Her Last Flight(92)

“I can imagine.”

“Worst day of my life. Night came on. Couldn’t sleep. Went right out again as soon as dawn broke and what do you know. Found him in the brush, curled up asleep with Mollie. She just looked up at us and wagged her tail. As if to say, Don’t you worry, I would lay down my life for this child of yours.”

“What a good girl you are, Mollie!” I scratch her forehead and she sighs, full of meaning. “A good big sister. You just go on taking care of those kids, do you hear? Give them a nice soft pillow to rest their heads on when life gets a little too much.”

Mr. Caruthers leans forward on his knees and reaches out to pat Mollie on the back. He clears his throat. “This cat of yours? She’ll be all right?”

“I hope so. Mrs. Lindquist’s had that cat so long, it’s like another child to her.”

“Gosh. I’m sorry.”

“You know how it is. People let you down all the time, they come and go, but she and that cat . . .” I stare into Mollie’s eyes, which are brown and soft with understanding. “I guess Mrs. Lindquist was practically a kid herself, when she got that cat. Now it’s just about all that’s left of the girl she was.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Mr. Caruthers says softly. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

“She’s just old, I guess. She takes a pill for her liver and another one for her kidneys. But anything could go wrong, at that age.”

Mr. Caruthers hesitates. “I hate to say this, but maybe she just figures she’s had enough. She’s done all she can and it’s time to go.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

Mollie gives my fingers a last swipe with her tongue and settles at Mr. Caruthers’s feet, leaning against his legs. From some distant room comes the bark of a forlorn dog in its cage. The receptionist looks up at us, then swiftly back to whatever’s lying on her desk.

“You sound like you have a real affection for animals, miss,” says Mr. Caruthers. “You must’ve had a pet or two, when you were little.”

“Me? No, I’m afraid not. Well, I brought home strays all the time, but my mother wouldn’t let me keep them.”

“Why not?”

I reach to straighten Mollie’s ear, which has flopped over the top of her head. “According to Mama, taking care of me was trouble enough.”



Lindquist emerges alone from the examining room about fifteen minutes later, pale and dry-eyed.

“Well?” I ask.

She glances to Mr. Caruthers and back to me. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

We step outside, in the shade of a squat palm. She is all business. “I’m afraid there’s no hope. It’s heart failure. Dr. Alba wanted to put her down right away, but I’d like the children to say good-bye first.”

“I can drive back and fetch them for you.”

“Would you? Olle’s flying right now, and I wouldn’t let Kaiko inside my car to park it, even with the cast off.”

I attempt a smile. “You’re sure you trust me behind the wheel?”

“Oh, Janey. That’s the least of my worries, believe me. I’ll just wait here with Sandy.” She shades her eyes and glances to the door. “Make her as comfortable as I can. God knows she deserves that much from me.”



Lindquist telephones ahead, so the children are waiting in the front office at school, satchels neat and hair askew. As I bustle them into the back of the car, I realize I haven’t the faintest idea what to say to them. Tadpoles are mysterious creatures to me. Innocent one second, worldly the next, so you never know what kind of tone to assume. Surely they are familiar with the concept of death, though? I start the engine and glance in the mirror at their taut little faces.

“Everybody ready?” I say cheerfully. They nod.

I let out the clutch, and we spurt from the driveway. Lindquist was right; I’m a crack driver, if I say so myself. I have an instinct for automobiles, the way some people have an instinct for horses; I guess it’s in my blood or something, the same element as in Lindquist’s blood. The kids don’t move as I turn this way and that, until we’re roaring down the main highway, ocean to the left of us. We motor through Kilauea, where I glance in the direction of the post office, though of course there’s no time to stop. We’ve traveled eight or nine miles before I open my mouth to address the small fry huddled in the back. Open it wide, since the engine makes a real racket at that speed.

“I want you both to be very brave for your mother. You know how much she loves that cat.”

They nod.

Doris says, “Is she dead already?”

“Not yet. But it’s time, you know. Every living thing has its time on this earth, and its time to . . . well, you know. Heaven and all that.”

“I know.” Doris looks away.

I glance at Wesley in the mirror. He looks as if he’s holding back a regular Niagara of tears. “Wesley? You all right?”

“Yes, Janey.”

“I know it’s hard to lose something you love, but—”

Wesley bursts into sobs.

“Now you’ve done it,” says Doris. “Can’t you just leave us be? We already know all that!”

I shrink back into my skin and focus the rest of my attention on the road. I don’t even look back in the mirror. What do I know about tadpoles, after all? I can hardly remember being one myself.