And availed myself—after much hemming and hawing—of Lucinda’s credit card.
I had sworn never to need my dad or Lucinda’s help. But was using that card “needing” them, really? Especially if I was buying luxury items I didn’t need. That was something different from needing them. That was punishing them. Right?
If you thought about it the right way, it was a form of winning.
And so I went for it. I enjoyed my first bout of recreational shopping in years: a hygge-inspired tea kettle, a string of twinkle lights branded as “wishing stars,” a heart-shaped velveteen pillow … and a totally nutty hybrid cross between a pair of footed pajamas and a fuzzy blanket called a Pajanket.
The Pajanket came same-day delivery, and after I zipped myself into it, I swore I would never take it off ever again. It was basically a rectangular human-sized pillowcase with holes at each corner for hands and feet. The foot-holes had booties and the hand-holes had mittens. And the neck had a hoodie. And the plush, buttery, nothing-can-ever-hurt-you-again fabric they’d sewn it out of? Velvety on both sides.
It was all I could do not to order a thousand.
And so I stayed home. I was on this. I had this. I was fine.
I was, as always, completely, utterly, astonishingly okay—putting my life back in order without too much fuss.
I shut down my Etsy shop. I put a note on the page and on my Instagram that read: “AT CAPACITY! Thanks for all your orders! This shop is taking an eight-week hiatus. Not accepting new commissions.”
That sounded pretty good, right? Like I was just at capacity with work because of the unstoppable thirst the world had for my portraits?
Not like I was at capacity emotionally.
Or like my entire life was crumbling.
Or like I was afraid to leave the house.
Not doing any portraits would mean no money coming in. But there wasn’t a choice there. Maybe I’d charge all my bills to my dad’s credit card, too. Maybe it was all about attitude. If a little punishment was good, wouldn’t a lot of punishment be better?
I wondered if Mr. Kim would let me charge the rent.
When I felt a rising sense of panic, I tried to see it as a positive. After all these years of nonstop hustling, it might be nice to unchain myself from my Etsy shop for a bit. Though I’d still have to check the comments every day. Most people said nice things most of the time, but occasionally a nutter slipped through with a comment like “These portraits look like circus clowns.”
Anyway, that was life online. You had to keep an eye on the crazies. Block and delete.
Kinda like the rest of my life right now.
I had groceries delivered. I took careful showers.
And I tried—and failed—over and over to make myself go get Peanut at the vet clinic.
Peanut, who I missed constantly in my Peanut-less apartment.
That’s how bad it was: I left my only family boarded at the vet for three extra days because I couldn’t talk myself into leaving my building. And also, more than anything, because I was terrified that when we were finally reunited, I might not be able to see his face.
* * *
FINALLY, IN A profound act of courage, I did it. I took a shower, got dressed, and walked—as carefully as if I might slip on an icy sidewalk—two blocks filled with pixelated-faced strangers until I arrived at a vet clinic I’d never been to filled with people I’d never met.
We were in the Warehouse District, so I wasn’t surprised to find that this clinic was in a warehouse. I was surprised, however, by the speaker system blasting perky oldies into the waiting area.
As I checked in, I said, “Fun music.”
“What?” a faceless receptionist looked up and asked.
“The music!” I said, projecting a little louder. Then I gave a thumbs-up.
She pointed at the speakers. “We’re trying to mask all the jackhammering from the construction next door.”
“Ah,” I said.
“It stresses the animals out,” she said, clicking around on the computer to pull up my bill. “But playing Sam Cooke seems to help.”
As the bill came off the printer, she read it and said, “Oh, you’re Peanut’s mom!”
Mom? I don’t know. More like sibling. Or BFF. But I just said, “Yes.”
“He’s a big fan of the music,” she said. “Did you know he’s a Louis Armstrong guy?”
“I mean, it doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “He’s a very cultured dog.”
She gave me a nod, handed over the bill, and that’s when I saw it had already been paid.
Lucinda.
What a menace.
That said, it was also six hundred dollars I didn’t have, so I wasn’t complaining.
Could Lucinda just buy my affection like that?
Today she could. I guess.
Next, I waited for the moment of truth with Peanut. When I saw him again, would I be able to see him?
What felt like a hundred years later, I had my answer.
Yes.
A tech brought him out and I saw for sure as the second the door opened: Peanut’s little mug. There it was. His giant liquid-brown eyes. His yellow fur and Lorax-style mustache that got lopsided after he’d been resting his chin on something. His feathery ears that never seemed to both point up—or down—at the same time.
Question answered.
I’d know that face anywhere.
In a second, Peanut was in my arms and licking me all over. His tail was going full blast, his body was wriggling, his little heart was jumping around in his chest. If he was mad about being abandoned for eight days, he certainly wasn’t holding a grudge.
Dogs were so good at forgiveness.
He alternated great-to-see-you licks with deep, soul-searching gazes—like he couldn’t believe his luck that I’d returned. And he wasn’t the only one feeling lucky. Because the only face I’d seen since the surgery just happened to be my very favorite one.
All to say, something about the feel of him—the softness of his fur, his salty, doggy smell, the unconditional love—made me start to cry right there in the waiting room.
Yeah. It was an emotional time.
I got started crying, and then … I couldn’t stop. Just stood there smiling and crying and cradling my little pal while he licked the salty tears off my cheeks over and over.
“Missed you, buddy,” I whispered, nuzzling his fur.
That’s when I looked up to see someone watching me. A man. A vet, from the looks of it. A tall, white-coated, tie-wearing vet with an up-and-back Ivy League haircut. He had his hands in his lab-coat pockets and just stood there, staring right at Peanut and me, taking in the sight.
And once again, Dr. Nicole was right because I could tell you without even putting his face pieces together that this guy was seriously handsome.
That must be its own brain system right there.