Page 10 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just smile again, though I suspect it comes out forced. It’s depressing enough to live here as a student. As a professor? I can’t even imagine.
When we reach the sixth floor and head in the same direction off the elevator, grappling with our bags and keys, it suddenly feels silly that I’m still thinking of her as Dog Lady.
“I’m Cameron, by the way,” I tell her. “Grad student in Cornell’s veterinary program.”
Another flash of surprise crosses her face, followed swiftly by a warm smile.
“Minh Ha,” she says. “Unless you take one of my classes. Then I’m Professor Huynh.”
“I can’t really see myself studying literature.”
“Well, you never know. But it’s nice to meet you, Cameron.”
“You too,” I say, and hope she knows I mean it, even if my introduction is long overdue.
AFTER BREAKFAST, Imanage to pay attention in my morning classes, but later that afternoon, when I’m on my way to my usual shift at the pizzeria, I get the call I’m dreading.
We don’t think she has long. If you want to say goodbye...
Doesn’t matter that I’ve been half expecting it. It’s still a battering ram to the heart.
I step into the nearest alcove, take a minute to collect myself, and call my boss to let her know I have a personal emergency. She’s flexible about schedules in general—the biggest perk of an otherwise uninspiring and far from lucrative job—but she’s angry about the last-minute notice, especially on a Friday night, and I’m forced to endure a scolding, one that ends with an order to “make sure this doesn’t become a habit.” It’s literally the first time I’ve called in like this, but I keep the comment to myself, anxious to get off the phone and get going.
My next call is to Everett, who I exchanged numbers with on Saturday and have been updating daily, often after he sends a sweet, heart-pinching text like How’s our girl?
CAMERON:They think this is it. I need to get there stat. Any chance you’re free?
Everett doesn’t answer and the ellipses don’t appear. It’s almost 7p.m. He said he often works late. He could also beout with friends or on a date, a thought that grates more than I’d like, especially since I have way more important things to focus on right now.
I check the bus schedule but it’ll be ages before I get to Syracuse, so I go ahead and book an Uber, wincing at the cost, though if there was ever a time to splurge...
Within ten minutes, I’m in the back seat of a tidy Prius while Jared, my driver, bobs his head to the base-heavy music he dropped to a low volume for me. I like base-heavy music, but not when it feels like the soundtrack to my anxiety, thumping along to my too-fast heartbeat.
I picture her little face. Her cute black nose. Her sad eyes. Her twitching brows.
Hold on, I think.Please, hold on. We can do this. Give me a chance to love you.
When I’m halfway to Syracuse, Everett calls.
“Sorry, sorry,” he gusts out as if winded. “I was in a meeting. Am still in a meeting. On a break. West Coast client. Time difference. Where are you? How are you? How is she? Do you need my car? If you can come to my office, I’ll give you my keys.”
He sounds as stressed as I am, which I have conflicted feelings about.
“I got an Uber,” I tell him. “I don’t know how long—”
“I’ll drive up as soon as my meeting lets out,” he interjects.
“You sure?” I ask. “You might not even get to see her. You know. Depending.”
He doesn’t answer right away but I can hear him breathing as he mentally fills in the spaces we keep leaving in the conversation.
“I’m glad she won’t be alone,” he says. “But you don’t need to be alone, either.”
My throat gets thick and I struggle to swallow before speaking.
“Okay. Thank you,” I say. “If I leave the vet’s, I’ll text you where to find me.”
We say goodbye and hang up. After a second or two, Jared reaches around to hold out a travel-pack of tissues. I take a few and thank him, and because he doesn’t follow up the gesture by asking me to give him a five-star rating, I tap it into my phone as soon as I exit the car.
