The Story of Us (39 page)

But why wouldn’t the loss be as true as it feels? Why wouldn’t we grieve her? A dog is there, always. Ours was. She was there, for us and with us, when we suffered and when we celebrated. She was there, part of us, when we were just making breakfast or cracking jokes or falling asleep. She joined us just as we were starting a new life together, and she left us just when that particular life was ending. We were family.

“I keep hearing her everywhere,” my mother said.

I knew what she meant. We took Jupiter’s collar off after
she died. Her jingle. It sat on the mantel next to a picture of her, and if you gave it a shake, it would sound like she was still here, trotting around and checking things out. But you didn’t have to shake that collar to hear her. I heard her in my head constantly. I kept seeing her too, trotting around the corner or barging through the bathroom door. I wondered if her sound, and the sight of her, would get further and further away.

“I keep finding her hair. How can her hair be here but not her?” I said. I didn’t get
dead
. I didn’t understand dead one bit.

“I regret so many things,” my mother said. She was sitting at our old kitchen table in our new house, her hands around a mug I had made in the second grade.

“Like what?”

“Back when she was younger, I kept her in the garage at night for a while, remember? Jon Jakes didn’t want her getting into trouble. She wouldn’t have gotten into trouble. Why did I let that happen? I put a rug out there, her pillow, but still. God, I wish she knew that I was sorry about that.”

I put my arms around her shoulders.

“So many things you’d do different, if you really knew it was going to end,” she said.

The doorbell rang. Cruiser ran to the door, barking madly as always, skidding on the polished floor. I made him sit. He was a mostly good boy, but, oh, it was hard to see only one crazy dog scrambling toward the door. I asked Cruiser once where Jupiter was. I whispered it into his soft, folded-over ear. Maybe it was another secret super-intelligence they had, some
kind of knowing. Maybe he knew those answers but was keeping his little black lips shut on that one. Cruiser lay down, then rolled over on his side to show his butterscotch belly and his willingness to do what I asked.

“Stay,” I said, and I answered the door.

And there he was. Right there. My very own Janssen Tucker.

He took me into his arms, and I cried.

“Why, Janssen?” I sobbed.

He tucked my hair behind my ear and kissed my tears. He had something in his hand. A stupid old chewed-up rawhide that had been left on our lawn. One of those long ones, rolled up like a newspaper. She loved those. The ends were gnawed and her teeth marks were embedded in it.

I invited him in. But he only shook his head.
Too hard,
he whispered. Too much love and missing. We stood on the porch of the new house and hugged. Janssen was familiar but new. He smelled the same, but had a shirt on I’d never seen before. After a while he said he’d better go, and I agreed. Cruiser was spying on us out the window.

Janssen was down the sidewalk before I called out to him.

Wait,
I said.

He turned to look at me.

A dog traveled three thousand miles to return home again,
I said.

Janssen Tucker, he nodded.
That’s how the story goes,
he said.
You travel safely, Cricket. And come back soon.

He left then. His same old car backed out of our new street, and his old, familiar arm waved to me in that new and unfamiliar shirt. He had my stories and I had his, and we both had our story together. Each story, good and bad, short or long, yes—they are each a line or a paragraph in our own life manuscript. At the end, a beautiful whole, where every sentence of every chapter
fits. I believe my mother is right about that.

I watched Janssen’s car drive off. The sun was shining down, and the day smelled grassy and warm, like summer. I waved good-bye to my very own Janssen Tucker, and then I put my arms around myself and watched the empty street where he once was. Then I went back inside to my family.

Why, Janssen?
I had asked. But I think I knew.

The story, our real story is this: doomed, precious, imperfect love. Love, deep and endless and brave in the face of certain loss—through death and leavings and growing up and letting go. Love,
given over
. It’s the tender pulse of every word and every line and every chapter. It’s our story, and it’s the place where our heart, no matter what, always finds home.