That’s it.
That’s as far as we got. I just kept nodding, and then I said, “Raincheck?” I’m not scared of the conversation, I promise.
It’s just overwhelming. Like my heart is exploding inside my chest and shattering my ribcage, and I haven’t been in the mood to give Farrow that kind of satisfaction.
Across the bedroom, a smile edges along Farrow’s mouth. “You have something to say, wolf scout?”
“No.” My voice is stubbornly firm, and I feel his eye-roll from a mile away. I tape up the box and tickle Ripley’s soft belly. He giggles, and I smile. “You ready to see your new place, Rip?”
He rattles his toy at me and babbles.
We’re moving out of my parent’s house tomorrow. It’s a big deal, even bigger change, but at least we all finally came to a consensus.
We’re staying in Philadelphia.
Charlie called me after the bachelor party and said, “Don’t move to New York.” He didn’t say why he had a change of heart, but Farrow told me about their whole conversation in Key West.
I think maybe Charlie needed to feel needed, and I’m proud of him for sticking around for his brothers.
I stand up. “I’m going to get tools to take apart the crib.”
Farrow nods, and I leave the bedroom.
Stopping at Luna’s ajar door down the hall, I knock on the wooden frame. “You need any help packing?”
Still in pajamas, Luna lifts her head up from a mountain of clothes. “Nopity. I got it covered.”
On my way to the garage, I’m plagued by the pestering thought: I need to tell my family…I drank alcohol. You have no clue how hard this is for me.
I really don’t want to meet faces of pity, feeling sorry for me that I accidentally sipped alcohol, or disappointment, or ridicule, thinking I should’ve distinguished the taste (how could I not, right?)
Your pity, disappointment and ridicule—I can handle. My family’s—that’s so much worse. And I haven’t even told Janie yet.
Alcohol feels different than me unintentionally consuming marijuana. Alcohol is the monster under my family’s bed.
Rifling through the garage, I can’t locate a toolbox or drill. Maybe my uncle or dad left them in the backyard shed.
I exit outside, the patio door clattering behind me, and a storm rumbles the summer sky. Gray clouds mask all the blue, the yard darkened, and my Timberland boots squish the dewy grass.
The wooden shed is old and in need of a fresh coat of cherry-red paint. Whoever was here last left the latch hanging. Unlocked, the door swings open with the breeze.
It creaks as I trek inside.
And I’m rummaging through garden shovels and watering cans for point-two seconds before I lift up a deflated pool raft—and I go rigid. Unblinking. My pulse thumps like its stuck in an echo chamber. Banging distantly, outside of my body.
I squat down slowly to this old dog bed, hidden beneath the pink plastic raft.
“Gotham?” I place a hand on my Basset Hound’s belly. Feeling for breath, but his body isn’t rising or falling. “Gotham?” My voice tightens. I just took him for a walk this morning. At 6 a.m.—and he was slow, really slow, but he ate his kibble.
He was okay.
“Gotham? Come on, buddy.” I nudge him, but he’s not moving. He’s gone. I know he’s gone.
I prepared for this. I knew he could die soon, and I thought that knowledge would lessen the grief—but God, something fists my lungs.
I swallow hard, and I think, thank God it was me.
Thank God I found him and not my brother or my sisters. I scoop him gently in my arms, muscles tensing from more than the weight, and I stand up.
Kicking the shed door open, I walk stiffly through wet grass as thunder booms and rain pours. Soaking my green crewneck and my dog in my hands.
I try to be quiet as I enter the house. My boots squeak on the kitchen floor, and I slip into the empty living room. Push back the coffee table with my boot, spread out his favorite dog blanket—I lie him down and carefully wrap him up.
And then I collapse on my ass. Feeling out of breath, and I want to say goodbye to him. And thank him for every good memory, but all I can think about are my siblings.
Their pain, their heartache.
I dig my phone out of my jean’s pocket, and I dial a number.
“Can’t find the tools?” Farrow asks.
“Come downstairs.” I hang up and rake back my wet hair.
In literal seconds, stairs creak, and Farrow descends with our son perched up on his waist. He stops midway, able to see over the sofa and the blanket-mound.
“Is that Gotham?” Farrow asks.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” He knows he’s dead.
I nod a couple times. “I think so.” I pop a few knuckles. “Can you wake up my parents?”
“Sure.” He hesitates. “You need anything, wolf scout?”