Dog Crazy (12 page)

I look away, pretending to busy myself with Giselle's leash. “Sounds great!”
Just great.

“Okay. Whatever. Fine.”

Anya clomps between us, heading toward the sidewalk at her usual brisk pace, leaving us in her wake. I can practically feel Henry's skepticism growing as we travel block after block in silence. I'm not going to force Anya into conversation just to prove to Henry that we're becoming friends. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a person is to simply walk with them in silence, letting them be alone with their thoughts even as you remain a physical presence at their side. Dogs are experts at this, letting us be alone without being lonely. Letting us find a way to be content with ourselves.

The streets rise and fall, twisting and hooking back on themselves. Aside from one or two more trafficked corridors, the areas we walk though all seem remarkably quiet. Within half a mile, I have no idea where I am. I look toward Sutro Tower to orient myself, relieved both for its presence as a marker and for the fact that, if necessary, it would provide the reception that I would
need to pull up a map on my phone and find my way out of this tangle of streets.

The whole time we're walking, I sense Henry's frustration mounting. “How's Rosie doing?” he finally calls out to Anya. I'm sure the note of reproach in his voice is meant for me.

“She's fine. I don't know. She might have a cold. She sounded a little groggy this morning.”

“She did?” Henry asks.

“June's keeping a close eye on her. I think they were going to sit on the back deck for a bit. Get some sun.” She says this as though she really believes that a little fresh air will solve Rosie's health problems.

“Has she been in the wheelchair a long time?” I ask.

“Oh, that,” Anya says, finally slowing down. “She fell and broke her leg about a year and a half ago and she never gave up the chair, even once her leg healed. I think she just likes it; she says she's always wanted her own chariot. She keeps asking June to take her out on the hills and see how much speed they can get. She's fine.”

“She's not fine,” says Henry. He's walking beside his sister now, and Giselle and I are a step behind.

“Well, she's old!
Obviously.
But her mind is fine.”

“Rosie's mind is fine,” he concedes. “But her health is not. She has a serious chronic respiratory condition. You understand that, don't you, Anya?”

“Of course I do. I just don't see how talking about it is going to help. Why aren't you ever positive? Rosie would want—Rosie
wants
us to be positive. That's what she's always said. You and Clive are always so determined to focus on what's wrong.”

“That's not—”

“Terrence stopped by for dinner last night,” Anya interrupts. She's addressing me.

“Oh?”

“He said he understands why I need to keep looking for Billy. He said he supports me and that I shouldn't let anyone tell me what to believe. So at least someone in the family understands.”

“That was nice of him,” I say, wondering what sent her spiraling into the meltdown that Terrence reported back to his brother.

“He said if I believe in my gut that Billy is alive, I should do everything I can to find him.”

I shoot Henry what I hope is a meaningful look. It seems to me that he should be happy that his brother is reaching out to offer support. If Terrence expressed more interest in Anya, wouldn't Henry feel less worried about leaving?

“He said,” Anya continues, “that I remind him of Mom.” She glances at her brother, and then away.

Henry squints, appraising her. “You look like her,” he agrees. “Not today, though. Only when you bathe—what is that, every third Tuesday? Every third Tuesday is the day you look the most like Mom.”

Anya pushes him, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “I think Terrence was referring to my optimism.”

Henry grins. “Mom
was
stubbornly, sort of insanely, upbeat. She used to let us go to school in short-sleeved shirts, even on foggy days. As long as we brought a sweater in our backpack, she was fine with us wearing whatever we wanted. ‘Hope for sun,' she'd say.”

“ ‘Hope for sun,' ” Anya murmurs. I have the sense that she's
concentrating, trying to remember her mother saying these words.

Henry slings his arm around his sister's thin shoulders. “It's not fair that I had so much more time with Mom and Dad than you did,” he tells her. “I'd give you some of my memories of them if I could. You know that, don't you?”

Anya's eyes are pinned to the sidewalk. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

The sentiment is so touching that I feel tears prick my eyes. I hang back, giving them a little space. Henry's love for his sister, his devotion to her, is incredibly moving.

After walking in silence for a minute or two, Anya shakes his arm from her shoulder, shoving him, playfully, away. “God, Henry. I know you're old, but I can't carry you all the way up there. Next time, bring a walker.”

K
ITE
H
ILL TURNS
out to be a half-acre expanse of scruffy grass in the middle of a quiet neighborhood. It has a hidden-in-plain-sight feel; there's no visible sign or official entrance. We troop up the hill single file, following a narrow dirt path that traverses the grass and weeds. It strikes me as a strange place to look for a dog—if Billy were here, we'd have seen him immediately. There's really nowhere to hide.

“Hey, Maggie,” Henry calls from behind me on the trail. “We're the only ones here. Do you want to let Giselle off her leash so she can stretch her legs?”

Anya stops abruptly and wheels around to address her brother. “Maggie is training her to be a therapy dog. Giselle needs to learn to stay close.”

I smile at Anya, but her rush to defend my actions rattles me. Just how much has she guessed about what is going on with me? I realize that while I think I'm helping her, she might think she's doing the same thing for me.

We're at the top of the hill now. The city falls and rises and falls again, leading out to the bay in the east. In the distance, the hills of Oakland are a dull green. The view—the water, the hills, the high-rises and low-rises and bridges and pocket parks—is unlike anything you'd see even from the top of the highest building in Philadelphia. I wish I could enjoy it, but I'm thinking about what Anya knows, and feeling the pressure of Henry's presence, and the glare of the sun is too bright in my eyes and something is squeezing my chest and the ground is tilting and suddenly I'm bent over, breathing hard, steadying myself by burying my hands into Giselle's fur.

“Billlyyyy!”
Anya does one of her primal screams, her voice ripping through the park. Out of the corner of my eye I see Henry racing toward her. She yells Billy's name again. By now I'm as used to this as I'll ever be—she's done it on every walk—but it seems to be the first time Henry has experienced it.

“Do you see him? Why are you screaming like that?” I hear her give him the same explanation she gave me: yelling makes her feel better. Their conversation gives me time to hang on to Giselle for a few beats, count my breath, and then straighten. By the time they walk over to me, the panic has subsided. I can feel Anya watching me.

“I still don't understand the yelling,” Henry is saying.

“I told you, it clears my head. It calms me. It's better than taking prescription drugs, isn't it?”

Henry doesn't respond.

Anya turns to me. “My brother wants me to be normal. I'm a constant disappointment. He'd rather see me sedated on medication than yelling in public.”

“That's not true,” Henry says. “I love you just the way you are. I just don't always believe that you feel the same way about yourself.”

Anya kicks her boots against the ground. I feel badly for Henry. There is nothing he can say that will make Anya forgive him for not believing that Billy might still return. I suspect that she is also deeply hurt by the fact that her brother is moving away; all of her barbed digs are a way to protect herself from the pain of losing him.

“Actually, Anya,” I say, “in giving you Billy, Henry might have circumvented the need for medication. Studies have shown that playing with a dog can increase levels of serotonin and dopamine in humans, making us calmer, happier,
without
the use of drugs.”

Henry smiles at me and my stomach does a little flip that has nothing at all to do with the view from the hill.

“Great,” Anya says. “So the one thing that might make me feel better about losing Billy, is finding Billy.”

“No, that's not what I meant,” I say. “But it is true that one of the hardest things about losing someone that you love is that you have to allow yourself to seek and accept comfort in other areas of your life.”

Anya hunches her shoulders and marches away, heading down the hill. Giselle has become fascinated by some sort of animal hole in the dirt, and I hang back to allow her a moment to investigate it. Henry waits with us. A warm breeze carries the scent of
wildflowers across the hill and Giselle lifts her head, twitches her nose, and sneezes.

Henry grins, stroking her back. “Thank you for saying that,” he says.

“What did she say?”

He looks up at me and laughs. “I meant
you
. The thing about dogs making us calmer and happier.”

I smile. “Let's catch up with Anya. I think I might have one more trick up my sleeve today.”

Henry gestures with a small, gallant flourish for me to lead the way.

“Anya,” I call as we near her, “I wonder if I could ask you for a favor. There's this dog, Seymour, at the rescue organization I volunteer for. He has some issues—I mean, who doesn't, right?” I laugh. “Anyway, he's been bouncing between foster families for months and just can't seem to get himself adopted—”

“I don't want a new dog,” Anya interrupts.

“Oh, no. I know you don't. That's not what I'm asking. It's just that we have photos of all of the adoptable dogs on our website and Seymour's photo isn't great. He looks like a bundle of nerves. The poor guy hasn't had any interest in weeks.”

Anya slows her pace slightly, and I quicken mine so that we're walking side by side.

“I can't stop thinking about that photo you took of Billy. You're clearly great at capturing dogs in their best light, and I'm hoping I can convince you to work your magic with Seymour. It's not a paid gig, but if you're willing to donate your time . . .”

I trail off when Anya finally glances over at me. Something akin to excitement burns in her green-brown eyes.

“Is his fur black?” she asks.

“Nope. It's yellow—gold, really.” I remember how she mentioned that it's hard to photograph dogs with black fur.

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment. “Okay.”

“Really? That's great, Anya! Thank you so much. I think this is going to make such a difference for Seymour.”

“What sort of issues does he have?”

“He's scared of trains. Or maybe loud sounds in general. He pulls out of his collar when he's frightened and his foster family is worried he'll run into the street.”

Anya immediately releases a barrage of questions—is the foster family's apartment well lit? Is there a yard where she could shoot photos? Will Seymour have had a recent bath? Will he sit on command?

“I don't know,” I tell her, my smile growing. “I'm not sure.”

She bites her lip, thinking, then announces, “But it's safe to assume he likes bacon.”

Her enthusiasm is exhilarating. She seems like a different person—curious, passionate, animated. I feel the happy buzz of having done something right. Photography is the key to Anya . . . to getting her to rediscover some hope, some joy in life even without Billy by her side. We chat excitedly for the length of the walk, united in a new cause. There's even a flush of color in her usually sallow cheeks by the time we turn onto her block.

“So you'll e-mail Anya to let her know when she can take the photos?” Henry asks. He's been so quiet since we left the park that I'd nearly forgotten he was with us.

“I'll have to check with the foster family to see when we can
get access to Seymour, but I know they want us to move forward quickly. He hasn't exactly been an easy—”

Anya makes a small sound and I follow her gaze down the sidewalk to see Huan, her neighbor, running toward us.

“I told June I'd find you,” he says. “I'm so glad you're back.” He reaches out and takes hold of Anya's hand. “It's Rosie. She was having trouble breathing and June called an ambulance.”

“Where is she?” Henry asks. His voice has turned crisp, businesslike.

“They went to the emergency room at UCSF. I can drive you there.”

Anya snatches her hand from Huan's and begins running toward the house.

Henry turns to say something to me, an unreadable look in his eyes. Before he can speak, I gesture for him to follow his sister. “Hurry!” I say. “Go.”

W
HEN
I
KNOCK
on Lourdes's door to return Giselle, she invites me in for coffee. Leo is somewhere in the house—supposedly changing lightbulbs, but he's gone long enough that I wonder if he's fallen asleep in some clandestine corner of the house. I keep checking my phone, hoping that Anya will text to let me know how Rosie is doing. I'm having trouble focusing on anything else.

“Ow!” Portia howls. “Gabby bit me!”

“Gabby,” Lourdes says, her voice calm but stern. “Did you bite your sister?”

Gabby shakes her head, her bowl-cut black hair swinging around her tiny ears. She gives an impish smile and points at
Giselle, who is lying nearby on a plaid dog bed. Giselle lifts her head and cocks an eyebrow at her accuser.

“No,” Portia says, rubbing her arm. “It wasn't Giselle. It was you, Gabby. You're an animal.”