The Blessings of the Animals_A Novel

CHAPTER Twenty-Four

OLIVE MADE AN APPOINTMENT FOR OUR FIRST FORAY INTO wedding dress shopping.
I’d been taken aback to learn she was going for the white dress, the giant wedding party, the whole nine yards. “Just because I’m over forty doesn’t mean I can’t have the wedding I want,” she said. “I’ve dreamed about this my entire life.”
Just like Gabby used to draw designs of her wedding dress and buy Brides magazine.
Maybe it was time girls had something different to dream about?
My torso ached from being back at the clinic, but I went anyway, determined to be a good sport. Olive seemed much more wedding savvy than I’d been. Salespeople had been disbelieving at my lack of an answer whenever they asked me, “What had you pictured your wedding day to be like, as a little girl?”
I hadn’t pictured it, and the question only conjured images of those ridiculous play weddings in the barn, wearing that prom dress—yellow under the arms and gray at the hem.
All the wedding gowns I’d tried—even the one I ended up with (which Davy had found for me in a vintage boutique)—felt like costumes for a play I’d underrehearsed.
The saleswoman cooed and fluttered over Olive’s ring. “He must love you very much.”
I expected Olive to bristle, as much as I did, but she beamed. What did this woman know about Nick’s love for Olive? The ring was a just a purchase, no way to tell if he loved her or not.
I remembered my own exasperation with my ring, that ring now hidden in my lingerie drawer. The way total strangers had felt free to comment on its beauty, its worth—and therefore my worth to Bobby—was when I’d become aware of how public marriage is, what a huge community ritual it represents.
As I shopped with Olive, my bare left hand bugged me like a pebble in my shoe. Whenever the conversation forced me to reveal I was divorced, I sensed the slightest bit of recoil, as if I were tainted, or worse—contagious. I caught myself intentionally talking about Vijay in front of the saleswomen. I even called him “my boyfriend” and found myself saying, “my boyfriend—he’s a doctor,” inwardly rolling my eyes at myself. But I’d gotten swept up in what I’d forgotten—that just showing up and shopping for gowns puts you in a sorority, a sisterhood, a tribe, and that all these women rooted for you, approved of you, and took care of you. Welcome to the club. Being there, clearly not a member in good standing, made me feel like an outcast. Then pathetic for falling for it. Then angry for the fact I felt pathetic.
The intellectual part of me could rationalize it, see it for what it was. But the emotional part of me thought of my childhood pony, Roscoe. Roscoe had needed a winter blanket when he was old and no longer grew a healthy winter coat. The other horses had turned against him in that blanket. They’d tormented him, yanking on the blanket with their teeth, even chasing him.
In spite of their bullying, Roscoe had been miserable alone in a paddock, even one adjoining the others. I knew he would’ve rather been blanketless and wretchedly cold than alone. Belonging to that herd was everything.
ON THE MORNING THAT THE BINARDI CLAN ARRIVED TO help move Bobby’s things, I left the farm. I stayed away until Gabby called to say they were done and she was going to lunch with them.
When I returned, I steeled myself before entering the house. Spaces on the walls where paintings used to be. Furniture gone. In the kitchen, Bobby had taken his share of things, but it did seem that his presence was still there. It still felt like a room I entered as a guest.
Standing there, though, I looked outside and saw Muriel moving through the front yard in what could only be described as a dance, skipping, leaping, and striking out with her front cloven hooves. Whimsical and joyous. I had a revelation: I could do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was to make this kitchen mine.
It took me ten minutes to form a plan, then I drove off to Lowe’s to buy paint.
I enlisted the help of Gabby, the Davids, Helen and Hank, and Aurora (who jokingly complained, “Didn’t we just paint the clinic?”), and it took two days to complete the job, but I—or rather, they, with their healthy ribs—created the kitchen I wanted. We covered the staid cream, painting each wall a different color to match the Fiestaware I loved (which had been relegated to a bottom cupboard because Bobby said food presented best on plain white plates): a juicy tomato red, a turquoise, a bright sunflower gold, a lime green. The Portuguese tile was stunning in this setting.
The kitchen was now as whimsical and joyous as my dear little white goat.
ONE WEEKEND WHEN VIJAY WAS IN TOWN FOR FORTY-EIGHT hours and his parents had a party, we cooked at their house. I watched Vijay make saag without a recipe, chopping fresh spinach on a wooden block. I admired his angular cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his graceful hands working the knife. “You are so incredibly sexy,” I whispered.
He turned off the flame and walked toward me. It seemed as if he were going to pass me and walk out into the party, but he took my hand and pulled me—gently—into the pantry, where he pressed me against the shelves lined with bags of rice, spices, and dahl. He kissed me. We groped and fondled each other as best we could. I didn’t care that my own parents, much less Vijay’s, plus a ton of other people, were just a room away from us. But when Vijay reached around me, the slightest pressure on my ribs stole my breath with a yelp.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” he whispered.
I nodded but couldn’t stop the tears in my eyes. Damn. It hurt. I pressed a hand to my ribs. “God, when will these be healed? I can’t stand it!”
“Vijay?” We heard Shivani’s voice and froze like high-school kids.
“Yeah, Mom,” he said. He reached behind me, picked up a bag of rice, and walked out as if he’d come into the pantry for that alone. I followed, after adjusting my shirt and running fingers through my hair.
Shivani spoke to Vijay about the saag and asked him to get more wine from the basement when he had a chance. She didn’t seem to have noticed a thing, but on her way out of the kitchen, she nodded toward the pantry, lifted a lush eyebrow, and said sweetly, “Your ribs are better, yes? I am glad.”