Almost two months had passed since that awful night on the beach. Though she remembered everything that happened there, what happened later was a blur, a jumble of events that ran together. She remembered Jennifer Romanello helping her back to the house, she remembered the paramedics working on Mike and Pete, and she remembered the house filling slowly with people; after that everything went hazy, then black.
She woke up in the hospital. Pete was there as well, and Mike was in another room just down the hall. Pete was up and around in a few days, but Mike was in critical condition for a week. Once his condition stabilized and he began to improve, he stayed in the hospital for another three weeks. The entire time, Julie camped out in a chair by his bed, holding his hand, whispering to him even when he slept.
The police had more questions and also more information about Richard’s past, but she found she didn’t care about any of it. Richard Franklin was dead-in her mind, he would never be remembered as Robert Bonham-and that’s all that mattered.
And so, of course, was Singer.
Later, she’d been told by the veterinarian that he’d been given rat poison, enough to kill six dogs within minutes. “I don’t understand it,” Linda Patinson told Julie. “It was a miracle he was able to move at all, let alone fight with a grown man.”
But he had, Julie thought. And he saved me.
On the day they buried Singer in Julie’s backyard, a warm, soft rain fell around the small group of people who gathered to say good-bye to the Great Dane who had been Julie’s companion in life and, at the end, her guardian.
The Guardian
Once Mike was out of the hospital, the next few weeks passed in a daze. For the most part, he had moved in. Though he still kept his apartment, he hadn’t stayed there since before they’d gone to the beach house, and Julie was grateful. He had a way of knowing whether she needed to be held or wanted to be alone.
But nothing seemed right anymore; the house was too empty, leftovers were tossed in the garbage, nothing snuggled against her feet. There were times it seemed as if Singer were still around, though. From the corner of her eye, she sometimes saw movement. It was clear whenever it happened, but when she turned to see what had caused it, there was nothing at all. One time, she smelled an odor that was undeniably him. It smelled as if he were sitting beside her after playing in the ocean-but when she rose from the couch in search of the source, the odor simply vanished. And once, late at night, she felt the urge to get up and go to the living room. Though the house was dark, she heard him drinking from the water bowl in the kitchen. The sound made her freeze and her heart sped up, but again, the sound simply died away.
One night, she dreamed of both Jim and Singer. They were walking together in an open field, their backs to her, as she was running and trying to catch them. In her dream, she called to them both, and they stopped and turned around. Jim smiled; Singer barked. She wanted to go to them, but she couldn’t seem to move. They stared at her with the same tilt of their heads, the same looks in their eyes, the same glow behind them. Jim put his hand on Singer’s back, and Singer barked again happily, as if letting her know this was the way it was meant to be. Instead of coming toward her, they turned again and she watched them go, the outlines of their images fading slowly into one.
When she woke, she picked up her bedside picture of Singer, missing him. Her heart still ached when she looked at it, though it no longer made her cry. In the back of the frame, she’d tucked the letter that Jim had written, and now she slipped it out.
As the morning sun warmed the windows, she read it again, her eyes slowing as she reached the final paragraph.
And don’t worry. From wherever I am, I’ll watch out for you. I’ll be your guardian angel, sweetheart. You can count on me to keep you safe.
Julie looked up, her eyes moist. Yes, she thought, you did.