Finding Isadora(72)

“Princess Anne and I have a condominium over there.” She pointed back in the direction she’d come from. “A view of the water, an excellent grocery store a block away, only a quick walk to work.”

“It’s great living downtown, isn’t it? All the conveniences, plus the beautiful parks and scenery.”

“I quite agree.”

She gave Pogo a final pat and rose in a fluid motion with no creaking of knee joints. “I must carry on with my run or I’ll be late to the office.”

“Give Princess Anne my best.”

“Indeed.” She shifted from foot to foot then said, in a rush, “While you’re criticizing my appearance, do you have any other suggestions?”

“I wasn’t criticizing, honestly, just—”

“Whatever,” she broke in, with a dismissive gesture. “But my question stands.”

“Uh…” I studied her carefully. Although makeup would enhance her eyes, I suspected that she, like me, wouldn’t be comfortable wearing it. “I like your hair the way it is now. Before, I thought it was gray, but now I see it’s a lovely shade of silver. If you left it loose rather than putting styling gel in it…”

“Hate that stuff, but it’s the only way I can keep my hair from going every which way.”

I dragged a hand self-consciously through my own hair. “I can identify. Well, it’s only a suggestion, but personally I like it soft and natural.”

“The way you wear yours. It works for you, but you’re a lot younger.”

We studied each other for another couple of seconds, and I thought how odd it was to be having this kind of conversation with Althea Fitzsimmons. Not once this morning had I thought of her as crow-woman.

This was shaping up to be one of the most peculiar, and memorable, days of my life.

“Well, then,” she said, and without a word of farewell jogged off, leaving Pogo and me staring after her.

“Am I so emotionally wrecked I’m hallucinating,” I asked him, “or did that really happen?”

He gave an impatient yip and strained at the end of his leash, eager to be off.

“Thanks. You’re a big help.”

We were pressed for time by now, so we speed-walked back home and I got ready for work, still doing my best not to think about Richard.

I wasn’t going to the clinic this morning, but starting my work day with house calls.

The first client was Mrs. Jesperson, a wealthy elderly woman with so many health issues that she should have been in a nursing home. She didn’t want to leave the apartment where she’d lived with her husband, and she had the money to pay for home care and all the other services she required.

She was a petite, gentle, great-grandmotherly woman. If dogs matched owners, she’d have had something tiny, fluffy, and white like a bichon frise, maltese, or shih-tzu. Instead, she had a rugged bull mastiff named Rocky. His exercise was handled by a private dog walker who took him out for two hours a day, and other than that he seemed content to keep Mrs. Jesperson company in their penthouse apartment with its fabulous view of English Bay.

A couple of days ago, Rocky’d had surgery for an inverted eyelid. I examined him and was happy to say he was in great shape and healing quickly.

I left the two of them sitting outside in the rooftop garden, and walked a couple of blocks to the cheap studio apartment where Henry Melnick, an emaciated, wheelchair-bound man in his sixties, was dying of AIDS. His family shunned him and he’d outlived most of his friends. Like Mrs. Jesperson, he was dependent on home care, but in his case it was the sort offered by the state, supplemented by local charities.

Henry was one of the people Gabriel had talked about when he’d said that, for some folks, their only source of love was their animal companion. In Henry’s case, that was a Siamese cat named Spooky.

While we discussed Spooky’s symptoms and I examined her, Henry wheeled into the kitchen and made tea for both of us. “No cookies, I’m afraid,” he said. “The cupboard’s pretty bare.”

“Do you need someone to go shopping for you?”

“No, I can still get out on a good day. But the government cuts have really hurt. By the time I’ve paid for all the medical stuff that health care doesn’t cover, there’s almost nothing left for food.”

And, I knew, Spooky got fed before Henry did.

“How’s my sweetie?” he asked as I completed my exam. “I hope it’s nothing awful.”

I shook my head. “I’ve taken a culture and I’ll need to test it to be sure, but I think it’s a bladder infection, and that’s very treatable. Get her to drink lots and lots of filtered water.” I walked into the tiny kitchen. “Show me what you’re feeding her.”

“It’s in the cupboard to the left of the sink.”

I opened the door and checked, then separated the containers. “Stick with the ones on the right side. They have low protein and magnesium, and that’s what she needs now.” I fished in my medical bag and handed him a bottle of pills. I’d thrown them in yesterday, when I’d looked at Spooky’s file and read her symptoms. “These should fix her up, but don’t start them until I give you a call to verify that it really is a bladder infection.”

“Thanks, Doc Izzie. How much do I owe you?”