The Wonder of Lost Causes, page 5
Burt narrows his eyes, crinkles his wrinkles, studying the dog who stares at my face like he’s watching the best YouTube video ever and doesn’t want to miss a minute.
“You mean will someone else want him more than you?”
See, Burt’s brain works just fine. But he’s not answering my question.
“Seriously, how do I convince my mom to let me keep him? If I even mention adopting a dog she freaks out.”
“Here’s what I know,” says Burt. “Around you, this dog is happy. Around the rest of us, he’s got the social skills of a rabid fox. And he looks, well, kind of beat up.”
“What do you think happened?”
Burt points to the big hairless patch on Whistler’s flank. “Could have been a fire. Could have been a car accident.”
“What about the zebra stripes?” I ask.
Burt shrugs, flashes his little yellow teeth. “I should get him back to isolation. Come on, Whistler, let’s go.”
Why do grown-ups think kids never notice when they try to dodge a difficult question? Fortunately, Whistler is on my side. He refuses to budge.
“I’m thinking something bad happened. Something huge and dark and totally awesome, and not in a good way,” I say.
Burt looks like a suspect in an episode of Law & Order. He’s definitely got something to say, but he’d rather call a lawyer.
“Whatever it was,” I continue, “it made Whistler stop barking.”
Burt told me dogs sometimes lick their nose as a sign of distress. Burt does something similar, working two fingers into the bridge of his nose when he gets worried. By connecting the zebra stripes with Burt beginning to fret, I realize I must be on the right track.
“What if I can’t adopt him? What if no one else will?”
Burt’s silence is not the answer I’m looking for. I reach forward, make sure Whistler sees my smile, and gently run my hand along his snout scars. Different doesn’t mean abnormal. No one needs to feel embarrassed about being different. I should know. But people get hung up on different. Sometimes it’s all they see. What if Whistler’s too sick? How long will it take his lungs to get better? What if it takes more than two weeks? Does Mom even have a cure? I noticed the look on her face when she first heard his cough and saw his X-rays. My dad never stuck around when I was born. Why would a total stranger take on a dog as sick as me?
Remembering that Whistler might be reading my mind, I say, “Not that he can’t bark. It’s just that he chooses not to. Right?”
And without needing to think about it, I reach out, touch his mangy right ear, nod toward the shelter, and Whistler, like he’s my competitive obedience dog, happily trots on.
14
Kate
I SHOULD HAVE realized it was an ambush the moment Mrs. Fisher, the school nurse, suggested we might be more comfortable in a conference room.
“Hope you don’t mind,” says Mrs. Fisher, holding open the door and gesturing toward the man and woman waiting in chairs, getting to their feet. “Coach Taft and Ms. Sexton heard you were dropping by and wanted to have a word.”
Mrs. Fisher is a big, bosomy woman, with wild bushy eyebrows worthy of a cold war Russian president. After thirty years on the job she can spot at fifty yards the difference between genuine sickness and an attempt to cut class. She plays favorites with her chronically ill children, those she affectionately refers to as her “repeat offenders.” Fortunately, among a handful of autistics, epileptics, and diabetics, Jasper has made the cut.
I’m forced to squeeze rather than step past her, and shake hands with my son’s teacher and coach.
Ms. Sexton, fresh out of college, possesses the perfect, perky figure and attitude of a woman starting her career. Prone to wearing flip-flops whenever it isn’t snowing outside, she combines the fresh, animated enthusiasm of a newbie with a soft-spoken, tactile kindness. Her kids lap it up. In fact she’s probably the subject of nocturnal fantasies among the more precocious boys in the class. Jasper, however, loves Ms. Sexton because she cuts him some slack. I can’t tell whether his plight upsets or frightens her, but I’m grateful for a young woman who seems sensitive and receptive where it counts.
Coach “Daft,” as he is referred to by some of the more aggressively sporty parents who unrelentingly challenge his lineups, tactics, and plays, is a lean, balding man in his late forties. He’s wearing his favorite Framingham State sweatshirt—a reminder of his days as a Division III college basketball star.
I am ushered toward a chair, facing, or rather surrounded by, the other three—definitely an ambush. I sit, instinctively employing my best Catholic school girl posture, stiff-backed, angling my chin ever so slightly upward, less out of defiance, more out of a readiness for them to bring it on.
“So,” says Ms. Sexton, bright and breezy, adjusting her short skirt, crossing her legs, and leaning forward. “I’ve been meaning to touch base about Jasper and this seemed like too good an opportunity to miss.”
Some parents might have been expecting praise, news of awards, academic acceleration, or advancement to higher classes. Not me. Don’t get me wrong, Jasper is a bright, imaginative kid, but it doesn’t matter how smart he is if you mix in enough doctor’s visits, sick days, and hospitalizations. No, in my world, “touch base” means “address a problem.”
“Jasper’s cough has become a bit more . . . disruptive for the past few weeks, but—”
“Why did no one let me know?” It’s away from me before I can stop it, a reflex, and in the pause that follows, I command my tongue to shut up and lay low.
“Jasper has been dropping by for extra albuterol puffers,” says the matronly nurse, totally unruffled. “Sometimes every two hours. He’s going through it faster than usual, which is why I called asking for refills.”
I’m aware of the way I knead my right index finger, work it like a worry bead, as though it might somehow pump up my composure.
“But,” resumes Ms. Sexton, “and I’m no expert, this seems to be about more than just his . . .” She seems torn, uncertain as to which word will be the most politically correct—condition, disease, disability. She finally goes with, “his CF. It’s like, sometimes, in class, he’s there but not there. And I’m not talking about his ADD.”
“He never misses his noon dose of Adderall,” says Mrs. Fisher, quick to chime in, as though anticipating another of my impulsive tetchy comebacks.
“I mean,” says Ms. Sexton, “is it possible that Jasper might be going deaf?”
As the question registers in my brain, I think how overwhelming and impossibly cruel, to add the loss of hearing to what Jasper already suffers, and for a moment, my mind snags on the prospect of lip reading, sign language, and cochlear implants. But then I sit up, letting the seat back dig into my spine, letting the discomfort bolster my poise. Ms. Sexton must be mistaken.
“As far as I know deafness is not part of his underlying disease. My son’s sense of smell is not great, and I’ve been wondering if he needs glasses.”
Ms. Sexton lets out a huffy sigh, oblivious to the way this comes across as a setback, like she’d solved the case and any new evidence should be inadmissible. Then she surprises me as I witness genuine concern blossoming around her eyes.
“His grades are starting to slide. Only today I seated him at the front, not as a punishment, but hoping it might help, and maybe it does, but he still seems preoccupied. And it’s not that he acts unhappy. I’ve even caught him smiling to himself several times. Whatever it is, Jasper seems to think something inside his head is far more important than what we’re currently learning.”
I maintain unblinking eye contact and will my facial muscles still, but my mind can’t help but wonder whether this recent decline in Jasper’s performance in class has any correlation with his ongoing, unhealthy obsession over all things dog, doubtless heightened by the arrival of our latest acquisition, Whistler. Add “disruptive at school” to my long list of reasons for vetoing a canine roommate.
“We wondered,” says Ms. Sexton, gesturing to the other members of her hit squad, as though hoping to share the blame, “if something had changed at home?”
I don’t flinch, even though I notice the nonchalance and the royal “we.” Of course she’s prying, but I can tell it’s borne of a desire to help Jasper, rather than a quest for titillation or gossip. Briefly, I consider the beautiful, healthy, and vibrant young woman seated opposite. Ms. Sexton’s left hand bears no rings, her whole life ahead of her, much as mine had been at that age, not a care in the world—ambitious, immortal, coated in pure Teflon because not a single woe or trouble would stick. “No,” I say, “no change. But I’ll talk to Jasper and definitely discuss this with his doctors. It may just be a dosage problem with his Adderall.”
“Right,” says Ms. Sexton, “right, right, right,” she adds, confirming she’s no longer listening, easing back in her chair, as though a cue for Coach Taft.
“Well,” says Taft, “can’t speak to the deafness, but,” he smacks a clenched fist into his open palm, “big game this weekend.”
For any other parent, this preamble might have led me to acknowledge the coach, to praise his leadership, guiding the sixth-grade boys’ soccer team to a winning season. But, again, when you’re Jasper’s mother, his intro spells danger.
“Yep,” says Taft, “we win, we go to states.”
“Jasper is very excited to be a part of this team. It means a great deal to him.”
I could have kept quiet, but it was worth it, fueling his discomfort, watching him squirm in his seat, crisp Adam’s apple swallowing hard.
“Yes, Dr. Blunt, I appreciate that. However, at this phase of the season, state rules limit the squad of eligible players to fifteen, and there are some parents who have expressed concern that a valuable place in the squad is being . . .” the coach begins verbally sprinting, as though the faster he can get his point across the better his chance of scoring a win.
So what if I nudge him toward the finish line. “What? Squandered?”
I appear to have made his eyes jerk around like a compass in search of magnetic north.
“Taken, by a player who . . . has certain limitations.”
If Taft had gone first, I might have leaped to my feet like a Momma grizzly, demanding names, ready to embark on a verbal killing spree. But now the element of surprise has passed. This kind of passive-aggressive attack is nothing new and nothing I can’t handle. In my situation, when you lash out in public, people think you’ve lost it, finally cracked. If you keep your cool, you’ve got a shot at something far more valuable—respect.
“I could remind you, Coach Taft, that this is sixth-grade soccer, that this is not the World Cup, but my son would argue against that point, because he takes this extracurricular activity extremely seriously. I could mention that Jasper is legally disabled and wonder how the local newspaper might feel about what sounds like discrimination, especially at this stage in the season. But, instead, I’d like you to ask his teammates what they think. Ask them what Jasper brings to their squad.”
This may be a risky play, but I’ve watched the other players, even the really competitive ones, and I can see they have a measure of respect for Jasper’s knowledge and understanding of the game, even if they keep their distance. For all the countless hours my son has spent watching soccer on TV, he comes up with priceless ideas and tactics regarding set pieces, corner kicks, free kicks, and offensive formations (his language, not mine). He helps out during training and, from time to time, he’s even got a walk-on part—literally—in those last few minutes of the game; coming on as a substitute, reveling in the applause, oblivious to the fact that his team was so far ahead they couldn’t possibly lose. But now Taft is making out that Jasper is dead wood, their ball and chain, a charity case, that they no longer need their “mascot.”
“Dr. Blunt?”
It’s Ms. Sexton speaking.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Coach Taft would like to get back to you after Sunday’s game.”
“Sure,” I say, rising from my chair, wishing I’d worn heels so I could stretch even taller, wielding height like a weapon, forcing them to stare upward, at my stern countenance and frosty blue eyes. I wonder if they see through my Nordic ice queen performance. I wonder if they suspect that it is far from impregnable.
Following an uncomfortable round of weak handshakes and fake smiles, I realize I’ve left Jasper’s medication refills in the truck. With a promise to be right back, it’s a relief to crash through the school’s front doors and be assaulted by brilliant sunshine, clicking the key fob as I book it across the freshly mowed lawn to where I parked.
The meds are in my pocketbook—pancreatic enzymes that Jasper must take with every meal or snack in order to digest his food; a new puffer to be huffed deep into his lungs, dilating the congested airways but making his hands shake and his heart race as a side effect; and then there is the Adderall. I check the instructions label on the bottle.
“Half a tablet three times a day.”
At the time, I seriously questioned the diagnosis, and I’ve been vindicated, weaning him down to the single dose Mrs. Fisher delivered at noon. Today had been the first time in two years anyone has even mentioned his possible ADD. I would never deprive my son of a vital medication—maybe it’s time to increase his dose? But do I really want to? More importantly, can I afford to?
Nothing to think about. I click open the bottle of Adderall and spill two thirds of the contents into the empty Advil container in my pocketbook. I’m about to snap the lid shut when a “little blue helper” cries out to me and I slip the tiny pill between my lips.
“Thought I’d save you the trip,” calls a stealthy Mrs. Fisher, already only a few yards behind me.
You’d think the shock would help me swallow it dry but the damned tablet is superglued to the roof of my mouth. I fumble for the medications, turn, and hand them over. It’s a struggle to make my lips and tongue say “thank you” without a lisp.
As I drive away, Mrs. Fisher disappears in my rearview mirror. If she’d caught me, surely she would have said something?
At least I fear she would.
15
Jasper
NURSES ARE ALWAYS asking me, “How’re you feeling? How’s your pain?” They bring out a smiley-frowny face chart with a scale from one to ten, one being “no biggie,” ten being “hit me with some morphine,” their pointy fingers drifting past Cheshire cat, through flatline, all the way to exploding eyeballs and upside-down U. If a nurse asked me right now, with Burt, Martha, and Mom arguing, I’d be scoring a solid seven.
They’re in Mom’s office and I’ve got my back to the wall, next to the open door where no one can see me. It’s hard to hear, but what I can pick up is scaring me.
“X-rays don’t lie,” says Martha. “That dog’s cough is a major problem.”
Mom mumbles a reply and Martha responds with, “I’m just being practical. Someone’s got to be.”
Martha has issues with the loudness button on her volume control and when she gets angry her voice cuts like glass. Burt tends to over-chew his words, all low and hissy, and Mom is farthest away and might as well be speaking Swedish.
From what I can tell they’re arguing about space, or the lack of it. See, the shelter has this big room, with a massive skylight so it’s bright and there are these nice runs with fake plastic couches and cozy beds and this is where the people can come to check out which dogs they want to adopt. Burt calls it “The Showroom” (he used to work at a Honda dealership) and says our isolation ward is like a parking lot out back where new shipments get checked out and spruced up before they get to the public.
Trouble is the showroom only has fourteen runs. No matter whether you’re a Great Dane or a Chihuahua, each dog gets its own run, and they’re always full, and more dogs arrive pretty much every day. Mom goes all Dr. Blunt on me when I complain, saying it’s the fairest way, but it never seems fair to me. Fourteen runs means fourteen days to find a forever home, or, after two weeks, if no one cares enough, it’s time for the kind of forever that makes for a really bad goodbye.
“Waste of time,” followed by a “then we’ll have to bump Pudge.” These words batter my eardrums, courtesy of Martha. Make that an eight on the smiley-frowny scale.
Pudge is a little black dumpling of a pug with an eye problem called glaucoma so he’s blind in one eye. Tomorrow is Saturday but, more importantly for Pudge, it’s day fourteen. Two more big dogs (a German shepherd and a Lab cross) came in this morning, and math may be my least favorite subject, but even I know something’s got to give. Bump is not a nice four-letter word. Bump is an unkind way of saying “put to sleep.”
Burt comes back at her, growling like a grumpy lion. I still can’t hear what he’s saying and I’m not trying to be mean, but I think Martha made a mistake with the note she taped to the bars of Pudge’s run. Usually she writes helpful things like “loves kids” or “not good with cats,” but sometimes she adds stuff from their behavioral evaluation and Pudge got a “hates vacuum cleaners.” Since Whistler arrived, I’ve tried tuning into other dogs, and it’s nowhere near as easy, but when I was with Pudge my stomach twisted into knots when someone outside was mowing the grass. Pudge might not like vacuum cleaners, but I think he hates lawn mowers. Now he’s about to become a day-fourteen dog, because who wants a pet in a home you can’t clean?
“All I know is we’ve got two dogs, and only one run. You’re the boss. It’s your choice.”
The word choice gets lodged in my head. Does this mean Mom has to choose between Pudge and another dog? Wait a minute. Does this mean Mom has to choose between Pudge and Whistler?
Burt comes storming out of the office, right past me without noticing.
I’m not so lucky with Martha.
“Your mom’s asking for you,” she says. “She’s got some bad news.”
