Page 9 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“I’m pretty sure anything would be a good story,” I toss back.
He nods as he eats the roll and gestures for me to take the last one, which I do.
As I chew, I make a littlemmmof enjoyment that brings out the smile lines beside Everett’s eyes. He watches me savor the roll, and it’s a nice feeling—sharing joy—one I haven’t felt in a long time, but I make a motion for him to get on with his story. I’ve been waiting weeks to hear this. He can be all cute and sweet another time.
“I work in a building that houses several other arts and arts-adjacent studios and offices,” he says. “There’s a team that does styling for print ads and short videos. They go through a lot of props, and their storage space is limited, so they put anything they’re unlikely to reuse and don’t have room for in the back alley near the trash. Furniture. Rugs. Rolls of fabric. Small appliances. Random statues. This city is full of scavengers, so most of it disappears pretty quickly.”
“But not the plants?” I guess.
“Not the plants,” he confirms. “And since I often work late...”
“You smuggle them in at midnight,” I finish for him.
He feigns affront. “I wouldn’t saysmuggle.”
“Fine.Carry, then. Youcarrythem in at midnight. Because you have a thing for plants.”
He goes quiet, serious, tapping his chopsticks on the edge of a take-out container until he realizes he’s doing it and rests them on the table instead.
“I just think...” He pauses and pivots to face me. “I think the world is full of disposable things. We’ve grown used to them.I’vegrown used to them. It’s modern life. But that doesn’t mean we should let something die if all it needs is a little care and attention.”
This time, when the red warning light goes off, I let it flash away, completely ignored.
Chapter Four
On Sunday, I work my usual shift at Loden and Linden, peddling scratchy but aesthetically pleasing, naturally dyed, hand-woven flax blankets and organic candles with names like Summer Kisses and First Blush, which have always struck me as suspect because I’m dead certain none of my kisses or blushes have had a distinct scent. When I check in at the end of the day, Dr. Kong says the dog is stable, but still running a temperature and nonresponsive.
Monday through Thursday, I attend the anatomy and physiology, immunology, and pathology classes I’m barely keeping up with, grateful we’re not working with cadavers this week because I’m not sure I could hold myself together. I also work my shifts at the pizzeria.
Every evening, I check in.
Every evening, Dr. Kong updates me, though any changes are minor.
Every evening, I force myself to stop picturing the dog bed and the dishes. I have to quit thinking of this dog as mine. Her poor body has a lot to contend with, as do her mind and her spirit. Stressing about her health won’t help her. My energy would be betterspent preparing for what’s feeling more and more inevitable as her health fails to improve.
Friday morning, when I find myself seriously considering if the nutritional contents of four leftover take-out packets of ketchup and six remaining saltines in an otherwise empty box will get me through to lunch, I make a quick run to the grocery store, returning with a discount loaf of almost-stale bread, a few packets of bland but unobjectionable ramen, and a jar of off-brand peanut butter, desperate to save every penny until I know what’s happening with the dog.
As I step into the elevator from the lobby, a soft voice calls for me to hold the doors. I reach out to halt their closing, and see Dog Lady speed-walking toward me. She’s a short, stout Asian woman with a tidy blunt bob, currently sporting cropped linen pants and sandals that look more suitable for summer, which she seems to be making up for with a heavy knit top, a bulky cardigan, a long, tailored jacket, and two cotton print scarves loosely twisted together and looped around her neck. Her Yorkie-poo, Pilot, is poking her tiny tufted head out from a padded shoulder bag while Dog Lady’s hands are filled with mesh totes of vibrant produce that makes me glad my dismal, vitamin-deficient groceries are well hidden within canvas.
“Thank you,” Dog Lady says as she joins me, a little breathless.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
We exchange a brief smile. Then we do what we usually do: settle into position facing the doors with a polite amount of space between us, going quiet as the doors close. However, I can’t help glancing over at Pilot, who’s watching me with her tiny black eyes alert and her tiny pink tongue hanging out. She’s so cute, and so quiet, and she always seems so happy, tucked in her quilted bag.Next thing I know, I’m thinking about a golden retriever left outside and alone on concrete, and a lump is rising in my throat, and if I don’t say something soon...
“How did you pick her name?” I ask, clearing my throat when the words come out raspy.
“Oh!” Dog Lady turns to look at me, her face awash with surprise. “You mean Pilot?”
“Yeah. It’s sweet,” I say. “Kinda different. Do you fly planes?”
Dog Lady laughs as she gazes affectionately at the tiny, happy face by her shoulder.
“I’m an English professor,” she says. “With a focus on nineteenth-century women’s literature. Pilot’s the name of Mr. Rochester’s dog inJane Eyre. It’s always been a favorite.”
“You’re a professor?” I can’t help asking, because really? Livinghere?
“Adjunct,” she says with another laugh. “Like everyone else these days.”
