Finding Isadora(51)

“Gabriel, no.” I reached for his hand, caught it in my gloved ones, and turned it palm up, showing him the blood.

“Oh.”

He glanced down at himself, seeming to realize for the first time what a mess he was. “I should clean up.”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure.” He stared at his bloody hand. “Okay, maybe not. I’ve never watched an animal die before.”

“No matter how many times you’ve seen it, it’s never easy. It shouldn’t be.”

He gazed at me, eyes quizzical. “How can you do it?”

I swallowed hard. “Because it’s kinder than the alternative.”

He stared down at the stray dog. “Yes.”

When he kept staring, I said, “Gabriel?”

He gave himself a shake. “Right, I should go.”

“Wash up first.”

“Oh, yeah.”

It was a role reversal. I’d always seen Gabriel as the strong, competent one, the person who was in control. Today he’d come to me for help, and was visibly upset. It only made him more appealing.

I stripped off my gloves, caught him by the arm, and guided him out of the examining room. After I’d pointed him toward the restroom, I hurried to find Liz Chen, the other vet on duty. “I just had to euthanize a dog. Could you get Margarida to make the arrangements for her body? Her name’s Valente. She was a stray, no owner, but the man who found her will pay the costs. I know him and he’s pretty shaken up. I think I should drive him home. Can you cover for me for the rest of the evening?”

“Go.” She gave me a sympathetic hug. “I’ll deal with everything.”

“Thanks.”

I tossed my lab coat in the laundry bin, scrubbed my hands, then collected my gear. When Gabriel emerged from the men’s room, I was waiting. His hands and face were clean, but he still looked dazed.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

“Outside.”

I went with him, and saw his Volvo in the loading zone in front of the clinic. The passenger door was wide open, and he didn’t seem to notice. No way was I letting this man loose in traffic.

“Get in.” I gestured to the passenger seat. There was blood on it, but his clothes were already filthy so a little more wouldn’t hurt.

He obeyed and I slipped into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for my height. “Keys?” I prompted, then I realized they were in the ignition. Apparently, his car wasn’t worth stealing.

I didn’t drive often and I was clumsy at getting the car started and manipulating the standard gear shift. As we pulled away from the curb, I said, “Where do you live?”

“East Vancouver. Not far from the Cultch.”

Concentrating on driving through traffic helped distract me from thoughts of poor Valente. Gabriel didn’t say another word. When I glanced over, he was sprawled back in the seat with his eyes closed, his brown skin unusually pale. Fortunately, I’d been to enough theatre and music events at the Cultch—more formally known as Vancouver East Cultural Center—to know where it was.

As I drove past the picturesque old houses along Venables, many restored and painted in interesting colors, I wondered if he owned one like that. When we reached the Cultch, I said, “Gabriel?”

He jerked upright and stared through the windshield. “Oh. Turn right on Victoria and look for a spot on the street. My building doesn’t have underground parking.”

I found a narrow space and managed to parallel park, only stalling the car once. We both got out and I locked the car and handed him the keys. Then I glanced around, wondering where to find the nearest bus stop.

“Come up?” he asked.

Startled, I turned back to him.

He reached out and touched my shoulder. “Please?”





Chapter 8


I could understand that Gabriel didn’t want to be alone. I never did either after watching an animal die. “All right.”

He led me to a plain, rectangular three-story apartment building, several decades old. It was painted a cappuccino color with white trim, and the landscaping, which featured azaleas and rhododendrons in bloom, was simple but attractive. Inside, the floor tile was obviously old, the paint job neutral, but the lobby was well-maintained and there were a couple of large, healthy plants as well as a faded couch. The impression was friendly.

We took the stairs to the second floor and he unlocked a door marked 204. I stepped inside then walked a few steps farther, into the living area.

I barely suppressed a gasp. Grace and Jimmy Lee’s apartment was positively luxurious in comparison to this one, even though Gabriel’s living room was three times the size of theirs. His decor was vintage 1950s, in a Goodwill rather than trendy way. Aside from huge cushions tossed every which way along the edges of the room, the furniture consisted of a couple of ratty couches, a half dozen chairs of various shapes and sizes, and a wooden crate coffee table. A small television sat on another wooden crate, several large brick and board bookcases held a jumble of books, and he had a decent looking sound system.

My gaze caught on the golden-wood acoustic guitar that sat on a stand in a corner. Of course he’d play the guitar; his hands were made for it. The guitar was my favorite instrument. I’d grown up listening to Grace and Jimmy Lee’s friends playing and singing. Folk songs and protest songs, mostly. Occasionally, love songs.