Helping Hands (6 page)

I
stumble out the door and let Sunita guide me to the bathroom, but I won't let her take me in.

“No,” I say firmly. “I'm just a little queasy. I can manage the bathroom on my own.”

“But what if you pass out?” she asks. “What if your blood pressure goes so low you forget to breathe? What if you hit your head on the corner of the sink and it gives you amnesia and you wake up not even knowing your own name? Or you could get retrograde amnesia, though I'm not sure what that means, exactly.”

“I'm fine,” I say, trying to cover my embarrassment. “But you could get me something to drink, if you want.”

“Good idea. There's always juice in Dr. Mac's fridge. Orange, apple, carrot, mango? She probably has chocolate milk, too. Did you eat dinner? Low blood sugar can bring on fainting episodes and nausea, too. Maybe you should have a snack that combines proteins and carbs, like cheese and an apple. Does that sound good?”

Sunita is usually the quietest Vet Volunteer, so I'm confused by all this chattering until her strategy dawns on me.

“I get it,” I say with a smile. “You're just trying to distract me, aren't you? That's the reason for all this gobbledygook about amnesia and cheese.”

She smiles, too. “You figured out my plan.”

Along with being the quietest Vet Volunteer, I think she's the prettiest, which is another reason I want to die of embarrassment about what just happened in the operating room.

“And it wasn't gobbledygook,” she insists. “Based on the fact that you don't look pale and clammy anymore, I'd say I achieved my goal.”

Pale and clammy? Great.

“Well, thanks,” I say. “But I need some time alone in here, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” she blushes. “Right. Sure. I'll put your snack in the waiting room.”

“No, don't,” I say. “You should be helping in the operating room. If I don't faint, hit my head, and forget my name, I'll ask Jules to get me some milk.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. “Bye.” I close the door and lean my forehead against it.
Pale and clammy?
As if this day couldn't get any worse.

I splash cold water on my face and wash my hands. Embarrassing myself in front of Sunita and Dr. Gabe was bad enough, but what if it means that I don't have what it takes to be a vet? Veterinarians have to be tough. They have to perform under pressure. They can't get woozy and throw up at the sight of blood, and especially not
before
the sight of blood.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “Sometimes you can be a real idiot.”

•  •  •  •  •

I slump down next to my sister in the waiting room, lean forward, and put my head in my hands.

“What happened?” Jules asks. “Is Ranger okay? You look terrible.”

“Ranger's on the operating table,” I say. “Sunita's helping Dr. Gabe. I hate myself, and I'm never going to be a vet.”

“What? What do you mean? Sit up, you're not making any sense.”

I sit up, lean my head against the wall, and tell her what happened.

“Dr. Mac doesn't allow anyone to puke in the operating room,” Jules says seriously.

“I know! You're not making me feel any better.”

“Stop it.” She gives me a friendly shove. “Everybody feels like that the first time. I had a long talk with Dr. Mac about it a few days after she stitched up Cuddles.”

“Really?”

She nods. “She said I shouldn't be embarrassed: medical things can be intense, and it takes time to get used to them. When do you think Ranger will be out of the OR?”

“No idea,” I say. “Where's Mr. Fedor?”

“He's pacing up and down the driveway, talking to his son in Florida. Did you know that he's a retired dairy farmer? He's the sweetest old guy, ever.”

“A farmer?” I sit up straight. “Does he still have pasture land? Do you think he'd adopt two ponies? They'd be great companions for Ranger.”

“He sold the farm when his wife got sick,” Jules says. “It sounds like Ranger is all he really has left.”

The door opens, but instead of Mr. Fedor, it's Brenna who walks in. “David texted me that you guys were here,” she says. “Is it Ranger?”

My sister brings her up to date on the mutt's latest adventure, tactfully leaving out the part where I was ejected from the operating room.

“No wonder Mr. Fedor looks so sad,” she says.

“Did David tell you about Buster's bad leg?” I ask.

“No.” She sits cross-legged on the chair across from us and listens as I explain everything we did for Buster and how Gus reacted.

“Are you kidding me?” Brenna throws her hands in the air. “Why didn't you call me?”

“What could you have done? Dr. Gabe said that he couldn't treat an animal without the owner's permission.”

“But if Buster doesn't get treated, that's abuse,” Brenna says.

“But that hasn't exactly happened yet,” Jules points out.

“If Buster is worse tomorrow and Gus still won't let a vet treat him, we could call Animal Control, right?” I ask.

“Absolutely.” Brenna's nose scrunches up. “But Mr. Snyder, the local guy, is on a fishing trip with my dad. They went way into the mountains, out of cell-phone range.”

“Wouldn't he have a backup, the way that Dr. Gabe is covering for Dr. Mac this weekend?”

“The state doesn't have enough money for that,” Brenna says. “We'll have to wait for Mr. Snyder to come back.”

“I'm tired of waiting,” I say angrily. “I want to help Buster right now. Tonight.”

“Okay, let's get positive and practical,” Jules says. “If Mr. Snyder gets back in time and says that Gus isn't taking good care of Buster, what would happen?”

“That's tough.” Brenna sighs. “He'd have to find a place for the pony, probably with the help of a pony- or horse-rescue group. I remember my mom talking about a retirement ranch for horses once, but I think that's in Arizona. It could take weeks or longer to find him a new home.”

“Could he stay at your house until a permanent place is found?” I ask.

Brenna shakes her head sadly. “Our barn is already filled with rescue critters. Mom had to send an injured hawk across the state to a rehab center that had room.”

“David's going to the horse show with his father tomorrow,” I say. “They could ask around there, find a local place that can help.”

“His dad promised to take him to the horse show?” Brenna asks.

“Yeah, he was really excited about it,” I say. “He spent half the day bragging about how incredible his dad is with horses.”

Brenna frowns. “Well, Mr. Hutchinson might be good with horses, but he's terrible with his kids. He's always making big promises to David, and he never follows through.”

Jules and I exchange glances. Our father doesn't make much money, but we can always count on him to tell us the truth, and to be there when we really need him.

“That's why we all cut David a little slack,” Brenna adds. “He can be a little annoying sometimes, but he has a heart of gold. Let's get back to Buster. Which one of you is better at researching on the Internet?”

We're both pretty good, so we decide who gets to use the clinic's computer with the traditional Vet Volunteers method: a quick game of rock paper scissors. Jules shoots scissors, I shoot rock, and I get to spend the next half hour in charge of the keyboard and mouse with the girls watching and commenting over my shoulders. By the time Mr. Fedor steps in, we've started a list of rescue societies to contact, even though they are all at least a thousand miles away from Ambler.

“Any news?” Mr. Fedor asks.

“I'll go back and ask for an update,” Brenna says.

“How about that cup of tea now?” Jules asks.

“That would be nice,” Mr. Fedor says as he lowers himself into a chair. “You kids are sweet to take such good care of an old guy like me.”

“I haven't been here that long, sir,” I say, “but it seems that people who care about animals are pretty good at caring about people, too.”

He nods, twisting the gold wedding band on his left hand. “Sounds like something my wife would say. She died last year, you know.”

“No, sir, I didn't know that. I'm very sorry.”

He nods absently. “After Nora passed, my son made me go out and get a dog. Thought I needed companionship. Crazy dog chewed up every shoe I owned, but I couldn't help myself; I fell in love with the fool thing. Don't want to think about how I'd get along without him.”

“Then don't,” I say firmly. “Dr. Gabe is a great doctor, and Ranger is strong and stubborn. Everything is going to be fine.”

The door at the end of the hall opens and Dr. Gabe walks briskly toward us, followed by Brenna.

“Ranger is a trouper,” Dr. Gabe announces with a big smile on his face. “I think the worst is behind him.”

Mr. Fedor grabs Dr. Gabe's hand and pumps it up and down. “Thank you, young man, thank you!” He beams.

“It was quite the gastrointestinal blockage,” Dr. Gabe explains. “I removed not only the portion of leash and chain that you suspected, but also what looks like some carpet fibers and a plastic bottle cap!”

“Really?” Mr. Fedor asks, dumbfounded.

“Really. But we got his digestive tract cleared, and he's stable now. He's all stitched up, resting comfortably in the recovery room. You can see him soon, but we'll need to keep him here overnight for observation.”

Mr. Fedor almost looks like he's going to cry with happiness. “I can't thank you enough,” he says as he vigorously shakes Dr. Gabe's hand again. Then Mr. Fedor turns to me and shakes my hand, too, and then Brenna's, like he doesn't know what to do with all the joy he's feeling.

While Dr. Gabe continues to talk to Mr. Fedor about Ranger's recovery, Jules, Brenna, and I help Sunita clean up the operating room. Dr. Mac always tells us that keeping things clean and sterile is the first line of defense for good care in any veterinary clinic. Sunita gives us the details of the operation while we scrub.

“Guys, you should have seen it. He knew exactly where to make the incision to reach the stomach. Then he had to find the blockage, remove it, and stitch Ranger up again. Some of the blockage was in Ranger's stomach and some had started to move to his intestine, so Dr. Gabe got in there just in time. Ugh, it was gross but really fascinating.”

“Don't you ever feel queasy watching the surgeries?” Jules asks her.

“Oh sure, of course. Especially my first few times seeing people's pets injured or being operated on. But now I just focus on thinking positive. I concentrate on how we are helping the animals in the long run. Plus, when Dr. Gabe and Dr. Mac administer sedatives, I know the animals aren't feeling any pain.”

After Mr. Fedor leaves, Dr. Gabe thanks us for helping out and tells us he'll be staying overnight on Dr. Mac's couch to monitor Ranger. He says good-bye to the girls and asks me to stay for a minute.

My stomach flops again, but I stay. As the door closes behind my sister, I say, “I know I screwed up, but please don't hold that against Buster.”

“Buster?” he asks.

“The lame pony,” I remind him. “Could you come and check him tomorrow, please?”

“Of course,” Dr. Gabe says. “Now, about that little episode in the operating room.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, embarrassed. Dr. Gabe will probably never invite me to observe any of his surgeries again. “I'm really sorry about that.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about, dude. It happens. Next time, breathe in and out through your mouth, slow and steady, to keep your blood oxygenated. I had to do it a lot when I was starting out.”

“And you got over it?” I ask.

“I did,” Dr. Gabe says. “It should be better the next time.”

Next time. Dr. Gabe said,
Next time
. And that gives me hope.

Chapter Twelve

W
hen we get home, Mom and Dad are curled up on the couch reading a book to Sophie.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asks.

“Dr. Gabe saved the day,” Jules says. “Josh got to see how he prepped Ranger for surgery. He saw the X-rays, too.”

I wait, but she doesn't tell them about the humiliating part of the night. As far as sisters go, Jules can be the best, if she's in the right mood.

“Not the way I'd want to spend a Saturday night,” Mom comments.

“It was pretty cool,” I say. “The best part was the look on Mr. Fedor's face when Dr. Gabe told him Ranger would be okay.”

“We're reading about ponies, Josh!” Sophie announces.

“Speaking of that,” I say carefully, “how do you think tomorrow is going to go? I mean, do you think the, um, outside entertainment will show up?” I'm trying to ask the question in a way that won't upset Sophie.

“I've been thinking about that,” Mom says. “It wouldn't hurt to have a backup plan ready. Maybe a repeat of this morning?”

“Can we do it when we wake up?” Jules whines. “I'm sooooo tired.”

“I'll do it,” I offer.

Everyone stares at me, shocked that I'm volunteering for extra work in the store.

“I'm not tired,” I explain. “The last thing I want to do is sit around in my room.”

“Well, okay then,” Dad says. “Get to it!”

After I set up the rabbitat, I clean up and organize the small area where little kids could draw. Mom is pretty good at face painting; the store was too busy today, but if it's slower tomorrow, she might want to offer her services, so I rummage in the storeroom until I unearth all of the face-painting supplies. I clean them up and lay them on a shelf behind the register, along with paper towels and sponges. The last thing I do is sweep the aisles and empty the trash cans into the Dumpster.

The wind has picked up since the afternoon, but it's a strange warm wind, blowing from the south. It rustles the trees and my hair and hurries the clouds over the face of the fat moon. The wind makes me restless, frustrated, confused about almost everything. And worried.

How does Buster feel? Did Gus let them out of the trailer? Did he even give them water or hay? What if he decides that the corral panels aren't worth coming back for? Maybe he stole them in the first place. What if he decides that Buster is too much trouble? What if he abandons the pony at the side of the road . . . or worse?

A sharp burst of wind rakes through the parking lot, causing the corral panels to fall with a loud clatter. The trees bow and sway, scattering blossoms and new leaves.

I want to . . .

I can't . . .

I shouldn't. . . .

I will . . .

I have to find that campsite and save the ponies.

I can't take off until Mom and Dad are asleep, but that gives me plenty of time to get ready. The first thing is to borrow a few supplies: a gallon jug for hot water, a box of Epsom salts, and the last bag of alfalfa pellets. I'll need to take Mom's cell phone, which means I have to find it and charge it.
Hmmm . . .
That one's going to require some more thought.

I head down to the Vet Volunteer room in the basement to use the ancient computer. It's so slow I want to scream, but instead I practice my calm and steady deep breaths and gradually click through to a map of Ambler. I zoom out and try to figure where Gus and the ponies might be staying.

Okay, this is getting a little complicated.

Eventually, I settle on three possible sites. I print out a map and directions to all three, and try not to wince when I see how many miles I'll be biking. I put the directions and the rest of the supplies in my backpack. The last thing is to pump up the tires on my bike because my parents will definitely be sleeping with their windows open tonight, and I need to get out as quietly as possible.

I find the hand pump and a flashlight in the storage closet, head up to the store, and tiptoe across the squeaky wooden boards. Mom and Sophie are giggling upstairs with Jules. There's a baseball game on the television, so I know where Dad is, too. I sneak out the back door, walk the length of the building to our bike rack, put the flashlight in my mouth, and kneel down to unscrew the valve on the back tire of my bike.

“Kind of late for a bike ride,” says a deep voice in the dark. “Don't you think?”

“Dad?” I shine the flashlight up the alley and find him standing there with a trowel in one hand and a potted begonia in the other. “What are you doing?”

“That's
my
question,” he says mildly.

“My tires need air,” I say, sticking to the truth.

“Is there any reason they need air right now?” he asks. “Nobody goes out on a bike ride at night—alone—right? Because that would extremely dangerous, I'm guessing.”

Busted.

“I was thinking about it,” I admit with a sigh. “But I was going to bring Mom's cell phone with me so I'd be safe.”

“Come help me with these flowers,” Dad suggests. “I did everything in my power to keep your mom from checking her planters today.”

Under the faint glow from the streetlight on the corner, Dad and I plant new flowers and herbs to replace those that Babe had devoured for her breakfast. Slowly, I fill Dad in about my plans to find the campsite, take pictures of the bad conditions that Gus forces the ponies to live in, and give Buster's leg another soaking treatment.

“And you were going to do all of that at night, in the middle of nowhere, by yourself?” Dad asks.

“It sounded like a better plan when it was in my head,” I admit. “Saying it out loud . . . well, it doesn't sound quite as good.”

“If you were a superhero, it would be easier and safer. I'm proud of your compassion, Josh.” Dad pauses to pat the soil down around the roots of a basil plant. “The world needs more kids like you and your friends, kids who understand animals and try to make their lives better.” He sits on the edge of the planter. “But riding off in the darkness like that, tracking a man who could be drunk, who could be dangerous. Son, that's plain foolish. Compassion without intelligence won't get you very far.”

The words sting, even though I know he's right.

“But Dad, we have to do something.”

He moves on to the next planter, pulls a root ball out of the dirt, and tosses it into a cardboard box. “Dr. Gabe said he'll stop by to look over the ponies, right? And Brenna, the one with the crow, she's trying to get the Animal Control fellow involved.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. Josh, you've done everything you can. This is in the hands of adults now, professionals, whose job it is to handle these things.”

“And they're not taking it seriously. You saw Gus. He doesn't care about Babe and Buster. They make money for him, that's all.”

Dad carefully lowers a zinnia plant into the dirt. “You know the worst part of being a parent?”

The question puzzles me. “Paying for sneakers every time we outgrow them?”

“No, it's having to watch your children learn that the world is not a fair place. I hate to admit it, son, but there's a good chance that you can't win this battle, no matter how stubborn you are, no matter that your heart is in the right place.”

I sniff and try to swallow the lump that's stuck in my throat.

“I stubbornly disagree, Dad.”