Page 65 of Just One Look
Holding the Line
In the time-honoredway of things, she had an emergency craniotomy at the end of Saturday that ran long, meaning it was after seven by the time she got home, and more than thirty-six hours since she’dlefthome. With a total of four hours’ sleep in those thirty-six hours, the extra hour thanks to an afternoon nap, but that was nothing new.
She could have launched straight into a rushed semi-beauty routine and caught most of the game, but when Webster frisked in his happy, bouncing circles around her, then came over and leaned his body into her legs, then pressed his face into her thigh and breathed in her scent, how could she ignore him? She sank to her knees, gathered him into her, and spent a little time just hugging him. Not because she was heartbroken, not today. She’d done the best she could, she’d saved some lives, and she was still whole. She wanted to bury her hands in Webster’s long, coarse fur, though, all the way to the silky softness of his undercoat, and absorb his love.
She sat back at last, at which he instantly shoved his face beneath her arm again, trying to snuggle some more, and she said, “You missed me, huh? Did you miss me?” He panted and wagged his tail, and she said, “Yes, you did miss me. I missed you, too.”
It was actually true. A surgeon could sleep anywhere and anytime, and she’d dropped off on a chair in the doctors’ lounge at one o’clock this afternoon almost the second her body had hit the surface, but it would’ve been so much more comforting to have Webster there, to know that if she dropped a hand down, it would touch his furry body, and he’d raise his enormous head and stare up at her out of his dark eyes to see if she needed him.
She hadn’t needed anybody for a long, long time. She’d been a lone ranger almost all her life. No choice, or it had felt that way. Needing even a dog felt vulnerable and a little scary, but that was all right. Emotionally healthy people needed other people, apparently, so she was working her way up the species.
She told him, “I could brush you, but if I do that, I might fall asleep. Too relaxing, and I’ve got this man to watch tonight. I’m a little nervous about it, too. You know what I think we should do? I think we should go for a quick run. Get rid of my nerves, and get some endorphins going. The running kind, and the doggy-love kind.”
Webster wasn’t listening. He was trotting over to the hooks by the door, jumping up to put his paws against the wall, grabbing the leash in his teeth, lifting it over the top of the hook to free it, and trotting back to present it. And she was laughing.
“How did you get that smart?” she asked him, taking it from his mouth. “You realize I’m not going to believe you anymore when you tell me you can’t remember to sit or lie down or what in tarnation ‘heel’ means, right? You think you’re sneaky, but you just betrayed yourself.”
In answer, he sat, panted, and grinned, his feathery tail swishing across the wood floor, seeming so much like he was saying, “Yes, I’m extremely bright and well trained, and you definitely want to go running with me.”
“All right,” she said, “but it’s not going to be fun and games tonight. We’re going to start learning to heel. I’m serious. Of course, I’m also crazy, trying this on a few hours’ sleep, but I’ve been not-crazy all my life. Time to start taking risks, right?” In answer, Webster cocked his head and looked at her quizzically, and she fastened his leash and said, “Workout clothes. Five minutes.”
It wasn’t easy. The website had said you should go in one direction, and when the dog started to pull, turn abruptly and go in the other direction. They hadn’t said how you did that with a dog who weighed a hundred and plenty pounds, though. The first time she tried it, Webster kept going the other way, and she staggered backwards and almost fell over. She got her balance back, pulled his head up by her leg again, slapped her thigh, said, “Heel,” and took another few running steps.
He went with her. Score. Of course, she was holding a piece of freeze-dried liver by his nose, but still. She said, “Good heel,” gave him the treat, and started again. But once the liver was gone, so was his desire to be close, and he was in sled-dog mode again.
They didn’t even make it to Ponsonby Road. They just ran up and down and up and down and up and down the hill, sometimes only a few steps at a time, lurching back and forth like lunatics. A few passersby gave her some startled looks and crossed the street, and her neighbor from two doors up, whose name was Roger, actually came out of the house and called, “Need a hand?”
“No,” she gasped at him. “I’m, uh … training him.” The last words didn’t come out too well, because Webster, of course, had lunged toward Roger, prepared to go over and give him his doggy love. She said,“Heel,”turned around, and pulled against his weight until he turned again.
“Not sure who’s training who,” Roger said, “but good on ya. If you want any help, say the word. I could be more up to his weight.”
“Sadly, I … am up … to it. But I’m very … strong.” It was another gasp, because she was having to turn again. “Also, I’m … meaner.”
Roger laughed, and a door banged as the neighbor on the other side of the street came out and called, “What’s going on?”
“She’s training, mate,” Roger called back. “Either the dog or herself, looking for a spot in the all-in wrestling. Can’t decide.”
“Oh,” the other neighbor said. “You the one who’s taken Peter and Jessa’s house, then?”
“Elizabeth,” she called out, and waved. Anddidfall over, just a little, before she got herself upright again. “Webster,heel.”
“They didn’t do much training with that dog,” the other neighbor said. “Never sure who was walking who.”
“I … noticed,” she said.
“Bruce here,” the man said. “If you need anything.”
She waved again and headed up the hill. It was like one of those teeny-tiny pools where you swam in place against a current, was what it was. How could you get this sweaty when you hadn’t even made it two blocks from home? Her hand was also covered with drool, thanks to constantly feeding Webster liver treats and him constantly anticipating the next one, but he was getting it. At least she thought he was, because he was turning faster now, and his nosewaspressed against her hand at least half of the time. That was just because he smelled liver, but still. His tail was going a mile a minute, too, in huge circles that whacked into her leg every time they came around, like this was the most fun game ever.
Luka would be starting his game now, doing all that shoving and tackling and running, butshewas wrestling a bear.
She made it to the game before the end of the second half, at least, climbing the steps and walking through echoing, nearly deserted concrete corridors, stopping to buy a hot dog and a beer—the first time she’d ever done that in her life, proving that you could be at your most American when you weren’t even inAmerica anymore—and eventually finding the right doorway. Up some more steps, and there the row was.
The woman sitting at the end had a baby in her arms and was jouncing him up and down and calling, “Come on, Dad!” She was also one of the beautiful urban-professional types from the other day in Nyree’s hospital room, so this had to be the right place.
The woman next to her, a more normal-looking redhead who was holding an even smaller baby, looked over, smiled hugely, and said, “Hi. You must be Luka’s friend. Elizabeth, right?”
“Uh … yes,” Elizabeth said. The womanthirdin the row was holdinganotherbaby. There were babies and toddlers being held, in fact, all down the line. Was it arequirement?First Nyree, and then all this? And here she was, with her zero babies and her absolute lack of special blue scarves and hats with “Blues” written on them, in case the color wasn’t enough to tell you which team they were going for.
