Change Places with Me(44)
Out on the sidewalk the girl noticed something Rose hadn’t picked up on, that people hurried out of her way now that she had an enormous dog at her side. It made her feel powerful, but also uncomfortable, because people didn’t understand. She wanted to say, Don’t be afraid—she’s a *cat!
The dog run in Belle Heights Park was a dusty oval surrounded by a five-foot-high fence. The benches along the perimeter weren’t even half full. A sign on the gate at the entrance said No Dogs Without People; No People Without Dogs. It had the ring of authority. It could be the eleventh commandment.
The girl watched Rouge run around with a couple of dachshunds, a golden retriever, a few poodles, and an Australian cattle dog, a kind of dog she’d first seen at the animal hospital. Dr. Lola had talked about how these dogs were a fairly new breed, a cross between collies and wild dogs—dingoes.
But there was no small dog in a sweater, no girl in the jean jacket. Every few minutes, Rouge came back to her for a pat on the head. Luckily, the girl had a bottle of water in her backpack. She cupped some water in her hands and let Rouge have a drink.
At one point the Australian cattle dog jumped up on the bench next to her. It was compact and muscular, with a short silvery coat, upright ears, and black patches on its face. It stared right at her with golden eyes. Clara would’ve been terrified. Rose had loving trust in animals. But the girl felt something else—a kinship with this dog who was still part wild and probably had a lot of conflicting stuff going on. If she were to get a dog, this was the kind of dog she would get.
Somebody threw a Frisbee. The dog leaped off the bench and caught it in midair.
The sky went from bright sunshine to pearly gray-blue to deep blue. Several planes whooshed by, and in the distance she heard fire trucks wailing—how many, three, four? What an amazing thing to do with your life, she thought, rescue people trapped in burning buildings.
“What do you think, Rouge?” she asked as they walked back on curvy streets. “Should I become a firefighter?” Of course that would put her in a uniform, not a costume.
Rouge grew fixated on a squirrel clinging motionless upside down on the trunk of an oak tree. It seemed to be giving Rouge the evil eye, knowing it was safely out of reach.
“So,” Dr. Lola said, when they got back, “see you Saturday?”
“Saturday—I’m sorry, I can’t,” the girl said. “I have to have a medical procedure.”
Dr. Lola took a step closer. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Oh, no, totally routine. But I’ll make up the time. I’ll work both days the weekend after.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll figure something out.”
There were sixty-eight hours to go. Or was it sixty-seven? She’d lost count, temporarily.
When she got home, there was a painting about two feet square she’d never seen before, leaning against the wall in the living room. A Post-it said: Mrs. Moore wanted you to have this. She had it in her closet and doesn’t have enough wall space to hang it up.
The girl knew that wasn’t true. She’d been up there; Mrs. Moore had plenty of wall space. If she accepted the painting, she’d have to talk to Mrs. Moore and listen to all her little stories—she had no time for that now. She went upstairs to return the painting, and knocked.
The dogs were there, scuffling and huffing behind the door, but Mrs. Moore wasn’t home. The girl couldn’t very well leave the painting in the landing or leaning on the front door, so she brought it back downstairs, to her room.
And looked at it.
Rose had found these paintings just a smear of colors. But the girl could see how they made sense. The browns and grays here, the big rectangles and little squares, were so clearly the apartment houses and the five-story building across the way, the view from Clara’s childhood, the block as it had been before Belle Heights Tower. It looked as though Mr. Moore had painted it while looking out at the world through a thick pane of glass, as if he’d painted this for her alone.
At her desk, the girl sat at her computer and typed a letter. She didn’t even know what she’d written until she read it over:
Thank you for the painting. I put it in my room, where I can see it every night last thing and every morning first thing. If you ever want to look at it again, please come downstairs anytime. I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet your husband.
Yours truly, your neighbor
She printed it out, folded it in half, went upstairs, and slid it under Mrs. Moore’s door. She heard the dogs again and told them sternly, “Don’t rip that up! It’s not for you.”
That night the moon cast pale-gray light over Belle Heights Tower. The girl was again hunched over her phone, watching ads, as Clara used to do. Liquid Lenses—to replace unwieldy glasses and messy contact lenses. She swiped it away. A mattress with a built-in alarm that gently nudged you awake. Swipe. Movable tattoos. Swipe. Towels that absorbed water and stayed dry to the touch. Swipe. Memory Enhancement . . . there was the woman in the red car, calling herself “a prisoner of fear.”
Clara had always felt as though she was the only person in the world watching these things in the middle of the night. But of course Clara wasn’t the only one, far from it; there were millions of ads playing around the clock for millions of people—all of whom, like her, had been specifically targeted. What were all these other people like, she wondered now, what were they hoping to find? Maybe they were people who knew life wasn’t fair and were trying to change the odds.