The Blessings of the Animals_A Novel

CHAPTER Twenty-Seven

AFTER WORK, I DROVE OVER TO SEE GRACE. I OPENED THE Davids’ front door and listened for crying or happy babble. The house seemed to hold its breath. “Hello?” I called.
The nursery was empty, but when I peeked in the bedroom, there they were, the Davids, curled like spoons. “What’s going on? Where’s Grace?” I tried to soften the panic in my voice.
After what felt like a million years, Big David managed to croak out words. His voice was hoarse, shredded. “Kim changed her mind,” he said.
I slid down the door frame and sat on the floor.
The Davids had paid for everything, not that there was a price tag for this, and she’d changed her mind? How could this happen? I wanted to find Kim, scream at her, shake her. What the hell are you thinking? This couldn’t be true.
VIJAY’S GIFT ARRIVED, A BEAUTIFUL, MONOGRAMMED PINK fleece blanket. When Gerald puked up a paper-filled hairball in the kitchen I used the blanket to wipe it up without thinking. Later I rinsed it out and took it down to the barn. Standing with Moonshot as he snuffled comfort across my face, I felt a shift inside me. It was time to reach out, to be there for someone else.
Friends told the Davids, “You can start the process again,” and “You’ll be selected for another baby,” but with my own loss still fresh, I knew that such offerings were insulting, that no matter how well intentioned, such platitudes trivialized the real pain. I said many times a day, “I am so sorry this happened to you.” And truly, I was sorry it happened to Grace.
Their goodness, even in the face of such grief, leveled me. After a discussion with Helen—their new lawyer had proven to be worthless—they decided not to contest Kim’s decision. They also decided not to ask for the money back—the money spent on her prenatal care, the groceries, the vitamins, the hospital delivery—even though by law and the adoption contract, they were completely entitled to do so.
“What would it accomplish?” Big David asked. “Kim’s got no money. What money she has, we want her to spend on Grace.”
They even gathered many of their shower gifts—the diapers, baby wipes, and blankets—and took them to Kim. Kim accepted the gifts but wouldn’t allow the Davids to see Grace.
I contemplated kidnapping.
I asked Helen, “Tell me the truth. Would this have happened if they’d stuck with you?”
When she exhaled, she seemed to deflate. She shook her head. “You can’t lose the baby to second thoughts if the birth parents’ legal rights are properly upheld. This bonehead tried to shortcut the procedure. He screwed the Davids—and probably Grace—in the process.”
This heartache had an added dimension in that it sent Ava on a downward spiral. She became prone to panic, constantly opening the closed nursery door and crying out, “Where’s the baby?”
The fourth time I witnessed this, it pained me to see Davy walk away from Ava.
“Why isn’t she here, the mother?” Ava demanded. Then, whispering, “Now, which one was married to her again?”
She’d sometimes confide to one or the other of the Davids, “If that other man wasn’t here all the time, she might come back. It isn’t natural, you know.”
I thought back to my unraveled days and realized that when people said, “If I can do anything to help, please let me know,” I hadn’t been capable of asking for anything.
So, I brought the Davids flowers, cheerful movies, made sure they had good food, and, whenever possible, I’d take Ava away for a while, giving the Davids some time alone.
Ava was happy to accompany me on my evening barn chores. Mr. Gerald would hop over to her and allow Ava to carry him like a baby, on his back, in her arms. She’d sing to him, in a surprisingly lovely voice, songs like “You Are My Sunshine,” “Swingin’ on a Star,” and “Embraceable You.” He’d reach up and rest his one front paw on her cheek while she sang.
ANOTHER MONTH PASSED. NO COURT DATE WAS SET YET for Moonshot, but other Humane Society volunteers had come to document his progress. I was told rules I already knew—for instance, that I had to allow Ginger Avalon to visit him. When the volunteers asked for receipts for Moonshot’s bedding, feed, and the vet visit so they could reimburse me, I told them to consider it a donation.
My ribs felt stronger with each passing day. Every morning, I crossed to the window and looked down on the farm in the first hint of light. I loved the paths in the diamond dew that deer had made, the ripe promise in the air, the last of the honeysuckle fading on the fence.
Although my heart held room to mourn for the Davids and to dread the loss of Moonshot, in another, new way I recognized I was happy. Happy to watch Biscuit roll in the dust to scratch his tabletop back, happy to notice the barn swallows dive-bombing Gerald (who caught and killed a surprising many of them, even with his missing leg), happy to notice Max and Muriel playing a game of head-butt tag. I saw so many things I hadn’t seen before.
It was with this new vision and with my eyes wide open that I accepted Vijay’s invitation for a weekend in New York.
“Someone should be having fun,” Davy said.
VIJAY WAS WORKING LATE WHEN I ARRIVED AT LA GUARDIA. An apologetic voice mail waited for me when I landed. I took a cab to the Outbreak studio to collect the keys, and Vijay kissed me in front of his coworkers—a kiss that made my head swirl. I almost walked into a wall as he ushered me back to the street. A second kiss, longer, followed when he tucked me into another cab.
When I unlocked Vijay’s brownstone—yes, the whole brownstone—on the Upper West Side, I couldn’t help but think, “This could be my house.” Right inside—beside a giant slanting pile of mail, as if he hadn’t been home in days—I slipped off my shoes and lined them next to his.
As I wandered from room to room, I learned that Vijay had a prescription for Ambien and that his fridge was empty, save for an old take-out container. I learned that he sent his clothing out to be laundered and that he slept on only one side of his bed, the other side piled high with clothes.
I looked at that bed and knew Vijay had been too busy to prepare for my visit. He’d had a tough week, apparently. Well, I could certainly understand long hours.
He called around 7:50. “A couple more hours,” he promised.
I decided to walk through the neighborhood. I noted a good Italian grocery store Bobby would’ve liked. My nose and growling stomach took me to a small Middle Eastern place, where I dined alone on lamb so succulent I hardly had to chew.
Back at Vijay’s house, it felt odd to be in a home with no other beings—not even plants, I realized. I watched TV until 11 p.m., then chose to sleep on the sofa rather than move his mountain of clothes from the bed.
LIPS BRUSHED MY CHEEK. VIJAY KNELT BESIDE THE COUCH. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His eyes were bloodshot. “This just came up. A huge MRSA outbreak. We’re trying to finish a new episode to squeeze it in out of order. I’m sorry. After we planned for you to come—”
I pressed my fingers to his lips. He kissed them. My entire body yearned for this man kneeling beside me. Sleep had relaxed me; I felt open, fluid. But Vijay’s skin seemed gray, every line on his face etched deeper. “Oh, Vij. Go. Sleep. We have tomorrow.”
His forehead crinkled. “I have to go in tomorrow.”
Disappointment pushed me deeper into the couch, but I remembered Bobby’s poutiness when I’d left on rescues or other work emergencies. I convinced Vijay to go down to his bedroom and sleep. I loved this city. I’d go exploring. When he came home the next day, then we’d play.
It was 2:07 a.m., but I heard the musical chord of his computer coming on in his office below me and the quick clicks of keystrokes. I padded downstairs and stood in the doorway. Pictures of methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus showed up on his computer screen, and he furiously typed notes. I tiptoed away and went back to sleep on the couch.
I WOKE UP TO THE SHOWER RUNNING. SEVEN-THIRTY. UGH. How did he function?
“I’m sorry, Cam,” Vijay said, coming into the kitchen, where I’d made him coffee. “I didn’t even get the house cleaned. You slept on the couch! I feel like a total shit.”
“Please. Stuff happens.”
My heart soared as he kissed me with careful, undivided attention. I kissed back, with fervor, and just as I was hoping I might be able to delay his departure for the office, he pulled away. “I have to go,” he said, in a strangled voice. “God. I don’t want to, but I have to.”
He swayed, his eyes vague, as if drugged. “I’ll be home around four. Maybe earlier.” He made a move as if to kiss me good-bye, then stepped back, realizing the danger.
When he left, I wanted to claw my own skin off. I crawled into his bed and smoothed my hands over some of those silky black hairs left on his sheets, as if a sleek panther had slept there.
I WANTED TO MAKE A FABULOUS, SEXY MEAL FOR VIJAY.
I decided on carbonara. When Bobby and I traveled in Italy, I’d ordered it at every opportunity. Bobby disliked it and didn’t put it on the menu at Tanti Baci. I’d once, years ago, asked Mimi to show me how to make it. I’d paid attention. I didn’t think I needed a recipe.
“Buongiorno, bella,” the man behind the counter said when I returned to that Italian market.
“Buongiorno,” I answered. “Come sta?”
“Bene, bene, grazie. Parla italiano?”
I laughed. “Lo parlo poco.” Then I admitted, “You caught me. That’s the limit of my Italian.”
“No, no,” the man insisted, his cigarette-stained grin wide, “your pronunciation is good. Good. You had me fooled.”
In spite of the grocer’s prominent Adam’s apple and slightly marred teeth, there was something so welcoming about his laughing eyes and dimples that I felt charmed. His name was Antonio (of course), and he carried the basket for me as I roamed the aisles. When I told him I was making carbonara, he feigned a swoon, clutching at his heart. “For a lover?” he asked.
My blush told him the answer and he laughed. “Lucky man, bella. I hope he knows this.”
Nearing 4 p.m., I started the meal in Vijay’s kitchen. I sloshed wine over sautéing pancetta cubes, relishing the furious bubbling this produced. I beat eggs and cream, stirring in Parmesan. I was carried along on the cooking, enjoying it, and didn’t even look at the clock. I boiled the spaghetti (I was going to go with penne, but Antonio suggested spaghetti for its more sensory, chin-slurping qualities), then tossed it with the egg-and-cheese mixture and the syrupy mess of the pancetta. Only after having added the chopped parsley did I look at the clock. 6:10.
Hmm. Well. I poured myself a glass of wine and cleaned up the kitchen. I set the table.
At 7:15, I called Vijay again but hung up when I got his voice mail.
By eight o’clock I was so famished, I made myself a plate of the carbonara, lit some candles, and sat down to try my creation. I held my irritation at bay, which was easy in light of this decadent meal. Even alone I moaned with pleasure. I wished Antonio the grocer were here to share this.
My heart leaped when my phone rang. But it was Davy. Poor Davy. Why had I left them?
“Are you guys doing it right now?” I loved that his voice was its normal, naughty silly self.
“Not right now,” I teased back, “or I wouldn’t have answered. That would be the epitome of bad manners, don’t you think?”
“Hell, yes. But . . . you have, right? Just calling for the report.”
“Actually,” my throat tightened, “we haven’t.” I explained.
“Damn,” Davy said. “Here I was thinking that one of us was having a good time.”
“How are you guys? Have you done it, at least?”
He sighed. “Not yet. Not since . . .”
“You need to remedy that. Don’t let it go too long.” We talked for nearly an hour, and then I fell asleep on the couch again.
“HEY, CAMI.” I DREAMED THAT MOONSHOT SPOKE TO ME IN English. But then I opened my eyes to Vijay, again kneeling beside the couch, apologizing. Outside, rain poured and thunder rumbled. Vijay’s hair was damp, the front of his blue shirt spotted with raindrops.
We sat on the kitchen floor, the pan of carbonara between us, instead of using plates. We twirled up spaghetti, our conversation teasing and seductive. When Vijay leaned over to kiss the creamy sauce from my lips, we were lost.
I melted from the inside. Oh, this was good. This was very, very good . . . until we reached the moment and realized neither of us was prepared. We were ready in every possible way, except the most crucial. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I don’t have anything,” I said.
Vijay’s face fell. His shoulders slumped. “Oh, my God. I don’t either.”
For a second it seemed the world had come to an end. Or that we might decide to blame each other. But knowing someone since you’d gone trick-or-treating together counted for something.
“You’re a doctor,” I teased him. “An infectious-diseases doctor. You specialize in HIV! How can you not have a condom?”
He thumped his forehead on the kitchen tile.
I started laughing.
We considered going out to a drugstore for a purchase, but the driving rain made us lazy. We lay naked on the kitchen floor, glistening with sweat, and ate more carbonara.
WE SHARED HIS BED THAT NIGHT, AND IT SURPRISED ME how right it felt to have a body beside me. Vijay slept, exhausted from his day, but I stayed awake longer, content to listen to the rain and breathe the scent of his neck. I pictured being this man’s wife, living here in this house. I imagined Gerald and Max here on the bed. I wondered where I’d board my horse.
My horse. Moonshot could not be taken from me.
WHEN I FINALLY DRIFTED OFF, I SLEPT AS IF DEAD, NOT hearing anything, not remembering any dreams. I rolled toward the bacon-y post-carbonara scent of Vijay, pushing my arms through the sheets. My hands met pillow. I was in the bed alone. The clock shone 8:30. “Vijay?” I called.
Outside cabs honked, a distant police siren yelped twice, and two people carried on a conversation in Spanish. Inside the house, I heard nothing. No. Way. No goddamn way.
Next to the coffeemaker was a note. “New MRSA case—interview with patient this morning. Hated to wake you. I promise to do some ‘shopping’ before I come home.”
I wadded up the note, then threw it at the fridge. I called Vijay’s cell, got his voice mail, and left a message, “Call me, okay? When will you be back? I need to talk to you. Soon.”
I showered. I dressed. I drank coffee. I missed my beautiful daughter.
Church bells tolled, and an unbearable longing to be near animals rushed into me.