Page 28 of Hideaway Whirlwind
Elliott’s eyes are strangely watery, and Kendall’s are pinch closed with the force of her exuberant smile pushing her chubby cheeks up. I take photo after photo when Dustin and Sydney make it back into the bathroom, each taking a turn to hold and wash the puppy until he’s no longer shivering.
“Come here, Birdie,” Elliott says, capturing my wrist after twisting to the side to sit on his bottom, pulling me down sideways on his lap. He grabs the phone and holds it out, taking several pictures of just the two of us, one with his head turned to the side, kissing the edge of my jaw, then swinging his arm out to include all five of us, sheer joy on everyone’s faces.
And then it’s my turn to kneel over the side of the tub so I can hold the gangly puppy with a strip of white fur down his chest, his large jaw yawning wide. After Dustin drains the bath, Sydney cradles the towel-wrapped puppy on the couch beside Kendall.
“Where did you come from, huh? Where’s your mother?” I babble to the puppy, running my forefinger down his short snout. My shoulders tense, and I cut a look to Elliott, who still needs to warm up himself. “Where’s his mother?” I ask louder, my eyes turning hot. “There’s no way he survived this weather by himself.”
Before I can think about my actions, I run to pull on Elliott’s denim jacket hanging by the back door, and then I’m out the front door like a slingshot. “Where did you find him?” I yell to Elliott over my shoulder, racing down the stairs that are nolonger iced over, looking left and right.
“Under the stairs,” he says from right behind me, grabbing my elbow. “Go back inside. I’ll look for her.”
“No!” I rip my elbow out of his hand, hunching to squeeze through the gap under the stairs that is too small for Elliott to fit under. “Here, girl, here, girl,” I call out. “Where are you?”
My fingers go numb as I crawl on my hands and knees, patting the thawing ground. It’s so dark under here that I only happen to stumble across a shallow, roughly dug hole under the stone skirting of Elliott’s cabin.
“Oh man, oh man,” I repeat, clawing at the dense soil to deepen the hole. “Are you in there?” An answering whimper has me biting off a sob as I rake at the dirt with bits of rock mixed in, heaving it to the side. “Come here, girl, come here.”
A cold, wet nose nudges my hand, snorting hot air in short bursts, and I cry out with relief, straining my muscles to dig and dig and dig until the hole is big enough that I can reach under the skirting and help pull her out, her ribs prominent beneath my palms.
“Elliott!” I yell, backing out from under the stairs, sliding the dog across the ground since she lays on her side, panting shallowly, too weak to stand. “Help her!” I beg, since she’s too big for me to pick up. I clap a dirty hand over my mouth when I see she’s so much skinnier than a dog her breed should be—some kind of staffy-lab mix—especially when she’s still nursing.
Elliott easily lifts her and tells me to run inside ahead of him, but I refuse.
“Dustin!” When my son pokes his head out the front door, his eyes going wide at the large gray dog Elliott is carrying up the stairs, I tell him, “Find Papa’s phone and bring it to me.” Ipoint at the stairs, then crouch back under them. “Here, here, here,” I call out, reaching into the hole to pat around until Dustin brings me Elliott’s phone. “Get back inside, baby,” I tell him. “Papa is going to need help.” When he’s gone, I lie on my side and turn on the phone’s flashlight, sweeping the light around the crawl space with my face pushed into the newly dug hole. “Here, here,” I repeat, holding back another sob when I can make out a small form scooting on its belly toward me. “Oh, sweetie, come here, come here,” I urge again and again and again until the puppy is within reach.
I hold the puppy, a girl this time, under my chin while I sweep the crawl space twice more with the flashlight, looking for any other shapes. Certain that the space is empty, I crawl out into the daylight with the puppy tucked under my jacket and T-shirt against my breast to keep warm, then take to circling the cabin again and again, no longer able to feel my toes through my soaked double layer of socks, checking and rechecking the skirting and surrounding bushes in case there are any more puppies hiding.
“Please, please come inside,” Elliott begs, trailing after me.
After his third plea is ignored, he finally forces me to stop searching by scooping me into his arms and carrying me and the puppy into the cabin. I work the puppy out from under my shirt and hand her to Sydney.
“Dustin, keep an eye on Kendall,” I can barely say with my teeth clacking loudly together, my fingers torn and bloody beneath the mud caking my hands, my body perhaps going into shock. “Where is she?” I ask when Elliott carries me past the empty hall bathroom.
“In the shower where I need you both to be,” he says, finally setting me down in his en suite. “She didn’t want to stay inthe tub, but she doesn’t seem to mind the stall.”
I nod, my muscles rigid and jerking uncontrollably as he helps to strip off my filthy clothes, mud and slush cascading to the floor when I shake out my hair. Before I take off my shirt, I give Elliott one look. His shoulders droop, and he shuffles out of the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack behind him.
The mother dog startles when I turn on the water, raising her big blocky head off the tile floor, but I shield her from the cold stream with my own body until it warms, then slide down the wall with Elliott’s shampoo, cleaning her first. Beneath the muck is a frayed, hot pink collar, the attached D-ring split just wide enough that her name tag must have fallen off.
“Where are your people?” I ask, hardly able to breathe as my torn skin and cracked fingernails—several of which are missing altogether—sting unbearably when my feeling returns.
She scoots closer and licks the running water from my elbow as I wash myself, then rests her head across my thighs with a long snuff of her snout. How long has she been living in the wild? When did she last have fresh, running water to drink? I curl my body over her, letting the tears I didn’t know I had within me drip down and off my nose as I stroke the large patch of white fur over what should be a powerful, barrel chest.
“Birdie?”
I snap my head up to find Elliott opening the glass shower door and dropping to his knees, his sweatpants immediately soaking up the filthy water from the floor.
“She did so good, didn’t she?” I ask through a hard lump in my throat. “She kept her babies safe and warm and alive during the storm. She did so good, so good,” I bawl. “She’s such a good mom.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, reaching across to caress my cheek.
“I’m not talking about me!”
Elliott ignores my outburst and manages to fit his body into the corner where he can put an arm over my shoulders, pulling me against his side. He tips my chin up, pushing my wet, tangled bird’s nest of hair behind my ear, forcing me to look at him. “You kept your babies safe and warm and alive in impossible situations.Youare a good mama.”
I shake my head, jerking away.
“You are,” he insists, picking up my left hand and delicately kissing the back and front of it, blood still running off the tips of my fingers in thin rivers.
