Finding Isadora(5)

“No. Let’s save the money for our down payment.”

When we got married, we intended to buy a house. I would live in a real house, mortgage and all, not a rental unit. It would be the first permanent home in my life, and my heart went mushy just thinking about it. “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Okay, sweetheart, you go schmooze.” I gave his arm a parting squeeze.

In search of a quiet spot, I worked my way through the crowd and into the hallway by the elevators, then pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed the clinic.

Martin said *willow had woken enough to drink some water. While we were talking, an elderly couple emerged from an elevator, arguing loudly over who’d be the designated driver.

“Ouch,” Martin said. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m at the Hotel Van with Richard. It’s a fundraiser.”

“La-di-da. Though it doesn’t sound like a friendly one.”

I glanced after the unhappy couple. Their clothes and jewelry were likely worth enough to feed an African village for a year. “Be nice,” I said, as much to myself as to Martin. “It’s for the Multicultural Center, a cause I know you support.”

“They saved my life.” His voice was soft and deadly serious.

A substance-abusing dropout from a small reserve in Manitoba, Martin had drifted west and ended up, as so many troubled kids did, in the Downtown Eastside. He’d paid for his drug habit by turning tricks, but had the good luck not to contract HIV.

His life changed course the night he stumbled into the Multicultural Center and talked to a counselor. Now, at the age of twenty-one, he was drug free and had not only earned his high school equivalency but taken a veterinary assistant program at college. He’d been accepted into university for the fall, and planned to become a vet himself.

“You saved your own life,” I told him. “But I agree, the Center’s an invaluable resource.”

“Hope they raise lots of money.”

“Me too. The attendees certainly look wealthy enough.”

“Any, uh, multicultural folks?” he asked dryly.

“A handful.”

“In tuxedos?”

“Uh-huh. And designer gowns. One gorgeous silk sari, accented by ten pounds of gold jewelry.”

“Doesn’t sound like any Center clients got invites.”

Located near Main and Hastings, the Multicultural Center served not only poor and disabled people, but also addicts and sex trade workers. I wondered how many of tonight’s attendees had even visited the Center, much less volunteered their time there. “Wouldn’t want to offend anyone’s sensibilities.” Then, feeling bad for sniping, I added, “The important thing is, these people are opening their wallets.”

In fact, who was to say they weren’t making a bigger contribution than my parents, whose preferred strategies included picketing, blocking roads, and chaining themselves to logging trucks? Grace and Jimmy Lee also volunteered in soup kitchens and at needle exchanges, but weren’t their efforts inconsequential compared to the thousands of dollars people would donate tonight?

And then there was me, sitting squarely on the fence. Looking down my left-wing little nose at tonight’s snobby crowd, yet avoiding getting my own hands dirty the way my parents did.

“Doc? You still there?”

Doc. Every now and then I wondered if being a vet was a cop-out or a wise solution to my mixed feelings. I was doing something worthwhile, but didn’t have to deal with addicts and schizophrenics. If the world was made up of people like me, Martin would never have received the help he deserved. But it wasn’t. There were people like my parents, too.

The parents who’d always encouraged me to follow my passion. And that’s absolutely what I’d done. Since I was a toddler I’d adopted stray animals the way Grace and Jimmy Lee adopted stray people. I shouldn’t feel guilty. “I’m stalling,” I told Martin. “I’d rather talk to you than hang out with the rich and famous.”

He gave a soft, pleased chuckle. I’d only been telling the truth but I realized that, to him, it was a compliment.

“I’ll stay overnight at the clinic,” he said, “and keep an eye on *willow.”

To thank him for staying would insult him. I knew he valued our animal patients just as highly as I did. Instead, I said, “You’re going to be a wonderful vet.”

“Sure hope so. If only I can handle the academic stuff.”

“You’re doing all the right things, getting the text books ahead of time and studying up.”

“This stuff’s hard,” he said softly. “Especially sciences.”

“Yeah, I can relate.”

Martin was bright, but not a natural academic. Maybe I could help him, except I wasn’t all that academically inclined myself. I might not have made it through my own university science courses without the help of my best friend, Janice Wong, a brilliant scientist and wonderful teacher. Hmm. An idea began to form. “Martin—” I began, then broke off. No, I needed to talk to Jan first. Changing direction, I said, “I’ll put my cell on vibrate. Phone if there’s any problem.”

After we hung up, I headed reluctantly back into the crowd. Making my way through nose-wrinkling clouds of cologne and perfume, I overheard snippets of conversation. Generally, the topic was business. People would go home tonight with new contacts, new deals, power lunches scheduled in their smartphones. After all, business was the reason Richard had come. His firm wanted to be seen as a good corporate citizen.