Page 20 of Just a Plot Twist
Dax frowns. “Cinnamon? What kind of a name is that?” He bends to scratch the top of her head. She wags her stumpy coil of a tail and sniffs.
“The name her previous family, the Stacks, gave her, okay? It’s fine.” I maneuver the leash around people as we head to the exit, Cinnamon gazing longingly at both the kids.
Do not get used to this, Cinnamon.
“We should rename her Thor,” Dax says.
“No, how about Analisa!” Indie says.
“We can’t rename her. Cinnamon’s the name she’s had her whole life. And she’s an old lady, as far as dogs go.” I hold the aquatic center door open for the kids and when they pass through, then Cinnamon takes her turn.
I point to Indie with a grin. “How would you like it if we all the sudden started calling you Methuselah?”
Indie scrunches up her nose. “Ew, Daddy.”
“I’m just saying. And what if we renamed Dax, like, um…”
“Fuller Peabottom the Third,” Indie supplies, which garners a shove from Dax and a burst of laughter from me.
“Where did you hear a name like that?” I ask her before pressing the key fob to unlock the car. There’s a big shuffling of stuff as the kids get situated and they’re already arguing over who gets to have the dog on whose lap.
“I heard it in my brain.” Indie’s voice is sing-songy, as if to saythere’s no telling where my wealth of knowledge comes from.
I want to her to understand how incredibly smart and clever she is. I close my eyes a moment, making a silent wish that as she grows, whenever she’s pulled into believing she’s not all that—which will happen more than I want it to—she’ll remember who she is. That she’ll have an inner strength that it’s taken me over forty years to find. A swift burn washes over my gut.
Please don’t lose your spark, Indie.
Dax buckles himself in the passenger seat beside me and then pats his lap so the dog will come sit with him. I start to protest. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have the dog in the front seat. I know almost nothing about being a dog parent, but it doesn’t seem like the best move, does it? I mean, Cinnamon was up here on the drive over, but I couldn’t control it. Am I supposed to get a dog car seat or something?
But Dax gazes at her, his hand lazily stroking her back. I’ll wait until we get on the freeway before insisting she go in the back with Indie. Because the look on his face is peaceful.
He’s thirteen, so I’m not messing with anything that’s peaceful in his life.
Another gut punch. A longing for life to make sense for him. For Dax to be able to find peace through the storms; for him to never doubt my love for him.
What these sudden gut punches are all about, I don’t know. But since the divorce, it’s been happening a lot.
Cinnamon takes up all the attention on the way to my place with the kids laughing over every little thing she does. Both kids pepper me with questions, most of which I have no clue about, like, Dax’s “How manypuppies were in her litter?” and Indie’s “Dogs can smell fear, but can they smell love?”
Good questions, and I bumble through my answers, mostly shaking my head and telling them we’ll figure out how to be her foster family together.
And mostly, I just revel in the giddiness in the air because of Cinnamon. It’s temporary, I know. But I’ll enjoy it while I can.
Some of the magic, that budding happiness we experienced on the drive home, lessens when I made the kids help clean up the mess. I take care of the worst parts of it, but they need to understand what it’s like to have a dog. It’s not all fun and games.
Except, they act like it is. They play “keep away” with one of Cinnamon’s toys in my little, fenced-in backyard. For an elderly dog, I have to hand it to her, she has good energy with the kids, bounding to and fro as they toss the soft toy back and forth between them. She’s slow, but she’s still got some pep in her.
And of course, we bring Cinnamon along with us on the ride to take the kids back to their mom’s place on Sunday night. My weekends with the kids are a little bit tiring and a lot enjoyable, and it always stings when I have to take them back.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
Indie has tears in her eyes when I drop them off. “Goodbye,” she says to Cinnamon. She looks up at me. “She’ll still be here next time, right?”
She already asked me that twice before. And like before, I promise she will, even though they’re not coming next weekend. They’re going on a trip with their mom and stepdad.
On the drive home, Claire keeps coming to my mind.
It’s still a burr under my skin when we get home. We didn’t exchange numbers, so when I get home and after getting Cinnamon fed, I text Oliver and ask him for his sister-in-law’s number. When they showed up to help get her home safely, Sophie and Oliver fussed over her, so I know she’s being taken care of. Still, I should check on her. It’s the decent thing to do.
