Lily and the Octopus(21)

“I’m sorry about the way we’re dressed. I was supposed to pick up our suits from the dry cleaners before we left, but my dog, Lily, had to have emergency surgery. On her spine. We found her partially paralyzed, you see, and this will hopefully allow her to walk again, but it’s too soon to tell if she actually will.”

I have no idea how much English Franklin’s mother speaks or if she’s understanding any of this, so I grab the water glass in front of me and drink until it’s empty. Eventually my sister’s new mother-in-law nods and I take that as an invitation to continue.

“I’m really nervous. Scared, if I’m being honest. I’ll never find another dog like her. She’s so funny. The things she says sometimes, they just crack me up. She’s really good with a joke.” Franklin’s mother blanches, and it’s then that I wonder if she really understands more English than she lets on.

“Anyhow, tomorrow we can bring her home and I worry if I’m up to the task of her care.” I look down and fold the napkin in my lap a few different ways until I can’t stretch the assignment any longer.

Franklin’s mother adds a quiet “woof” and offers me a warm smile. I think she understands my plight.

It’s a funny thing to worry about at a wedding dinner. Being up to the task. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. I’ve never taken these vows before, nor do I know if I ever will. But I have felt them in other ways. I feel this duty with Lily. To stand with her in sickness, until she is able to stand on her own four paws again.

After dinner, Meredith, Franklin, Jeffrey, and I retire to the Top of the Mark, a rooftop bar across California Street from our hotel. At night, the buildings around us twinkle like the night sky; in the distance the Golden Gate Bridge is dappled with tiny, shimmering headlights. Meredith pulls me aside to a quiet corner at the end of the bar.

“Are you happy?”

“For you?” I ask. “Of course!” I look across the room at Franklin, who is telling Jeffrey an animated tale.

“No. Are you happy?”

I’m not sure how to answer her truthfully. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been watching you this weekend.” Meredith takes the cocktail menu from my hand and sets it down on the bar.

“I keep dwelling on this text message. I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“From who?”

“From no one.”

“No one sent you a text message?”

“No one sent Jeffrey a text message.”

Meredith looks at me, frustrated. “This isn’t the punchline to some Family Circus cartoon, is it?”

“I’ll tell you some other time. I have to get through this thing with Lily first.”

“Lily will be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.” Meredith puts a hand on my shoulder, but I don’t say anything in response. “Don’t use Lily as an excuse to ignore your own happiness.”

“I’m not,” I protest.

“Speak up for yourself.”

“I do!”

“No, you don’t. We were raised the same, remember. I know you better than you think I do.”

“Oh, really,” I say with a smirk. “Did you know I was about to do this?” I swiftly kick her in the shin. Payback. I hope no one sees and thinks she just married an abuser.

“Ow! Actually, yes.” Meredith rubs her shin while looking up at me. “You have to communicate your needs to get them met. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Bartender!”

Meredith sneers. “Not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

We bring champagne to Franklin and Jeffrey, and I offer a final toast. “Wishing you all good things in your life together.” Short. Simple. To the point. I look at Meredith, relaxed in her ivory gown. My sister is all grown up. I’m grateful we did our growing up together.

When we get back to our room, this time it’s me who changes our itinerary and books us two seats on the first morning flight out. There will be no lavish brunch with the newlyweds, only airport coffee and whatever they serve on the plane. If we’re lucky there will be a very quick good-bye before we sneak off to the airport.

I crawl into bed and let the day wash over me. As exhausting as it has been, our San Francisco adventure in many ways has been a small oasis of calm. I think of myself floating on the barge that sails the Tonga Room, swaying to Dan Fogelberg or Sheena Easton or someone who in the parallel universe of the Hurricane Bar is still popular.

I turn out the light.

Darkness.

The hard work of healing begins.





Squeezed


Squeeze,” I say.

“I am squeezing,” Jeffrey replies.

“Squeeze harder.”

“I’m squeezing as hard as I dare.”

“Well, you’re not squeezing her right, then.”

“Do you want to trade jobs? Because it’s easy to just stand there and hold a flashlight.”

“Not the way you keep moving.”

Jeffrey gets annoyed and he lets go. He stands up and hits his head on the outcropped tree branch above him.

“Look out for that branch,” I say, completely unhelpfully. I know this will enrage him, but I feel entitled to say what I want because I’m scared.