I’d built my own fortress of grief. If I could keep my arms around my knees, keep holding myself together, I might make it home in one piece.
“We’re here.” Gyver turned off the engine. His hand stretching to fold back the fabric around my face. “I’m sorry about Jinx. I’ll get you a new kitten.”
“Don’t,” I moaned.
“It doesn’t have to be right away. When you’re ready. I’ll let you name this one.” He tried to smile, but it faltered and faded.
“I don’t want a new cat.” I buried my head in my knees again. “She didn’t look like she was in pain, did she?”
Gyver shook his head. “No, she looked peaceful.”
I peered out the windshield, focusing on the clouds above his garage. “That’s what I want—when it’s my time. I want to go to sleep and have everyone I love holding my hand.”
Gyver’s eyes went flat—like Jinx’s had at her final moments. He pressed his lips together, shook his head, and got out of the car. I mirrored his movements; using my puffy eyes to decipher his face and stiff body language. It wasn’t a difficult read: the walls had been reconstructed between us. His mask of detachment was firmly in place, and I was lost in my grief all alone.
“Can I come over? I don’t want to go in.” Jinx’s toys and bowls flash-bulbed in my mind.
He didn’t bother with an excuse. “No.”