Page 94 of Something Like Forever
Chinchilla strained to getto her feet. Then she moved away from him and plopped down in thegrass. He could understand that. Sometimes feeling bad meant notwanting to be around anyone else. He watched her continue to coughand retch, his stomach sinking further with each raggedbreath.
“Justtake it easy,” Ben said, moving toward her again.
Chinchilla saw him coming,forced herself up, and limped away. She didn’t stop until shereached the corner of the yard where Samson was buried. Ben’s mouthwent dry. With a trembling hand, he felt for his phone. When hedidn’t find it in his pocket, he hurried inside. What a terribletime to be alone! Jason was with William at his mother’s house, andTim was at the gallery. Ben could try to get Chinchilla in the car,but she was heavy, and he wasn’t sure he could lift or drag herwithout causing harm. Besides, he was certain what the vet wouldrecommend.
Tim needed to be here.Such a decision couldn’t be made without him. Ben wouldn’t do that.He forced himself to calm down long enough to send atext.
Could you please comehome. Right away.
He was scared to say more,worried that Tim would panic and get in an accident along theway.
Can it wait untillunch?Tim replied.
Please. Right now. I needyou here.
What’s wrong?
I just need you. Drivesafe. Please.
He paced back and forth,waiting for a response. When it was clear none would come, hereturned to the backyard, already talking to Chinchilla as he madehis way across the grass.
“It’s okay,” Ben said.“I’m not going to make you go anywhere, if that’s what you’rescared of.”
He could see Chinchilla’storso rising and falling with the effort to breathe. She was stillaware of her surroundings, because when he got near, she started tostand again. Like she wanted to get away. That was a sign. A badone. Ben was sure he had read somewhere that animals sometimeswanted to be alone when it was time.
He turned around, notwanting Chinchilla to see him crying. Whenever she saw him weep,she always got upset, doing everything in her power to lick awayhis tears. It usually worked too. No matter how sad he was, hecouldn’t help but laugh when a dog was slobbering all over hisface. He wiped at his cheeks, composed himself, and turned aroundagain.
“Tim’s on his way home.Your daddy is coming, okay? Just hang in there.”
Chinchilla had beenwatching him out of the corner of her eye, and these words seemedto soothe her, because she looked forward again, eyes closing. Shewas still breathing. Poor thing must be exhausted. Ben stood there,wanting to do something for her.Make hercomfortable.What the hell was thatsupposed to mean? He went back inside to get her bowl of water,putting ice cubes in it like Tim did to spoil her. It’s all hecould think of. All that coughing couldn’t feel good. When hebrought out the bowl, he was barely able to get close enough to setit next to her. He didn’t understand why she kept pulling away fromhim. Maybe she just didn’t want to go to the vet. Maybe she hurttoo bad to be touched. He hoped that wasn’t true. Ben kept hisdistance, still standing near enough to keep an eye on her. When heheard a voice call his name from the house, he ran toward it,unable to hold back. Tim had just come out the back door when hecaught Ben in his arms, clearly puzzled by the tears.
“Chinchilla,” Ben saidwith a sob. He pointed to where she was. “She won’t let me nearher. I think it’s—” He couldn’t get the words out, but he had tosay it. “I think this is it.”
Tim pushed past him andran, Ben wanting to follow, but he didn’t want to upset her again.He watched as Tim hit the ground, skidding to a halt next to thedog. She raised her head, stubby tail wagging, and Ben felt a madsort of hope that he was being dramatic. She was sick, but maybeTim would pick her up, carry her to the car, and the vet would dosomething to give her more time. Except that didn’t happen. Timleaned over the dog and kissed her, saying words that Ben couldn’thear. He slowly walked closer, hearing coughs that sounded evenworse than before. Tim was hunched over, hugging her, and thatseemed to help because the ragged sound of her breathing slowed.Then it stopped.
“Tim?” Ben asked, hisvoice a broken squeak.
Tim didn’t respond. Hepulled the dog closer to him, but her tail wasn’t wagging anymore.She wasn’t moving at all. Ben tried keeping himself together, buthe couldn’t stop shaking. He finally got close enough to put a handon Tim’s shoulder, causing a reaction that he didn’t expect. Timshot to his feet, grabbed Ben’s arm, and walked him away. Benstumbled along with him until he reached the patio. Tim let go ofhim, eyes red and wet, but his expression was stony.
“Wait here.”
That’s all he said beforewalking into the house. Ben looked back to the corner of the yard.In spite of Tim’s words, he ran over there, needing to touch herfur again and kiss her wrinkled face. He stopped halfway, painfulmemories of his own rising. He knew how bad grief could be, andwhile he was suffering with his own, Tim’s had to be even worse.Chinchilla was gone. Ben would ache over that later. For now, hewas too worried about what Tim might do, because this sort of paincould make a person want to die rather than continue suffering. Benrushed back to the house and went inside, relieved when he saw hishusband approaching. Tim was crossing the living room, the handleof a shovel clenched in one fist.
“How can I help?” Benasked.
Tim held up a hand, palmflat, like he was asking Ben to stay where he was. “I need to dothis.”
“Do you want methere?”
Tim’s expression wasstrained. He wouldn’t let himself say the words, but Ben heard themanyway. Tim needed to be alone.
“I’ll be right here,” Bensaid. “Just let me know if you need me, okay? I’m right here if youdo.”
Tim’s mouth trembled. Thenhe steeled himself again before he went outside to the backyard.All Ben could do was stand at the door and watch. When he cried, hetried to do so quietly. He was devastated over losing Chinchilla,but he ached more for Tim, because he knew this sorrow. Didn’t he?As much as Samson’s death had hurt, Ben hadn’t known him since hewas a kitten. Tim had been with Chinchilla ever since she was born,more or less. Ben had found her up for adoption outside a grocerystore, the last of her litter to be given away, her scrunched-uppuppy face puzzled as he drove her across town to someone he hadneeded to say goodbye to. And he did. Ben had parted ways with Timthat day, never expecting to see him again. That had hurt themboth. Ben had returned to his life with Jace. Tim only hadChinchilla, both of them on their own, and no doubt missing thosethey had once turned to for comfort.
He watched as Tim finisheddigging, lifted Chinchilla, and cradled her in his arms. Ben couldhear him murmuring soothing words, as if still assuring her thatshe would be okay. Then Tim fell to his knees, shoulders shakingand head bowed, before he gently lowered her into the ground. Benwas on the verge of going to him—despite his request forprivacy—when Tim stood again and began shoveling dirt into hergrave. That was enough. Ben couldn’t stay away any longer. Hewalked across the yard, reached Tim, and placed a hand on his back.The patch of flowers had a hole now, brown dirt where pink andyellow petals should have been. Chinchilla was buried close toSamson’s grave, the pain of that loss a renewed ache in Ben’schest.
“I’ll beokay,” Tim said once her grave was filled and patted down. When heturned, he kept his back to Ben. Shovel in hand, he marched acrossthe yard.
