I bite back the I love you on my tongue. I won’t ask for the return of those words from her, certainly not as a reward for this, and that’s what saying it now would be. She’ll say it when she’s ready.
‘Let me know when you’re home. Don’t worry about the time here – I won’t go to sleep until I know you’re there. Call your parents once you’re in the car.’
‘Okay. Thank you, Reid,’ she says again.
‘Go pack. I’ll talk to you in a little while. If you have any problem, call me. My phone is in my front pocket and set to vibrate the crap out of my leg.’
Her gravelly little laugh destroys me. I return the phone to my pocket and take a deep breath. If Dad wasn’t sure how serious I was about Dori before, he sure as hell knows now.
16
DORI
When I was six, Deb and I lost our last grandparent – my father’s opinionated, quick-witted mother, who made the world’s best sugar cookies, loved to sing and fondly recalled her years as a piano teacher. At her funeral, my sister held my hand, and at the end of the day, she put me to bed.
‘I love you, baby sister of mine,’ Deb said, tucking the covers to my chin.
‘How much?’ I asked, Esther settling in next to me, as she did every night.
Leaning over me, her serious fourteen-year-old eyes shining, Deb whispered, ‘As many grains of sand as there are on all the beaches in all the world.’
‘For how long?’ I pressed, and she rolled her eyes.
‘Forever and forever and forever.’ When I smiled, she added, ‘Duh.’
We’d repeated this ritual on occasion over the years, though I’d never doubted my sister’s love. Hearing her say it was a comfort that I sometimes craved.
I’ve had to accept that Deb is forever changed. I’ll never hear her quirky laugh or her sound advice again. I’ll never feel her arms around me. She’ll never tell me she will love me forever. She’s gone but not gone, and my heart is in limbo, unable to say goodbye.
Because of Reid, I got to say goodbye to Esther. Last night, she slept next to me one last time, nestled against my chest, her intermittent whines, so soft as to be apologetic, breaking my heart. We drove to the vet’s office this morning, and I sat in the back seat, stroking her head where it rested on my leg. Telling her in whispers how much I loved her, and what a good friend she’d been. Her big, dark eyes looked up at me, and I knew she was telling me goodbye too.
On the way home, I held her worn red collar tight in my hands, tears streaming down my face. I read the inscriptions on her tags – her licence info, our matching birthdate, her please-return-to number and address, and her name: Esther Cantrell.
It may seem odd to think of a dog as having a last name, because they don’t need it for school or a job, but it was right. Esther and I shared a surname because she was family, tip to tail.
Kayla: Dori, have you seen the photos in the link I just sent you? Maybe nothing is going on, but I never liked that Brooke Cameron. She’s probably as bitchy and stupid as her life’s a beach character.
Me: I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m actually home. We put Esther to sleep this morning. I’m going back to Cal tomorrow.
Kayla: Oh no! I loved Esther. I’m so sorry. Can me and Aimee come over to cheer you up?
Me: I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you. I’m going to visit Deb tonight. I’ll see you guys next time, I promise.
Kayla: Okay. {{hug}} We’ll keep an eye on that Brooke bitch for you.
The link Kayla sent goes to a gossip website. At the top are two photos – clearly cell-phone taken – of Reid. And Brooke Cameron. Together. In one, they’re sitting together at the gate, talking and waiting for a flight. In the other, they’re sitting together on that flight.
I spoke to him earlier today, and he’d not mentioned her. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Or hoping I won’t. He didn’t tell me they were going to New York together, but they clearly did. There are separate photos of each of them there too – attending the opening nights of their new films last night, both alone. No dates, no plus-ones. The media, of course, speculates wildly over what that means, and the post includes a photo of the two of them from years ago, holding hands, happy. They look the age I was when I fell in love with Colin.
I don’t want to ask him about her. This day has drained me emotionally, and I’m incapable of thinking rationally.
There’s also my gratitude for the fact that thanks to Reid, I’m at my kitchen table, making a gravestone out of a clay tile and ceramic buttons to place on Esther’s spot in the back-yard garden. Two hours ago, Dad and I lowered her carefully into the deep hole he’d dug at dawn, before we left. We positioned Esther’s body as Mom stood by, holding a rawhide bone and her favourite toy – a squeaky banana – to be buried with her.
Esther loved chasing and rough-housing. She was one of those dogs who discouraged any fragile things placed on low tables for fear of her long, constantly wagging tail accidentally sweeping them to the ground. But wrapped in a beach towel of mine which she’d absconded with so many times – dragging it to her dog bed like a security blanket – that I finally gave it to her, she’d seemed so small.
‘Would you like tea?’ Mom asks now, her voice as gruff as mine. Our grief over Esther has revived every anguished memory of Deb’s accident. The three of us are wrestling with the tacit loss of my sister all over again, though no one says so.
‘Yes, please. Chai?’